by Jeff Orton
The next line passed while I was talking, but I caught the tail end of it: “. . . bitches think they got class!”
Adam’s lead guitar and Bo’s rhythm guitar made their entrances and the song improved vastly, but still couldn’t compensate for the inexperienced stylings of Eli and their drummer, Scott.
Halfway through the three and a half minute recording, it became obvious to me what the problem was. It wasn’t just that Eli and Scott were bad (I felt Bo and Adam were already painfully aware of that) it was that they didn’t even seem to be playing the same song. It sounded as though Scott was a little jumpy, anticipating the notes and smacking one of the drums or cymbals before he was supposed to, while Eli just seemed to be bee-bopping around to whatever tune was playing in his head..
The recording ended and I told them, “Yeah, seems like there’s something off, but I just can’t think of what it is. . . Probably cuz I’m not a musician.”
I could feel Bo seeing right through me when I said that, but he didn’t call me on it. I sensed his decision to talk to me about it later.
Everyone played around with the incredibly complex and expensive-looking soundboard as I strolled around the place. I went inside the glass walls of the actual recording studio, being careful not to trip over any of the numerous black wires running across the wood-panel floor.
As I was looking around I remembered hearing these places were designed to be soundproof. I decided to experiment. All four members of the band were looking down at the shiny soundboard. I walked back to the door and shut it, then swallowed a big breath of air and screamed so loud and long, I saw little white sparks dancing and popping in my vision.
And none of them noticed. Not one of them had heard a damn thing!
A voice from the gutters of my mind spoke up then, Wouldn’t you just love to hear Big Bad Galen scream like that?
“Yes, I would,” I whispered. An evil smirk spread itself across my face.
I sat down at the stool in front of the drum set and picked up the sticks left lying on the floor. I let loose with a quick barrage of strikes, paused while I glanced up to see if anyone noticed, and then pounded out an onslaught, smashing the cymbals with all my strength when the mood struck me. A plot was forming in my mind and the cacophony I was orchestrating seemed to be aiding my flow of consciousness.
As my musical assault and battery on the drum set was drawing to a close, I observed a balding man in his fifties enter through the basement door Eli had opened for me earlier. I laid the sticks back where I’d found them and walked quickly out of the studio.
“Hey, Uncle Bob!” Eli called out, “Don’t worry. We’re just wrapping this shit up before we head out.”
“Well, I’d letcha boys stay longer but there’s sumwhurr I gotta be soon,” he replied.
As I scanned him, I learned this was somewhat of a truth/lie. He had the red face of a lifelong alcoholic and was worried about getting to his favorite bar in time for happy hour, the same bar that was within walking distance of his house.
Eli was preoccupied as well. He was hoping his uncle wouldn’t bring up the thirty percent discount he’d given the band for the studio time since Eli was family. Instead of distributing the savings evenly amongst his fellow bandmates, Eli had chosen instead to pocket it and keep his mouth shut.
I’d have to drop a hint about that to Bo later. Nothing dramatic, just point out how funny it seems that good ole Uncle Bob would charge his nephew’s struggling band full price for a few hours of studio time.
After the guys had retrieved their guitars and other equipment, Bo and Adam were helping Scott pack up his drum set while Eli and his uncle sat at a small circular table away from the soundboard, smoking cigarettes. Anxious for a nicotine fix myself, I joined them.
“You’re not goan believe this,” Bob said to his nephew with a grin, giving me a slight nod of acknowledgement as I took a seat on one of the metal folding chairs, “Deez niggers come in the utter day want’n uh use this place...”
My blood went cold. Perhaps that’s a cliché, but it’s true. I absolutely cannot stand inbred rednecks who talk that way. It’s as if they think whites are the Blessed Ones From God sent here to govern the lesser races.
I tried not to listen, knowing I’d just get more pissed off if I did. I’d already lit up and was subsequently smoking as fast as I could, “hot-boxing” the cigarette, looking up and around at all the expensive equipment you weren’t allowed to smoke around, at least not close enough where ashes might drift into things.
“. . . so den I toal doze two I only cater to acts that pay by duh week and dat I ree-kwar a down payment.”
“Oh, shit!” Eli snorted, just yucking it up with him, “What’d they say?”
“They got all flustered and started talkin dare nigger-slang and sayin their gonna burn this muddafucka down and shit. . . I think they knew I was lyin out my ass bout the deposit!”
“Hope you got insurance,” Eli said, shaking his head, “The ones around here’ll really do that shit.”
“Nah,” Uncle Bob replied, “They didn’t look like thayze from around this neighborhood. Dare clothes’re too flashy, too expensive.”
“Oh, so they weren’t gangsta rappers?”
“Nah, they looked more the R & B type. You know, the kind of guys who sing doze ‘baby, baby please fuck me’ songs.”
Eli leaned back in his chair with his eyes shut and a big grin on his face. His whole body shook with the silent laughter he was holding in.
I was seriously beginning to dislike Eli; his uncle I already despised.
Bo walked in then and saved me from reaching over and clocking them both by stating three simple words: “Van’s loaded. Ready?”
“Sure!” Bob answered as he stood up and smashed his cigarette out in the ashtray, “I’ll falluh you boys out, so I can lock up behind-juh.”
As we were leaving, I probed good ole Uncle Bob’s brain with as much force as I could possibly muster while remaining upright and walking.
Bob began punching numbers into the small white panel next to the door only after the five of us college kids were safely outside where none of us could see in and find out what his top secret code was.
2-5-7-6, the last four of his social. Classic.
And as he closed the door and stuck his key in the lock to turn the deadbolt, I saw him glance over to the left into a line of thick shrubs that bordered the front side of the building. It was just for about two full seconds , but long enough for me to see through Bob’s eyes that there was something copper-colored hanging on a ring which hung on a small twig right up against the stem of the nearest bush. The dark reddish-brown copper blended perfectly with the stem, making the item practically invisible.
When it became clear what the item was, I grinned. I glanced around Bob’s property, imagining what it would look like with yellow tape lining the perimeter...
CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS
* * *
The biggest mistake I made that following Friday night was assuming that as soon as I got to that infamous corner of Dallas, that Galen would surely show up shortly afterward. The thought that he might get there and pick another guy before I made it out there (or that he might not show until two-thirty in the morning or not at all) never once occurred to me.
That scared me. It scared me a lot because it made me think, What else did I forget? Is there some factor, some unknown contingency I forgot to account for?
But it was too late now. I was already out there in what I still believe must be the scariest place in all of North Texas to visit at night.
My attire for the evening was very similar to what I’d chosen for Jack’s execution two years prior. Except now I had a knit cap pulled over my head to prevent the shedding of any hairs at the studio and a pair of thin imitation-leather gloves.
The previous night I’d driven by the studio and located the nearest dumpster about half a block away. I’d packed some of my regular clothes
(along with a towel and two large bottled waters) into a white drawstring trashbag. On the day we’d torn down the set of Waiting Room Germany, I’d taken some of the pieces of glowtape that had been stapled to the many steps and stairs of the set and put them in my pocket. When I was packing the trashbag, I used clear scotch tape to adhere them to the outside of the bag so that I might find the bag more easily in the dark.
It was Thursday night when I sifted through one corner of the dumpster and placed that bag at the very bottom where hopefully no one would mess with it for the next twenty-four hours. All the while, my mind was scanning the immediate area for anyone watching me.
I knew the trash wouldn’t run until Monday morning, so I wasn’t concerned with that so much as I was about some homeless person who might rummage through the dumpster and discover a white trashbag with little green rectangles taped to it. It would definitely be eye-catching, and my change of clothes would be history. I’d have to take that half mile trek back to my truck looking like a homeless teenage heroine addict who’s just slaughtered a cow.
I guess I’d just have to try to get as little of Galen’s blood on me as possible, just in case I had to improvise.
I parked my truck at one of the few strip clubs that offers free parking and set out for Harry Hines and Sixth. As it happened, that particular club was the perfect place to leave my vehicle. It was almost at the midpoint between my destination and the studio.
As I turned out of the parking lot and stepped onto the sidewalk of a dimly lit Harry Hines Boulevard (the one working street lamp was flickering sporadically) I realized what a really, really bad fucking idea this was. There are undesirable neighborhoods all throughout America, and there are the tough neighborhoods—which are worse. But then there are places like this, places which make you feel there is no hope for humanity. We’re all fucking doomed no matter what we try to do to prevent it.
The curbs were overflowing with prostitutes, their pimps usually close by. The drug dealers were handling more money tonight than I would see in five years. It seemed every third or fourth building on both sides of the street was either a porn shop or a strip club. I also noticed a cheap little shithole of a hotel on one corner which I wondered if Galen was a patron. It would certainly be close and convenient.
And during my brief stay on this wicked stretch of road, can you guess how many police cars I saw cruising down the street? I imagined if they got called to a shooting out there, they’d probably just wait thirty minutes and show up with bodybags.
I made it to my intersection and found the group of boys Desiree had told me about. There were five of them, most dressed in sleeveless “tummy” shirts with the bottom four inches cut off to display their lower abdominal muscles. They all had earrings and various other body piercings, and two were sporting haircuts which made them look eerily similar to certain members of a certain boy band popular at the time.
I stopped for a moment. I needed to figure out what I should do next. It seemed these guys all knew each other and they didn’t care for newcomers who tried to compete with them.
As I was thinking, I felt that little inner tug again. I looked both ways down the street, expecting Galen to stroll along in his car, ready to pick up a he-hooker.
That’s why I was so shocked when, with no precognitive warning, he bumped into me as he was exiting the porn shop I was standing in front of.
“Watch it, asshole,” he mumbled as he started to walk away, looking through a black plastic bag full of videos he’d rented.
I was so unnerved by the surprise, I almost missed my chance.
“Hi,” I said meekly. He had definitely heard something in my tone of voice. Galen glanced up gave me a once over. I tried to convey a look of desperation and poverty, a look that might silently inform him I would do anything for a quick handful of cash.
“You a cop?” he asked. In his mind, he only gave me a one percent chance of working in law enforcement. To him, I didn’t even look old enough to be out of high school.
I scoffed weakly, “Fuck no.”
He paused for a few seconds, considering. “How much?”
Now it was my turn to pause because I had not a single damn clue how much I should say I charge, “How much you got?”
“Don’t fuck with me, kid. I’ll walk right now.”
“Ummm. . .” I was trying to come up with an amount he would believe to be typical when I saw the number “100” float to the surface of his mind like the little blue pyramid inside a Magic 8-Ball.
“Eighty,” I offered.
“For what?” He didn’t believe eighty would cover everything he wanted to do to me.
“Anything you want,” I whispered, making full eye contact with him for the first time.
An excited gleam appeared in Galen’s eyes then. I was cheaper than he expected. “Where you wanna go?” he asked, “Place down the street?”
Sickened by his enthusiasm, I shook my head, “I know a better place we can go for free.”
“If it’s some methlab or crackhouse, no thanks.”
“It’s not. I promise. There’s no one there at night. It’s a music studio. I have a key.”
Galen was little wary since he had almost always taken his boys to the nearby hotel, and this felt to him like it could be a set-up. Images flowed through his mind, like one where the two of us walk inside the darkness of the unlit studio where two or three of my friends jump him, beat the shit out of him and steal his money; or there was the possibility I was participating in a sting operation with the police. He’d heard they sometimes used teenagers in drug stings, but so far had never heard of the Dallas Vice Squad using them.
But he looked at my pretty face and slender body and decided I was just too good of a deal to pass up. He escorted me on the short walk to his Camry which was parked next to a meter displaying its red “expired” flag.
I told him which way to go. As he pulled out, he wagged his finger at me, saying, “Now I haven’t said anything incriminating, you just remember that... and if anybody else happens to be at this music studio, you just keep in mind that I’ve got a gun on me and if anyone tries anything it’s gonna be a fuckin’ bloodbath.”
I turned my head to the right, pretending to look out the window so Galen wouldn’t see the grin forming on my face.
Me big man. Me whoop ass. Me Tarzan, you Jim.
I wasn’t concerned about his alleged gun. Homey wasn’t strapped.
We didn’t converse for the rest of the brief ride up to the studio. When we got to the front door, I felt Galen’s uneasiness triple when I reached inside the bush on the left and produced Bob’s secret key.
“You sure you’re allowed to be here?”
“How else would I know where the key is?” I replied, “This place belongs to my Uncle Willy...”
Why in the hell did I say that? I had meant to say Uncle Bob, but Willy had come out instead. I shunted the thought out of my head, trying to focus. This was a critical stage in my plan and I couldn’t fuck it up.
I quickly broadscanned the area as I inserted the key and unlocked the deadbolt. No one was inside the studio.
Thankyougodthankyougodthankyougod
I turned the knob and pushed the door open with my shoulder. The little security panel next to the door started bitching at me with a high pitched but low volume chirping. My hand swiftly found the white box and silenced it with the suffix of Bob’s social security number.
When Galen saw I had the security code to this place memorized, it eased his tension considerably. He closed the door behind him and refastened the deadbolt with his ungloved hand. Good. The cops would see his fingerprints and not mine. I didn’t know why I liked that idea so much. I’d probably figure it out later. Galen was getting horny and being the object of his lust made me loathe him all that much more.
“This way,” I said as I walked into the hallway that led to the basement, keeping up a fast pace to stay ahead of him, all too aware of his desire to fondle and mole
st me.
I silently prayed the door to the basement wouldn’t be locked like last time. I couldn’t think of a reason that it would be since obviously no one was recording at midnight. But when I tried the knob, it gave only a little, even after jiggling it.
Click-click. Clickclickclickclick. Click-click.
Galen’s body was up against me then. His hands roamed over my shoulders and down my sides.
“You know,” he whispered, “We could just do it here.” His hands went up my hips and around to my stomach, sliding underneath my t-shirt, “I don’t mind.”
Well I sure as hell the fuck do!!! I wanted to scream at him, and was just barely able to contain the outburst. I wanted to pull out one of the knives I’d brought and plant it in his beer belly, then lift upwards, reach inside and pull all his guts out. After that, I’d probably just start slicing, stabbing and filleting until I felt satiated.
But if I followed that plan I would be drenched in so much blood I wouldn’t make it ten feet out the door without someone noticing me.
After I didn’t respond to his advances and kept fiddling with the knob, Galen sighed and pulled out his wallet. He plucked out a credit card and said, “Let me show you something, kid.”
I moved aside to let him work. He pushed the door back as far as it would go, maybe a quarter of an inch, but it was enough to let the card through. When the card was in, he pulled the door back towards him and turned the knob.
And the door to the studio opened with the greatest of ease.
“If this were a modern building with modern doors, that trick wouldn’t have worked,” Galen explained with a sly smile, “But this place looks like it’s at least thirty years old.”
I brushed past him through the door and felt his hot breath against my face. Whatever he had eaten for dinner, it was easy to tell onions had been part of the recipe. He followed me past the sound booth and into the recording studio.
I felt like that old proverbial spider, approaching the fluttering moth who struggles valiantly against the webbing. At last, Galen had entered the center of my web. All I had to do was wait for the best moment to nail him.