A Stranger Lies There

by Stephen Santogrossi

  Pulling out the map, I tried to fix my bearings. On one side, Canal Street extended west to the crowded Holland Tunnel exit. Toward Chinatown, it was lined with a vast array of shops and businesses: electronics and hardware stores, furniture dealers proclaiming the best prices on futons, and a varied assortment of bargain retail outlets. Across Canal and down: Tribeca, the “triangle below Canal,” I remembered from somewhere. Soho was in the opposite direction, just before the Village.

  I went that way, north on Sixth, moving away from the steel and concrete thickets of the downtown high-rises. At Grand, I waited for the light to change. An imposing presence loomed over my shoulder, and I turned to see a fifty-foot model staring down at me from a huge Gap billboard plastered to the side of a building. As I stepped into the crosswalk, I felt the man shadow me, keeping track of my progress. I actually seemed to be making better time than the gridlocked traffic inching forward a few feet away. I passed sidewalk vendors hawking magazines, flowers and food. The smell of singed pretzels made my mouth water.

  A few minutes later I was wishing I’d stayed on the subway. The humidity in the air seemed to suspend all the dirt and grit and exhaust rising from the pavement. I was more used to the dry desert heat. A young woman wearing snakeskin pants handed me a coupon for free admission to some nightclub, which I put in my pocket without really looking at.

  “Doors open at ten,” she said after me. “I’ll be looking for you.”

  I pushed on, through milling throngs of shoppers, tourists and businesspeople. Streetlamps and headlights were coming on in the dusk. Together with the lights from shop windows and signs, they bled into the atmosphere like viscous smears of colored oil on glass.

  In Soho, I looked up at the cast-iron facades with their identically painted fire escapes. The metal staircases zig-zagged up and down the buildings, bisecting large windows that reflected back the twilit city. Back in the early seventies, when Deirdre was living in New York, this area was just another fading commercial district, inhabited mostly by artists. Then, she’d told me, the developers began moving in and, from what I could see, they’d been entirely successful in transforming the place into a dining and shopping mecca for the trendy elite. I passed open-air cafés and coffee houses, hair salons and art galleries, jazz clubs and hip bars, all vying for attention and dollars.

  Houston Street divided Soho from the Village, and I found a small hotel a few blocks in. The bored-looking desk clerk gave me a room on the second floor, accessible only by stairs. It was hard not to collapse next to my bag on the bed. But if I slept now I might not wake up for hours, and I had too much to do. Al’s Bar wasn’t far away.

  Outside again, I found MacDougal, and walked up toward Washington Square. The Village, with its coffee houses, jazz clubs and cafés, had an aura that reminded me of its long-standing reputation for radicalism. It felt like I was walking through my own counter-cultural past. Somewhere nearby was the townhouse that the Weathermen had accidentally blown up during the height of the Vietnam War protests in 1970. They’d been making pipe bombs in the basement.

  Still on MacDougal, I passed a used record store blasting ferocious speed-metal onto the sidewalk. My attention was drawn to the front window, where a poster advertising tonight’s Spine concert was taped. Hoping to get some useful information on the band, I ventured inside. It was dark and incense-filled. Racks of used vinyl in front. Glass cases holding smoking paraphernalia labeled “for tobacco use only.” In the back of the shop, silkscreened T-shirts, leather and velvet clothing, and candles in all shapes and scents. The guy behind the counter was reading a book while the music raged around him. He wore a Misfits T-shirt and a nose ring. He looked up as I approached, and turned the music down.

  “The band in your window,” I said, pointing to the poster.

  “Yeah?”

  “Know anything about them?”

  “Like what?”

  “Where they’re from. Who their friends are.”

  He frowned. Flicked off the music, then put the book down, mystified. “I don’t get it.”

  I decided to get right to the point. “One of their fans showed up dead on my front lawn a few days ago. In California.”

  He studied me, trying to tell if I was bullshitting. “You’re kidding.”

  “Wish I was.” No reply. “I know it’s a shot in the dark, but the shirt he was wearing is the only lead I have.”

  “You a cop or something?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “But you came all the way from California.”

  “It’s a long story. Anyway, he had a Gravity Throttle T-shirt on. I’m told they mutated into Spine.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Why the change?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know. The singer ended up in rehab. Heroin or something. Guess they got sick of his bullshit. Kicked him out and changed the name.”

  Heroin. Another drug thing.

  “Do you know them at all?” I asked.

  “Yeah, a little. They’ve done a few in-stores here. But I don’t see how that can help you.”

  “Anything else going on with them that sticks out?”

  “They were talking about getting a manager a few weeks ago. But the guy hasn’t been around in a while.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Another shrug. “Don’t know. I guess he split. You’ll have to ask them.”

  “You didn’t know him did you? The manager?”

  “No. And there’s not much else I can tell you.” He picked his book up. “Check ’em out tonight. Maybe they’ll talk to you.”

  “I plan to,” I replied, just before he turned the music back on.

  Outside, I took another look at the poster in the window, which was vibrating with the force of the music. The club was right around the corner. If I was lucky, maybe I could catch the band now, before the show.

  Al’s Bar, renamed The Coven one night a week, was between a body piercing parlor and a cheese shop that advertised in its window over one hundred different varieties. Al’s Bar had the Spine poster in a glass-enclosed bulletin board by the front door. From inside I could hear music and the crack of billiard balls. A couple of biker types leaned against the wall outside smoking cigarettes. They paid no attention to me as I entered.

  It was a large, dimly lit space that looked like it had been converted from another type of business. A bar off to the left once you got through the small foyer. At the edge of the dance floor, in the center of the room, were numerous tables and stools, with some old thrift-store sofas and coffee tables mixed in. Another bar filled the opposite wall to the right, near the pool tables I’d heard from outside. The stage took up the entire rear wall. Drums and amplifiers and guitar stands sat beneath racks of professional lighting equipment. A slowly rotating disco ball, most of its mirrored squares missing, was suspended over the sound console and mixer set up in a cleared space across the room. In the far corner, a strange sculpture stood at least ten feet high. It was filled with Dante-esque figures, all bulging eyes, yawning mouths and grasping claws. Eerily illuminated by a couple of purple spots, it sat in a position of prominence under a stained-glass skylight. Curiously, the whole affair didn’t seem out of place.

  Nudging my way between two customers, I went up to the near bar and flagged down the bartender. A big guy with an apron and greasy, thinning hair.

  “Is the band around?” I inquired.

  He glanced toward the stage and shook his head. “You just missed ’em. They just finished soundcheck. Need a drink?”

  “Ahh … no thanks.”

  “By the way, you’ll need a handstamp if you wanna stick around for the concert. Eight bucks.”

  “I’ll come back,” I said over my shoulder on my way out to hunt down some food, but then heard the barkeep say, “Oh, wait a sec, here’s one of ’em now.”

  When I turned around the guy was coming from the area behind the stage. One of the musicians p
ictured on the Web site. He wore boots over black stretch pants, a fringed black leather jacket and a psychedelic tie-dyed T-shirt. Short hair, gelled over his forehead and dyed a bright yellow. He took a seat at the end of the bar, asked for a mineral water. The bartender put a sweating bottle of Evian in front of him and pulled off the top. I told the bartender I’d pick it up.

  “No need,” the musician answered. “I’m comped tonight. But thanks anyway.” He took a long swallow.

  I grabbed a stool next to him as the bartender moved off. “I came out from California to see you guys tonight.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “No shit?”

  “It’s not what you think,” I explained. “I’ve actually never heard your music.” That admission didn’t seem to surprise him, given my age. “But I was really hoping to talk with you. I need some help.”

  Another swig of the Evian. “Help? How do you even know me?”

  “I don’t, obviously. But somebody you may have known ended up dead on my front lawn a few days ago.”

  He’d just taken a drink, and the news provoked a fit of choking. Water sprayed out of his mouth. Staggering off his barstool, he continued coughing, leaning over with the spasms.

  “Jesus Christ!” he croaked when he was done choking. Red-faced, he sat back down, breathing deeply as he recovered. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have just blurted it out like that.”

  “That’d be a good assumption. Now who are we talking about?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s what I came here to find out.”

  “I’d like to help you, but I think you got the wrong person. I don’t know anybody who died recently. Especially out in California.” He drained the last of the mineral water as the bartender addressed him from near the taps.

  “You okay, man?”

  “Yeah, I’ll live,” he replied, raising his voice along with the empty bottle. “But can I get another one of these?”

  The bartender came over, whisked the empty container away and placed a new one on the bar. “Everything cool?” he asked, eyeing me.

  “Yeah, no problem,” the musician answered. “Thanks.”

  The bartender tossed the empty below the counter, slowly wiped his hands on his apron and gave me a long, deliberate look before leaving.

  When he left, I went on. “The victim had a Gravity Throttle T-shirt on. Young white guy, early twenties maybe, with longish brown hair.” No response. “Sound like anyone you know?”

  “Sure. A few people. But they’re all alive and well. Some of them may even show up here tonight.”

  I looked down to the other end of the bar and saw the bartender on the phone. He turned away when I caught his eye. “I heard you guys were talking with someone about managing the band.”

  A pregnant pause, his eyes on me, the bottle frozen at his lips. “Who told you that?”

  “The clerk at the record store on MacDougal, right around the corner. It wasn’t a secret was it?”

  “Not really.” He gulped the water, then slowly shook his head. “It’s just kind of freaky when someone you’ve never seen before appears out of nowhere and tells you one of your friends may be dead. And knows things about you. See what I mean?”

  “I really don’t know anything. I’m just trying to find out who that kid was.”

  “Why’s it so important to you?”

  “Because the killer didn’t stop with him.” I hesitated, wondering if I should say it. “My wife was next.”

  “You’re telling me your wife was murdered?”

  My eyes must have answered yes.

  “Geez, I’m sorry,” he continued, and seemed to mean it. He thought for a moment before admitting, “Yeah, there was somebody that approached us a few weeks ago about taking us on.” More thinking. “We’d noticed him a few times at previous shows, back before Rob joined. The new singer. Young guy, like you said. Usually had a friend with him.”

  “He did?”

  “Seemed like it.”

  “What did the friend look like?”

  “Oh, gosh, I don’t know. Generic rocker I guess. Not that different from his buddy. Little rougher around the edges, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The musician paused. Scratched his cheek. “I spent a few years in a group home when I was young. This dude came off like he did too. Maybe some time in juvie too.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, I don’t. Not for sure. But you can kind of recognize the type.” He shrugged. “Birds of a feather, I guess.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Anyway. At our last gig—”

  “I thought tonight was going to be your first as Spine.”

  “We opened for another band a few weeks ago. Unannounced. The guy you’re asking about was there and he loved Rob’s voice, so he came backstage after our set. We got the impression he was trying to break into the business. You know, get his feet wet with us. Guess he saw some potential.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Just talked with him that one time. Told him we’d think about it.” A shrug. “Haven’t seen either of them since.”

  “That was it?”

  He nodded, sipping from the bottle.

  “What were their names?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Damn.” Another brick wall.

  “Look, I’m sorry. We shake a lot of hands, meet a lot of people after a show. I wish I did remember. But it wasn’t a very serious discussion at that point because we had other things on our mind. Like breaking in Rob, coming up with some new material.”

  “Think your bandmates would remember?”

  “Beats me.”

  A tiny glimmer of hope. “Could I talk to them?”

  “They left to get something to eat.” He glanced at his watch, then at me. “Get ahold of us after the show. Backstage.” Then, before I could ask: “After the show. I don’t want all of us freaked out about this while we’re trying to play.”

  “Sure, no problem.” I’d force myself to wait until then even though a voice inside was screaming for information now. I didn’t want to risk going away with nothing by being overbearing. Hopefully, the show would go well and they’d all be in a talkative mood. I got up to leave, then realized I was forgetting something. “How’s the old singer? Still strung out?”

  “Man…,” he said, shaking his head. “What else do you know about us?”

  “Nothing. Other than what’s on your old Web site.”

  “Yeah, we gotta update that. But to answer your question, he made it through rehab and moved back with his parents in Jersey. I just talked to him so he’s not the one who was killed.”

  I asked the next question as delicately as I could. “You think he was mixed up in anything shady? While he was using?”

  “Like dealing?”

  I shrugged.

  “Nothing that would get anybody killed. Far as I know.”

  “Okay.” I hesitated. “So we’ll talk later.”

  “Just come on back.” He pointed to the dark corridor beside the main stage.

  “Appreciate your help,” I said, shaking his hand. “Brad?”

  He seemed surprised that I knew his name, then smiled. “The Web site?”

  “You got it. See you in a few. I’ll be here for the show.”

  “We go on at ten.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  On the way out, I handed eight bucks to a girl sitting behind a small desk they’d set up in the foyer. She put the money in a heavy antique cash register and gave me a ticket instead of the handstamp. Outside, full darkness had fallen and the area was busy with pedestrians and shoppers. My watch said it was close to eight.

  Dinner was pizza and a Coke a few doors down. Afterwards, with over an hour until the concert at ten, I took a walk, hoping to be able to shut down for a while. I passed several small live theaters, an organic food market, and an erotic boutique trumpeting wha
t it called “Weightless Sex!” which, from what I could gather, involved the use of bungee cords. I hurried by. On Sullivan Street, a small, crowded coffee house had patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk. A singer with just a guitar and a microphone was performing inside. I stopped and listened to a few songs. His voice reminded me of Jackson Browne. Next door, in front of a used bookstore, a hand-lettered sign announced a poetry reading later that night.

  I’d read in front of a few people once, back in college. Drunk and high, I vomited on the stage halfway through. I thought about the sit-ins and the campus gatherings and the student strikes I’d half-heartedly supported. Scenes of Vietnam War protests, some from vividly remembered TV newscasts and others I’d participated in myself, resurfaced in my mind. If I’d had the strength to put all that behind me … but I couldn’t outrun what had happened. Then or now.

  I headed up toward Washington Square, where cholera victims were once buried centuries ago, back when it was just a swamp. The furtive movements of what could only be dealers shadowed me as I entered the grounds. The park’s stone chess tables in the southwest corner were unoccupied. In the distance, at the park’s north entrance, the great marble Washington Arch stood richly illuminated, grand and heraldic as the nighttime trade picked up. I took a seat on one of the benches, knowing it wasn’t a smart thing to do with the company I had. But I couldn’t bring myself to care, almost hoping someone would give me a problem. There were still a lot of people, mostly young, many of them probably NYU students from right next door, cutting through the park on their way to the evening’s diversions. I thought I saw several transactions take place. A few minutes later, a young guy with tattoos on his arms, wearing a headband to secure his long hair, approached slowly, not speaking but catching my eye as he walked by.

  I held his gaze a moment, then shook my head. “Tell your friends I’m not interested too.”

  He put his hands up in an “Excuse me” gesture and sauntered off.

  “Wait a second,” I called out after him, unsure of how it worked and even less sure of how to broach the real subject.