My hand froze on the handset. I couldn’t lift it. Todd’s note was in my pocket. Who would know, right? Walk out, leave him here. Let him have what he wanted in the first place—a legendary death.
Or I’d leave him here and he’d survive, the son of a bitch. Just keep on breathing until finally someone found him and called for help. He’d come to in the hospital, still get all the attention, still expose me.
My hand on the handset, waiting. Help him or get the hell out. Or…
The details came fast like I was channeling them from beyond. Let Todd have his death, try to get that laptop from his car, stay off police radar mostly, and have a good shot at keeping my life here in New Orleans. Maybe. Nothing was certain.
Still, it was more certain than my other options.
I pinched my fingers against his nostrils. Wondered how long it would take. It was a mercy killing, right? Todd was probably already brain dead, and putting him through the humiliation of having the public watch as he existed as a vegetable—that didn’t seem right to me.
He was so far gone I barely felt the tremors as he fought for breath. I closed my eyes, remembering him on stage, backstage, at my house poolside, tired after a long tour, both of us still not believing we had made it in the biz. Remembering him at the end, at that restaurant in Osaka, still wanting to go forward, never giving up.
But then he kicked hard.
A little voice in my head shouted: Murderer.
I pulled my hands away. If he’s fighting to live, then let him have whatever life he brought on himself. “Hey, I was just trying to be a pal. You going to wake up, now?”
He didn’t move again, the kick more likely a reflex. I didn’t hear or smell his breath. I leaned closer. Warm exhalation on my skin. I waited. Nothing else came. Fuck. I pounded his chest. CPR? I didn’t know CPR. Hell, I didn’t even shop for myself until I split the band.
“Come on, you’ve got a lot to live for.” I kept pushing his chest. I thought about mouth-to-mouth, covered his mouth with my own and blew hard, one, two, three.
Pounding on the chest again. I remembered CPR being for the heart.
Todd still wasn’t breathing.
Back to the mouth-to-mouth, this time tasting his foul exhalation, couldn’t place it—
It’s vomit, you moron. He’s choking on vomit.
I think I made it worse, and I nearly threw up myself, gagged and held it together. I turned his head, trying to clear it out of his mouth. Stuck my fingers in there, but he was too far gone.
Maybe the paramedics could’ve swooped in and saved the day if I had grabbed the phone immediately like any right-thinking person. Instead, I was too concerned about what he had on me.
Part of me tried to justify it—He wanted to die, you’ve got the proof. You were his Dr. Kovorkian.
Another minute passed. I called the front desk and told Dennis to send help. “I think he’s dead. Hurry.”
Hurry. Right. I should’ve said, Take your sweet time.
5
I was up and out before the handset had time to settle, Todd’s rental keys in my pocket. I needed a side door and a way to avoid Dennis. Found one, slipped out, and looked for the nearest parking garage, the word “killer” echoing in my head.
It wasn’t my fault.
I concentrated on one thing—finding the car and getting rid of anything tying Todd and me together. I pulled the key out of my pocket, a plastic “83” twist-tied to the ring. After a guest’s car turned into the multi-level parking garage across the street, I trotted after, catching the brake lights glowing as the car eased down a ramp into the garage.
I thumbed the auto-unlock button, and hoped I was right about the numbered spaces. Eighty-three. Funny thing, though—everything was numbered. Columns, walls, parking spots, elevators. All I had was a green eighty-three. If the floors were color-coded, I had a good chance of finding the car before the cops came searching for me.
Once past the main ramp, I started down the line of cars, a lot of upscale shit—Lexus and Mercedes, big ass SUVs, even a Porsche. Give me a GTO or Caddy every time.
The first level was orange. I walked up the next ramp, close to the wall to avoid the cars, tire squeaks bouncing off the concrete walls. Up on the second level, more empty spaces than the first. Yellow. I freaked out.
Another ramp. Green. Another line of cars. One was an Avalon, great, so I stepped right over to it, pointed the little plastic nub, and pressed the button.
Nothing.
I hit it again and again. I hit the panic button. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
I checked the number spray-painted on the ground: “61”.
By the time I found spot eighty-three, I was out of time. I looked up. Goddamn. An empty spot. Then I saw something that sent my stomach to hell. Pebbles of broken green glass scattered where I’d expect the driver’s door to be.
How can you be sure? C’mon.
Checked the number again. Sure as shit—green eighty-three. I knelt beside the broken glass, pointing the nub and pressing the button at it, hearing the beep in my head—they’d stolen his fucking car. Not the Lexuses or Mercs or whatever downstairs, worth a shit-load more. Not even the Accords and Camrys popular for reselling their parts. Just one car, the one I was looking for.
Maybe he was drunk, maybe someone was in his space, maybe it’s an inverted “38”.
Just to be sure, I ran up to the last level. Blue. Not many cars at all. I ran down the line tapping the button hoping for a click, a beep, a belch, anything. Not one damn sound, and I didn’t see a single Toyota. It was so gone.
I stumbled back down a flight, looked at eighty-three again and tried to conjure a car there with my mind. Echoes hit me hard from the ramp, and I freaked, thinking, Cops. My first instinct was to bolt, go right over the balcony and fall three flights, start running soon as I hit the ground. They didn’t have my name, my address, my number, my girlfriend’s number.
If I was scared of heights, it wasn’t the time to find out. I climbed over. I fell. I felt empty and free—until I hit hard, banged up my arm, rolled. Stood and hid flush against the wall. A few people who had seen the fall applauded and whistled. Fuck that. I was aching, but I kept on. A block later, I’d forgotten about the pain and jogged, nowhere to go except anywhere else.
6
Resting in a side alley, I thought about Beth, remembering our dinner plans. I didn’t think I’d make it. She would forgive me. She was good at that. Had to be with me in her life. Thinking of how I met her took away some of the sting of a three-story fall and the thought of Todd dead on hotel sheets.
It had been a few months before at the House of Blues, a Lucinda Williams concert. She would have escaped my attention if not for her and her friend giggling like teenagers, then breaking into the chorus from Lucinda’s “Ventura”. The friend had a great voice. Beth didn’t. I couldn’t help from joining in halfway through. Hell, I’d sung backup in the studio plenty. At first I thought these two would stop cold and move to the other side of the club, some freak like me making a move. Instead, they started the chorus over from the beginning and we all took a part. Beautiful.
Beth’s friend was complimentary, touching my arm and asking if I was in a band. I shook it off, told them they sounded great without me. Beth wasn’t exactly shy, but very quiet. I wanted her, though. She was damn near tall as me, towering over her friend. Had a thick shapely body—not fat, just perfect for her frame. Long dark hair with a premature gray streak running down over her left shoulder, even though her face was showing late twenties.
I tried to smooth my way into her life, at least for the night. Offered her a drink. She said no, she was driving. It wasn’t until I called her the next day that I found out she hardly ever drank, and that she was studying to be an Episcopal priest. It explained why I thought I was striking out the previous night when I was really making a good impression.
Three months of dating, falling into heavy gothic romance—the bleeding heart “can’t
live without you” kind—but no sex. I left her apartment with blue balls so often, I’d search out a desperate barfly who only needed ten minutes getting to know me. Fuck her with my eyes closed, pretending it was Beth’s pussy, Beth’s ass, Beth’s voice. Some nights, I felt too guilty and just went home.
Sex was easy. Love was hard, almost not worth the crushing hurt, but the magnetic pull was inescapable after a thirteen-year drought, not to mention Beth’s natural passion. Our kisses were hungry, our grinding like a last request, almost violent. But I’d reach for her skirt, rub my hand up her thigh, and she’d stop cold and stare me down, wordless, until I pulled away.
If I had to kill Merle Johnson and split town, I wanted this woman, every part of her, before I left.
Back to reality, the chill gumbo of odors in the New Orleans’ air was half-strength in fall. I was usually immune to it but it caught me by surprise, left me feeling like a tourist again. The light ahead turned green and I jogged to the neutral ground, waited for the walk signal. A glance behind was useless because the whole scene was an absurdist painting. Everyone was a plainclothes cop or patrol cop or an unmarked cop car or painted cop cruiser. They didn’t know who they were looking for, so I thought. Then it occurred to me: The same people who tipped off Todd might not be too happy with you right now.
I stepped fast across Canal to the sidewalk and kept going into the CBD, down Baronne Street several blocks before cutting right on Poydras. If anyone followed, they’d think I was heading away from International House. Another couple blocks, then down a street that seemed abandoned. A closer look showed a take-out Po-boy joint, a few bars, and an Oriental spa wedged between boarded buildings, orange netting and a monster dumpster outside an ancient bank that was getting worked over, probably to reemerge in a year as another fancy hotel.
I found a break in the net and slipped between the dumpster and the building. Looked at my watch—a little after three o’clock. The deconstruction crew inside was ripping out concrete, drywall and fixtures, tossing them out into the dumpster. I’d have to put up with a shower of dust and crashes like thunder. As long as the cops didn’t look too closely, or maybe if they mistook me for a bum, I could slip out in another ten minutes. Thoughts fired in my head, putting together the evacuation plan. Paranoia was like an addiction, coming back at the same level as when I went cold turkey off it many months before, thinking all my tracks were covered.
Damn! A block of something fell into the dumpster and the noise was bass drum times ten plus a jet engine. I slid to the ground with my knees drawn close, and wrapped my arms around them, put my head down. Another thump from the dumpster sent shockwaves through me. Only a little while longer, I thought.
7
Jacksonville, 1987
Outside in the side alley next to a Mexican joint called Macho Taco after the show at this lame club had degenerated into yet another bar fight, I nursed bruises and Doug cradled his bass, glad to escape before it got worse. We’d settled on the name Savage Night a month before and were trying to raise enough money to head out west, play the L.A. clubs. We even added a keyboard player for awhile after Van Halen hit big with Sammy Hagar and synths. This night was his last with the band and a real turning point, when we decided to go after the prize.
It went down like this: the crowd, half bikers and half college students, heckled us. Todd hopped off the stage and beaned a drunk with the microphone. The drunk had friends who beat the hell out of Todd.
Our synth player missed a few notes , then lifted the synthesizer off its stand and threw it across the stage. Plastic black and white keys exploded in every direction.
Stefan sat on the edge of the stage and noodled on his Ibanez six-string, mirrored sunglasses reflecting the red and yellow lights. Nobody bothered him.
A few tough guys swarmed the stage and faced off with the synth player.
One of the college frat boys was on a beeline, eyeing the bass head like a big target. I threw a gong mallet at him, connected with his nose.
Todd was carried around the place like a puppet.
I took a few punches, but I fought dirty and saved my drums, except for my ride cymbal—it fell over and cracked like the Liberty Bell.
Stefan ended up showing some licks to a few bikers.
Our rep would grow, but we wouldn’t get paid. Again.
Alison leaned against the back wall. She looked twenty-six, the age on her fake license. She had worn down my defenses over the past few months. Not like that was difficult. I was horny and she was in love.
Doug hadn’t been happy lately, but he wouldn’t talk about it with me. That was strange after all the years we’d been friends. His folks were disappointed in his grades and wished he would quit the band, study law. They wished Alison wouldn’t follow us to gigs. If they knew what her and I were doing most nights, they’d lock her in her room. Doug knew, never said anything, but I could tell he thought me banging his sister was a shitty move. Still, when the bar fights broke out, he used me for a shield and I didn’t argue.
The rest of the band drifted out the stage door to the alley where Todd’s dad’s pick-up truck was parked on the gravel. A streetlight buzzed overhead, but beyond that was darkness, no stars or moon, all clouds and echoes of cars. I pulled my T-shirt off and tossed it in the bed of the truck, lifted my bottle of Gatorade and took a swig.
Our synth player shook his head, disgusted, and said, “Goddamn thing cost me a thousand bucks. My mom paid for half of it.”
“Yeah, how tragic,” I said. He gave me a vicious squint. “What? You accidentally shotputted it?”
Todd laughed, held a cold beer can to his bruised cheek.
I pointed at him. “You’re not doing much better.”
Alison sat on the back bumper, quiet like Doug but holding in more anger than all of the band put together. I’d feel the brunt of it as soon as we got rid of the others. I wasn’t looking forward to that.
Doug said, “Let’s find the owner.”
“Why bother? We’ll probably end up owing more than we earned. I say we grab our shit and leave.” That was me. Forever glum.
Todd glanced at Synth Guy. “I’m not picking up his mess.”
“Hey, I’m not the one starting fights with the audience.”
Todd tossed the can. “You want to go? See how you handle yourself without a piano to swing.”
A breeze had picked up. The air stank of the trashcans from Macho Taco.
Synth Guy said, “You’ve pulled this at, like, four gigs in a row.” He turned to us. “Are singers so hard to find, man? I mean, there’s gotta be someone just as good.”
I smiled. “Damn straight.”
Todd was all ADD jitters, wanting a piece of us both.
“Doug did a good job that last time. Why not him?” Synth Guy said.
Doug leaned the bass gently against the truck. “I’m just a bassist. I can’t do a singer act, you know?”
“You act fine. It’s the music that’s important.”
“Not for what we do.” Doug shook his head. “We’ve got to sell the whole package.”
The fire exit door swung open and Sylvia staggered out drunk with a goofy grin aimed at Todd. I’d seen her a couple times at other shows, but Todd hadn’t said anything about her. Seemed to me there was a connection between them, though. She was right out of a video with the torn fishnets and rags, sharp heels, dark hair reaching high. A little short, plump, but she did something inside me immediately. Couldn’t explain it. Maybe I stared a second too long, because Alison eased next to me moments later.
“What about Sting? He plays bass and sings. What about Geddy Lee, right?”
Doug balled his fists. Never seen him like that before.
He said, “But I’m not Sting, all right? I don’t like being up there having to sing. It’s scary.”
“You’ve done fine, though.”
“Because I was mad. That’s all.”
Todd paced, kicking up dust. I wanted to walk over and calm
him down, but when I leaned forward, Alison tugged my arm. I could have pulled away, but I didn’t.
Sylvia wove her way to the truck, nose wrinkling. She said, “Todd, please.”
“You’re a fucking joke,” Synth Guy said. “I’m starting to think you all are.”
“You’re the joke. A walking talking insult. A chip on the world’s shoulder.” Todd was in attack mode, easy steps towards the guy, arms at the ready.
Synth Guy slammed his palms into Todd’s shoulders. Todd threw a wild punch. Synth Guy wrapped his arms around Todd and took him to the ground. Scrambling—Slapping—Scooting. Todd broke free but didn’t turn around fast enough. Synth Guy landed a boot in Todd’s gut—doubled over, took an elbow to his spine, dropped on his face.
Sylvia let out a noise like a parrot, and Synth Guy kicked Todd a few more times. Alison’s fingers gripped my arm tighter, but I pried them off and lunged at Synth Guy.
I twisted his arm behind his back.
“Get off me!”
“Say uncle,” I said. “Say you’ll quit the band.”
“Hey, that’s enoughowowowowok, ok! Uncle, you shit.”
“Say you’ll quit the band.”
The rest of Savage Night surrounded us. They wanted to hear him say it too.
I upped the pressure on his arm, an unnatural angle. “Say you’ll—”
“ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT I QUIT THE FUCKING BAND I QUIT THE FUCKING BAND LET GO OF MY ARM pleaseplease.”
I let go. Synth Guy stumbled forward in a dust cloud and gripped his arm. He backed away, headed for the road. “Fuck this. I don’t need any of you. You guys suck so bad.”
I picked up a rock and threw it at him. It arced way over his head, but he still flinched. He made quick distance, turning around once to shout, “I’ll pick up my mike stand tomorrow. It’s mine, remember!”
The band huddled together around the tailgate, Sylvia and Alison right there with us. Todd held out his hand for a bro’ shake. I took it.
The Drummer Page 4