Getting in Tune

by Roger L. Trott

  Following the sound-check, I hopped off the stage. Beanie and Cecil stood at the back of the bar next to the door, and Beanie, wearing the same gaudy Hawaiian shirt as the previous two nights, waved me over. “Daniel, my man! How’s it hangin’?”

  I winced at his voice and grinned. “It’s hangin’. Good to see you guys at your station.”

  Cecil snapped off a salute. “On duty, sir.”

  I peeked through the door into the lobby. “Any bikers tonight?”

  “We’ll maybe get a few,” Cecil said, “but not like there’ll be tomorrow night.” He stepped back to allow a group of women to enter. Beanie took two dollars from each and stamped the backs of their hands. They passed by me in a blur of makeup and perfume.

  “Dogs,” Beanie said, giggling.

  “By the way,” I said, making my voice sound as casual as possible, “did you hear that we’re opening for Heart on Sunday?”

  Their faces spun from the departing women to me. “No shit?” Beanie said.

  “We found out this morning. The original band had to drop out.”

  “You’re really not kidding?” Cecil said. “Heart?”

  “Yeah, we’re really doing it.” The rush I got from simply telling them was startling.

  Beanie clapped his hands together. “Awesome!”

  Cecil shook his head. “You guys are gonna be famous someday. Maybe we should get your autographs while ” we can.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “We’re off Sunday,” Cecil said. “If you want, maybe we can help you move your gear over.”

  “For sure,” Beanie added, “we’ll be there.”

  I grinned and bobbed on the balls of my feet. “Thanks, guys. We should get a few comps, and, if we do, they’re yours.”

  “Awesome!” Beanie cried out again, causing heads to turn throughout the lounge.

  Cecil glanced in the direction of the bar, where Mr. Tom stood mixing drinks for two of the women who had just entered. “Keep calm, buddy.”

  I stepped back to let two more women come through the door, including a cute young brunette wearing a black miniskirt and thick-soled go-go boots. Beanie took their money, and the go-go dancer unzipped her leather bomber jacket, revealing a body packed tight into a Danskin leopard leotard topped by a man’s white shirt open halfway down the front and tied by a scarf at the middle. I tried not to stare.

  Cecil leaned over and whispered, “You better check her ID, buddy.”

  The go-go dancer heard him, frowned, and dug into her purse. Beanie, with shaking hands, held her driver’s license up to the light and gave it a good inspection before handing it back. She passed into the bar.

  “Whoa,” Beanie said, watching her wiggle away, “she’s bodacious.”

  “Yeah,” Cecil said. “How old is she, Beanie?”

  “A perfect twenty-one.” Beanie continued to watch her move to a table near the dance floor.

  “Twenty-one, my ass. That’s gotta be a fake ID she’s using, or she’s the youngest-lookin’ twenty-one-year-old I’ve ever seen.” He cocked his head. “I’d run her out, but Tom wouldn’t like it.”

  I smiled. “Mr. Tom likes ’em young?”

  Cecil snorted. “Nah, he likes their money. If they’ve got some kinda ID, he wants us to let ’em in.” He gave his head a quick shake. “We’re gonna get busted someday.”

  “I’ve noticed this place gets some dangerous women.”

  “You ain’t shittin’ me.”

  “Speaking of which, could one of you guys let me know if Kitten shows up?”

  Lifting an eyebrow, Cecil said, “Whatta you want with her?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just let me know, O.K.?”

  Cecil folded his arms. “Whatever you want. I’ll send Beanie over if we see her.”

  I moved out of the doorway as Yogi, chewing on a Baby Ruth bar, strolled in from the lobby. He had slipped upstairs and changed out of his sweatshirt into a shirt I hadn’t seen before, a white, loose-fitting smock with three-quarter-length sleeves. The shirt’s V-neck and cuffs were embroidered with wide swaths of green paisley border material, making him look something like a chubby acolyte ready to light the candles before Sunday-morning service. Only this acolyte was wearing a puka shell necklace.

  “That’s different,” I said to him. “I’ve never seen you play in anything other than a tank top. And where’d you get that necklace?”

  He smiled. “Evangeline gave it to me. Cool, huh?”

  “Evangeline? Why?”

  “She said it was for being so sweet to her.” He shoved the rest of the candy bar into his mouth and threw an imaginary drum roll across the air with his hands. “You ready to play?” He seemed as wired as me, only as a result of a different substance.

  I checked my watch. “Yeah, let’s do it.” We started toward the stage. “Keep the riffraff out,” I called back to our protectors. Beanie grinned idiotically and waved.

  APPARENTLY INSPIRED by the thought of strutting his fine stuff in front of the Wilson sisters, Mick absolutely swaggered through our first set, shaking his rear, twirling the mike, posing with one foot up on the monitors. In between poses, he’d dance to the edge of the stage and abruptly stop, teetering on the edge, a move he’d been perfecting all week. Occasionally, yells of “Jump!” would come from the crowd, which was hilarious considering the stage was only a few feet above the dance floor. Even so, I held my breath every time he did it, worried that Mick, his eyes blinded by bad genes and bright stage lights, would eventually end up sprawled face-first on the dance floor. But I finally stopped fretting. The strings felt too good beneath my fingertips, and the high-octane blood pumping through my veins carried too much energy to be wasted on worrying about our lead singer.

  We plowed through Steve Miller’s suggestive Rock’n Me and Alice Cooper’s sneering No More Mr. Nice Guy before slowing it down with Elvin Bishop’s Fooled Around and Fell in Love. Mick had already noticed the little brunette in the miniskirt sitting at the table behind the dance floor, and he aimed the ballad right at her.

  The bar continued to fill with Friday night partyers as we stretched out and cranked up the volume and tempo. Near the end of the set, Beanie appeared at the edge of the stage and, grinning and gesturing toward the bar, mouthed the word “Kitten.” I caught my breath and nodded a thanks. We finished the set with The Boys Are Back in Town, and I hurried around the far side of the lounge, then up the stairs to our room. Wanting to be well-fortified when Kitten tracked me down, I chugged a beer, smoked a cigarette, and popped two more of my cross-tops before returning to the bar just in time for the next set.

  The second set went even better than the first, and the crowd grew to the point where the dance floor became a permanent sea of undulating polyester and grinding denim. My adrenaline continued to pump, and, with Yogi’s help, I pushed the tempo as hard as I could. Cecil kept busy taking money and stamping hands, and Beanie danced along the back wall of the lounge, arms akimbo like a puppet being played by a drunken marionette. Kitten stayed hidden somewhere behind the wall of bodies gathered near the bar.

  A murmur of approval came from the crowd as I pounded out the opening chords to It’s Only Rock ’n’Roll, and the dance floor soaked up even more bodies. From out of the middle of the writhing mass came the little go-go dancer, boogying with a skinny guy in an Angel’s Flight suit. Mick saw her. We all saw her. With her shirt flapping open, she spun across the dance floor on the toes of her boots, looking young, available, and sleazy. She twirled circles around her dance partner, sneaking glances up at Mick, who needed no additional prompting to take hold of the mike and move to the front of the stage until, with hips gyrating, he was almost on top of her.

  Following Sam’s ripping sax solo on ZZ Top’s Tush, we finished the set, and the go-go dancer moved off the floor and back into the maze of tables. Mick, his head zigzagging and eyes squinting, jumped from the stage, hot on her heels. Sam nudged me as I set my guitar in its stand. “You see that?” he said, n
odding in the direction Mick had gone. “I thought he was gonna blow a gasket when that little bimbo shook her ass in front of him.”

  “She’s Mick’s type all right.” I switched my amp to standby and lit a cigarette.

  “Jail bait, for sure,” Sam said. He stepped off the stage and headed for a table nearby already commandeered by Rob and Yogi.

  I dawdled on the stage for a few minutes to finish my cigarette and to work up the courage to face Kitten. I then took a deep breath and started weaving through the tables toward the bar, heading in the general direction of her usual barstool. But halfway there, Mick, face flushed red and breathing hard, came out of the smoky haze and grabbed my arm. “Daniel, I want you to meet somebody.”

  I shook him off. “I’ve got some business to deal with.”

  He reattached himself to me. “Sorry, mate, I need your help.” He steered me diagonally across the floor to a table. “Daniel, this is Rita,” he said, indicating the little dark-haired go-go dancer sitting across the table.

  “Hiya, Daniel,” she said in a high voice. A word came to me: bubble-gummy. I shook her hand, which she offered like a limp rag. Up close, she couldn’t be more than seventeen, if that.

  Mick pulled me around the table to a woman sitting beside Rita. “And this is Tanya. Tanya, this is me mate, Daniel.” He left me and hurried back around the table to the chair on the other side of Rita. I continued to stand, realizing why Mick had dragged me over: He needed me to keep the friend busy while he worked on Rita.

  “Why don’tcha sit down,” Tanya said in a breathy voice, motioning toward the empty chair next to her. As ordered, I dropped my pack of Marlboros on the table and slid into the chair. Unlike Rita, Tanya, who appeared to be three or four years older than her friend, was a big-boned girl with feathered-back brownish-blonde hair that looked as if it had been dyed in the distant past. Her brown eyes were surrounded by heavily applied aqua makeup, which distorted rather than flattered her plain features. A half-full glass of something pink sat on the table in front of her.

  She leaned toward me. “I like what you’re playin’. You’re a really primo guitarist.”

  “Yeah? Thanks.”

  “Look.” She held out her right hand and wagged a ringed finger in my face. “It’s my mood ring. See? The stone’s blue, so I must be groovin’ to your music.”

  “Glad you like it.” I reached for a cigarette and glanced at Mick. He and Rita, giggling about something, had their heads together. Mick’s hand was on her arm. Above the jukebox sound of Jim Dandy, I heard Rita ask him, “Are all of you British guys so funny?” My eyes involuntarily rolled up into their sockets.

  Tanya ignored the happy couple and slurped from her drink. “You’re from California, huh?”

  “That’s right.” I stole a look at her bloodshot eyes. “North of San Francisco.”

  “That’s cool. I’m gonna move there someday when I get it together. California’s where all the righteous music’s at. We got nothin’ up here, except Heart. You heard of ’em?”

  I smiled to myself. “Sure. They’re playing here Sunday, aren’t they?”

  “At the fairgrounds. You guys going?”

  “Maybe.” Right then I decided to keep the news about the gig to myself. “Someone told me that they played here when they first started out.”

  “Here at the Mai Tai?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  She laughed. “No way. They opened for someone at the fairgrounds a coupla years back, but they never played here.”

  I took a drag off my cigarette and squinted at her. Was she right? Who knew? “I guess I got bad information.”

  “I guess so.”

  “But what about Hendrix? He played here once, didn’t he?”

  “Jimi Hendrix?” She laughed again. “Who told you that?”

  I suddenly felt foolish. “Our agent.”

  “But Hendrix, he’s, like, dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah, well, I meant in the Sixties.”

  “Your agent must’ve been loaded. I think I woulda heard about it if Hendrix had ever played around here.”

  “I guess you would’ve,” I said. I felt myself sag in the chair. Astley was a bigger asshole than I thought.

  Tanya ratted a strand of hair with a finger, looked at me, and furrowed her brow. “But, hey, they get some good bands in here once in a while. I mean, like you guys. You’re the real thing.”

  I perked up. “You think so?”

  “For sure. You guys are heavy.” She smiled and her plain features lit up. “Especially you.”

  I saw the warning signs and knew I had to be careful; eventually everybody looked good to me when I was pilled up. And for some reason I couldn’t imagine, I was apparently looking good to the women around here. It probably had something to do with the bad lighting. Still, Tanya was no way my type, and I couldn’t think of a simple way to leave without being rude, so I said, “You’re friends with Rita?”

  “Actually, she’s a friend of my little sis, but she’s pretty cosmic, so I let her hang out with me.”

  Oh, yes, the lovely, very young Rita. I saw my opening and lowered my voice. “So how old is Rita anyway? She doesn’t look old enough to be in here.”

  Tanya grinned and her eyes fluttered. She was drunker than I thought. “Oh, she’s old enough, if you know what I mean. I’m old enough, too, in case you’re interested.” Then she winked at me.

  That was it; time to go. I looked around for an exit.

  “Ooh,” Tanya suddenly said, again flinging her hand into my face, “look at my ring now. It’s dark blue. You know what that means?”

  I had no idea, and I didn’t want to stick around to find out. I took an exaggerated look at my watch. “Hey, look, I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta get back on stage.” I stood, and she stopped smiling. “Hey, Mick, I’m gonna tune up. I’ll see you on stage in five minutes, O.K.?”

  “Lovely. Five minutes.” His right hand had crept under the table.

  I turned to leave, but Tanya put a hand on my arm. “I’ll see you later, Daniel?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m not going anywhere.” I pulled away and maneuvered around the table, picking my way through the maze back to the stage. My temporary self-assurance, the product of four cross-tops and a couple of beers, had been reduced to a jittery mess by my encounter with Tanya. I shook my head. First Rob, now Tanya. I couldn’t seem to avoid disappointing people, and the guilt was starting to catch up with me.

  I stepped up on the stage, flicked on my amp, and reached for my guitar.

  “Hey, kid, you been avoiding me?”

  I turned to see Kitten standing at the side of the stage and sucked in a breath. Dressed to the teeth in a blue-velvet blazer over a white Western shirt and tight jeans, her black hair flaring out, she looked dangerously attractive, even to my jaundiced eyes.

  I stepped down and she hooked my arm, guiding me to a dark corner near the stage. “Where you been, kiddo?”

  “Um, looking for you,” I answered half-heartedly.

  “You were heading in the wrong direction.” She gave me a thin smile and tugged a cigarette from the pack in my shirt pocket. “Who was that?”

  I lit the cigarette for her. “Who?”

  “That girl you were sitting with.” She blew smoke in my face; accidentally, I thought, but I wasn’t sure. Kitten looked drunk, too. Or maybe stoned.

  “Nobody. Some girl Mick just introduced me to.”

  “That right?” She loomed closer to me. “The poor little thing looks like she has the hots for you.”

  I forced a laugh. “She’s nobody in particular. We were just talking.”

  Kitten’s grin hung there, but her eyes burned hot. “Don’t fuck with me, kid. I can take that Heart show away from you just as easy as I got it.”

  I shifted from one foot to the other.

  “You got the call, right?”

  I nodded. “Astley called me this morning.”

  “Well, then, you and me are in b
usiness, and we got some details to work out. Right?”

  I suddenly realized that all day long I’d been avoiding the one thing that was now totally obvious: The gig was in place, and as far as Kitten was concerned, she was now our manager. I leaned against the wall and looked at her, picturing myself as a promoter or club owner; and for the first time I flashed on the advantages of having her as our manager. Unlike me, she had the brutal toughness to survive in the business, and with her looks, she would get what she wanted out of them, every damn time. Maybe she would become our oversexed version of the Who’s manager, Kit Lambert, pulling us up the ladder on the sheer strength of her nerve and willingness to use whatever it took.

  I heard myself say, “You free after we’re finished tonight?” The words came out of my mouth without much thought, possibly encouraged by the lure of the tiny buttons of her taut shirt begging to be released.

  She slipped an arm around my waist. “Wish I was, kiddo, but I got more business.”

  “At two o’clock in the morning?”

  “That’s why I’ll be a great manager for you guys. I do my best work at night.” She pinched the flesh above my belt and I pulled away. She tugged me back. “Keep your pants zipped, and we’ll talk tomorrow night after your show.”

  “Keep my pants zipped?”

  She smiled saucily, then lifted her chin in a gesture toward the stage. “They’re waiting for you.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Rob, Sam, and Yogi up on the stage. “Guess I should go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  As I started to turn, she hooked a hand behind my neck and pulled my head toward hers. Her lips locked onto mine and her tongue pushed between my teeth. Against all judgment, I let my tongue find hers. Then she shoved me away. “That’s all you gotta remember, kid. Don’t fuck with me.”

  Kitten slid back into the darkness of the lounge, and I climbed onto the stage. Swallowing hard, I picked up my guitar. Rob, his bass dangling from his neck, was staring at me, his head shaking ever so slowly, as if every back-and-forth motion brought forth a brand-new word describing how big of an asshole I had become.