2 Queenie Baby - Out of Office

by Christina A. Burke

  "What?" I asked. "That's my first royalty payment on 'The Rum Song.' And this is a good investment," I insisted.

  Ed held up his hand. "Well, I think this is a great idea."

  I beamed. Mark groaned.

  "Diana knows the business, has some capital to invest, and can be Carol's backup without having to be involved in all the day-to-day activities."

  Carol leapt to her feet. "Are you serious about this, Diana?" she asked, grabbing my hand. Her eyes blinking in disbelief behind her thick glasses.

  I nodded. "Absolutely. I'll finally have some job security," I joked.

  She hugged me. "Ever since we sang karaoke together, I knew we'd make a great team." She released me to take off her glasses and wipe her eyes.

  "Yeah," chimed in Mark, "you guys should do that again soon. It'll be a great team-building activity."

  I wanted to reach through the line and smack him. I hated karaoke, and one time on stage singing with a drunk and morose Carol was more than enough for me. Boy, that had been some night. In fact it had been the same night I'd met Mark. Okay, so maybe karaoke had some redeeming features.

  Carol beamed. "What a great idea! When should we put that on the calendar, partner?" she asked, giving me a big smile.

  I smiled, but I was already thinking up ways of dodging Karaoke Night. What the heck had I gotten myself into now?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I spent the next three days playing new business owner with Carol. We met with accountants and lawyers, set up bank accounts and credit lines, and navigated the endless maze of federal, state, and local bureaucracies designed to force the most independent entrepreneur back into the ranks of civil servitude. I also checked in daily to make sure things were running smoothly for Mr. Pyres and Tabitha. There were no more cattle calls for dates and, according to Tabitha, Mr. Pyres had met Betty Getty for lunch two days in a row. Nice to know things were working out for someone. I wished I could say the same for my personal life.

  In my spare time, I avoided calls from Mark. The few conversations I'd had with him since Greene's were awkward. Call me paranoid, but the longer he was away, the more I wondered about the Marsha factor. My main source of doubt was the lack of sweet nothings from Mark at the end of our conversations. I don't need a lot, but an occasional "I can't wait to see you" or "I miss waking up with you" would've been nice. I had also started getting calls from an Unknown number with no response when I answered the call. I had a life-sized picture of Marsha on the other end as the psycho-ex. My communications with Mark had been reduced to curt texts. Our most recent exchanged involved only a few lines:

  Mark: :)

  Me: :(

  Mark: WTF!

  Me: -|--

  Mark: ??

  That was me giving him the bird, but I'm not exactly an emoticon expert. Something was definitely lost in the electronic translation. I had resolved to avoid contact with him until he was back in town. At this point, I had bigger problems on the horizon, namely a visit from The Grands in the next twenty-four hours.

  When I wasn't busy sabotaging the best relationship I'd had in years, I practiced with Carlos and the band on his tricked-out pirate ship. I knew we'd knock the open mike at Red Eye's out of the park tonight. I was having a tough time, though, getting other bar owners interested in coming out to see us. Even sending video from Puerto Rico wasn't creating much buzz. Bar owners were pretty myopic as a whole. They were already booked for the season, so why waste time coming out to see some guy they'd never heard of before? Besides, they told me, we don't have Hispanic clientele. I called in a couple favors to get two owners to commit, and then decided to put a call out to my fans via my website and Facebook. Maybe that would drum up some interest.

  It was almost five when I returned from walking Sally and Max. I use the term walking loosely because Sally was either cowering at my side or straining at the leash in a desperate attempt to run into oncoming traffic. Max was not happy to have his daily walks disrupted by these antics. For the second time that week he'd lifted his leg on Sally. The only thing more fun than walking Sally was trying to bathe her.

  Great.

  I didn't have time to wrestle her into the bathtub so I sprayed her fur with dry shampoo and finished with a squirt of my perfume. Sally's tail thumped happily during the process.

  "This is all your fault," I scolded Max.

  He shot me daggers and skulked away to his bed. My phone rang. It was Mark.

  "I'm not talking to you right now," I greeted him.

  "Fine, then just listen: Tyrell made it out of Puerto Rico, and he knows the files are corrupted. He found out when he tried to sell it to one of his customers in Miami."

  "How do you know things like this?"

  Mark sighed. "I have contacts in Miami. They've been keeping an eye out for me. He's out for blood, and I'm worried he might try to get to me through you."

  "What about the police? Isn't this their job?" I asked.

  "The police are up-to-date, but they don't have my connections," he replied.

  "That really doesn't make me feel any better."

  "Just keep an eye out for anything suspicious. I'll be back soon. And try to stay out of trouble," he added and then hung up.

  No pleasantries at all! Would it have killed him to say "I miss you?" No he calls me to tell me there might be some wacked-out gangbanger after me and then just hangs up.

  Men!

  * * *

  By seven I was at Red Eye's Dock Bar, waiting impatiently for Carlos and the band. I'd signed us up for a six song set halfway through the evening. It'd taken a lot of convincing to get a full set during the open mike.

  "Come on, Di," DJ Ralphie had said, "you killin' me. I got a dozen performers want to get up on that stage tonight, and you want a full set?" He'd punctuated that with a snort and shake of his head.

  DJ Ralphie was actually Ralph Harrison from Farmington, Delaware. He wore short dreads in his blond hair and tried unconvincingly to pull off a Baltimore accent. During the winter, when he was short on gigs, Ralphie could be found most Friday nights DJ-ing at the local American Legion Hall for pre-teens. During the summer, when the tourists turned every music venue into Woodstock, he morphed into DJ Ralphie from "Balt'more."

  "This is the real deal," I insisted. "We played to ten thousand in Puerto Rico last weekend."

  "This ain't Puerto Rico. Does this look like Puerto Rico to you?" he'd asked.

  We were sitting at the open air bar behind rows of tables in front of the large outdoor stage. We had both glanced around. There were a couple of palm trees imported just for the summer, but, no, it definitely didn't look like Puerto Rico.

  "What's in it for me?" he had asked with a leer.

  "Not that—ew!" See what I mean about being a rock star? Last week I played in an arena to ten thousand people, this week I can't get a set at an open mike without trading favors with the likes of DJ Ralphie.

  "You're not sellin' me, babe," he had said, lighting up a cigarette.

  I couldn't believe I was offering this. That damn pirate had better be worth it. "I'll do any gig you want during the winter. For free."

  Ralphie's eyes lit up. He knew the value of a hot local commodity during the slow winter months. "Done!"

  We shook on it.

  I'd been sitting at the bar and nursing a beer waiting for Carlos and the gang, when my phone buzzed.

  A text from Andre: B there n 15. C is in full pirate. Major battle here.

  Great. I'd promised the moon to Ralphie for a full set, and Carlos was going to get us booed off the stage during the first song.

  I did a quick profile of the customers. There were a lot of sun-burned couples, which was good. Might be able to convince them this was all part of the Eastern Shore experience. The thirty or so bikers were another matter. I shook my head. This wasn't going to be pretty.

  I was sipping on my beer, weighing the pros and cons of doing a shot for courage, when Carlos' long black limo pulled up. Heads turned;
conversations ceased.

  So much for sneaking him in and trying to change his mind. I turned to the bartender. "Can I get a lemon drop?"

  With his eyes on the limo, he poured the vodka in a shot glass and stuck a lemon on the side. I decided against the sugar in the interest of time. This thing was set to blow any minute. I squeezed the lemon into the glass and downed the shot.

  "What the hell—" the bartender began.

  I steeled myself and followed his gaze. Andre was standing by the door as Carlos emerged from the car in full-on pirate mode. He paused for a moment to don his hat. His long dark hair was tied in a pony tail, and his lean tan chest shimmered against the gauzy white shirt he wore.

  "God damned pirates weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow!" The bartender continued to curse and mutter under his breath as he reached for the phone. He hit a button. "Yeah, we got pirates, man! I know, I know. Whatdya want me to do? How much do we have in storage? Will do."

  He hung up and whistled for a giant man wearing a yellow shirt with SECURITY printed across the chest. The man sauntered over.

  "Thought the pirates were comin' tomorrow," the guard said.

  The bartender pursed his lips and spit on the floor. "Well, they're here now!" he barked. "Get on the phone and call in more security. I've got to go get more rum. Goddamned pirates," the bartender muttered.

  "Um, excuse me," I said. "What's all this about pirates?"

  He looked at me like I was slow. "Don't you see the pirate?" he asked, pointing to Carlos.

  I nodded.

  "Well, believe me where there's one, they'll be more," he said with a nod. "Like a bunch of goddamned cockroaches. Drive us all freakin' crazy two weekends a year. I took off this weekend just to avoid the bastards." The bartender spit again and poured himself a healthy shot of tequila.

  I watched Carlos and his entourage, which included his sister and David, the band, Phil and Roger, and what looked to be groupies dressed in wench costumes, make their way towards the stage.

  "So you're expecting a lot of pirates tonight?" I asked, keeping my eye on Carlos.

  "I 'spect we'll get a whole boatload. Looks like their king cuckoo is here." He pointed towards Carlos. "And the Pirate Regalia is in Rock Hall this weekend."

  Rock Hall was about thirty minutes north of Red Eye's on the eastern shore of Maryland. "Pirate Regalia?" I repeated.

  "Bastards descend upon the town like a plague in the spring and fall. If I hear one more 'Arg', I'll stab myself in the eye with this pick." He held up a rusty ice pick.

  But then you'll have to wear an eye patch like a pirate, I almost said out loud, but stopped myself before the words were out. Instead, I tried a different tactic. "I've heard he's a singer and that he's pretty famous."

  The bartender glared at me. "The only thing worse than a pirate is a singing pirate."

  Well, I couldn't really argue with that.

  "Probably singin' songs about findin' treasures and drinkin' rum!" He slammed his fist on the bar.

  Couldn't argue with that either. Oh, boy this wasn't looking good. I quickly thanked the bartender and paid my tab.

  I could feel Andre's eyes on me as I approached. Phil and Roger were busy ordering waitresses around and rearranging the seats.

  Carlos called, "Diana," and waved me over. Like I could've missed his arrival. "You look bewitching tonight, m'lady," he said, sweeping off his hat and giving me a low bow.

  I smiled despite myself. "Don't try to sweet talk me, Carlos. This isn't a good idea," I said, adding in a whisper, "they don't like pirates here."

  "Nonsense!" Carlos exclaimed. "We met a group just today at lunch. They're coming out to see us and," he added with a wiggle of his brow, "they're pirates!"

  I looked over at Andre. He nodded. "All true," he said with a smile. "They were on their way to Rock Hall for some pirate thing and decided to dock here tonight to see the show. Said they'd be bringing some friends."

  "When do we go on?" the drummer called from across the table.

  Ralphie was doing a mike test. "In about an hour," I replied. "It wasn't easy getting a full set. And I'm not sure it's a good idea at this point. Maybe I should do a couple of rock numbers, and then we'll do 'The Rum Song' and call it a night."

  Phil and Roger were on their feet. "No, we need exposure—pirate or not," said Phil. "I'll lose the three dates we've got if we don't get some publicity."

  I turned beseechingly to Andre. "They don't like pirates here, and, according to the bartender, bikers and pirates don't get along."

  We both looked out at the sea of motorcycles in the parking lot.

  He shrugged. "Hey, at least you can say you tried. And tonight won't be boring."

  Ralphie came up behind me. "Uh, Di," he said, "you got a minute?"

  Now what?

  "Sure."

  "Hey, not sayin' nothin' about your friends an' all, but you kinda forgot to tell me they were pirates."

  I stared at him for a moment and took a deep breath. "What difference does it make, Ralphie? It's open mike night. You have strippers in here singing karaoke and practicing their routines on stage."

  "Yeah, but they ain't pirates," he said with a nod at Carlos.

  "You got something against pirates?" I demanded.

  Ralphie held up his hands. "Whoa, calm down, Di. No harm, no foul. You know I love all peoples. But some people think there's a time an' a place for pirates an' this ain't the time or the place." He took a long drag on his cigarette and shifted around nervously.

  "This is crazy."

  Ralphie shrugged. "Things don't go well when pirates show up unexpectedly. Folks know that. Haven't you watched Pirates of the Caribbean?"

  I glared at Ralphie. "Do you want me for a winter gig or not?"

  "Hey, don' shoot the messenger! 'Course I do." He threw his cigarette to the ground. "I'm just sayin' I ain't responsible for any problems."

  "Got it," I ground out.

  I turned to Andre. "The life of rock star," he said, shaking his head.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I stared out into the audience, squinting a little through the bright lights. It seemed like there was a sea of bikers glaring back. For a second I thought I saw a familiar face in the crowd, a guy with his hat on sideways and a rope of gold around his neck. And then he was gone. Mark's warning about Tyrell was making me jumpy. There was no way he could've tracked me here.

  It had been after nine when Ralphie called a break and gave us the okay to set up on stage. The audience had gradually swelled over the past hour, and empty seats were sparse.

  I had spent my time nursing my second martini, served in a plastic cup, and dreading getting up on stage. The acts preceding us were predictable. A couple of duos singing "Margaritaville" and "Brown-Eyed Girl." A few children of parents who were sure they were raising the next American Idol. And the typical smattering of angst-ridden, teenage grunge singers taking time out from playing X-box in their parents' basement for a crack at fame.

  If I sounded jaded, I was. I'd spent years working myself out of open mike nights to regular bookings with local bars. Now, because of one crackpot pirate, I was back at it again.

  We'd decided I'd open up with a rock crowd pleaser and then introduce Carlos. We'd play "The Rum Song" and a couple others from the concert in Puerto Rico, and then I'd close with my new original. Andre called the song my ode to high school drama; Carlos called it magical. I thought it was somewhere in between. Roger and Phil thought it might be marketable to the younger crowd.

  I tested the mike and strummed a few notes.

  "Welcome to open mike at Red Eye's Dock Bar!" I called with a big smile. The crowd responded politely with few woohoos here and there.

  "Bikini Contest ain't 'til Sunday, sweetie! I wanna hear some rock n' roll!" yelled a biker sitting directly in front of me.

  The rest of his buddies hooted and cheered. Okay, so at this point I was rethinking the sequined halter top. I had thought it made me look beachy.
>
  "Oh, I thought this was try outs for American Idol," I quipped in a baby doll voice. "I don't know nothin' 'bout rock n' roll. That's for bad girls."

  There were some chuckles and cheers from the crowd.

  I looked back at the band. "Change of plans," I called. "Follow me on this one."

  In a low, smokey voice I said, "So let's play some rock n' roll for all those bad girls out there."

  My fingers flew down my guitar picking out the rapid fire notes from Jethro Tull's "Locomotive Breath." Dadda-dun, Dadda-dun, Dadda-dun. The beat felt like a train gathering speed.

  The bikers' roared to life, recognizing the hard rock classic immediately. The band quickly found their way as the drummer, who seemed to know the song well, pounded out the edgy beat.

  I knew I had the crowd when I saw the fifty-something's rocking their heads up and down and raising their fists as I hit the grittiest parts of the song. The biker who had heckled me approached the stage and made a show of prostrating himself at my feet and waving his arms up and down in mock worship.

  I gave the band a warning signal indicating I was winding it down. Dadda-dun, Dadda-dun, Dadda-dun. Dunnnnnn. A few seconds of silence followed the abrupt end. The audience broke into applause and cheers.

  "So now that we got that out of the way…" I said, flipping my hair over my shoulder. "I don't expect any more lip from you." I pointed at the biker in front of me.

  "Shit—I was hopin' to put more on you than my lips," he called back. His buddies high-fived him.

  I rolled my eyes. There was always one in every crowd.

  And then I saw them. A platoon of boats flying skull and cross bone flags pulled up to the dock next to the bar. Uh-oh. A couple dozen people dressed as wenches and pirates clamored off the boats, heading straight for the bar. The audience followed my gaze. A ripple of tension seemed to spread through the crowd.

  I found my voice and plunged ahead with the mission at hand. "My name's Diana Hudson, and some of you may have seen me here before. I've been a local performer 'round these parts for almost five years."