Emerald City

by Chris Nickson

  “Yeah. About eleven?”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  I put the phone down slowly and let out a long, slow breath. It seemed as if I’d been waiting forever for Sandy’s call. Last night I’d been telling myself not to expect too much from anyone and now I was doing it again. But this was different. She’d lived with Craig, she’d known him better than anyone, his dreams and his fears. She could tell me what had made him tick.

  It was still a day away. However much I anticipated it, I needed to deal with today first. The major label had given me nothing; perhaps Tom, with his tiny Seattle label, could offer a little more.

  The number rang ten times before he answered.

  “Hey, Tom, it’s Laura Benton.”

  “Hi, Laura, sorry, I was on the other line.” He sounded breathless and excited. “I see your boyfriend’s band is playing Saturday. Are they any good?”

  “All he’s let me hear is that single they put out,” I told him. “It’s going to be a surprise to me, too.”

  “I was thinking I’d go down there. If they’ve got something, who knows? I’m always looking for bands.”

  I smiled at his eagerness. “Snakeblood still selling well for you?”

  “Oh yeah,” he replied enthusiastically. “The way it’s going I’ll need to repress the LP in a week. I’m even thinking about putting it out on CD. My brother’s looking into costs. The kid’s good with numbers.”

  The rumor was that his brother had been an outstanding economics student at UW until he’d started to wig out a little. He’d gotten into fights then beat up on a sorority girl one night. Money changed hands to avoid charges, and the brother had been hustled into a psych ward for a while. Tom had taken him under his wing since his release.

  I thought about what he’d told me. Producing CDs would be an expensive proposition. But they were going to be the new big thing, the business insisted. They’d take over from LPs and cassettes. Already they were muscling into the big stores, the longboxes taking over half the aisles in Tower, reissues of classics so the labels could make more profit from their back catalog.

  “The way I figure it, that album will pay for itself pretty fast. It looks like it’ll be the biggest seller I’ve had,” Tom said.

  “So you’re making money.”

  “I’ve made money on that release,” he corrected me. “I’m still way in the hole. Most of the time I end up eating most of the costs.”

  “Sounds like it’s a good thing someone was willing to put money into the label.”

  “No shit. It saved my ass. If you’d seen what it was like six months ago...”

  “Tell me something,” I interrupted. “Would you have released another Snakeblood album?”

  “Oh yeah, in a heartbeat,” he said without hesitation. “But that was never going to happen. I can’t compete with the big companies. I can’t pay recording costs, never mind an advance. All I can do is get the records pressed, put them in a cover and get them in stores. I can’t even afford to distribute them outside Seattle. That’s all mail order.”

  “Other independents seem to be doing fine,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” Tom replied forcefully. “They say they’re doing well. What are you going to do, admit you have no money? The way I hear it, no one around here is making anything. We’re all just looking for ways to get by before we go under.”

  “And have you found any?”

  He snorted. “Right now I’m keeping my head above water and that’s only because someone put money in. But it’ll get better. Sooner or later this music’s going to break. All the big labels are sniffing around town. You know that.”

  “Of course.”

  “They’re going to sign someone, make sure that record sells and then it’s going to be like a flood here. After that any shitbrain with a guitar case will end up with a deal.”

  “So how does that help you?” I asked.

  “Catalog.” He laughed. “I’ll have that available and people are going to want it. That’s when I’ll start making money and recoup all I’ve spent.”

  “You hope.”

  “Oh, it’ll happen,” he answered confidently. “When some company pays big bucks for someone, they’ll make sure the record sells. Seriously, for what they’ll be investing they’ll make sure of it.”

  “They put out albums all the time that don’t sell, though.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a movement here,” he insisted. “Come on, Laura, you know that. They love that, it means there’s a well they can keep coming back to.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  “Because I can’t think of anything better to do with my money,” he said candidly. “Well, what money I have left. And mostly because I love the music. Maybe I’ll even end up making something out of it, too.”

  “How many copies of the Snakeblood album have you sold?”

  “Almost a thousand now. That’s huge for me. It’s platinum.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I keep looking for more bands. An album if they’re good enough, and if not a single or two. I’d love to have Mudhoney or Mother Love Bone but that’s not going to happen. People are going to pay big money for them. I was serious about Steve’s band. I liked that single they put out, it’ll be interesting to see if they’re ready for more.”

  “Going to be tough, opening for Soundgarden.”

  “Yeah, but think of all the people who’ll be there. That’s always a good thing. Is he psyched for it?”

  “Quietly,” I said. “I think it’ll really hit him on Friday.”

  “Look for me there on Saturday.”

  He hung up. I poured more coffee, sat on the couch and thought. Really, those two phone calls hadn’t helped me at all. Everything seemed above board, so perhaps business hadn’t been the cause of Craig’s death.

  So what was left? Only drugs, it seemed. That could make the trouble very real.

  Eighteen

  It seemed strange that no one had mentioned the names of any of Craig’s friends, as if he only existed in the vacuum of the band and Sandy. No one lived like that; everyone had different circles of acquaintances. Mike might have some names, but it would be lunchtime at the market and he’d be swamped with customers. There was Carla. They might not have been close in recent years, but they did go back a long way; she might know who’d been close to him. And she was only a few minutes’ walk away.

  “Hey,” she said, already grinding beans for me. “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad,” I said. “How about you?”

  She glanced around at the lack of custom and shrugged. “Some days aren’t so great.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “Drop back and punt, same as always,” she told me with a grin. “Not much I can do, really, the customers have to come to me.”

  She pulled the lever on the machine and a shot of espresso, almost black, fell into the cup. Then she carefully steamed the milk, her eye on the thermometer, before pouring it artfully over the coffee.

  “Tell me something...” I began.

  “Is this about Craig again?” she asked warily.

  “Uh huh. Did he have many friends?”

  “I don’t know,” she said after considering the question. “It’s like I told you, I didn’t see a lot of him.”

  “I thought maybe people he’d known before. Back on Bainbridge.”

  “A few, I guess. There’s this guy, Nick. He was from the island and moved over here after high school. I know the two of them used to get together, sometimes even the three of us. And I met a couple of guys over at Craig’s apartment. There was...” She paused, trying to remember. “John, maybe? I don’t recall the other guy, but they seemed to be together pretty often. That was a few years ago, though.”

  “Do you know any last names?”

  “Nick’s is McDonald. I haven’t seen him in forever. He was a nice guy, bright but not always too smart, you know? Kind of a stoner. I don’t think I ever
knew the last names of the other guys.” She paused for a moment. “I think Craig mentioned Nick a year or so back. He said he’d run into him somewhere.” She looked at me. “Sorry, I don’t know anything more than that.”

  I paid her for the latte. “That’s great,” I said. “It’s something.”

  “Have you found out why he died yet?”

  I shook my head. “I’m meeting Sandy tomorrow, though. She might be able to help.”

  “I know she doesn’t like me, but I’m sorry for her, no one should have to go through what she has. Did you find that girl you were looking for, the one with the car?”

  “Yeah.” Over the course of the morning I’d almost forgotten about Jenna. “Just another lead that went nowhere.” I decided to change the subject. “You going down to see Steve’s band on Saturday?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “I’ll buy you a beer there.”

  “You got a deal.”

  I started to walk away. “That McDonald, is it M-C or M-A-C?”

  “M-C,” she called back.

  There was no Nicholas McDonald in the phone book, but eight with the initial N. Four didn’t answer, one was an old man, two were female, and I left a message at the last. By the time I hung up I felt frustrated, as if some small victory had been snatched away from me.

  When the phone rang I snatched at it without thinking, hoping it was a McDonald returning my call.

  “Hello, Laura.” The voice made me freeze. “What did you think? That I’d forgotten you?”

  I was trying to breathe, to gulp some air into my lungs. Somewhere in my head I’d begun to convince myself that the threats, even the bullet, weren’t real. Just hearing him made me understand that they’d never gone away. I said nothing.

  “Did you like your little present?” he asked, quietly taunting. “It was just a little reminder. Bang bang.” He chuckled and let the silence grow for a few moments. “I hope I won’t have to make any more of these calls. They’re becoming tedious. If you don’t drop this story immediately, you’ll regret it.” He paused. “Or that boyfriend of yours will.”

  The line clicked as he hung up. Slowly, very slowly, my heartbeat began to return to normal. My hand was shaking. But even in the depths of my fear I realized something. If he’d been serious about hurting me, he’d have done it before now. He’d terrified me, but nothing he’d done had crossed the line into real danger. And right now he was running out of options. He could threaten all he wanted, but if he cranked it up and hurt me or Steve, the police would become involved and he’d be found. Then whatever he’d been trying so desperately to hide would be out in the open. They guy wasn’t a fool; he wouldn’t want that to happen.

  I made a fresh pot of coffee and went out on to the deck. The air felt clean and fresh. The thought heartened me; I felt safer, and smoked a cigarette slowly to calm myself. I stayed out for a few minutes, then returned to the phone to try the McDonald numbers again.

  Two more were home, but neither of them was the Nick I was seeking. I continued down the list hearing the phone ringing. On the last number I was about to give up when a breathless voice said,

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” I said, “I’m looking for Nick McDonald.”

  “You’ve found him.”

  “Hi, my name’s Laura Benton. I know this might sound weird, but did you know a guy called Craig Adler?”

  “Craig?” he answered in surprise. “Yeah, I know him. Why, what’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him, “he’s dead.”

  “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, how did it happen?

  “An overdose.”

  “Craig was back using smack?”

  “That’s what killed him.”

  “Man.”

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m writing a story on him for The Rocket. I’d like to sit down and talk to you about him. To find out more about him.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Man, I only saw him a week ago ... Saturday.”

  “What?” I sat up so fast the coffee spilled all over.

  “Yeah. He came over and we went for lunch. When did he die?”

  “A few hours after you saw him. Look,” I said urgently, “I could really use to talk to you. What are you doing today?”

  “Nothing much. I’m kind of unemployed at the moment.”

  “You mind if I come over?” For a moment I thought about all the warnings about not going to a strange man’s home. But this was work, and I could look after myself.

  “Sure, just give me about thirty minutes.”

  The address was up at the top end of the University District, an old three story house that had been converted into apartments a long time ago. Now the units looked beat up, worn and weary, blue paintwork peeling away from the wood, struts missing from the porch railing. A rickety wooden staircase took me all the way up to the top and I knocked on the glass of McDonald’s door.

  He was fresh from the shower, dressed in a clean t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, his hair still wet. The pupils of his eyes were large. He was already stoned.

  “Hi, come on in.”

  He led me through to a small living room with old, battered furniture, a student bookcase made of planks and breeze blocks, each shelf weighed down with heavy volumes. There was a small stack of LPs against the wall and an old stereo. The smell of stale pot clung in the air. He saw me looking and said, “All stuff from when I was at college. The problem is a philosophy degree doesn’t really help you get a job.”

  He had the look of someone who wasn’t too comfortable in the real world. We sat and he said, “Craig’s really dead?”

  “He is,” I said.

  “Man, I can’t believe that.”

  “You said you saw him the day he died?”

  “Yeah,” he replied slowly. “We’d meet up once in a while. He’d call me and we’d go out to eat.”

  “What time did you meet up?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe one or two.”

  “How was he? Happy?”

  “Psyched.” Nick smiled. “He was talking about the deal the band was going to sign. He was flying.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “The Greek place down on the Ave. Then we came back here, smoked a little and he left.”

  “You knew him on Bainbridge?”

  “Yeah.” He looked at me curiously. “How did you know?”

  “Carla told me.”

  “Carla?” His eyes turned owlish in surprise. “Is she still over here?”

  “She’s doing well, she owns a coffee cart.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Wow, that’s cool. She was always a hard worker.”

  “How often did you see Craig?”

  “Just...” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I said, he’d call every few months and we’d get together.”

  “What else did you talk about?”

  “Just normal stuff, I guess. His house, his girlfriend. Nothing much, really. Mostly he was just really up about the record deal. It sounded pretty big time.” He shook his head. “Why would he OD with all that?” He raised his eyes. “Anyway, he quit last fall. He told me.”

  “Go on.” I smiled, encouraging him with my eyes. “What did he tell you?”

  “I don’t know, we were talking. He told me before that he’d used a few times. I asked him if he was still and he said no, he’d quit. It was tough, he said, but he’d been clean a while.”

  “What time did he leave?”

  “I’m not sure, four or five. I wasn’t really looking at the clock, you know?”

  “And he seemed fine then?”

  “Yeah. It was cool. He said he’d call when he got back and take me out next time. He’d left his wallet at home so I had to pay for the meal.”

  “Did he say where he was going when he left?”

  Nick ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t remember. He’d dropped his girlfriend at work before he came over. I guess he was going home.” He looked straight at me, his face stunne
d. “He really ODed?”

  “That’s what the coroner said.” I didn’t believe it, but that was the official version.

  “Shit.”

  “Tell me anything else you can remember,” I said. “Please.”

  “I don’t know.” He stood up and padded around the room, hands fidgeting on his shirt and in his pockets. “It was just, like, no biggie, getting together the way we always did. We ate and talked. No way did he seem like he was going to overdose. A couple of people came over while we were eating and he was friendly, laid-back.”

  “How come you didn’t know what had happened to him?”

  “I don’t read the newspapers. I don’t have a television. I don’t really care too much about what goes on in the world.” It made sense, and fitted with the personality he’d shown me.

  “You know you were one of the last people to see Craig alive?”

  “Really?” he asked. “Man.”

  “Did anything else happen? Anything you remember?”

  He narrowed his eyes as if picturing the scene. “Not really,” he said slowly. “We talked about a couple of people we used to know back on the island, stuff we’d heard. Like I said, we came back here and smoked a bowl.”

  “You’re certain he didn’t have his wallet?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  It rang true. He’d gone to Heaven and Hell later on Saturday and he hadn’t had the money for the Leonard Cohen album he’d wanted. “Just checking.”

  “That was kind of everything.”

  I stood up. “Thanks,” I told him. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Look, you don’t know about the funeral, do you?”

  “Sorry.” I hadn’t thought to ask Sandy. “I’ll try to find out.”

  As always, the sidewalks in the U-District were filled with pedestrians, students still looking clean-cut and eager, even as the school year tailed away, while the young street kids aimed for cool and laid-back as they leaned against walls, smoking and checking everything out. I remembered coming here myself when I was fifteen or sixteen, amazed by the place. It seemed so cool after my suburb just a few miles away. I’d wander around all the record stores and come back whenever I had money. It had been a good place to hang out back then, full of hope.