I started in on the book and slowly got pulled back into the story that I’d started two weeks earlier. World War II London. A tortured, obsessive love affair between a married woman and a novelist. All jealousy, darkness, pain, and guilt. As I read, I kept wondering why all my relationships ended up feeling that way. Then I almost laughed out loud. What a ludicrous comparison.
I paused and followed a scratch in the surface of the table with my fingernail, thinking about the few girls I’d dated. Besides the one or two one-nighters I’d had with women I’d met playing local clubs, my so-called relationships had been limited to dating a girl for a few weeks during my junior year of high school and another for a month or so the summer after I graduated. Both relationships had ended with the girls complaining that I wouldn’t open up to them, that the band was more important to me. And I knew that what they also said about me was true: I trusted nobody. And why should I? Would they be there for the long haul? Would anyone be there when I needed them? Kevin, my parents, Rob? I shook my head. So how would Nita be any different?
I continued to follow the scratch in the tabletop until it flowed into a set of initials within the scratchy outline of a heart. For the first time on this day, I couldn’t answer one of my own questions. Kitten suddenly entered my mind, but I pushed the thought of her away.
I read on. The book’s love affair became more complicated. A German bomb had struck the apartment in which Bendrix, the novelist, and Sarah, the married woman, were making love. Sarah thought Bendrix was killed by the bomb and made a deal with God that she would give him up if God brought him back to life. Well, poor Bendrix had only been knocked unconscious by the bomb’s blast. He was alive, but he had lost his lover in a deal with God. Right. That’s what trust got you.
I looked up when I heard grinding footsteps on the hardwood floor. The librarian approached my table, glancing up at the clock on the wall above my head. “I’m sorry, sir,”—sir?—“but the library closes at five o’clock on weekdays.” She paused, looked up at the clock again, and then turned on her heels and headed back toward the front of the library.
I heard her, but my mind was still in rainy London. I looked at my watch, then twisted to look at the clock on the wall. Could it be that late already? Sure enough, it was a quarter to five. Big chunks of time often got lost when I was pilled up. I knew the guys would soon be gathering for dinner, so I closed the book and pulled on my jacket. At least for the moment, Bendrix and Sarah would have to work out their own problems.
Emerging from the library, I stepped into near-darkness. A large drop of water hit the top of my head while I carefully made my way down the concrete steps. By the time I reached the sidewalk I realized that the drop had fallen from the library’s eaves; it had stopped raining.
I started back the way I’d come but got only halfway down the block before seeing the telephone booth in front of the police station across the street. The booth, lit from within, glowed in the mistiness of dusk. I stopped at the edge of the street. I could wait until I got back to Creedly to call her. But I had enough change in my pocket, and she would probably be home by now. I had told her roommate I would call back later in the week. Was this late enough? No. But I was like Bendrix in the book. I knew the distrust he felt and the obsession that drove him when Sarah would no longer see him. And ... I needed to answer my question.
Like a metal ball drawn by a magnet, I crossed the street and headed for the telephone booth. Slamming shut the door, I pulled a fistful of coins from my pocket and counted the change. After sliding the coins into the slot, I carefully dialed the number. I took a deep breath, waiting to hear the ring on the other end of the line. One, two rings, three. I waited for the click of an answer. Four, five, six. Two more, I thought. But I let it go four more before I hung up. Quarters, dimes, and nickels jangled down into the coin return box as if I’d won a jackpot.
With the rain coming down once again, I started back toward the hotel, certain that Bendrix would’ve let it ring at least two more times.
A FEW MINUTES later, I was following snaky rills of rainwater down the sidewalk toward Main Street when a familiar orange VW van pulled up at the curb beside me. The passenger-side window rolled down, and Kitten leaned across the empty passenger seat.
“Hey, kid.” She motioned me over with one of her ringed fingers. “Get in.”
“What?”
“Get in. We need to talk.”
“What for?” The scent of Charlie, now smelling like damp weeds, drifted through the open window.
“I’ve got news for you, and it’s about your future. Just get in.” From inside the van, she popped open the door. I glanced around before sliding in beside her. She kept the engine idling and smiled across at me. “I was just coming to look you up. This is your lucky day, kiddo.”
“Oh, yeah?” Water trickled off my jacket and onto the seat. “It hasn’t felt like it so far.”
“Get ready, then.” She brushed strands of hair away from her face. “How’d you like to open for Heart? They’re playin’ at the fairgrounds on Sunday.”
I shook my head. “What’re you talking about?”
“I told you I know the promoters who do bookings around here.”
“Yeah?”
“So, the opening act dropped out and they need someone to fill in.”
My mouth dropped open. “And they want us?”
“Doesn’t matter. I can get you in.” She slipped the van into gear. “Let’s go to my place and talk it over.”
“Wait. Can’t you just tell me here?”
“Jesus, kid, you’re dripping all over the place. Let’s go.”
She swung the van around in an illegal U-turn and chugged up the hill past the police station. With one hand she lit a cigarette, took a puff, and handed it to me. I considered it for a moment before bringing it to my lips.
“Where’s Kyle?” I asked, curious but at the same time suspicious about where this might be heading.
She motioned back toward the ocean with her thumb. “Out there getting wet, as usual.”
“He’s what?”
“Kyle’s crew on a fishing boat. He probably won’t be back for a week.”
“But I thought he worked at that liquor store.”
“Naw, that’s his buddy’s gig.”
I stubbed out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. Now I knew for sure: Kyle had stolen the beer. It figured. I settled back and wrapped my arms around myself. The rain had soaked through my jacket, and I was beginning to shiver in the drafty van. I glanced sideways at Kitten, bound up tight in her Levi’s jacket, peasant blouse, and hippie skirt, and considered the situation. I had nothing to lose by hearing her out. The band was about to bust up unless something good happened. An opening slot for Heart would be a damn good start.
Kitten drove a few more blocks before pulling into the parking lot of a ratty little two-story apartment building. She stopped near the back of the lot and cut the engine. “C’mon,” she said, stepping out onto gravel. “We’re upstairs.”
I hesitated. “The guys are waiting for me at the hotel.”
She tucked her head back into the van. “You afraid of being alone with me?”
“No,” I lied. “Should I be?”
“You’re a big boy. I’m sure you can take care of yourself. Let’s go.”
Kitten didn’t wait for a response. Turning, she started for the stairs. I followed her up to the unit at the back corner. She unlocked the door and we stepped onto burnt-orange shag carpet. A kitchen was tucked behind a counter at the back of the living room. A hallway led off to the right. The apartment was sparsely furnished with an armchair and sofa, both covered in the same tone of dull brown, and a smudged glass-topped coffee table, littered with ashtrays and empty cigarette packs. A stereo was set up on the floor next to an old television set, and a red lava lamp gurgled away in a corner of the room beneath a felt black-light poster of a tiger.
“Cozy place,” I said.
She i
gnored me and reached down to flip on an FM rock station. Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here came softly through the small speakers on either side of the stereo receiver. “Take off your jacket and sit down. I’ll get you somethin’.”
I assumed she meant a blanket or towel, but she came back with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. She took off her Levi’s jacket, sat down beside me on the sofa, and poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass. “Here.” We clinked glasses, and I took a sip, letting the smooth liquid etch its way down my throat.
“So tell me about this gig,” I said, now noticing, with her jacket off and the light behind her, the absence of a bra beneath her gauzy blouse. I forced myself to recall the vow I’d made to myself about her.
She downed her whiskey in two gulps. “I know the guy who’s workin’ the show from the local side. Bob Beeber.”
I took my eyes away from her blouse, remembering that Cecil had mentioned someone with a name like that the night before. “Did you say Beeber?”
“Yeah. He’s a friend of mine. Anyhow, he told me that the opening act’s singer got busted up in a wreck yesterday. They need someone who can do a thirty-, forty-minute opening slot. You guys are finished at the Mai Tai Saturday night, right?”
“Sure, but we’re leaving the next morning.”
“Plan on sticking around, and I’ll see what I can do to get you in.” She kicked off her red clogs and put her bare feet up on the coffee table.
As I rolled the whiskey around in my glass, I again wondered if she was for real. Opening for Heart would be an incredible break, the kind of opportunity a band gets once, if it’s lucky. I didn’t know how Rob would feel about sticking around for another night, but I figured the other guys, including Sam, wouldn’t give him much choice.
“How much would we get paid?”
She laughed and poured more whiskey into my glass. “You’d get taken care of, kiddo. They were gonna pay the other band five-hundred bucks.”
I gulped down more of the Jack Daniels and felt the fumes rise to my head. The sudden lift brought by the combination of the high-octane alcohol and the uppers was unmistakable. But, recalling Cecil’s warning about Kitten, I kept my guard up.
“So why are you doing this?” I peered at her through my glass. “What’s in it for you?”
She shrugged. “I like you, kid.” Then she laughed again. “You don’t trust nobody, do you?”
“Depends on who I’m talking to.”
“O.K., let’s get down to it, then.” Her eyes slitted. “What I want is a manager’s cut. Fifteen percent.”
I tried to calculate the potential fee. Sixty dollars? Seventy? The damn whiskey had already muddled my thinking. Whatever it was, it would be worth it. “I think we can handle that.”
“And there’s one other thing.”
“Yeah?”
She leaned toward me, her face close to mine. “If I get you this gig, you gotta take me on as your manager.”
I pulled back. “You’re kidding.”
“You think so?” She took a sip of whiskey and smiled.
“We’ve already got an agent.” I shook my head. “What do we want with a—”
“Don’t fuckin’ fool yourself, kid. Astley’ll use you and move on. If you wanna move up, you need someone who’s got access to all the promoters.”
I gazed at her face, one that would be pretty if it wasn’t so tough. I saw nothing but confidence, or bravado. “Maybe so,” I said, “but I don’t see it. What? You’re gonna travel around with us and do the bookings?”
She nodded. “That’s the idea.”
I took a minute to picture the situation but couldn’t. I searched my mind for a way to put her off without endangering the possible Heart gig. “You could do the bookings from here,” I suggested. “We’d be happy to pay you fifteen percent for any gigs you got us.”
Kitten’s smile faded, replaced by a fierce hardness around her eyes. “Look, kid, I want outta this fucking town. I’ve been waiting for a band that has the stuff to hook on to.” She leaned toward me. “We can be good for each other, if you’re smart.”
I shook my head and tried to think. “I doubt the other guys will go along with it. I mean, I’d have to talk to them about it.”
Now she leaned back. “That’s your problem to work out. You take me or you don’t get the gig.”
“How do I even know this is for real?”
Her eyes lit up. “Let me worry about that. You’ll know one way or the other by tomorrow.”
I downed the rest of my whiskey and lit a cigarette. The price for getting this gig was becoming high. But did I have a choice? I knew there was a good chance Rob would quit the band when we got home, and even though I was willing to replace him, I knew it’d be a difficult and lengthy process. Playing this gig might provide me with the glue to hold us together. We could always dump Kitten later.
She emptied the Jack Daniels bottle by pouring equal amounts into the two glasses. “Well?”
I took a deep breath. “You get us the Heart gig, and I’ll talk to the guys about the management thing. But it’s limited to getting us gigs, right? No one tells us what we play.”
“And dealing with the club owners.”
I suddenly wished I was sober. Still, I knew it was all talk until we signed something. “I guess we can work out the other details if the gig comes through.”
She smiled and hooked a leg over mine. “You won’t regret it, kiddo.”
I moved my leg away. “I should get going.”
“You should, but you won’t.”
She tugged her skirt up above her knees and moved her leg back over mine. A warm flush ran the length of my body. The damn whiskey. She twisted a little, and my hand found its way onto her leg. “What about Kyle?”
“Kyle ain’t ever leavin’ this town, and I ain’t stickin’ around to wash his clothes.” She leaned close to me and my hand slid farther up her leg. She put her arm behind my head and in one fluid motion pulled herself onto me. I let myself sink backward into the couch. As she loosened my belt, I couldn’t miss the gleam of triumph in her eyes.
I MADE IT BACK to the Mai Tai at 8:40, more sober than I deserved to be, knowing that I was cutting it way too close. And I felt absolutely dirty.
Hurrying through the lobby toward the stairwell, I heard Mick’s voice coming from the P.A. in the lounge. I stopped and stepped inside. Mr. Tom was behind the bar, and the guys were already up on the stage, running through a sound-check.
“Test, one-two-three ... test, test.” Mick’s voice echoed around the near-empty room. “I’d like to welcome you to tonight’s meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“Cut the shit,” I heard Sam say.
I walked across the floor toward the stage. Mick leaned below the stage lights and squinted at me. “Who’s that poofter? Why, it’s Pleasant! Good to see ya, mate.”
I ignored him and stepped up onto the elevated platform. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I brought your guitars down,” Rob said from the other side of the stage. “We just got started.”
Seeing Rob’s hopeful expression, I intuitively knew that he wanted to make amends for this morning’s argument. In a way, knowing what I had to tell him later, it made me feel worse. I’d decided to wait on saying anything about Kitten and the Heart gig until I knew we had it. I pulled out my guitar, plugged in, and tuned it as fast as I could. “Let’s get this over with,” I said, checking my watch. “I still need to change clothes.”
Mick sniffed the air and followed his nose over to me. “You smell like a poncy petunia, mate. And a rank one at that. Where’ve you been?”
“Nowhere. Get out there and let’s play.”
He gave me a knowing grin and hopped down onto the floor. Yogi clicked his sticks together and we started into an instrumental version of Sweet Emotion. Mick moved around on the dance floor, checking the volumes of the instruments. He pointed at me and lifted his thumb. I turned up a notch. He caught Rob’s attentio
n and had him turn down his bass, then listened for another thirty seconds and waved us to a stop. “Lovely, but you’re a little sour, Daniel.”
I strummed an open E chord and twisted the tuning pegs until the guitar was back in tune. We started the tune again, and this time Sam walked out onto the dance floor to check the vocal levels on the song’s three-part harmonies. He adjusted volumes on the mixing board, had us do it again, and then shut us down.
I stripped off my guitar and jumped from the stage. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
Beanie and Cecil were at the door, checking the IDs of a group that had just come in, and I waved at them as I sped by. The bar was starting to fill, and I knew I had little time to waste. Within seconds, I was up the stairs and into the room. I had my boots off and was unbuttoning my shirt when I noticed something odd: My tennis shoes had been neatly placed on the seat of the chair next to the bed, and an unopened can of beer had been stuck in the opening of one of the shoes. I walked over and peered at the second shoe. Two neatly rolled joints were woven into the laces. Peace offerings from Sam and Rob.
I smiled and worked one of the joints from the laces. I lit it up and paused between removing articles of clothing to take occasional hits. After taking one last, long draw on the tightly rolled reefer, I pinched it out and stepped into the shower. The water ran over me in sheets of warmth, and I let it run, along with the scent of Kitten, down into the drain of the filthy shower.
15
MY EYES FLUTTERED open, then closed, confused by the blurry whiteness of the ceiling. Slowly, I opened them again. Somebody had raised the blinds and left them up; gray light filtered through the dirty window. Friday morning. I rolled over and looked at my watch on the nightstand. Barely seven, only four hours after we had stopped playing cards with Beanie and Cecil. Mick and Sam were still asleep.
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