Unwilling to be cheated out of sleep time in the big bed, I forced my eyes shut and pulled the covers up to my chin. But it was no good. My brain latched on to one image: Kitten. What the hell had I done? I shivered, again yanking on the mildewed sheets. I recalled little of her darkened bedroom, but I remembered everything about her: the wild look in her eyes, the clutching grip on my waist and legs, the guttural sounds from deep in her throat. It wasn’t just about business; it was more intense, more personal. In the pit of my stomach I knew I was in trouble. I had fucked up big time.
I tried to get the image of her and her thrashing black hair out of my mind. My eyes wandered around the room. Cobwebs in a corner of the ceiling. Empty beer cans on the dresser and floor. Mick sprawled on the roll-away at the foot of my bed, one hairless leg hanging over the side. The plaid sleeping bag containing Sam’s body bunched against the wall near the door. His brown-suede platform shoes lying sideways on the chair next to the window. But it wasn’t any good: the rancid smell of Charlie, of Kitten, was still in my nostrils.
I quietly rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Through the dirty pane, I looked out into the smudgy dawn and tried to convince myself that what I had done was O.K., that I had to do whatever was required to keep the band together. I realized Pete Townshend was right: Kitten had easily seen what was important to me, what I was willing to sacrifice to avoid returning to Creedly with the band in splinters. I had nothing but music to hang on to.
Suddenly cold, I turned to go back to bed. My foot sideswiped a couple of empty beer cans sitting on the floor and the clank of the cans awakened Mick. I heard him groan and turn over. He opened one eye. I knew he couldn’t see me clearly; his glasses were nowhere to be seen. “What’re you doin’?” he asked, his accent still asleep. “What time is it?”
“It’s nothing.” I crawled back into bed.
“What?” Mick reached out with his hand, searching the floor for his glasses. I saw them on the dresser.
Sam kicked at the bottom of his sleeping bag. “Shut the fuck up,” he moaned and rolled against the wall, pulling his pillow up over his ear.
“Go back to sleep, Mick,” I whispered, but he had collapsed back on his bed and seemed to be already gone. I pulled the covers over my face and closed my eyes.
I DIDN’T SLEEP LONG. Or maybe I did.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
I shot upright, my heart pounding. Mick half-fell off the roll-away. Sam struggled to free his head from the sleeping bag.
Bam! Bam! Someone continued to pound on the door.
“Hold on,” I yelled, rolling out of bed and trying to make my way around Mick to the door. Sam finally freed himself and scurried into the bathroom. I glanced out the window as I went by, noticing that the sky was lighter but still gray.
I opened the door a crack, partly to conceal my nearly naked body and partly because I wasn’t sure who was on the other side. I peered through the crack to see Mr. Tom standing in the hallway with his fist raised, ready to strike the door again.
“You have phone call,” he said, peering at me curiously. I realized my hair was sticking out sideways.
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “I have a what?”
“Phone call. They waiting. You better hurry.”
He started down the hall toward the stairs.
“Hold on,” I called after him. “Where? Where’s the phone?”
“In kitchen. Phone in kitchen. Better hurry. Long distance.”
I nodded as he disappeared down the stairs. My brain started spinning. Who could possibly be calling me at this hour—whatever hour it was. And: Where were my clothes?
Mick was now up, hiding in a corner of the room; he’d found his glasses. “Bloody hell,” he said, standing in his tight underwear. “I nearly pissed me knickers. What’d he want?”
“I’ve got a call.” Hurrying around the bed, I almost tripped on the covers that had slid onto the floor. I steadied myself and grabbed my jeans off a chair.
Sam, still in his boxer shorts, emerged from the bathroom. “Who has a call?”
“Daniel does,” Mick said. “Maybe it’s me mum.”
I pulled on my shirt and fumbled with the buttons. “Why would your mom be calling me?” I finally got the shirt buttoned up. “What time is it?”
Sam grabbed his watch from the dresser. “About a quarter after eleven.”
I didn’t bother to put on socks. I slipped on my tennis shoes, loosely tied them, and went out the door. I tried smoothing down my hair as I went down the hall. So, who could be calling me here? Kitten? But she wouldn’t be calling long distance. And then Nita flashed through my mind and my heart pushed upward.
I ran down the stairs, through the lobby, and into the restaurant. As usual, no one was eating there. Mr. Tom, standing at the cash register, pointed at a phone attached to the wall beside the doorway to the kitchen. I grabbed the receiver dangling from the end of a long cord.
“Hello?”
“Goddamn, Daniel, what took you so long? You still sleeping?”
I recognized the nasal voice, the DJ-like patter, but couldn’t immediately put a name or face to it. The momentary confusion had a déjà vu quality to it, like a conversation from my past. “I was upstairs in our room. Who is this?”
“It’s Rick Astley, dude. I was just calling to see how you guys’re doing.”
The sense of déjà vu became stronger. “Rick. Yeah. Hi.”
“So how are you doin’? Are you trackin’ me, man?”
I finally caught my breath. “Yeah, sorry. I was just surprised to get a call here.”
“Well, I’m callin’. So, how’s it goin’?”
“Fine, I guess.”
“Cool,” he said. “Look, I’ve been gettin’ good reports ” on you guys.
I caught my breath. “Really? From who? Mr. Tom?”
He laughed. “I’ve got my sources in every club. I always like to get a report when I send a new band out on the road.”
I leaned against the wall and rubbed at my eyes. “Well, what’d they say?”
“Relax, man. You guys passed the test.” He paused, and I heard papers being rustled. “Let’s see here. I hear you’ve got a pretty tight sound”—he was reading now—“and that your lead singer puts out a lotta energy. She also said your drummer’s a little erratic, but he kicks out the jams pretty good. Anyhow, my source thought you guys could go places with a little seasoning.”
My head started to pound. I heard only one word: she. I rested my forehead against the wall, sure that Astley was referring to Kitten. I considered that a moment. On the up side, I now knew that her claim of knowing the promoters was legitimate. On the down side, with Astley’s ear, I realized she now had some true power over us.
“Hey, man,” Astley said, breaking into my thoughts, “this is good news. I’m not hearing much enthusiasm on your end.”
I lifted my head. “Sorry, Rick. No, it’s great to hear.”
“That’s better. Everything else cool there?”
“Sure.” I paused and looked around. Mr. Tom had left the restaurant. I lowered my voice. “By the way, Rick, you didn’t tell me that this place is, like, a biker’s bar.”
Astley cackled with pleasure. “I booked you guys in there on purpose. I wanted to see if you could hack it.”
My face grew red and I resisted the urge to curse him.
He laughed again, but he seemed to sense my anger. “Chill out, friend. Nothin’s gonna happen. Just finish your week. Then you’re outta there.”
“Right.”
“And, look, I’ve already got another gig for you, and I think you’ll like it.” He paused, but I remained silent. “You hip to Heart’s big show there on Sunday? At the county fairgrounds?”
I almost dropped the phone. “What about it?”
“How’d you like to open for ’em? They need an opening act.” I could see his eyebrows go up. “Pretty good, huh?”
“You’re booking that show?”
So Kitten was behind this. She knew Beeber, and she knew Astley; hell, she was probably screwing them both. Clever girl, she’d gotten Beeber to agree to use us, then had steered him to Astley. Like that, one day after she’d screwed me. I was a little pissed for a moment, then had a better thought. Now I could tell the guys that the offer had come through Astley and wait on discussing the management issue. I thought about how to play this on the phone now. “The promoter specifically asked for us?”
“He asked for the Killjoys. That’s you boys, right? He said he’s working with someone who saw you at the Mai Tai. He needed somebody fast, and you were there. It’s a huge break, dude, so I told him you’d do it.”
Smart, Kitten, smart. She had me boxed in and was calling my bluff, but we had to take the gig. It’d be crazy to let this chance pass by. “Yeah, O.K., sounds like we have no choice. So what’s it pay?”
He paused for a second. “Three hundred bucks, man. That’s top dollar for an opening gig for someone like you guys.”
From the shifty tone of his voice I knew what was happening: Astley was planning to pocket the difference between the three hundred he’d pay us and the five hundred he’d get from the promoter. Kitten was right: The guy was a bastard. No surprise, but still I proceeded carefully. “So, we’d get three hundred before your fifteen percent cut?”
Again, he paused. “No, man. No charge since it came in from another promoter. You get the whole enchilada.” Now I saw him rubbing his hands together. “That’s the way I treat my bands.”
My anger rose, but I pushed it down. So this was the game we were playing. Still, I felt empowered knowing that Kitten had already fixed it with the promoter. But I wasn’t ready to squeeze Astley out of the picture. “Tell them we’ll do it for four hundred.”
Astley snorted. “Look, Daniel, three hundred’s top dollar. Like I said, this gig is a huge break. You don’t wanna lose this, man.”
“But they need a band now, right?” I was breathing fast, but I felt I had him. “And they want us.”
“Yeah, right.” A pause. “I don’t know. Look, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m sure you can work it out.” I felt myself start grinning. “In the meantime, we’ll get ready for it.”
“Yeah, sure.” Astley suddenly sounded distracted, disinterested. “I’ll be back at you with the details.”
“Great. Thanks, Rick.” I hung up. Right then, Mr. Tom reentered the restaurant and headed for the kitchen. I intercepted him. “Mr. Tom, we’ll need our rooms for an extra night, through Sunday. Is that a problem?”
He shrugged. “Sure. You got rooms.” He glanced up. “Plenty rooms here.”
“How much?”
Without answering, he disappeared into the bowels of the kitchen. I headed back up the stairs, realizing with every step that we were really going to do it. In two days, we were opening for Heart, one of the country’s hottest new bands, a group with a song in the Top 40. Most likely, we would be meeting Ann and Nancy Wilson and their manager, and God knows who else. Astley was right: This could be a huge break. Unless we embarrassed ourselves, we’d be taking a huge step up the rock ‘n’ roll ladder. Like playing the Marquee, mate.
Sam was in the shower when I got back to the room, but Mick sat half-dressed on the bed. “Who rang? It wasn’t me mum, was it?”
I closed the door behind me. “Man, you won’t believe it.” And for the second time that morning, I got that weird you’re-about-to-do-it-again déjà vu feeling.
16
ROB SAT ON THE EDGE of the windowsill with his fingers tapping away on the worn-out right knee of his Levi’s, click-click-clicking like he was sending out an SOS to home or thereabouts. And the message was that our tenuous peace treaty, in place for less than a day, had been broken by my news of the Heart gig.
Directly across the room, I stood braced against the wall, looking over the heads of Mick, Sam, and Yogi, who were sprawled on the beds between us. Rob slid off the windowsill and tried to pace along the short, narrow strip of carpet between the queen bed and the wall. I watched him, noticing how his frustrated gait contrasted with the hang-loose stride of the Truckin’ dude on the front of his Grateful Dead T-shirt.
He turned and shook his head in annoyance. “I can’t believe you’d take this gig without talking to us first. I told Candi I’d be home Monday morning.
“C’mon, Rob,” I said, “it’s not that big of a deal, and it’s Heart, man.”
He stared across at me. “Shit, I agreed to stay here for the rest of the week for the good of the band and because I knew it was important to you, and then you turn around and do this. How long have we been friends? I guess loyalty only goes one way, huh, Daniel?”
“Rob, I didn’t have any choice.” I kept my voice calm and patient, but Rob’s barb stung. “Like I said, Astley couldn’t wait for an answer. And I didn’t see how we could pass this up.”
Rob started pacing again. “Christ,” he said, the exasperation in his voice kicking up another notch, “I didn’t agree to it, and Sam didn’t either. Right, Sam?”
All eyes swung to Sam, who had remained silent up to this point. He thumped a pillow and tossed it to the far end of the queen bed.
“Shit, Rob,” Sam said, “I was ready to pull out yesterday, but this is different. It’s Heart, and it’s only one extra day. And the money would come in damn handy.”
“And, more important,” Mick added, a leer passing across his face, “we mustn’t deny the Wilson sisters.”
“Can it, Mick.” Rob’s gaze bounced from Sam to Yogi. “What about you?”
“Jeez,” Yogi replied, his eyes getting large, “I’d kinda like to hear my drums miked through a big P.A. system. That’d be cool.”
“That’d be cool? To stick around this dump for another day?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Rob’s hands flew up into the air, his face contracting tight into a vertical line of nose and chin. I waited, guessing that, now standing alone, he would give in. Sure enough, after another series of short-legged steps along the wall, he stopped and glared across at me.
“Fuck it. I guess I’m outvoted again.”
I maintained a diplomatic expression even though, for a moment, I wanted to throw my fist into the air and bring the fingers of my personality together, showing everyone that I could do it. But I stopped myself, knowing that only Townshend would understand.
Instead I said, “Tell Candi it’s my fault. Tell her we’ll leave as early as we can Monday morning. If we drive straight through, we’ll be home sometime in the middle of the night.”
Rob just shook his head in disgust. It was clear that he felt betrayed. He had attempted to make peace and I had manipulated him. Although I understood Rob’s interest in getting home, I didn’t understand why he was so agitated about staying another day. I sensed something other than just wanting to get home by Monday was bothering him.
“Let’s go eat,” I finally said. “Maybe we can work out the song list for the gig.”
Yogi jumped up. “I’m going to Pam’s. Evangeline won’t believe this.”
“She will if I tell her first,” Mick said, heading toward the door, with Sam close behind.
Rob slowly followed. I paused to pull on my jacket and caught up with Rob just outside the room. Knowing that I needed to make some kind of conciliatory gesture, I put my arm around Rob’s shoulder.
“It’ll be O.K. Tell Candi you’ll be coming back a star. Maybe that’ll make her feel better about you staying with the band.”
Wrong move. Rob shoved my arm away and spun to face me.
“That’s it for me, Daniel,” he hissed. “I’ve fucking had it. I don’t know how much you’re willing to sacrifice for this damn dream of yours, but you’ve just lost your
bass player.”
I stepped back, surprised by his physical response. “I don’t get it, Rob. I know Candi thinks you’re wasting your time with the band, but what’s the big deal about staying one more day?”
Rob stared at me, his face flushed a deep red. “Candi’s threatening—no, fuck it. Look, this has nothing to do with the band. I told you that I needed to get home, and you just ignored me. That’s what this is about.”
I heard something in his voice. “Candi’s ‘threatening’ what?”
Rob paused and then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. I’m out, man.”
My momentary elation over getting the band to go along with the Heart gig faded. “So what’re you really saying? That you’re going to quit the band over this?”
“Exactly, man.” Rob’s face hardened. “I’ll play the show, only because we used to be friends, and I owe it to the other guys, but that’s it. I want you to know now: I’m definitely out when we get home. You’ll need to find someone else.”
“But Rob—”
“Look, man, it’s over. You know it, I know it. We’re not on the same wavelength anymore. You want this shit too much, way more than I do.” He turned and started down the stairs, but he paused after a few steps and looked up. “And those pills you’re taking are fucking you up.”
Standing at the top of the stairwell, I watched him until he reached the bottom and disappeared from sight. I took one step down and then stopped. I had lost my appetite.
THE DAY, SPENT wandering along the waterfront, poking into local shops, basically avoiding the rest of the band and Kitten, had dragged on like few before, but by the time our Friday-night show rolled around I was properly pilled-up and illogically full of optimism about life in general and the band in particular.
To my relief, Rob was amiable during the sound-check, acting as if nothing had happened this morning. He even tossed off a few jokes about Mick’s red-satin jacket and skintight baseball pants, observing, with deadpan accuracy, that Mick had balls. Adding to the unexpectedly good vibes, the rest of the band seemed giddy at the prospect of using these last few Mai Tai shows as a warm-up for the Heart gig. I concluded that Rob had kept his decision to himself, and I cautiously joined in with the chatter, reminding myself, as I had all day, that the Who had almost broken up dozens of times. Perhaps Rob could still be kept on board.
Getting in Tune Page 14