“No, really, man,” he persisted. “I mean it. Really, just name it. Anything.”
I wasn’t ready to get busted for buying drugs from a stranger, and I wasn’t financially or emotionally prepared to buy sex, but he seemed so eager to be helpful, and there was something we all could use. Even as I wondered if it was wise to get involved with those two, I replied, “Yeah, no biggie, but we’re all under 21. If you could buy us some beer, we’d really appreciate it. We’d pay you back.”
Kitten leaned in, glancing sideways at Kyle. “Oh, he can do better than that. Look, you come with us when you’re finished tonight, and Kyle’ll get you all the beer you need. Gratis, kid.”
“We can pay—”
Mr. Tom reached across the bar and tapped his watch. His cloud of Old Spice blew past Kitten’s Charlie.
“Guess we gotta get back to work,” I said, standing. “I’ll look for you after our last set. Thanks for the beer, Kyle.” I retreated to the stage.
THE CROWD HAD thinned by the time we finished at just before two, but I felt elated as the last chord of Bowie’s frenetic Suffragette City faded away. I packed up my guitar and helped unplug the equipment. The week was off to a good start, and I knew the crowds would grow as we got closer to the weekend. Large crowds always meant a happy club owner and a contented booking agent.
I looked out toward the bar and saw Kyle and Kitten waiting beside the door. I told the guys where I was going, and Mick surprisingly volunteered to go along. “I needs me a cold lager,” was all he said by way of explanation.
A bracing middle-of-the-night breeze hit my overheated face when we stepped outside, and I remembered Mr. Tom’s warning about how the front doors were locked at three o’clock. “This is Mick,” I said to Kyle and Kitten. “Should we follow you?”
“The store’s at the far end of town,” Kyle said. “You guys ride with us, and we’ll bring you back with the beer.” He led us over to a battered orange Volkswagen van sitting at the curb.
We piled into the back, and Kyle, with Kitten beside him, started the van on the third try. He wound the van through and beyond the empty, wet streets of downtown Puente Harbor, disorienting me in the process. After five minutes of driving, he pulled around the back of a small liquor store at the end of a short commercial strip. Kitten stayed in the van and waited with us, smoking another in an endless stream of cigarettes, while Kyle unlocked the door and went into the back of the closed store.
“Kyle works here?” I asked hopefully.
Kitten ignored my question and turned to look at us, black strands of hair falling across her right eye. “So your band—” She paused to flick a match out the window. “Your band, like I said, it’s a lot better than I thought it would be. Sounds like you’ve been playing a lot. You been on the road much?”
“We’ve played mainly around Northern California,” I replied, keeping an eye on the back of the liquor store. “This is our first trip out of California.”
“And it’s lovely to be here,” Mick added.
Kitten breathed out smoke. “So you’re not on the circuit yet?”
“The circuit?”
“Oh, y’know, the Northwest club circuit. The rock clubs. Portland, Seattle.”
I shook my head. “Like I said, we’ve played mainly around where we live in California. But we’re hoping Astley will book us into more clubs.”
“Sure, kid,” she said as she continued to peer through the smoke and darkness at me. “Tell me, you the leader? Or is it Mick here?”
Unsure about where she was going with her questions, I kept my mouth shut. Most of the people we met in bars were harmless, only wanting to impress us with the bands they knew, the drugs they had, the parties they could invite us to. But Kitten was definitely different. I could see it in the aggressively large Indian turquoise rings she wore on every finger, the glint thrown off by those rings when she cupped her hands to light a cigarette, the persistent aura of her Charlie perfume. From way back in my skull, I heard Pete Townshend whisper, I knew her at the Marquee, mate. She nearly killed me.
In the silence, Mick glanced at me and then leaned forward until his thick-lensed glasses, which he had slipped on the minute we left the lounge, were only inches from her face. “Daniel runs the show, but I do all the bloody work, right?” He winked. “If you want the star, I’m your man.”
Kitten smiled lazily, but her gaze shifted from Mick back to me. She stared at me for a long moment, and in that time I had the uncomfortable feeling that she was looking right through me. “Daniel, your band can do better than this shithole town.” Her tongue flicked at her upper lip. “Maybe I can help you guys play better places.”
That took me aback. How could she help us? With her still staring at me, the only thing I felt was that I didn’t want to get involved with this woman in any way. I was about to change the subject when Kyle reappeared, carrying a case of beer.
Kitten saw him and quickly said, “We’ll talk more about it later.”
Kyle opened the side door of the van. “Olympia O.K.?” he asked, sliding the box onto the van’s floor.
“Lovely,” Mick answered. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Kyle returned to the store. I purposely angled away from Kitten and scanned the parking lot, half expecting a police car to pull up at any moment, but everything remained dead quiet. Although Kyle apparently did work at the store, it seemed obvious that he was stealing the beer for us. And from a state-franchised liquor store at that.
But under the circumstances what could we do? We helped Kyle load up three more cases—“Two more for you and one for us”—before he locked up the store. We piled back into the van and drove to the hotel, arriving a few minutes before three. Kyle threw the van’s door back, and Mick and I each carried a case through the deserted lobby and up to our room, where Sam and Rob were waiting. We trudged back downstairs to get the last case and to say goodbye, but when we hit the street we had to pull up as an old, blue Ford pickup truck sped by us, exhaust roaring. It was the only vehicle in sight besides the van.
We crossed over to the van and Mick grabbed the last case. “Thanks for the beer,” I said. “We’re heading back in.” I paused, then thinking I should at least be polite, added, “You interested in joining us?”
To my relief, Kitten shook her head. “Me and Kyle’ve got things to do. We’ll catch you later in the week. Enjoy the beer, boys.”
Suddenly I heard tires squeal, the roar of an engine being violently accelerated, and I turned. The blue Ford pickup came ripping around the corner. Mick, in the middle of the street, looked up, startled, squinting into the headlights.
“Watch out!” I yelled.
But Mick looked frozen in its path. I saw him squint into the oncoming headlights, and when he finally started to move, the case of beer must have thrown him off-balance, because he staggered sideways, falling hard on the far edge of the asphalt. Beer cans skittered out onto the pavement. His glasses had fallen off, and his hand flew out, searching for them.
The truck was headed straight toward him. I stepped into the street but stopped short as the truck bore down, silhouettes of two cowboy hats clearly outlined in the cab. Tires screeched and Mick threw himself into the gutter. The truck’s half-crumpled bumper was only yards from him, but at the last moment the truck swerved.
Above the sound of the roaring engine, I heard a man yell out, “Faggot! Get the fuck out of....” Then his voice was eaten up by the noise.
I ran across the street. Mick had rolled into a sitting position and was peering down at the palms of his hands. “What the hell....”
I grabbed his arm. “You O.K.?”
“Yeah, I think so.” His accent was totally gone. “But where are my glasses?”
He started to say something else, but Kitten yelled, “Here they come again! Mick, Daniel, get up!”
I looked up the street and saw the truck making a U-turn. I pulled at Mick. “C‘mon, c’mon!” He struggled up as the truck accelerated
toward us. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Kyle, waving a baseball bat, dash into the street straight toward the oncoming truck. Mick and I scrambled up onto the sidewalk moments before I heard tires squeal.
The cowboys, thank God, weren’t totally insane; they swerved to avoid Kyle. But they came close. As they did, Kyle swung the bat, shattering the truck’s left headlight. The blow slowed the truck, and Kyle stepped back and swung again. Wood banged against metal.
We could hear the cowboys cursing. For a second it looked like they were going to stop and get out. But Kyle stood there, unmoved, the bat at his shoulder, a fierce look on his face; and finally the truck sped up and lurched down the street. This time it ran a stop sign, continued down the street a couple of blocks, and made a hard left. Would they circle around and come back? I held my breath and listened. But the roar of the truck simply diminished, then disappeared.
Kyle and Kitten ran across the street to join us. My hands shook as I retrieved Mick’s glasses from the gutter, but Mick seemed surprisingly calm. The palms of both hands were bleeding and the left knee of his pants was torn, but he was otherwise O.K.
Mick turned to Kyle. “Those geezers friends of yours?” The accent was back.
“Just a couple of rednecks,” Kyle said, peering down the street. “They have it in for the dopers. This kinda shit happens once in a while around here.”
“Well, that’s reassuring,” Mick said.
I followed Kyle’s eyes down the street. “You think they’ll be back?”
“You never know,” Kitten answered for him. “Kyle whacked ’em pretty good. Maybe you kids should get inside.”
They helped us gather up the beers before driving off. We slipped inside the hotel, where Mr. Tom was waiting for us just inside the door. He glanced at Mick’s torn pants and shook his head. I nodded to him and hurried by, hearing the click of the door lock as we headed up the stairs.
Sam and Rob were still waiting for us when we reached the room. Everyone popped open an Olympia and listened in disbelief as Mick told them what had happened. I sat on the bed, barely listening. I suddenly felt nauseous, partly from residual adrenaline, but more from the hate I felt coming from the truck as it spun past us the last time. I lay back on the bed and stared up at the grimy, peeling ceiling, wondering if it was all worth it. Was this where rock ‘n’ roll had taken me, to this place that now seemed more loveless and hateful than the one I was fleeing? Shit, did the music offer no true redemption, no future? But how could that be? My head—my whole body—reeling, the thought spun through my mind that Townshend’s Universal Chord and its promise of a shared truth was a lie; a possibility that made the nausea in the pit of my stomach grow worse.
10
WE ALMOST BUMPED into Mr. Tom when we stepped out of the hotel the next morning. With barely a glance at us, he continued to sweep jagged shards of glass from the sidewalk near the front door. A piece of plywood covered a large section of the front window.
“Holy shit.” Rob shielded his eyes from the sunlight reflecting from the remaining sections of glass.
Mr. Tom stopped and looked over at us. “Not good boys.”
I stared back at him. “Hey, we didn’t do it.”
He gestured toward the broken window. “After you come in last night, the window is broken. Who do that?”
It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened: The two guys in the truck had come back later to make a point. I considered trying to explain the circumstances to Mr. Tom but gave up on the idea. “Look, we don’t know anything about the window. Like you said, it happened after we came in.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. You boys, you play good, but....” He turned away and started sweeping again.
We left him and started down First Street into the bright morning sun. I walked behind the other guys, listening to Mick tell Yogi about our run-in with the rednecks.
“Yogi, me lad,” he said, “you should’ve been there. Tires were screeching, beers were exploding. I thought the Hen was going to have a heart attack.” He looked back at me and grinned.
Yogi examined the scrapes on Mick’s hands. “Aren’t you worried they’ll come back? Maybe when we’re playing?”
“Not bleedin’ likely after what Kyle did to their truck. It was like batting practice at Candlestick.” He took a couple of imaginary swings. I didn’t share his confidence, but, as Mick would have explained, it was in my nature to worry.
We approached Pam’s Cup O’ Coffee Café on the corner of First and Washington Streets, three blocks down from the hotel. Yogi’s rave review of the café, combined with the bad food at the Mai Tai, had convinced us, despite the café’s corny name, to give Pam’s a chance. Outside the door, I paused at a newspaper rack to buy a Seattle paper. The front page headline—CARTER EDGES FORD—jumped out at me.
“Hey,” I said, nudging Rob, “Carter won.”
“Yeah, I heard that last night. Where were you, man? Everybody was talking about it.”
His question stopped me, and I thought back to the previous night, which ended sometime around four in the morning. “I dunno,” I finally answered, tucking the newspaper under my arm before following Rob inside.
Unlike the hotel, the café looked clean and smelled friendly—good coffee and fresh bread, like my mom’s kitchen used to smell before everything went to hell. Sunlight crept through the café’s spotless east-facing window, brightening the room, and seascape pastels hung on the creamy white walls. A late-morning scattering of customers were seated around tables casually arranged across the checkerboard floor. Two elderly women sipping coffee together at a table in the back glanced at us as we stood at the entrance, waiting to be seated. Their looks were not hostile, curious maybe. A group of men in out-of-date sport coats and ties—probably Realtors or used car salesmen on break—sat at a table in the corner and generally ignored us in all our hairy, bleary rock-band glory.
A young woman with a stack of menus approached. She carried herself erectly, her straight black hair tied back, exposing high cheek bones and an olive complexion. Her proud carriage was enhanced by her neatly pressed blue-and-white striped blouse and knee-length denim skirt. A blue beaded choker encircled her neck.
“Good morning, Edward,” she said, smiling at Yogi, who immediately blushed. She scrutinized the four of us. “I see you’ve brought the rest of your band this time.”
Mick cocked his head. “Your band, Edward?”
Yogi ignored him and pulled himself up a little taller. “How are you this morning, Evangeline?”
Rob and I exchanged glances. I peered at the name tag pinned to her blouse. Sure enough: YOUR WAITRESS IS EVANGELINE. We followed her to a large table in the middle of the café, where Mick yawned loudly as we arranged ourselves around the table.
“Coffee?” Evangeline asked.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” four of us grunted.
“Orange juice for me, please, Evangeline,” Yogi said.
Mick perked up as she moved off toward the kitchen at the rear of the café. “Hey, Yogi, I see why you fancy this place. She’d keep a bloke warm at night. I imagine she’d find the lead singer of a rock band a lovely change from the grotty geezers around here, wouldn’t she?”
Sam groaned. “Christ, Mick, you’re full of it. You think anyone wearing a skirt is hot for you. Give it up.”
“But she is hot, mate. Look.” He removed his glasses and held them out for us to see. “She’s fogged ’em up.”
Rob reached across the table and swatted him with his menu. “Hey, man, women aren’t objects. Show some respect.”
Mick raised his hands to ward off the attack. “Hey, mates, you’ve got me all wrong. My respect for the fairer sex knows no bounds. I love the girls, just like I loves me mum. I’m here to bring a little joy into their dismal lives. They probably think all blokes are like you wankers. But after they’ve been with the Mickster, they know better.”
“They ought to,” Sam said.
We quieted down when Evangeline re
turned to the table with a pot of coffee and Yogi’s orange juice. I took a closer look at her as she leaned across the table to pour Rob’s coffee. She had a strong face with dark, penetrating eyes, but her makeup failed to disguise circles beneath her eyes. She wasn’t pretty in any usual sense of the word, but her American Indian features gave her an intriguingly exotic appearance.
Mick, who had slipped his glasses into a pocket, also followed her with his eyes. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said when she reached him, “especially since Edward’s too rude to do it. Me name’s Mick, and I’m the lead singer in Ed’s band.” He glanced sideways at Yogi, who kept his eyes on his menu.
She arched her pencil-thin eyebrows. “O.K. Well, welcome to Puente Harbor, Mick.”
“Splendid to be here.” He gave her his best come-hither look. “Our first time, you know, and we don’t know a soul, except you, of course. By the way, you have lovely hair.”
I shook my head in amazement. Sam was absolutely right: Mick was a pathological hound. When Mick first joined the band, his behavior around girls—the constant flirting, the manipulating, the pressuring—had irritated me, but, slowly, I had developed a grudging respect for his intentions, if not his methods. Mick had been telling us the truth. Unlike most guys, he didn’t view women as mountains to be conquered, conquests to be compiled. No, he really and truly loved women, just like he treasured his helpless mother. He wanted to comfort them, protect them, admire them, make them feel good about themselves. Unfortunately, his good intentions almost always surrendered to his compulsion to sin, and he had left a trail of ugly one-night stands in his wake. In that way, I guessed, he was just like his father.
Mick’s eyes stayed on Evangeline. “Have you lived here long, sweetheart? Perhaps you can show us around your lovely town.”
A certain wariness crept into her eyes. Perhaps she was already on to Mick. “I’ve been here a few years. But I grew up in Clallam Bay, about fifty miles west of here.”
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