“No.”
“This hill before us is a very good launching point. If you jump off here, you could sail for hours on the air currents, probably glide all the way to Lake Travis.” He took a thoughtful sip of Big Red, smiled, and added, “If you had the sail. If you don’t have the sail on your back, you jump off the cliff here, and you just die. Short ride. Very short ride.” Bingo’s cohorts stood like trained Dobermans, came over, and flanked me. Either ride or die must have been their attack word.
“Wait,” I said, “I’ve got something to show you.”
His eyebrows perked up. His soldiers eyed me cautiously as I reached inside my jacket and produced my contract with Vick. Bingo looked it over, then did some mental calculations and tossed the contract back at me.
Shaking his head, he said, “That shop isn’t worth over ten, fifteen thousand. He’s got big debts, you know. Maybe seventeen, eighteen tops, if he’s still got some good guitars. But
it wouldn’t make sense even for a bumbling fatso to give it to you in exchange for extorting twenty thousand out of me.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Well, Martin, I hope you’re not lying to me. And I hope that for your sake, Vick is serious about paying back the money soon. I already have a lawyer bleeding me to death.”
“Yes, he’s serious. I don’t think he wants to stay in your debt a minute longer than possible.”
“Poor Victor’s new partner must be expecting things to get a whole lot better in the ropa usada market. Or did one of his little bands get a contract or something?”
“Tammy Lynn Johnson seems to be getting some play on the college charts,” I said, looking for a reaction.
There wasn’t. Not, at least, one that was visible. “I don’t listen to college radio,” he said. “Would you like a Big Red, Martin?”
“No, thanks. Are you going to be able to do it?”
“Oh sure, Martin. Sure. Glad to do old Victor a favor. Tell me, is he still over on East 1st Street?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he still sleep there, upstairs?”
“I suppose so.”
“Still fat?”
“Oh, yeah. Looks like he was poured into his clothes and forgot to say when.”
The poolside scene jumped up and down in the lenses of his shades as he nodded, but the expression on his face did not change. “Lotta kids still hanging out at his store? Guitar pickers and guys like that?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you suppose they want out of Victor?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if they know. Maybe they’re hoping to pick up a name or get him to make a phone call, giving them a recommendation, or maybe they’ve got no other air-conditioned place to hang out for free. Vick has accidentally done a couple of people some good in the past, hasn’t he?”
“Maybe so, Martin. Maybe so.” He adjusted his hat, smiling, baring his teeth. “Are you sure you can handle this thing for Victor?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You sure you don’t want me to get somebody to take care of it for you?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“OK. I don’t have the money here. Come back tonight. I’ll have it. Make it eight, OK?”
“That’s fine.” I got up and we shook hands. “One more thing, Bingo.”
“What’s that, amigo?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have known a girl?”
“Retha Thomas?”
“Yeah. Know her?”
He shook his head. “No, Martin. Bingo can’t help you there. I heard about it. Are they after you?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to sound as confident as you can sound with an answer like that.
The three pairs of sunglasses were aimed up at me, then shifted away in tandem. The androgynous girl was back on the diving board. As I opened the back door and felt the rush of air-conditioned air colliding with the humidity and me, I heard the splash.
Then the giggles.
&&&
I stopped at a diner when I got back to town. I had ice tea, chicken-fried steak, and a newspaper. The headline story concerned a local state representative’s fall from grace. He’d fathered an illegitimate child from a union with a girl in a massage parlor. His wife told reporters that he subscribed to several “pornographic magazines like Penthouse. ” He admitted that he had a drinking problem, joined AA and became born-again. He was forced out of office anyway. In the last three paragraphs of the story were certain details. One, he hadn’t lived with his wife in over a year, and two, he’d been supporting the mother of the child since her second month of pregnancy. Three, he’d run unopposed in the last two elections. He was a dedicated liberal, a hard worker, and had an impressive congressional record. It seemed like just a few years ago the congressman’s indiscretions would have earned him little more than a slap on the hand and a spate of bad jokes, but that was then and this was now and he was going back to Dripping Springs to raise chickens.
I flipped through the rest of the paper to see what else had changed since I’d been gone. But I couldn’t concentrate.
I wondered why the South Texas Payola King wasn’t aware that Tammy Lynn Johnson was catching on. You didn’t have to listen to college radio, you could read about it in the trade magazines. Hell, you could hear about it in idle chatter down at the Continental Club. He didn’t know about Tammy Lynn, but he’d heard about Retha Thomas. I did no better with this question than I did with reading the paper. I didn’t even know why it should bother me.
I pushed around the remains of food on my plate and tried imagining the conversation I’d have with Ladonna if I called her now at work. Hello, darling, I’d say, Everything’s OK now. I’ve gone to work for Vick Travis. He’s being blackmailed, you see, because he used to be partners with the South Texas Payola King. South Texas is more popular than ever, but payola isn’t. That’s why he’s being blackmailed. If his association with Bingo comes to light, he won’t be able to sell his catalog to a major record label. Why am I helping Vick Travis, though? Because he’s my only link to Retha Thomas. Retha came to Austin from Los Angeles and the only thing we know she did with her time here is go around to the local hip spots and ask questions about Vick. Vick has this thug who works for him who’s been known to get violent with a weighted flashlight—you know, Ed the Head, the sometime bouncer at some of the clubs I play in. The Payola King is no peacenik, either. But I’m going to borrow twenty grand from him on Vick’s behalf, in the hope that the blackmail thing is connected with Retha Thomas’s coma. I feel obligated to her.
You and I both know I wouldn’t have beaten her, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything with her that would truly hurt you. All right, I kissed her, and I may have gone back to her room with her. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I blacked out and I’m ashamed of it. Not because it was my fault, but because . . . I don’t know what the because is. I’m just a guy who wanted to take in some bright lights and loud music on his first night back in town because my own gig didn’t do it for me.
I knew I wasn’t going to call Ladonna. The Ladonna of my imagination didn’t like the things I was going to explain to her any more than the real one would. And the waitress was looking at me like I was on drugs.
And maybe I still was. It takes more than a day or two to flush a drugstore’s worth of barbiturates and hypnotics out of your system. I still had a metallic taste in my mouth and sometimes, like now, my skin felt like it was on fire. Maybe a cigarette would help. I took out the pack I’d bought for Retha Thomas and rubbed it on my cheek, on my forehead, like an amulet.
I dropped one out of the pack and set fire to it, sucking the smoke down deep into my lungs. My lungs fought back, trying to kick the monkey. I coughed. The spasm hurt, like a rock thrown against my sternum. I inhaled again, blowing it out slow and even, letting it fan across the table, swirling around the sugar dispenser, colliding with the window glass, scrolling out in every direction.
> Cars seemed to float by on the hot boulevard like boats. A centuries-old oak tree hugged the street corner, its knotty branches flowing out from its massive trunk like an upside-down lava flow, its massive mounding crown like a mushroom of green smoke. The poison felt natural, tingling nerves from toes to scalp, and I settled back in the booth, cozy, getting reacquainted with the demon.
The waitress looked good in her tight white skirt and black apron, padding around the diner in white institutional shoes. She wasn’t wearing hose, and her legs were firm and smooth and pale. The rest of her was firm, too, except for a slight roll around her waist that showed when she bent over to get hot bread out of the warmer. Her blond hair was double-braided in back, with a few fine strands wisping down around the nape. Her bra strap cut into her back as she reached up to clip another order on the wheel. I thought about that strap, cutting into her skin, and I thought about her skin. After sucking in another lungful of smoke I closed my eyes and thought about what kissing her would be like. Another kiss came to mind. It loomed large in my memory, like a traumatic blow, like a physical transaction. Not a kiss, but a promise.
“Would you like more tea?”
I said yes and watched only her hands as she refilled my glass with the pitcher. I stubbed out the cigarette and picked up the pack and stared at it. The camel looked sleepy-eyed and innocent, the palm trees and the pyramids and mosques looked classic, unchanging. On the side of the pack was a warning.
I put the pack away and tried to wash the cigarette taste out of my mouth. It was time to visit Retha Thomas.
&&
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Life still hung around her like a lazy aura, like a tourist who’d come to the River City and picked up some of the local bad habits, like indecision, tardiness, slow motion. The bank of machinery hooked up to her reminded me of a huge alien beast. The doctor cleared his throat.
“It’d be nice if she’d open her eyes and say howdy, wouldn’t it?” he said.
I swallowed hard and nodded. I felt his gaze as I stepped up and touched her hand. Her skin was cold. I tried remembering her as hot and sweaty. The thought seemed inappropriate. Her body, encased in the white sheet and blanket, still showed off its curves, but now it was more of a thing, a thing whose functions had been farmed out to machines and tubes. It seemed like she needed a miracle, but her surroundings didn’t smell or sound or feel like a place where miracles were made.
“Who was the girl with the spiky black hair who left when I got here?” I asked the doctor.
“Her name is Barbra. She’s a good friend of Retha’s.”
&&&
Mr. and Mrs. Thomas were in the waiting room. He was tall and broad-shouldered with large, strong-looking hands, kind eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair. She came to about his chest, and her blue dress, like his dark suit, had the sad, deformed shape of clothes on people who’d been able to do nothing but sit, and pace, and wait. The doctor introduced us and excused himself. There were places to sit but we remained standing.
“The police say that you were the last person with her before she was attacked and beat up,” Mrs. Thomas said abruptly.
Mr. Thomas coughed into his fist and glanced away. I got the feeling that this wasn’t the way he would have started things off.
“That’s true,” I said. “I drank a drink that had been spiked. It was her drink.”
“They told us that, too,” said Mr. Thomas.
“Who would want to do that to Retha?” she interrupted. “Why? What did she do to anybody?”
He put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. She broke away and sighed, massaging the back of her neck.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it was originally intended for me, but I don’t think so. It could be that it was a random thing. It was a large party and this is a big city, not near as big as Los Angeles, but there are a lot of crazy people here. Someone could have made the drink for themselves and she ended up with it by accident, I don’t know. I’d like to help.”
“We live in Valencia,” she said, “just thirty minutes out of Los Angeles. We know about parties and big cities and crazy people. Retha got her own place down in Hollywood when she left high school. She’s got an apartment on a hill above the Capitol Records building.”
“She’d been trying to get a job at a record company, and they kept jerking her around,” said Mr. Thomas. “That’s what I got out of it, anyway. She said they were calling her back and she was waiting for the right opening to come up, but it seemed to me they were jerking her around. I work for Lockheed, which you might think would be way different, but I’ve found that executives are pretty much the same wherever you are.”
“So she just came out here for a break?” I said. “Did she know anyone in Austin?”
Mrs. Thomas answered that question. “Some of her friends had been talking it up. They said there was a lot going on here, a lot of opportunities in the music business. I think she thought that somebody here might have a job for her.”
“Did she tell you who she’d been seeing here, where she might have gone for a job?” I asked.
They both shook their heads. “She really likes music,” said Mrs. Thomas finally, her eyes downcast. “She thought she could do something with it.”
“We always encouraged her in whatever she wanted to do,” said Mr. Thomas. His voice was quiet, solemn. He seemed to be running out of steam. I was trying to find a way to say goodbye that wouldn’t sound trite or unrealistically upbeat when I heard footsteps approaching, clattering on the tile until they reached the carpeted floor of the waiting room.
“Does somebody have a quarter so I can call Triple A?” It was the somewhat hoarse voice of a female. Bracelets jangled. “I locked my keys in the Mercedes.”
I turned around. It was Retha’s friend. Her hair was black with reddish highlights, with a daring, uneven cut that framed her heart-shaped face like a jagged helmet. Her complexion was light brown and flawless, but I couldn’t figure out whether her features were Asian or Hispanic. Tall and swizzle stick thin, she wore a white sleeveless top and matching pants, a wide brown suede belt and matching boots. She had a white blazer draped over one arm, a leather carry-on bag hanging from the other, and jangling bracelets on the wrists of both. Her wide, sensual mouth was working over a wad of chewing gum.
“I thought you left fifteen minutes ago,” said Mrs. Thomas.
“Well, I tried to,” she said. She took off her wraparound shades and dug in her purse for something. As she rummaged through the bag one of the straps of her top dropped over her shoulder, and she had to twist herself around to get it back in place. I watched, fascinated, giving her the same berth a defensive driver gives a swerving, battle-scarred automobile.
“Barbra,” said Mrs. Thomas, “this is Martin Fender. Martin, Barbra is a good friend of Retha’s.”
She gave up on the purse and gave me a wide-eyed look. Her eyes were red rimmed from crying, the irises a grayish blue, like a rainy sky. “You’re that guy?” she said.
I nodded. “Maybe I can help you.”
“Martin Fender?”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Barbra Quiero. You have a coat hanger?”
&&&
I followed her out the hospital doors. A light breeze rushed past us from the parking lot, but the air felt dry and abrasive. Barbra pointed to a dark brown Mercedes fifty yards away. “Was Retha visiting you here?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” she said, her voice going up in pitch. “I know her from L.A. I flew in this morning, as soon as I heard. I’d like to find the psycho who tried to kill her.”
“So would I. Let’s get that coat hanger from my car. Is that a rental?”
“Nah. Belongs to someone I know.” She blew a bubble the size and color of a ripe plum and popped it. There was a deep scrape down the side of the Mercedes. It looked fresh.
Luckily, she’d left a window rolled down an inch or so because of the heat and I was able to unhook the latch after ju
st a few minutes. During that time, she explained to me that she had a small but airy one bedroom in Laurel Canyon on Wonderland Avenue. It was a guest house, and the owner was crazy for pink—pink walls, pink trim, pink tile. He even had two pink cars, an old Packard and a ’59 Cadillac Eldorado. Geena Davis and Jeff Goldblum lived practically next door and so did that old movie star Lizabeth Scott. Did I remember her? She was the one who was like a Lauren Bacall substitute back in the ’40s and ’50s. I said I did. Barbra had been dating a club deejay for several months, she said, and she’d gotten to be friends with Retha during her frequent trips to Tower Records.
“I’ve got a few connections in the business, you know,” she said, “and I tried to help her get a job after she left Tower. She really wanted a job at a record company. But you know, record companies don’t really pay that well unless you’re high up in the structure, and most of those jobs are held by men. And most of them are jerks.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ve had some experience with them. It’s a pretty closed society.”
She nodded. “All they’d offer her was an entry level position, even after all her experience as a buyer and assistant manager. She knew all the promotion guys really well and had even managed a couple of bands who were real popular on the LA scene, but all they offered her was what they call ‘administrative assistant,’ at two hundred dollars a week.”
“ ‘Administrative assistant’ is Los Angelese for ‘secretary,’ isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Maybe she found a job here.”
“But she hadn’t moved. She still had her apartment and phone, and you know, her car is still there. Why wouldn’t she tell anybody?”
“I don’t know. I’d still like to pursue the job angle. Maybe someone called her boss at Tower Records for a reference. Did she bring a lot of money out here?”
Tough Baby (Martin Fender Novel) Page 9