Just guessing, she would say perhaps a hundred people were here, which in the Col Ballroom, with its capacity of five hundred, made for a sparse-looking audience, clustered toward the front. That was by design, since only media and VIPs from the Quad Cities and Galena were on the invite list. She moved around and past the wide white wrought-iron stairway to the balcony, where she and Rick had once spent time in the back row on a break, and took in the memory come to life stretching out before her.
Though the ballroom was due to close in just a few weeks, having fallen on changing tastes and hard times, a fairly recent remodeling—aided by low-key lighting—brought to mind the Col’s glory days. The oak wood ten-thousand-square-foot floor, most of it for dancing, was lined left and right with seemingly endless linen-covered tables. The swooping pink-and-gray fabric ceiling, the pastel-green walls with darker green trim, the full-service bars on either side of the vast room, all jibed with her recollections.
On the other hand, the way people were dressed did not bring to mind the early ’80s with its punky fashions and would-be Madonnas—this event had a cocktail party feel with a little country club stirred in. That was what happened when you told a bunch of Midwesterners that they were VIPs. Even the media was spruced up. Of course, so was she.
As for the media, they’d been told this was primarily a social affair. They were asked not to shoot any of the performance, whether with video cameras or their phones, although photos were fine. The press would have access to the band in a meet and greet that was going on now, down in front of the stage. On-the-fly interviews were in progress with all of the boys, and in that instance video was allowed, even encouraged.
She drifted in that direction with something in mind. Something to get off her mind, actually, but she would need to take care. Be subtle. Be alert to read any signs. One by one, when there was a break between mini media interviews, she sought each Piston out. Each original Piston—she did not bother with either Brian, the bass player who’d taken over for his late father Tom, or Phil Deeson, either, because he was just the sub for the absent Rick.
First, she eased up to Steve.
“Hey,” he said, “if it isn’t Angel Baby.”
That was their nickname for her back then.
“Can’t wait,” she said, “to hear you guys again.”
The drummer shrugged. “You heard us at Arnolds Park. We should be about the same.”
“Without Rick?”
“Oh, yeah, no problem. Angel babe, Phil’s got all the parts down. Anyway . . . do I have to tell you what a creep Rick could be? Not to speak ill of the dead.”
Careful to sound casual, putting some confusion in, she asked, “You thinking of anything in particular?”
“Naw. Not really. Sorry. You guys were close. I was out of line.”
“He was good to me, mostly.”
“Hey, I shouldn’t bad-mouth the guy. Rick was fantastic. Best guitar player I ever shared a stage with.”
Sean Leary from QuadCities.com came up and she turned Steve over to him for an interview. Then she cornered Rod.
She said, “You guys were fantastic at Arnolds Park. Really took me back.”
“Yeah,” Rod said, “we saw you there down front! Hey, I’m sorry we didn’t come over and talk to you, after. I was there with Chloe. You know how it is.”
“Sure. Is it going all right, without Rick?”
“I think so. You be the judge. I mean, we still have work to do.”
“Tough tackling this, without Rick?”
A shrug. “I loved Rick onstage and as a player. But we were never really tight, personally. Oh, in the early days, when we were still in college, maybe. But I guess I don’t have to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
He drew in breath, seemed to be measuring his words. “How self-centered he was. What an ego he had. How inconsiderate he could be sometimes . . . Shouldn’t get into that. Not the time or place.”
“You thinking of anything specific, Rod?”
“No.” He shook his head and repeated, “No.”
Somebody grabbed him for an interview.
Finally she managed a few moments with Dan.
“So, Danny, how’s it going? Enjoying yourself reliving old times?”
“Yeah. Sure. You bet.” But his tone and expression said otherwise.
“What’s the problem?”
“Angel, it’s the same old crapola. Rod runs things and I just pick up the table scraps. Remember how I used to sing ‘Memphis’?”
She remembered. How bad it was.
“Well, all I asked for, tonight? Was to sing that one lousy song.”
And, boy, was it lousy when Dan did it.
“But, no,” he was saying. “It’s still The Rod Penniston Show!” He let air out, shook his head. “Honestly, I have no idea why I said yes to this farce.”
She touched his arm. “Hey. Danny. Have a good time with it. Not many people get to revisit their past triumphs in such a cool way.”
“I know. I know. Thanks.”
Then he moved on to a real interview. Rick—his absence, his death—hadn’t even come up.
She headed over to join some friends at a table. Along the way she paused at another to say hello to Krista Larson, the chief of police in Galena, and her father, Keith, who lit up seeing her, saying, “You go back with this bunch as far as I do.”
“Not quite,” she said with a smile. “I was still in high school when the band started up at Dubuque U.”
Rebecca Carlson, that news anchor from Chicago who’d taken over the KWQC morning show, came over after finishing up some interviews with the boys, and sat next to Keith. Which maybe didn’t thrill his police chief daughter, who was admittedly hard to read.
After some friendly chatter, she moved on, socializing along the way, and stopping to get herself a glass of wine at the bar.
Finally, seated with some couples from Galena—business owners, city council members, and the like—she settled back to see what the new Hot Rod & the Pistons lineup had to offer. She was curious. Imagining the group without Rick seemed almost impossible.
They came on dressed in jeans and bright-colored polos—not the funky, punky T-shirts and ragged jeans of the Roof Garden—underscoring the dress rehearsal nature of the performance.
At his keyboards, Rod announced songs and joked with the audience, in an informal way (“We’re still working on this one,” “Maybe you’ll remember this tune—hope we do!”), and took the edge off some occasional ragged moments.
But they were good, Rod’s vocals right on the money, and Phil Deeson filling in fine for the absent Rick. Why, you’d think that was Rick up there, still playing! Not that bald, earring-sporting Phil looked anything like Rick, and everybody back in Galena knew Phil as a much nicer guy than his predecessor, always a friendly presence behind the bar and onstage at the Corner Stop.
The showmanship wasn’t quite there yet, and they weren’t rocketing from one song to another as they had at Arnolds Park. But the Piston sound was there, all right—all the rock and rockabilly classics were spot-on, with a few originals from their second album sprinkled in. She found herself smiling so wide, she thought her face might burst.
About halfway through the set, people started getting up from their tables and, despite their suit-and-tie/cocktail-dress threads, began to dance. High heels got kicked off. Ties loosened. The band’s showmanship started kicking in, the energy spiking on the band shell–style stage.
Somebody tapped her on the shoulder.
She looked up and it was Krista Larson.
“Care to dance?” the police chief asked. “You seem to be going solo tonight, and my guy is up there with a bass guitar in his arms.”
“All right.”
She and Krista danced to “Rip It Up,” and then—unlike at the Roof Garden—the band had held back their big hit and now blasted through “The Girl Can’t Help It.”
And that was it.
The invited gu
ests went absolutely out of their minds. Clapping, whistling, hooting.
Rod said, “Can’t do an encore, guys. Sorry! That’s all we’ve got worked up.”
Then a shouted request from one fan became a chant from many: “Girl Can’t Help It! Girl Can’t Help It!”
So they played it again.
After that, laughing, out of breath, she and Krista headed back hand in hand to their respective tables.
How wonderful, she thought. I still love this band!
The unpleasantness with Rick—what he had made her do—had not ruined how she felt about them. Even her memories were intact, as she thought back to those days in a giddy mental montage of nights here at the Col and elsewhere on the Midwest circuit that the boys had played when she followed him that long-ago summer.
Part of her still loved the bad boy, with no regrets for dispatching the bad man he’d become.
People began getting up and making their slow way out of the ballroom, chatting, laughing. It was only nine thirty! Clearly everyone did not want this too brief evening to be over. On the other hand, for most a drive back to Galena was waiting. Of course, some locals—big kids in their grown-up clothes—were organizing an after-party at Harris Pizza.
Up on the stage, with the ballroom largely cleared out, the boys were tearing down their own equipment. Keith Larson was up there helping them, and she recalled that the former police detective had, in the old days, sometimes roadied for the band. Krista was sitting with the Carlson woman, with Keith’s sport coat on the table where he’d left it to go up and help. Both females were looking at their phones. Krista’s mother had died not terribly long ago—maybe Galena’s police chief wasn’t thrilled with having her father dating again. An understandable thing, but wrongheaded.
People had to learn to get on with their lives.
Soon the band was loading out via a side door. She slipped out into the cool evening. She had a light jacket on over her dress and the nip in the air felt good, almost bracing. She leaned her back against the driver’s door of her car parked in the nearby lot while the boys and their friend Keith loaded up the back of an SUV. The vehicle belonged to Rod, his wife, Chloe, sitting in the rider’s seat, patiently waiting.
Phil had his car backed up on the other side of the SUV while Dan had his car backed in next to hers, the two guitarists loading their respective equipment into their own rides. The Pistons didn’t have a great deal of equipment, just the drums and four knee-high amplifiers, and Rod’s two portable keyboards and the guitars in professional cases. The band had used the house sound system and would, she supposed, use a sound company on their tour.
The fifty-something rock stars were laughing and kidding each other as they worked, high from the gig going well. She relished that camaraderie, reminding her as it did of the old band days. Dan was the only one not joining in; he seemed sullen, almost morose.
When the equipment was loaded up, Rod and the other guys, including Dan, gathered around Keith and shook his hand and patted his back, thanking him for the help.
Rod said, “Your old position’s yours for the asking, buddy. Area’s oldest rock band is perfect for the world’s oldest roadie.”
Everybody laughed a little, with even Dan smiling.
Keith, grinning, enjoying himself, said, “I have the essentials for the job—a strong back and a weak mind. The back not maybe as strong, but the mind is every bit as weak.”
Krista was sitting behind the wheel in their nearby Toyota, waiting for her dad. Rebecca Carlson wasn’t in the car; the newswoman worked in Davenport, with her own transportation, most likely.
“Okay, then,” Rod said. “Rehearsal tomorrow.”
This elicited protests (“Not the day after a gig!” “Even God got a day of rest!”), although Dan didn’t express an opinion; finally—after Rod insisted, in voice-of-reason manner, that time was too short to skip a practice—they agreed to pick up tomorrow at the Corner Stop, usual time, 1:00 p.m.
She smiled to herself, finding it reassuring and even sweet to see everybody, all these years later, relating to each other in the old ways. Unfortunately, one of those ways was Dan, their rhythm guitarist, pouting—the band’s perennial problem child.
The musicians were now just milling, enjoying the afterglow of a good gig.
Keith said, “What do you say to the Village Inn? I might even buy.”
Meals at a truck stop or other all-night restaurant after a job had been standard operating procedure.
Keith looked over and said, “Angel! You’re invited!”
She raised a palm and smiled awkwardly. “No. No, thanks. Thank you, though!”
Keith always was such a sweetheart. But it hurt a little that none of the other guys seconded his invitation or tried to talk her into accepting.
Dan said, “I’ll pass.”
Rod turned to the guitarist and said, “Aw, come on, Dan. Let’s all go, and hit Keith in the wallet. We’ll talk about the gig, go over what we screwed up, and brag on what we got right.”
Steve said, “Yeah, Danny. Be a part of the band for a change.”
Dan frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The drummer leaned in. “It means you were just standing there tonight. You phoned it in, my man.”
Dan’s eyes and nostrils flared. “Why not? With nothin’ to do but play the same three chords over and over in the simple crap we play!”
Rod put a hand on his bandmate’s shoulder. “You played fine, Dan. Nobody lays rhythm down better.”
Dan said nothing.
Which maybe made Rod add, “I just wish . . . nothing.”
“What?”
“I wish you knew how to have a better time, man.”
Dan’s voice cut through the night. “Better time? Maybe I would if you let me sing a damn song once in a while. Friggin’ Ringo sang more lead than I do! We’re supposed to be a group. Not your backup band, Mr. Music Teacher. Give me one measly song to sing, is all I’m asking. And, while you’re at it, throw me some damn harmony parts!”
And the shouting match was on between the three original members, with Rod and Steve finally teaming up on Dan, while Brian and Phil just stayed out of it, trading wide-eyed expressions. A great night had somehow turned ugly.
Steve had his face in Dan’s. “I don’t sing, either, Danny! But you don’t see me bitching about it. You know why? ’Cause I sing almost as off-key as you do!”
Dan backed away but he pointed a finger at Rod and then at Steve, going back and forth between them. “You’re lucky I didn’t tell those media bozos the truth about you jerks! But what the hell . . . maybe I should. Find me a high rooftop and shout it to the world—the truth about their local rock ‘n’ roll heroes . . . the sleazy, disgusting things you people used to do!” He raised his hands as if in surrender. “It’s been nice. I . . . am . . . out!”
Nobody tried to stop him, the rest of the band and Keith, too, just standing there in the parking lot, exchanging poleaxed, raised-eyebrow expressions. Somehow a group of middle-aged men had transformed themselves into the immature kids they’d been back in early college days.
As Dan, flushed, was getting into his car, she put a hand gently on his shoulder and said, “Dan, don’t do this. You guys were so great tonight.”
He turned to her, his eyes wild and glistening. “You of all people . . .” He shook his head. He looked like he might throw up. “. . . all I did was run camera.”
And he got in his car and drove off.
SIX
Around ten thirty, the morning pleasantly cool, Keith—in a dark blue Dubuque Police sweatshirt (HONOR, INTEGRITY, PRIDE), blue jeans, and Reeboks—headed out for a walk. He braved the 240 steps down Quality Hill to Main and, having worked up an appetite (to say the least), had a late breakfast—biscuits and sawmill gravy—at the Courtyard Restaurant in the atrium of the DeSoto House Hotel.
Then, with several things on his mind, he walked down a block to South Commerce. One thing was how he d
id not want to attempt all those steep steps on the walk home—he would stop by the station and beg a ride from his daughter, who took her lunch hour at one to accommodate her clerk-dispatcher’s schedule. The other was a need to follow up on something from yesterday’s Rod & the Pistons preview night at the Col.
Catty-cornered from City Hall and across from the post office, Antiques A Go Go, with its green, yellow-trimmed facade and two front windows, took up the bottom floor of a red-brick building with the usual Victorian lack of width and surplus of length. The upper floor was, Keith knew, the apartment of owner/manager, Daniel Davies.
Out front, on the sidewalk hugging the shop, were funky yard-art pieces—a flamingo, an old sled, a ceramic mason jar planter—and a rustic bench with a tin mime sitting on it. But in one window were pop culture artifacts—vintage movie theater standees of the guitar-slinging King (“You’ll love Elvis in Loving You”) and Jayne Mansfield (“Man! She’s the most!”) for The Girl Can’t Help It (in CinemaScope).
And in the other window were record-store standees of a brooding cigarette-in-hand David Bowie advertising Young Americans next to Elvis Costello aiming a camera at you, hawking This Year’s Model. Between the two display windows a recessed doorway bore a sign in its glass saying VINTAGE VINYL.
As Keith took the Bowie/Elvis Costello window in, he had that odd feeling people get when they realize they’ve been around long enough to remember things that still feel recent but have become nostalgia nonetheless. He went in, a bell over the door dinging, but owner Danny had already seen him through the window, judging by his greeting.
“Keith, if you want that Jayne Mansfield for your bedroom,” Danny said, “I can let you have it for a cool thousand. That’s a steal, I swear.”
The skinny proprietor—his blond hair short, his blue eyes bloodshot, pale skin face-lift taut over the bone structure of his handsome features—sat behind the counter at left. He wore a black Cyndi Lauper T-shirt (SHE’S SO UNUSUAL) and black jeans. He had a cup of coffee in his hands, as if warming them, and a Mr. Coffee going behind him.
Girl Can't Help It: A Thriller (Krista Larson Book 2) Page 6