Getting in Tune

by Roger L. Trott

  “So, what are the cultural attributes of this burg? For example, where would you take a bloke like me, who’s new in town, if you wanted to show him a good time?”

  “Christ on a crutch,” Sam muttered.

  Evangeline smiled, but the wariness in her eyes remained. “Oh, it’s pretty dull here, really. I’m sure California’s a lot more interesting.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Mick said, “California’s lovely, idn’t? Beaches, movie stars, Rice-a-Roni, all that rubbish. Unfortunately, we’re from Creedly, which is about as exciting as—”

  “O.K., Mick,” Sam said, “let her do her job. I’m sure she’s got better things to do than stand around listening to you all day.”

  She glanced at the other tables. “I do have other customers.” She brightened, back to doing her job. “What can I get you guys?”

  We ordered and Evangeline moved over to the table of sport coats and ties. Mick and Sam began arguing about something, and I ignored them and handed Rob all but the front section of the newspaper. I lit a cigarette and glanced across the table at Yogi. He sat staring out the window, softly whistling to himself, his expression oddly sad and disconnected. I sighed and started in on the newspaper.

  Evangeline soon returned with our food. Yogi started to speak to her, but Mick cut him off. “I don’t mean to take you away from your other customers,” he said, with a pointed pause and glance at Sam, “but I was wondering if you ever go to the Mai Tai Hotel to hear the bands?”

  “Sometimes,” Evangeline replied, placing a plate of ham and eggs in front of Sam. “It’s the only place in town for dancing, except for the Bull ‘n’ Bash. But that’s a country-western bar.”

  “Well, you should come hear us, don’t you think? We’re playing there every night through Saturday. And we’re quite good—”

  “I don’t—”

  “Yeah, you should come,” Yogi interrupted her.

  She smiled at both of them. “O.K., I’ll try to make it by some night this week. If I can.”

  “Splendid,” Mick purred. “I’ll watch for you.”

  “I will, too,” Yogi said. Then as if realizing that Mick’s position out front gave him an advantage, he added, “I’ll be the one behind the drum set.”

  After watching Evangeline return to the kitchen, I glanced first at Yogi and then at Mick. “You two are pathetic.”

  “You’re giving them the benefit of the doubt,” Rob said from behind a section of the newspaper.

  “Look,” I said, leaning across the table, “I don’t care what you two do offstage, but I don’t want her getting in the way of the band’s business. We’re only gonna be here another five days, so stay focused. O.K.?”

  “I saw her first,” Yogi said, glaring at Mick and completely ignoring me.

  “So what?” Mick shrugged, his accent suddenly disappearing. “It’s the one who sees her last that counts. Know what I mean, Edward?”

  “Help me, Sam,” I said.

  With a glint in his eye, Sam leaned toward me. “Which wanker do you want me to kill?”

  11

  HARSH, SOUR NOTES leaped from my amplifier, jarring me out of the stupor induced by the repetitive riff of Whole Lotta Love. I knew what had happened—I’d felt the snap and the zinging release of tension—even before seeing the broken B string dangling from the neck of my guitar.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rob grimacing at me from across the stage while I attempted to retune my bottom four strings on the fly. Barely in tune, I stayed down low through my solo, killing time until Yogi launched into his extended drum solo, which gave me the chance to grab my backup guitar—a cheap Les Paul knockoff—and jump back into the song. Judging from the continual motion of the dancers on the floor, few people had noticed my frantic movements, but I was still irritated.

  The ruined string said it all. This night was fast becoming as bad as the previous night had been good. We’d started the night by trying to track down the source of an irritating buzz coming from the P.A. system. Then Yogi missed the ending of our first song and Sam cracked a reed during his sax solo on Jethro Tull’s Locomotion Breath. Mick was uncharacteristically lethargic, and an added touch of surliness had slowly crept into his song introductions. Even our stage lights weren’t cooperating. Twice they had blinked out when Sam stepped on the floor switch controlling the banks of lights sitting atop the P.A. cabinets.

  Even the crowd seemed out of it. With a few exceptions, none of the familiar faces from the previous night had returned. We were already halfway through the night and had seen no sign of Kitten and Kyle, and Yogi and Mick were disappointed that Evangeline hadn’t turned up. I squinted through the smoky haze of the bar as I started Taking Care of Business and saw the two guys I’d seen standing near the door the night before. They were there again, one short, one tall.

  Stifling a yawn, I kept pounding out the chunky chords, feeling, perhaps correctly, that I’d played them a thousand times before. Familiarity definitely bred contempt when it came to Bachman-Turner Overdrive.

  As we clattered through the song’s ending, I looked out through the lights and saw Kitten, laced up tight in a white bodice-hugging leather vest, smiling at me from the edge of the dance floor. Before I could check my inner voices, and just happy to see a friendly face, I smiled back.

  KITTEN SWIVELED on her bar stool and reached across me to grab the pack of Marlboros I’d left on the glossy surface of the bar. Her face brushed against mine as she leaned back, and I could almost taste the lingering, incenselike smoky essence of Charlie on my tongue.

  “D’ya mind?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before tapping out a cigarette. She held it between her lips, as if daring me to light it. I steadied my hands and brought the lighter up to the cigarette, holding it there until she had it going. She leaned forward on her elbows, took a puff, and gazed sideways at me through the rogue strands of inky black hair hanging across her eyes. “So whatta you think, kid?”

  I willed my pulse to slow. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that you’ve got connections to promoters booking the Northwest club circuit?”

  “Not just the Northwest. I can get you in anywhere between here and Chicago. Denver, Kansas City, you name it. All the rock clubs on the touring circuit.”

  I gazed back at her in disbelief. She unblinkingly returned my gaze, and I again had that weird sensation that she was looking right through me, that she knew just how badly I wanted to make it with the band. “Thanks for the offer,” I finally said, “but I think we’re in pretty good shape with our agent.”

  “Nasty Astley?” She laughed and flicked the tip of her cigarette toward the ashtray.

  My pulse picked up again. “You mentioned him before. How do you know him?”

  She smiled and leaned into me. “Like I said, kid, I know ’em all. They all come through here once in a while to check out their bands and to see Tom. Astley’s O.K., but he can’t take you where I can.” She blew more smoke. “And you might not wanna trust him, know what I mean? He’s ripped off some bands.” She leaned back. “So, do you wanna make it or not?”

  I looked around the lounge for Kyle, but Kitten had come alone. Sam, Yogi, and Rob were at a table near the stage; Mick was across the room, talking up an overweight young woman in a clingy, red Lycra disco dress. My eyes came back to Kitten. She was probably right about Astley. He was too slick to be trusted too far, and he was likely just using us to get himself out of a temporary fix. But would Kitten be any better for us, and could I trust her? Not bloody likely. Still, somehow I sensed that she wasn’t lying to me. “So what are you saying? You can get us bookings?”

  She ground out the cigarette. “I’ve been thinkin’ about it since I heard you play last night. I know what you want, and I can help you get it. It’s all about connections, kid, and I’ve got ’em.”

  My pulse, overheated by a recent dose of cross-tops, ticked up, and I fought giving in to the lie of trust produced by the drugs. Up to this point, I’d f
igured Kitten was just another groupie who got off on sexually manipulating everyone around her. But, looking at her now, I knew better; there was something else going on here. She wanted something from me; she wanted to use me. I just didn’t know how or why. I searched my mind for the cautionary voices, for Sam’s, for Rob’s, but only Pete Townshend’s urgent tone came through: She sees the real you, mate; she knows what you want. His warning brought me back down. “Look, I’m not saying that I don’t believe you, but why would promoters book us on your word?”

  “They all owe me,” she said simply, a businesslike look suddenly in her eye. “And, like I said, your band’s good. I’ve heard all the groups on the circuit, but you guys have somethin’ different going. Something raw but tight.”

  “Yeah? How do you know so much about it?”

  She ran a hand through her tangled hair. “Look, kid, I was with a guy for a while, played in a pretty good band outta Chicago—that’s where I’m from—and I toured around with ’em. They played all the clubs on the circuit. I got to know the club owners and promoters.” She leaned back again, that same hard but confident look on her face. “I know how the business works.”

  “Then how’d you end up here?” I leaned toward her. “What happened to your boyfriend?”

  She stiffened. “Him? I don’t wanna talk about that asshole.”

  For once, I felt like I had the upper hand. I decided to push her. “C’mon, what happened to him?”

  She gave me a weary look and sighed. “Shit, you ask a lot of questions, Daniel. Look, turned out he was just another loser. When they were playin’ here last year, I found him in the sack with some local groupie, O.K.?” Her eyes slitted. “And nobody fucks with me.” She kept staring at me, then finally shifted her gaze, upward, away from me. “Anyhow, I cut him loose and decided to stick around for a while. I help Tom out with the bookings now.” A light shrug, then her eyes right back on me. “But I’m not stayin’ in this shithole long.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Look, Daniel, I really can get you into better places. Take it from me, the promoters are lookin’ all over for young acts like you guys. And they want a strong front man. You got Mick, and you got a cool groove.” She nodded to herself. “You need to do some of your own stuff to move up the ladder, but you got time to worry about that later. Trust me.” Her eyes brightened. “I know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  I knew she was right about one thing: We were good, even on a bad night. And I now understand why she seemed to know so much about the business. But I was still unconvinced by her claim of connections. And I definitely didn’t trust her motives. “What’s in it for you?”

  Her thin smile returned. “I’d think of something, kid.”

  For a moment, through the haze of cigarette smoke, I saw her clearly. She was like the snake in the garden, tempting me with the forbidden fruit; and, sure, I wanted to reach out and taste it. But could I really believe her? I needed time to think, and I made a show of checking my watch. “I’ve gotta change a string before the next set. Maybe we can talk later.”

  I slid off the bar stool and started to work my way through the maze of tables. A hand touched my shoulder. “Slow down, kid.” Kitten took my arm and steered me away from the tables. “I wasn’t finished.”

  “Look, I said we’d talk about it later.”

  “That’s what I wanna get straight.” She pushed me to a dark stretch of the wall adjacent to the dance floor, keeping her hands on me while she circled around to face me. As she leaned back against the wall, her pin-prick eyes beamed into mine. “What’re you doin’ after the show tonight?”

  “Hanging out with the guys, I guess.”

  “How ’bout you hang out with me instead?” A faint smile. “We can, um, talk more business.”

  I felt a line of sweat work its way down my neck. “Can’t we just talk here after the show?”

  “I’m not talking about just talkin’.” Her smile hung there lightly.

  “Don’t bullshit me,” I said, but my voice faltered. I felt the sweat pool at the base of my neck. “What do you really want?”

  Now her smile broadened. “What do you think I want?”

  “That sounds like a trick question.” I started to edge back toward the stage.

  “You think so?” Catching me off-guard, she tugged at the front of my shirt, pulling me against her. I felt her breasts through the thin fabric of my T-shirt.

  “What about Kyle?”

  “What about him?” She moved her right leg between my knees and pressed her thigh against my groin. My mind told me to move back, but I didn’t.

  “I thought you were with him,” I managed to get out, my voice hoarse.

  “Sometimes I am.” She pressed her leg harder against me. “Sometimes I’m not. So, whatta you say, kid?”

  This was all too much. I fought for time. “If we did, I mean ... where would we go?”

  “Don’t worry about it. There’s a room upstairs Tom lets me use.” She put her hand on my butt and pulled me closer. “We could go there right now if you want.”

  Sure, part of me wanted to follow her right then, but more of me didn’t. “You know I gotta play,” I said, stepping back. “We have two more sets.”

  Her eyes darkened. “Later, then,” she finally said, a curious hint of threat in her voice.

  “Maybe.” I caught my breath. “Look, let’s see what happens the rest of the night, O.K.?”

  She shoved me away, shaking her head. “That’s not the right answer.”

  I heard Mick’s voice over the P.A.: “Would all Killjoys please come home. And that means you, Daniel.”

  “Gotta go,” I said. I turned and limped toward the stage, smelling Kitten’s Charlie all over me.

  “Your loss, kid,” she called out after me.

  I looked back at her and swore to myself that I would not let her fuck with my head again. And, all my senses back in order, I decided I definitely would not let her fuck with the rest of me.

  WE FINISHED Sweet Jane, and I squinted down at the song list taped to the top of my amp. One more to go—Kiss’s Rock ’n’Roll All Nite—and then we were finished. To my relief—or was it?—Kitten had disappeared midway through our fourth set, and I hadn’t seen her since. But she was still messing up my head. Despite the vow I’d made to myself two hours before, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she felt against my chest, the way she’d rubbed her leg up against me, the way she seemed to look clear-eyed and knowing into my rotting soul. Pete Townshend was right: This woman could kill me. For whatever reason, she wanted me, or maybe it was more accurate to say that she wanted to use me. But ... maybe I was willing to be used, at least until I figured out what she really wanted.

  I looked down at the song list again. Regardless of any lingering desire for Kitten, the thought of going upstairs, having a beer or two, and hitting the sack by myself sounded more appealing. The uppers I’d taken earlier had started to wear off, leaving me jittery and anxious, in need of the soothing effects of alcohol. I needed a house call from Dr. Daniel.

  Only fifteen or twenty people remained in the bar, but a group sitting at a table near the center of the room had become progressively louder as we worked our way through our final set. Their voices now dominated the room. I heard a shrill laugh from one of the women in the group. I tried to peer through the glare of the lights but couldn’t see who it was.

  Mick stepped to the mike. “We’ve got one more for you, right? A little something from Kiss—”

  Again came the irritating laugh, followed by another. Normally Mick would have ignored them, but with so few people in the bar, he was competing with their noise. And Mick didn’t like competition. He dragged his mike stand to the edge of the stage and squinted through the lights. “Hey!” he yelled out, pointing at the group sitting at the table. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you prats. Shut your bleedin’ gobs!”

  The chatter in the bar stopped. Rob an
d I looked across the stage at each other. Sam leaned over to whisper something in Rob’s ear. I stepped forward. “Let it go, Mick. It’s not worth it.”

  Too late. One of the men at the table yelled back, “You got a problem, man?”

  Mick pointed at the table again. “Problem? Is that what you call it, ya bleedin’ twit. Your mum forget your manners lessons, did she?”

  He paused, letting his remark linger, and the bar remained quiet for a few seconds. Then one of the women shouted, “Up yours, you little punk.”

  I tried to break in. “Hey, Mick—”

  But he wasn’t through. “Oh, my. Such an articulate comeback. Had to look those words up in the dictionary, did you, dear? So literary. Perhaps you should try out for The Gong Show, sweetheart.”

  The man sitting beside her threw back his chair and came striding toward the stage. He was big and he was pissed. “Fuck you, you little dork. You wanna take this outside?”

  Sam and I started forward, but we weren’t needed. Before the man got halfway to the stage, the stocky guy I’d seen near the door was on him. He grabbed the man’s arm, twisted it behind him, and had him out the door before he knew what was happening.

  “Out!” I heard the stocky guy say to the others at the table. They slowly got up and followed him.

  At the door, the woman turned and looked back at us. “We won’t be back to this dump. You guys are a piece’a shit.”

  “Good night, sweet princess,” Mick murmured into the mike, waving at her. “We’ll miss you.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Mick,” Sam said, grabbing his arm. The mike picked up his words, and the lounge became dead quiet.

  “Let’s play the last song and shut it down,” I said, exhausted tension draining from my arms and legs.

  “Good idea,” Rob added from back near his amp.

  Not waiting for Sam and Mick’s agreement, Yogi clicked his sticks together, and we half-heartedly launched into Rock ‘n’ Roll All Nite. The song’s party-hardy attitude now seemed ridiculous in the context of the Mai Tai’s leaden atmosphere, and I stayed in the background shadows of the stage until the song ground to a halt. And then the night was mercifully, finally over.