Emerald City

by Chris Nickson

  “Laura...”

  “Look, Craig didn’t OD.” I interrupted. “Someone killed him. I don’t know who or how, but they wanted those tapes. All I know is that it wasn’t me.”

  “That’s a big accusation,” he said after a short silence.

  “And it’s true. It has to be. It’s the only explanation.”

  “I believe you. I couldn’t imagine you’d do something like that.”

  “Thank you.” I sounded stupidly grateful. “Where could whoever’s behind this have had it pressed?”

  “There are quite a few places,” he replied. “You want me to put together a list for you?”

  “Can you? That would be great.”

  “I’ll get my brother on it and bring it to Steve’s gig tomorrow, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I repeated.

  “I hope you find them.”

  “Yeah, so do I.”

  It was only after I hung up that it occurred to me – Tom knew where to have records pressed. He knew Craig. He’d probably know there would be demo tapes. For a moment the thought lingered in my head before I pushed it away. Tom was as honest as they came; I doubted there was a devious bone in his body. He even made sure the musicians were paid before he ever took a penny. Stupid, I told myself. You’re panicking.

  Steve came home and threw his wet jacket on the couch. “Hey,” he said, moving in for a hug. Then he saw my face, filled with anger and frustration. “What is it? Has he done something else?”

  “Oh yeah, big time,” I answered and told him exactly what.

  “Christ.” The word came out quietly. He reached out and took my hand. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m still going after this bastard. I don’t care if Rob’s taken me off the story. If I can find out who’s behind this, maybe people will believe I had nothing to do with this.”

  “Has he called again?”

  “Not yet. I know he will, though.” I was certain of it. This had filled my head all day; I felt as if I’d been running around helplessly in a maze. I needed to think about something else for a while. “How was work?”

  “It was crazy today.”

  “Why?” I wanted him to tell me something good, to make me smile again

  “I haven’t a clue, but everyone seems pissed off. Who knows, maybe it’s a full moon tonight or something? Maybe they’ve all got PMS.” I sat on the couch arm and started to massage his shoulders. He let out a moan of pleasure, moving so I could dig my thumbs deeper. “Mmm, that feels good. You’d better not stop before morning.”

  I managed a few more minutes before my hands began to ache, then started dinner, cooking pasta and heating up a jar of sauce. Nothing fancy, but at least it was quick.

  He pushed the food around the plate, taking small bites. “I’m sorry, it’s fine, but I’m not in the mood.”

  The nerves were building to a head, I could see that. He was starting to get his game face on. He wouldn’t enjoy himself until he’d played the last note and left the stage. And if it didn’t go well he’d sink into a depression that would last for days, maybe weeks. I’d seen it before; there was a fragility inside him, and when things hit hard I knew to treat him gently.

  The two of us were locked into our own heads. I put down my fork; I wasn’t hungry, either. “You want to go for a walk? The rain’s stopped.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed after a moment. “That might be good, clear out the cobwebs a bit.”

  We put on jackets and headed out, holding hands, climbing up the hilly back streets to the top of Queen Anne. By the time we reached there I was breathing hard. Steve looked fresh and happy, pulling me along.

  We made our way over to Highland Drive, where the large apartment buildings had all the grandeur of mansions. Across the street was the lookout point that took in Seattle Center and the downtown skyline. On clear days the huge, beautiful bulk of Mount Rainier dominated the horizon.

  It was a place where people came to take pictures, to try and capture the spirit of the city. It was a cliché but I loved it anyway. In this light West Seattle on the other side of the bay was nothing more than a smudge in the distance. We sat on a bench, watching a few tourists come, use their cameras and drive away.

  “Are you really going to go after him?” he asked.

  “Fuck, yes. I’m going to find him and make him pay. I already had my first hate call. From Warren. He doesn’t believe I had nothing to do with it.”

  We stayed there a few minutes, quiet, watching evening drift in before idling home hand in hand. Back in the apartment Steve said, “I think I’m going to go play a bit, then go to bed. You mind?”

  “No, of course not.” I watched him slouch into the bedroom and knew it wouldn’t be long before he was asleep. He needed rest to be ready for the gig. I heard him strum a few chords and the tinny treble lines of a few short fills, followed by silence. It had taken less than five minutes. I’d need to move the Telecaster off the bed before I could crawl in but that was fine.

  I tried to read but I couldn’t focus. I turned on the television but every program seemed pointless. Finally I just sat there, angry, going out on the deck every few minutes to smoke. Whoever he was, he’d knocked me down in this round. But I’d be back. And I’d win.

  I was in the kitchen when the phone rang, and snatched for the receiver. I knew it was him; no one else was likely to call after ten.

  “I warned you.”

  “Yeah, you win,” I told him with a sigh. He hadn’t, not yet, but I didn’t want him to know that. “I’m off the story. Are you happy now?”

  “You could have saved yourself plenty of grief and abandoned it the first time I called.”

  I didn’t bother to respond.

  “You never stood a chance, Laura. Now you know it.”

  He sounded so smug that I wanted to smash the phone into the wall. I tightened my grip on the plastic until my knuckles were white. “This is where it ends,” he said. “Remember that.” He hung up.

  Steve was awake before me, sitting out on the deck and drinking coffee, looking out at the low mist covering Lake Union. In the distance the skyscrapers of downtown looked magical.

  “Hey,” I said softly, and kissed the top of his head. “You sleep okay?”

  “Yeah. I guess I was exhausted.” He reached up and took my hand. “At least I woke early. How about you?”

  I shrugged, poured myself some coffee and sat next to him. It had been a restless night, hours before my mind would switch off. Even then I woke every hour.

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Just sitting and thinking mostly.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  “Nervous?”

  “Shit scared,” he replied, not looking at me. “At the moment I’m just wondering how bad we’ll sound.”

  “You won’t.” I knew my role today: to put what I needed aside, forget the story and the rage and support him, prepare him for the gig. I’d help with loading up the gear, then keep out of the way while they all psyched themselves up to play. And I’d be there in the audience, cheering him on. I’d heard enough of Steve’s songs, his voice, his playing, to know he had talent. Whether it was enough, or the right talent in the right place at the right time, I wasn’t certain. He’d need luck, too.

  “When do you load up?”

  “About five. If we’re lucky we might get a short soundcheck.”

  “You want to go out for breakfast?” It would be a distraction for him, and chances were he’d be too wound up to eat later.

  “No,” he answered, then he brightened and changed his mind. “Yeah, why not? Where do you want to go?”

  “Alki Bakery?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled at the choice. “I haven’t been there in forever.”

  “Let me take a shower and we’ll go,” I said.

  “Did I hear the phone last night?” he asked before I could disappear.

  “Yeah.”

  “Was it him?”

  I nodded and smiled. “I told him he
’d won. It’s over. At least let him think that.”

  We ducked off the West Seattle Bridge at Harbor Avenue and headed north, glancing across the water to the downtown skyline. The joggers and cyclists were already out, pushing themselves along in the fight to be healthy. Around the point, just past the place where Luna Park, Seattle’s answer to Coney Island, had once stood, the view opened out.

  It was a clear day and we could see across the Sound to the Peninsula, the peaks of the Olympics rising, snow still on their caps, magnificent enough to make anyone believe in a god.

  The road was broad, perfect for cruising. It separated the long, wide stretch of Alki beach from the houses, a mix of the newly-built, small condo buildings that had sprung up, and the old beach shacks that remained from the time Seattle’s wealthy used to summer over here. The Bakery was part of a small group of stores clustered near the miniature Statue of Liberty, a curious memorial to the landfall of the first white settlers here.

  We grabbed a table and soon the waitress arrived. I ordered a blueberry muffin and a latte; Steve selected a Danish and juice.

  “No more coffee today,” he said. “Not when I’m singing. It tightens my throat.”

  The muffin was huge, more a meal than a pastry, and we ate with Saturday morning laziness. I’d brought the Times and we swapped sections, reading small news items to each other, laughing at the comics, feeling all the pleasure of the weekend.

  All done, we crossed and walked along the sand holding hands. The sun was shining, the air felt fresh and clean; it was impossible not to feel hopeful. Steve stopped to pick up a tiny, perfect shell. He washed off the sand in a wave that lapped on the shore, then dropped it into his pocket.

  “For good luck,” he said. “Can’t have too much of that today.”

  The afternoon passed quietly. Steve put fresh batteries in his guitar pedals and tested them, then checked and re-checked that he had spare strings and guitar picks before packing everything away in the old case he used to transport his equipment. I watched as he sat at the table and polished the instrument lovingly, feeling the electric nerves in the silence that surrounded him. He was wrapped in quiet, withdrawn into himself and everything shut out, even me.

  Finally he took another shower and changed into freshly-washed faded jeans, with a baggy t-shirt and a flannel shirt on top, the sleeves rolled up to hide the holes in the elbows. I glanced out the window.

  “You’d better wear a rain jacket, too,” I said. “It’s sprinkling outside.”

  I carried the guitar and case while he hefted the amp and speaker out to the car. With some care, everything fitted neatly. I started the engine.

  The others were already at the rehearsal space. Connor had the drums all packed and ready to go, while Jerry and Wendy, the other guitarist, already had their equipment in their cars. A few minutes later we were heading in a ragged convoy toward Pioneer Square, finding awkward places to unload in the alley that ran behind the Central. A few more hours and we’d be back here, tearing everything down while the second band on the bill played, then heading back to Capitol Hill to stash the gear in the practice room before dashing back to catch Soundgarden. There was precious little glamor in being bottom of the bill.

  I helped them haul everything in then pulled Steve aside. “I’ll be there before you start. You going to get something to eat?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll see what the others want to do. There are plenty of places around if we get hungry.”

  I kissed him quickly and left. There were hours to kill before they’d start, a long, boring wait as the other two bands arrived, set up and soundchecked. With a little luck at least there’d be time for the band to set some levels. I’d sat during those times with others and knew how slowly the time dragged, how often I checked my watch to see that less than five minutes had passed.

  The apartment was quiet, silence and tension filling all the corners. I dug out an old Ry Cooder LP and let the sounds of his guitar and husky voice take over the space while I made dinner, throwing together some meat and vegetables with soy sauce over rice.

  But eating alone was no fun. There was no conversation, and even Ry’s re-creation of the hard times of the Depression didn’t fill that gap. I did the dishes and watched the news, then stretched out with the evening before me until I could head back downtown.

  I was numb. The feeling had grown over the last day and a half and now it spilled out. I’d had my reputation trashed. Rob had promised three months, but there would be plenty of people who’d remember way beyond that. People would avoid me tonight. Some would insult me. But I wasn’t going to hide. I couldn’t do that; I was innocent. I was going to live life the way I always had; it was the only way to carry on. And that began now; I was going to be there for Steve.

  I wanted his band to be great but I was so scared that they wouldn’t be good enough. He hadn’t talked about it, but I knew how much he’d staked on this. It could be their big break. And if it didn’t work he might break up the group, or at least put everything away for a while. Building him back up would take time and plenty of care. I’d do it, I’d do everything I could, but I’d be much happier if he was a success. An album on Tom’s label would be a step forward. They could tour, even if it was in an old van and sleeping on people’s floors. It would be something.

  Time passed almost as slowly as if I’d been sitting at the Central, and the pile of cigarette butts on the balcony grew. Evening came and shadows lengthened, until the eastern sky was dark. I locked up and drove downtown.

  I circled until a spot came free under the viaduct, then slipped in just ahead of someone in a big red Mercury. The night was warm and the misting rain still came down. I walked back up, the lights of the clubs and bars around Pioneer Square bright and gaudy. I spotted Connor and Wendy outside the Central, smoking and pacing around nervously as if they were looking for something.

  “Hey,” I said, holding up a hand in greeting.

  “Jesus, Laura.” Connor sighed with relief. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Is Steve with you?” he asked

  “Steve? Why would he be with me?” I felt the creep of fear up my back. “What’s happened? Where is he?”

  Twenty-Two

  “He took off about a half hour ago.”

  “Did he say where has was going?”

  “Nothing. Not a word. I thought maybe he was meeting you somewhere.”

  “I’ve just arrived.” My throat was tight. “Shit. When do you guys soundcheck?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Another thirty minutes.”

  “Does Steve know that?”

  He nodded.

  “He’s probably just gone for a walk,” I said, desperately wanting to believe that and trying to make my voice sound casual. “You know what’s he’s like before a gig.” It was true. He’d always become wound up and fearful. A little time by himself to think often helped.

  “We’ve walked around and looked.”

  “Have you gone down by the water?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s probably there, he likes to listen to the sound of it.” I smiled. “You scared me for a minute there. I’ll go look for him.”

  I ran away from the noise, out through the darkness. I just hoped I was right. I had to be right. I kept looking around at every intersection, feeling my heart thumping and the sweat on my palms. Steve was out here somewhere, I told myself. He was just getting himself together. He’d be back for soundcheck and he’d play a great gig. Traffic sang on the viaduct over my head. I dashed across Alaskan Way and then picked him out in the distance, haloed by a street light, staring out over the Sound. In the distance a ferry boat sounded its horn.

  “Hey,” I called as I came close, “are you okay?”

  He turned, his face grim. “Yeah. I just needed a little space. Get myself ready.”

  I stopped beside him, hearing the lapping of the water below us.

  “You wan
t me to leave you? The others were worried, that’s all.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m ready now. I just have this feeling we’re going to be shit.”

  It was the way he felt before every gig, expecting the worst. I squeezed his hand.

  “I bet you’ll be great. And you know I still love you, no matter how it turns out.”

  I slipped my arm through his and we strolled back in silence.

  My name was on the guest list. I turned my wrist to be stamped then walked in. The bar was already fairly busy, people making sure they had seats claimed for later. A few faces I knew turned away when they saw me. Tom hadn’t arrived yet. I claimed an empty table in the back corner where I could see the stage.

  I drank and kept my own company, feeling alone and very vulnerable. No one came over to say hi. Word had spread quickly; I was being shunned and there’d be more to come. I could protest all I wanted but my name was on that album. Rob was right – people would believe I was involved with it. Why would they think anything else?

  It was clever. At a stroke it made me powerless. I made my way back to the bar for another beer. A musician I knew bumped into me and said nothing, his face hard.

  The soundcheck was no more than five minutes; the bottom of the bill had to take the leftover scraps of time. I was still sitting alone when the band came back to plug their instruments in and check their tunings. The other tables were full and a small crowd pressed close to the low stage, ready for Soundgarden later in the evening.

  “Hi.” Steve’s voice boomed through the PA, vocals on the edge of distortion. “We’re Gideon’s Wound.”

  He turned his back, nodded four times and they kicked into the first song. The mix was bad, drums muddy, vocals too loud and the guitars too low. But even that couldn’t disguise the fact that they were terrible. They were out of time with each other and Steve was singing flat. It wasn’t punk, it was just a mess. My stomach was churning and my fists were clenched tight in my lap. I was holding my breath, hoping they could do something to make it right.