Emerald City

by Chris Nickson

  Tom slid into a chair next to me, pushed his glasses off his nose and took off his old GMC gimme cap. There were old bruises on his face turning yellow and green, and the two smallest fingers on his left hand were taped together, a splint holding them straight.

  “Jesus,” I shouted over the noise. “What happened to you?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” He nodded at the stage. “Just started?”

  By the second number the soundman had fixed the balance. But there was nothing he could do about the band. I could see the frustration on Steve’s face. He knew. My heart was going out to him, willing him to be great, to turn it all around before he lost the crowd completely.

  I put my hands together loudly, but the applause was brief and polite, nothing more. Halfway through the set things improved. They played the single they’d released, and suddenly the beat was driving through and there was some energy and power, a crispness and urgency to the music. But it was too late and not enough. As soon as they finished the buzz of conversation resumed as if they’d never played.

  “They were okay once they got going,” Tom said when it was over.

  “You think?” I felt sadness filling me. I knew better. They’d blown it. Everyone in the room knew it. The band knew it. I needed to find Steve.

  “Yeah, I do. Really. Hey, I got that list out in the car. You want to go get it before the next band?”

  “Just give me a minute, okay?”

  I pushed my way backstage. Steve’s band was tearing down their equipment and the next group was waiting, eager to set up.

  “Where did he go?” I asked Connor.

  “Outside somewhere.”

  He was sitting on a loading dock further down the alley, face in his hands.

  “Steve.” I put my hand on his arm. He brushed it away.

  “We were shit. We were complete fucking shit.”

  “You weren’t.”

  He raised his head. “Don’t lie to me. Please don’t fucking lie.” His eyes glistened in the light. “Just go away, okay?”

  Tom was waiting by the front door and we started to walk down First Avenue, the original Skid Row where everything and anything once went, back in the days when Seattle was a big logging town and prospectors gathered to head off to the Alaska gold rush. Now Friday night was alive with music and drinking and shouting and laughing.

  “How was he?” he asked.

  “Torn up.” Steve was hurting and I couldn’t stop the pain. I didn’t even know if love would be enough. “So what’s the story? What happened to you?”

  “I got in a fight,” he answered dully. “I lost. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You?” Tom wasn’t the type for that. From the corner of my eye I could see him flinch at the memory.

  “Yeah. Someone beat up on me.” He shook his head. “Walking up Pike after a gig one night.”

  “You call the cops?”

  “No. No point. They were long gone. Got my wallet, that’s all.”

  Okay, I thought. “‘Did you make the list of companies pressing records?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many names?” I asked.

  “Only five.”

  “It should be easy enough to find out who’s behind this, then.”

  Tom said nothing. He’d parked his old Dart under the viaduct, where the road began to rise. Traffic zipped by, people on their way out to begin the weekend, others gratefully heading home. He went around to the passenger side, unlocked the door and picked a thin manila folder off the torn-up bench seat. “Here.”

  “You could have just stuck it in your pocket and saved the walk.”

  “I forgot. Sorry.” He tried to smile but it was a half-hearted attempt. “We’d better go back. The place’ll be filling up.” But he didn’t move. Instead he took something from his jacket and raised his arm, resting it on the roof of the vehicle. Streetlights glistened on the barrel of a gun.

  I stared at it. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  “Tom. Shit.” They were the first words that came out of my mouth. I was watching the gun pointing at me and his finger resting on the trigger.

  I’d never seriously suspected him. I’d never believed he could kill anyone, and now I was going to die too. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t feel anything. It didn’t seem real, as if I was standing there, watching it happen to someone else.

  “You? You murdered Craig? Why? Does it have something to do with what happened to you?” I stared at him, but his face showed nothing. He stayed silent for a long time. I could hear the traffic above us and see headlights passing in the distance on First Avenue.

  “Have you ever needed money?” he said finally. His hand moved a little and the gun barrel wiggled from side to side.

  “Sure.” My mouth was dry.

  “I don’t mean hitting someone up for a ten or twenty. I mean really needed money,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Try fifty grand,” Tom said. It was big enough money, more than most people could earn in a year. But it didn’t seem like enough to make him kill someone.

  “I thought you had an investor.” I wanted to keep talking, to put off the moment, to hope that something, anything would happen to save me.

  “Yeah, I do.” He raised sad, helpless eyes. “Did. That’s how much he put in. The only problem is he needed his money back. Some deal he had went south or something. And he wanted it back from me with interest. He gave me a month to come up with fifty thousand dollars, and I could pay the rest later. When I said I couldn’t do it he made it very clear what would happen if I didn’t come up with the cash.” He held up the hand with its splinted fingers and pointed at his battered face. “You want to know what really happened to me? That’s what happened.” I heard the sound of him kicking at the dirt.

  “I thought it was twenty-five grand.” They were just words, trying to postpone the inevitable.

  “That’s what I told people.”

  “So it was all just for money.”

  “Would you hate me if it was?”

  “Yes.” He was going to shoot me; he might as well have the truth.

  “You know why he came to me? The guy deals drugs. Not on the street. Big time. Heroin, coke. You name it.” He glanced out at the distance. “Did I ever tell you about my dad?”

  “No.” He seemed distracted and I shifted my feet, ready to run into the darkness. Then he raised the gun slightly, aiming it square at my chest, and carried on speaking.

  “He was a rich junkie, inherited money from his own father. I saw him fall apart. I don’t even know how many times I saw him shoot up. About the only good thing was that he died before he could run through all the money. Lucky for me, huh?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “My brother was the one who got that bad fucking gene. It missed me but it stuck to him. He snorts, he shoots, and I look after him. But he’s into the guy for five thousand. He’s been beaten, the guy’s threatening to take him out and kill him. I went to see him.”

  I waited, letting him talk, letting him release it all. Maybe I’d have a chance to sprint away. I was clammy with sweat, my palms soaked.

  “I begged him. I begged him to let Andy live. He’s the one family I’ve got.” He looked at me and I could see tears glistening in his eyes. “I told him I’d do anything.”

  “But you still borrowed from someone like that?” I asked. I almost felt sorry for him. And every second was a little more life and a bit more hope.

  “Do you think I wanted to? He was the one who suggested it.” He raised his voice a little in a mix of anger and frustration. “I’d tried everywhere else and they turned me down. He thought putting money through the label would be a good way to launder it. He said he’d leave Andy alone if I did it. I needed the cash, Laura. I was desperate. I was going under. But I needed my brother alive, too. I used the money to stay afloat. When he wanted it back I asked him to be patient. I told him this music’s going to be big, I know it is. But...” He let the words drift up into the
sky.

  “What’s this guy’s name?” I asked.

  “Rick Everson. I’ve written everything down at home.”

  My life wasn’t flashing in front of my eyes the way people said it did in moments like these. Instead I was talking to someone I’d known for years, someone I’d liked and respected. Someone who was going to pull that trigger soon and leave me to die.

  “Craig,” I said, filling the silence, trying to spin out my life.

  “I went to see him. I’d supported him, I’d put out this album and his singles. I thought he could help me out from his advance. He said no.” He sounded aggrieved, as if Craig giving him the money would have been natural justice. “I went back on the Saturday. Just showed up with a bottle of Scotch. If he hadn’t been on his own nothing would have happened.” He paused.

  “I told him I was sorry and we had a few drinks. I just sipped but he was gulping it down. He liked Scotch. It only took an hour before he was pretty drunk.”

  I didn’t say anything, just let him talk. At least I’d know the full story, even if I couldn’t do anything about it.

  “Rick had given me the heroin. He told me to kill Craig if he wouldn’t co-operate. If I didn’t, he’d kill Andy. I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t.” I was breathing quietly, listening and waiting for any gap that might let me get the hell out of there. “And Craig owed me. I mean, really. If I hadn’t put out that album no one would have heard of him. You know he’d played me the demos they did for ARP?”

  “They were amazing. If he’d let me put them out I’d have made enough to pay off the debt. He just laughed.” He looked at me. “I had to have those tapes. It was the only choice I had left. If he’d said yes he’d still be alive.”

  In his head it all made sense. Every part of it was logical. He’d done what he had to do. I tried to gather my thoughts.

  “Who did you get to keep calling me?”

  “Andy,” he said. “You’d never met him, you didn’t know his voice. He’s a bright kid. Just royally fucked up.” He paused and pursed his lips. “I didn’t have any choice. Don’t you understand that, Laura? I had to.” He stared straight at me, desperation in his eyes.

  I couldn’t give him the answer I wanted. I wasn’t going to absolve him. I just looked at him as he raised the gun. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of closing my eyes as he shot me. He was going to have to face me.

  Tom’s hand kept moving until the barrel was under his chin, pushing against the loose flesh. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something but no words came out. He pulled the trigger.

  Someone must have heard the shot and called the cops. They arrived while I was still kneeling on the ground, puking up my guts and frantically trying to brush blood and bone off myself. Two squad cars, blue lights flashing, sirens loud.

  The next hours blurred. I remembered an officer talking gently to me, putting a blanket around my shoulders to try and stop me shaking. An ambulance arrived, then the coroner’s van.

  They drove me downtown, gave me coffee and cookies from a vending machine and asked me questions I barely heard. I was numb. I gave them the answers, the words floating out of me in a monotone. Finally, once they were happy with what I’d said, they took me back to my car. The streets were almost empty, just a few night owls drifting around. I drove home without thinking, on autopilot.

  In the bathroom I stripped off my clothes and left them on the floor. I stood under the shower, soaping myself over and over, shampooing my hair four times until I felt sure none of him remained on me, then wrapped a large towel around myself.

  The bedroom door was open, the bed empty. Steve was out there somewhere, probably getting drunk. Part of me wanted to go and find him, to comfort him. Instead I cranked up the thermostat, made a pot of coffee, and stood by the balcony door, smoking and waiting for the dawn.

  Twenty-Three

  I ate and showered again then drove up to Safeway for the Sunday paper and another pack of smokes. I felt removed from the world, as if a glass wall was separating me from everyone else. If I tried to close my eyes and let the weariness take me, I heard the noise of the shot and saw Tom’s head explode.

  Around eleven I called Rob’s home number.

  “Christ,” he said when I’d finished. “Right there in front of you?”

  “Yeah. After I’d thought he was going to kill me.”

  “I’m sorry. If I’d thought it was going to come to that...”

  I knew it was all he could say but somehow it didn’t seem like enough.

  “Do you want to write it all up?”

  “I’m back, am I?” My voice was bitter.

  “Yes, you are.” He tried to sound kind, sympathetic. I knew he meant well that he’d only done what he had to do. But all I could see was Tom’s eyes right before he pulled that trigger.

  “Yeah, maybe in a few days.”

  “Take as long as you need. And I mean it, I’m sorry. I really am.”

  An hour later I heard a key in the lock. Then Steve was standing by me, guitar case in his hand.

  “Hey,” he said. From his face I could tell that he hadn’t heard.

  “Hey.” I was glad to see him but right now I was numb. I’d seen someone I’d liked, someone I’d respected, blow his head off after I thought he was going to kill me. Next to all that, a bad gig seemed pretty pissant, no matter how much I loved him. I opened my mouth to start to tell him, but he was ahead of me.

  “I went back in after you last night but you’d already gone. We all went over to Connor’s and...” He shrugged. “And I did a lot of thinking.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m not going to make it, am I?” Before I could even say a word, he continued, “I want the truth.”

  “Maybe not,” I answered finally. I was tired, I felt like little pieces of me were everywhere. I didn’t even want this fucking conversation about him and his music right now. “But you should never stop doing something you love. Making it isn’t the only reason for playing music.”

  “I quit the band.”

  “Why?”

  “Because...” He struggled for the words. “Because what’s the fucking point? We were shit. We’ll always be shit. You know it. I know it. Everyone in the fucking Central knew it. I’ve got to stop. If I don’t I’m just going to keep tearing myself apart.” He hesitated. “I decided something else, too.”

  The silence hung between us.

  “I’m going to find my own place. I need to be alone for a while and try to figure out exactly what I do want out of life.”

  “I love you.” It was true, I did. But if he couldn’t look at me and see the pain on my face, maybe he was doing the right thing. I knew that, too. Everybody fucking hurts.

  “I love you, too.” He gave a sad smile. “I just know I need to sort this shit out by myself. I’m sorry.” He reached out and took my hand for a moment. “I really am. More than you know.”

  He vanished inside. I lit another cigarette and poured some more coffee.

  Acknowledgments

  Without the help and faith of many people you wouldn’t be reading this book. I’m grateful to Creative Content for wanting to publish it and for suggesting the big change that brought it more alive. To Lorelei King, for giving Laura a voice. To Lynne Patrick, as insightful an editor as anyone would want. To Ross Bradshaw, for a pair of early edits that made a huge difference. To Gary Heffern for the wise words. To Penny, for patience, always. And to more people than I can name who here read a much earlier version and gave advice and encouragement. Thank you all.

  I spent 20 years in Seattle, several of them as a writer for The Rocket, working with some excellent editors and a great, supportive publisher in Charles R Cross. It really was a remarkable publication and I’m honoured to have been associated with it – I only hope I’ve done it justice here. It was an interesting time, being there when Seattle became ‘America’s most liveable city’ and the music scene rose to global prominence. Some bands achi
eved deserved success, others went nowhere and there were a few casualties along the way. May they all rest peacefully.

  I’ve taken liberties here and there to fit the story. I know it, you may too. Mea culpa.

  Chris Nickson was born and raised in Leeds and he first realised he wanted to be a writer when he was 11. As a teenager, though, music dug its claws into his soul, and for many years he played in the US, both solo and in bands like Harvey & the Larvae and Heat In The Room, that few people ever noticed. Finally, landing in Seattle, his passions met as he became a music journalist. Now, hundreds of interviews and thousands of reviews later, he lives back in England, still a music journalist, but also a novelist. He’s the author of five Leeds-based Richard Nottingham novels, The Crooked Spire (set in 14th century Chesterfield) and now his love of music, crime and Seattle have come together in Emerald City.

  ALSO BY CHRIS NICKSON

  THE BROKEN TOKEN

  18th century Leeds: Pickpockets, pimps and prostitutes: All in a day’s work for the city constable – until work moves too close to home. When Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds, discovers his former housemaid murdered in a particularly sickening manner, his professional and personal lives move perilously close. More murders follow. Soon the city fathers cast doubt on his capability and he is forced to seek help from an unsavoury source. Not only does the murder investigation keep running into brick walls, he can’t even track down a thief who has been a thorn in his side for months. When answers start to emerge, Nottingham gets more than he bargains for...

  Published by Creative Content Ltd.

  ISBN 9781976790844

  SOLID AIR

  For over four decades, John Martyn was a musician’s musician (lauded by artists as disparate as Eric Clapton, Phil Collins and Bob Marley), a superb guitarist and singer who straddled the worlds of folk, jazz and rock, earning an OBE and being honoured with a Life Achievement by the BBC Radio 2 Folk Awards shortly before his untimely death in 2009. He was a true innovator, constantly pushing the boundaries of his music. He leaves behind a body of work that ranges from the beautifully intimate to the majestic, created during a turbulent, troubled, but uncompromising life – all detailed in Solid Air.