His roommate, who had been on a weeks-long trip to gather rock samples in California, was the one who found him. From what I heard, Nuclear Age was all bloated, like a beached punk rock whale.
Person or persons unknown had done to him what had been done to Colleen Tomorrow — sliced him from his balls to his chest, and then hacked what looked like a W into his throat. And there on the wall above Nuclear Age’s bed was a meticulously rendered letter W within a circle, with the crown and the halo up above. No fingerprints anywhere, no other clues.
In his room, Nuclear Age — his real name was Juan Conseco — had posters up of his mainly Canadian punk rock heroes: D.O.A. from Vancouver, the Young Canadians, the Modernettes, and the Viletones from Toronto.
Nuclear Age had been a punk, and from what Laverty told me, the cops and the FBI seemed to agree that he’d been murdered by the same killer or killers. It was the fact that he was Canadian, in particular, that had all the various police agencies freaking out, she told me when we met back at Gary’s — this time without X. She wanted to speak with me alone this time, she said.
“Not only are we dealing with a serial killer or killers,” she told me, “we’re dealing with someone who’s prepared to cross international borders to kill.” She paused and looked at me, expressionless. “And we’re dealing with someone who is very unenthusiastic about Hot Nasties’ fans, apparently.”
No kidding.
I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound totally insensitive or cynical, so I just shrugged and sipped my ginger ale. Yes, ginger ale. I was queer as a three-dollar bill, and I had, I admit, a bit of a fondness for myriad pharmaceuticals, but I actually sort of wanted to impress Theresa Laverty. So I was foregoing the beer and the speed, at least in front of my new gal pal from the FBI.
At that, our second face-to-face encounter, she adopted an almost-maternal tone. I hadn’t been a big fan of my mother since she drove out my dad with her ceaseless screaming and abuse, so I didn’t immediately object. “You seem to have a case of the sniffles,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, it’s a cold that won’t go away,” I said, obviously lying my face off. “It’s a total pain.”
“A cold that won’t go away in the summertime?” Laverty said, one perfect eyebrow arched. “Really?”
Another pause.
“Kurt,” she said, “do you mind if I give you some unsolicited advice?” She didn’t wait for me to respond before continuing. “I know what it is like to live in a closet, in a society as repressive as this one,” she said, looking right at and, it seemed, through me. “Being gay in America in 1980 isn’t easy. It causes hardships. It sometimes leads to bad choices. And those choices will only make the hardships much more difficult.… But you’re smart. You already know this.”
I looked at her. We were the oddest fucking odd couple ever. Me, a tall, pale punk rocker in a biker jacket and torn skinny jeans; her, a short, tanned FBI special agent decked out in high-end designer fashion. But we both had secrets, and we knew some of each other’s.
She waited for me to say something, but I kept quiet. Whatever I said, I knew it would come out wrong.
Then her expression suddenly changed and she was all business again. She looked down at her notepad, where she had inscribed some of the details about Nuclear Age’s demise, related to her by Detective Schenk over the phone. She hadn’t been to the crime scene — getting permission to do so would require the assistance of the State Department and would take time, she explained — and that meant she didn’t know everything there was to know. She clearly didn’t like that. Her pretty forehead was furrowed. “I need to know more about this victim, because someone went to quite a lot of effort to turn him into a victim,” she said. “Crossing a border? It’s almost unprecedented. I need to find someone who remembers him.”
I stirred. “Well, actually, I do,” I said, confiding in my unlikely new best friend. “I’m pretty sure I talked to a guy who called himself Nuclear Age at that show in Ottawa.”
Patti Upchuck was unhappy. Super unhappy.
Being X’s IFOTOS — Important Friend of the Other Sex — was never going to be an easy assignment. I called her that because (of course) X and Patti Upchuck, the Portland Maine Punk Rock Super Couple (PMPRSC), would (of course) object to conventional designations like “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” It wasn’t the typical boy-girl, male-female type deal. Not at all. These two floated above the earth and us lesser mortals in an entirely different orbit.
Does that sound bitter and bitchy? Probably. I don’t mean to be that way. It’s the speed talking, maybe. It’s just that the two of them … they were a bit much, sometimes. All intrigue wrapped up in mystery and all that. All. The. Time.
Except that X was the most mysterious person who ever lived. He didn’t gossip, he didn’t do small talk, he didn’t over-share. Hell, he barely shared at all. And, as a result, being in a relationship with him was capital D difficult. Believe me, I know. He’s been my best friend since grade seven, but it’s been like being best friends with a fucking icicle most of the time.
One night at Sound Swap, when a Punk Rock Virgins practice was wrapping up and a Hot Nasties practice was about to start, Patti and I were away from the others. The tour hadn’t started yet, and everyone was finally getting pretty excited. The bickering had stopped, the details were known, and the Virgins were going to open for us at a few of the shows, so we were all practicing our faces off.
Patti’s face, I could readily see, was showing signs of X-related frustration. She was packing up her guitar — a one-of-a-kind old Mosrite Ventures copy with a bright green finish and Slits and X-Ray Spex stickers all over it — and she looked pissed.
“Why the funk, punk?” I asked, squeezing her shoulder. “Why so glum, glamorous chum?”
She managed a tight smile. My God, she was a total babe. Big, teased, dyed jet-black spiked hair; lots of black mascara; black-reddish lipstick; dog collar; torn sleeveless T-shirt with I AM A CLICHÉ scrawled across the front. Tight black cargo pants. Cherry-red Docs. She looked fucking fabulous.
“He’ll kill me if I tell you,” she said, already looking like she had said way too much. “So, don’t worry about it.”
“Oh, I know who you’re talking about, girl,” I said, all campy-gay to get her to smile. She did, a bit. “What did he do now? Or, more appropriately, what didn’t he do?”
Patti gave a little laugh. “Didn’t,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the landing that separated Sound Swap’s cash register from the stacks and stacks of used records. I eased down beside her. “Right. He didn’t do what he always doesn’t do, which is …” She trailed off, hands in the air, exasperated.
“Let me guess, girlfriend,” I said, teasing. “He didn’t communicate with you. He didn’t seem to be listening to you. He didn’t react in the way a regular, normal, garden-variety human being would react.”
She looked at me. “Right on all counts,” she said. “He didn’t do any of those things. Doesn’t, either.”
I put an arm around her and gave her a little squeeze. “Hate to say I told you so, babe, but I told you so. I seem to recall telling a certain burgeoning punk rock star that she was getting into a relationship with a guy who regards everyday communication as a violation of the Geneva Convention or something. I told you that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” she said, sullenly examining her nails. She had recently painted them black, and they looked very cool. “You did.”
We kept quiet for a minute, because members of the Hot Nasties had started arriving and were filing down the stairs to the basement. We said hi and waited until they were all out of earshot.
“You warned me,” she repeated. “It’s just … it’s like being in a relationship with the Rock of Gibraltar or something. Sometimes I would even prefer it if he got mad at me, you know? Just fucking yell at me, X, so I have some clue what you’re thinking!” She gave a frustrated little scream.
Breeder
s are super cute.
“He won’t ever do that, kiddo,” I said. “It’s not that he’s trying to be cool or something. It’s just that it’s not in his DNA, you know?” I laughed. “Maybe he’s an alien or a robot or something.”
She laughed, too, and then she sighed. “But I fucking love that robot,” she said, her voice low.
“I love him, too,” I said, also quiet. “There’s him, there’s my dad, there’s you and your sister. That is my Pantheon of Besties. Also — and you’re not going to believe this — but I think I’m getting a gay man’s crush on that FBI agent who has been sniffing around, Theresa Laverty.”
“Are you fucking serious?” Patti said, clearly shocked, staring at me. “An FBI agent? An FBI agent is becoming your friend?”
“Nutty, I know. But she’s cool. Smart. Gay, too. We’ve hit it off.”
Patti Upchuck eyed me carefully. Now it was her turn to be concerned and give relationship advice. “Be careful, Kurt,” Patti said. “She’s a cop. I mean, it was a fucking cop who killed Jimmy and Marky, and who tried to kill Sam and my sister, as you may recall.”
“I know, I know,” I said, looking at her, dead serious. I hesitated. “I know. But crazy shit is happening again. That’s why she’s been around.” I paused, wondering whether to say more. I decided to tell her, lowering my voice to a whisper. “There’s been some bad stuff again, Patti.”
Her beautiful face dropped. “Oh God, no,” she said. “Not again. Kurt …”
I held up a hand. “Whisper,” I said, pointing to the stairs, and the basement, where the Hot Nasties were tuning up. “The guys don’t know about it yet. X wants to tell them later.”
“Tell them what?” she said, sounding frightened. “What’s happened?”
I didn’t know how to sugarcoat it, so I just told her straight out. “There’ve been three murders,” I said. She gasped. “Not anyone we know, obviously. But three guys who apparently came to the Nasties’ pre-tour shows in Ottawa and New York. A transvestite hooker and a wannabe Johnny Thunders type in New York, and a guy in Ottawa I actually talked to before we played. That’s what this FBI agent is investigating. And she has really strong views about our tour.”
Patti looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t think we should go,” I said unhappily. “Someone’s gone to our shows, she says, and killed three kids who were there. And she understandably doesn’t want anyone else to get killed.”
X arrived. So did the recently admitted Bembe Smith, plus Mike the bouncer. X had brought both of them for the pre-tour band summit. The Virgins were there, too.
We were just putting away our guitars and stuff when X addressed us from his spot on the stairs. “So, guys, I’ve got some bad news.”
Sam Shiller, our resident worrier, immediately freaked. “Stiff has canceled the tour! They’ve canceled the tour, haven’t they?”
“No,” X said, “the tour’s still on.”
Luke Macdonald, the Nasties’ bassist, asked X what was up.
X looked around the basement. “There have been three murders.”
BOOM.
Most of the Nasties and Virgins jumped to their feet, totally fucking freaking out. They yelled and squawked and made unhappy noises. Patti and I watched them. Bembe and Mike, who apparently already knew about the bad news, watched and remained sitting.
X waited before speaking again. “Okay, calm down,” he said. “The victims are a guy named Johnny Raindrops in New York, near CBGB, a sex worker named Colleen Tomorrow in the same area, and a kid in Ottawa, Nuclear Age. They—”
Leah Yeomanson, the Punk Rock Virgins’ drummer, cut him off: “Wait a second, X. Wait, wait, wait. Those were the two places the Nasties played on the pre-tour!”
X nodded. “Yes. All three came to the Nasties’ shows in those cities.”
At this point, most of the Nasties and the Virgins started freaking out again. X waited for them to stop.
When he continued, he was matter-of-fact: “The FBI agent is concerned that some homicidal maniac is following the Nasties around, obviously. This agent has spoken to me and Kurt, and she doesn’t think it is a good idea that we go ahead with the tour.”
Sam looked worried. “I don’t think Stiff Records would like that. Would they, Bembe?”
Bembe was still sprawled out on the ancient couch beside X and Mike, sounding uncharacteristically somber. “They would be quite unhappy, yes,” he said. “They’ve put a lot of money into promoting this tour. They might drop the band from the label … or worse.”
Eddie Igglesden, the Hot Nasties’ drummer, suddenly looked stricken at the prospect of missing out on groupies. “Worse?” he said. “What the fuck could be worse than getting dropped from Stiff Records?”
Bembe shrugged his exceedingly wide shoulders. “Well, they might demand back the advance they paid you.”
BIGGER BOOM.
With the exception of me, the Hot Nasties started freaking out and squawking and screeching and buzzing again. All of them had spent Stiff Records’ advance on new guitars, new amps, and shiny new Schott Perfecto biker jackets. The Punk Rock Virgins, meanwhile, merely looked unhappy.
“So,” X finally said, sounding impatient, “you guys have a decision to make. Do you go ahead or do you cancel? This FBI agent doesn’t have the power to stop us from touring, obviously. But there are risks either way.”
Sister Betty spoke up for the first time. “If we go ahead, Mike, are you still coming? Would you still do security and all that?”
“Of course, kid,” said Mike, who has the softest of soft spots for Sister Betty, and vice versa. “Of course I’d still go. I’d make the shows as safe as I could for everybody. Bembe told me he’d do the same.”
Bembe nodded, all serious. “We’d be making it secure for everyone there. But what happens after the shows, obviously, is something Mike and X and I can’t control. And these murders happened after the shows in New York and Ottawa.”
I frowned. They did?
There was quiet for a bit as the two bands considered all this.
Sister Betty was clearly torn. “What do you think we should do, X? Should we still go?”
X, who I knew had had time to think about the answer, didn’t hesitate: “I think you should go ahead. The FBI agent told us she is worried about more trouble. But, at the same time, she told Kurt and me that the tour gives her what may be her only shot at identifying who’s doing this. She told us she intends to be around for some of the gigs.” He looked at Bembe and Mike, who both nodded.
Leah was looking even unhappier, if that’s possible. “Sounds like we’re bait, X.”
X shrugged. “Like I said, there are risks either way. Going ahead shows everyone — again — that these two bands will not be intimidated. That is your reputation with a lot of people: that you have guts. And, like I said, it supposedly gives this FBI agent an opportunity to find this bastard. But it’s your call, guys.”
I waited for someone to say something. No one did. So I said, “Seriously, guys. Our two bands have the worst fucking bad luck in the entire fucking universe.”
Sam, morose, gave a dark laugh. “It’s the Hot Nasties and Punk Rock Virgins 1980 Doom and Gloom Tour, folks! Buy a ticket, and maybe get killed. Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!”
No one said anything, because everyone seemed to agree. Without taking a vote, I knew that the Hot Nasties and the Punk Rock Virgins were going to go ahead with the tour.
But it still felt like we were standing on the edge of some fucking abyss, ready to fall.
CHAPTER 9
Earl Turner propped his cowboy boots up on a chair and scowled around the room at his senior campaign staff. He made them nervous. He always made them nervous.
The campaign staff were seated at the long table in the conference room at the back of the Turner for President headquarters, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened, pens at the ready.
They were all white, Christian, and conservative, just like their ma
n. And they were mostly men, too. The only females present were two pretty young women who allegedly worked in the press office, Daisy Something and Stacey Something. It was widely assumed that Earl Turner, God-fearing family man, was fucking both of them.
For reasons Danny O’Heran didn’t fully understand, Earl Turner had wanted him present. So Danny stood by the door, saying nothing. Earl Turner preferred people who kept their mouths shut.
By this point in the campaign, Danny had basically become Turner’s full-time personal assistant. He was doing everything from driving Turner to private meetings to fetching his dry cleaning — and still occasionally carrying out various low-level dirty tricks at the candidate’s insistence. Danny’s growing influence continued to cause a lot of resentment within the Turner campaign, but no one had the guts to say anything to the big man himself. So the former punk moved up the organizational flowchart, graduating to his own little box, one directly connected to the candidate by a solid line, not a dotted one.
The senior Turner campaign staffers had been summoned for a compulsory and top-secret Saturday morning meeting to discuss the state of the Republican primary race. The media polls, such as they were, were suggesting that Turner was still somewhat competitive for the party’s nomination. But internal surveys —conducted by Derwin Hailey, the ex-lawyer and polling nerd who had been hired by Turner early on — told a different story.
Republicans who knew about Earl Turner liked him, Hailey explained to the group. But too many Republicans still didn’t know him, at all. “What they see, they like,” he said, “but they’re not seeing enough of him to make a difference. We’re losing, gang.”
The room was silent. Earl Turner let Hailey’s words sink in for a minute, and then he swung his cowboy boots off the chair. He learned forward, big hands clasped in front of him, and faced his advisors. “We’re losing,” he said, quietly. And then, at the top of his voice: “WE. ARE. LOSING.” He slammed a fist onto the table to punctuate each word: bang bang bang.
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