Getting in Tune

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Getting in Tune Page 19

by Roger L. Trott

I STOOD STOCK-STILL three feet in front of my amplifier, alone, waiting for the stage lights to burn my shadow into the stage. I knew every song on the set list by heart. I knew them better than I knew my own fragmented family, but I had no understanding of how to deal with the rest of what was now spinning toward me.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Mick, who came bouncing across the stage from where he’d been huddled with Sam and Rob. “You ready, Daniel?”

  I took a deep breath and nodded.

  “Relax, mate. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Kitten or the bikers. Of course, the night is still young, idn’t?” With a tight grin, he turned back to face the crowd waiting in the lounge. He motioned toward Sam, and the stage lights jumped at me, throwing everything into a blue-yellow haze, including the cymbals and drums right behind me, where Yogi sat, clicking his sticks together at the tempo of the first song.

  “Evenin’, mates,” Mick said into the mike, his voice bouncing around the room. In the stage lights, he looked almost elegant in his chartreuse scarf, satin burgundy shirt, and the infamous navy-blue cords, which clung to him like a wet suit. The constant murmur of voices in the lounge dropped down as I sensed all eyes turning toward us.

  “Hey,” Mick called out to the crowd. “It’s Saturday night, and, as you bloody well know by now, we’re the Killjoys. You can catch us tomorrow night opening up for Heart at the fairgrounds, but it’s our last show here at the Mai Tai, right? So get warmed up, ’cause you know what they say: Saturday night’s all right for fighting!”

  He pointed at me, and my head suddenly cleared. On cue, I windmilled my arm and attacked the strings, banging out the first in the biting series of chords that started the Elton John song. Yogi and Rob jumped in after my second pass, and we were off.

  We hurtled through the first songs at a blinding pace, our screws tightened by the repetition of the nightly shows. I forgot about Kitten and Nita and leaned into the skittering groove laid down by Rob’s deep-throated bass and Yogi’s crash-and-burn drums. We were halfway through the set before my consciousness left the confines of the stage and took in everything that had become so familiar to me after five nights at the Mai Tai: the heavy sweet-and-sour blend of cigarette smoke, stale beer, cheap perfume, and tangy sweat; the dark forms of Beanie and Cecil standing at the door; the green Rainier sign glowing on the wall behind us; the shadowed heads arranged around tables beyond the dance floor; Mr. Tom working mechanically behind the bar. I took it all in, sensing that my world was about to change, but not knowing what would change it. Nita? Kitten? The Hell’s Angels? Or the entire unholy trinity framing my world at this moment?

  On Brown Sugar, Sam moved up to blow a solo, the red stage lights glinting off his tenor sax, his shoulders twitching to the high notes, the embroidered back pockets of his jeans swaying to the thumping beat being laid down by Yogi. I looked past him to Rob, who, as usual, seemed deep in thought, lost in his world of fingers and strings. His blond hair fell down the back of his longsleeved blue work shirt, and for that moment the world seemed near perfect . . . until I remembered that our bass player would soon be gone.

  The lounge was already packed, with the regulars at the bar overwhelmed by the dozens of guys on the make and girls ready to be made who only came out on weekends. The heat in the bar was becoming unbearable, and I could almost feel the steam rising off those who had just come through the bar doors. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of my face. I moved back toward Yogi and away from the hot bank of lights angled at me. Unfortunately, this drew Yogi’s attention to the crash cymbal near my left ear, which he attacked as Sam was ending his solo. Grimacing, I looked over at him, but he stifled a yawn, probably feeling the aftereffects of the wine.

  I moved back up to my mike for the “yeah, yeah, yeah, woos” at the end of the Stones’ song, and the familiar spiced, weedy aroma of Charlie hit me. Of course, Kitten. I knew she was on the dance floor even before I squinted through the lights to see her ten feet away, midnight-black hair flying, body moving in a sheer white blouse with an elastic midriff. She looked up and gave me a long, penetrating stare. I felt a shiver run down my back.

  She melted back into the jammed lounge as we continued through the set, knocking off Bang a Gong, Easy Livin’, and Dream On. The pressure-cooker feel of the bar grew more intense, and I felt like I was performing in a sauna. I kept searching the crowd for any sign of the rest of my unholy trinity, but neither Nita or the Hell’s Angels had arrived.

  Near the end of the set, Evangeline, dressed in a longsleeved black T-shirt with a scoop neck, appeared at the edge of the dance floor and stood watching Mick move around the stage, her head nodding to the beat of Frampton’s Show Me the Way. She stayed there until she had gained Mick’s attention, then smiled and stepped back into the darkness of the lounge.

  Rob started the bass line of Golden Earring’s Radar Love, the final song of our first set. The pulsating bass notes, joined by the drums, again filled the floor with sweaty, jiggling dancers. I edged out to the front of the stage, ready to spin out the guitar licks that slid between Mick’s vocal lines. As I did, I thought I noticed something different in the air, a slight chill, and perhaps a trace of the oily sea air that permeated Puente Harbor, mixed with something else. Gasoline fumes? Had the doors to the bar and the hotel been left open? I squinted and peered out through the haze hanging thick in the bar. From beyond the glare of the lights, the blur of bodies and faces in the lounge became more distinct. Through the dancers, through the jumble of tables and chairs, I saw an uneven line of men—large men with long hair, beards, black leather jackets, studded belts, and motorcycle boots. They stood facing us, arms crossed, surveying the lounge like a conquering army. The Hell’s Angels had arrived.

  20

  I FOLLOWED Sam and Rob through a lounge that now smelled distinctly of leather and gasoline fumes, edging my way through the locals at the tables and the bikers milling around near the bar. I looked for the holy part of the trinity, with part of me hoping that Nita had wised up about her dad and the car and left town.

  The bar, where Kitten was presumably holding court, was walled off by bodies, and I headed for Beanie and Cecil’s post at the doorway, figuring they’d know if a blonde girl with an odd-looking haircut had come through the door.

  But I didn’t get there. Kitten, who always seemed to know where I was, suddenly appeared out of the crowd and cut me off.

  “Hey, kid,” she said, with a flip of her head, “what’s up?”

  “Just heading out for some fresh air.”

  “We gotta talk.” She pulled me over near the jukebox, which was blaring Chuck Berry’s My Ding-a-Ling, and I found myself staring at the white of her exposed belly.

  She fingered the elastic hem of her blouse. “I talked to the promoter about tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah? Everything O.K.?”

  She turned sideways to let someone pass by, and the light from the lobby revealed an outline of everything underneath her blouse. She caught my gaze and smiled. “Oh, yeah. Everything’s cool. I’ll give you the lowdown when we get together later.” A glance toward the stage. “You told the other guys about our arrangement?”

  “Um, kind of—”

  She cocked her head. “What do you mean, ‘kind of’?”

  “Not all of—” I stopped. God, she’d know I was lying. The way she looked at me—it was like she was all over me, in my head, like she knew what I’d say before I said it. “Well, I didn’t tell ’em anything much yet—”

  Kitten nodded sharply. “I figured.” A trickle of sweat ran down the side of her neck and disappeared into the black tangle of hair touching her shoulders. “Well, you better deal with it.”

  I shifted my eyes to the doorway, where Rob and Sam stood talking to Beanie and Cecil. “Kitten, look, Rob’s getting cold feet about things. I think he’s got a girlfriend at home who’s putting pressure on him to quit the band. And he’s already pissed off that he’s gotta stay to do the Heart gig, so I don’t want to sp
ook him about anything else right now. I thought it’d be smart to wait until after we do the gig.”

  She shrugged. “That’s your problem, kiddo. Just make sure you do it.” She leaned toward me. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

  “Hey, I will. Don’t worry about it.” I was relieved that Kitten hadn’t pressed me harder. I had no idea what I was going to do about her once we’d played the Heart show, and I didn’t want to be forced to tell the guys about her until I had to.

  She squinted at me, again seeming to read my mind. “Look, Daniel, don’t double-cross me on this. Just remember that I’ve got the promoter for this show wrapped around my finger. You guys won’t be on that stage unless I let you.”

  “Christ, I said I’d deal with it.”

  She nodded slowly and swept strands of hair away from her face. “Anyhow,” she said, “I got you some comps for the show.”

  She handed me four tickets. I glanced at them. The Killjoys weren’t listed—not a surprise considering we weren’t on the original bill—but Heart’s swirling name ran across the top. It was weird, but seeing that made it all real, and helped me buck up my courage. I stuffed the tickets in my back pocket and took a deep breath. “Look, about tonight, I’m not sure I can make it.” I took a step closer to her. “Maybe we can go over the other details tomorrow morning.”

  She frowned. “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got something I need to do after the show.”

  “Put it off.” Her hands went to her hips.

  “I said I can’t.”

  “You’re comin’ over to my place.”

  An unfamiliar surge ran through me. “Hey, look, you don’t own me.”

  She grabbed a button near the top of my shirt, then with a flutter of her ringed fingers, she ran her hand down to my belt buckle and gave it a sharp tug. Her eyes blazed at me through the haze of the bar.

  I felt a quick shiver, of dismay, anger. I pushed her hand away and shoved past her toward the door, but she went right after me.

  “Hold up,” she said, grabbing my arm.

  I stopped but kept my body angled away from her. Kitten released her grip. With a tired motion, she again swept hair away from her face, a gesture that proved futile as strands fell back across her left eye. The juke box paused between songs, and I heard her sigh. “Look, Daniel, I’m not lookin’ to mess with your head. I just want outta this town. I never meant to get stuck here, y’know?” She sighed again. “I’ve got plans, just like you do. You’re not gonna screw that up for me—for us—are you?”

  I was caught off guard by her vulnerability, but I still chose my words carefully. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ve got a business deal.” I almost reached out to touch her shoulder, to brush the hair away from her face, but I willed my hand to stay where it was. “I’m not backing out of it as long as you keep up your end. But that’s it.”

  She seemed to flinch, or maybe she was just trying to fling hair away from her face. I wasn’t sure. But when she next spoke I had to lean forward to hear her.

  “I don’t know what you think about me,” she said in a hissing whisper. “Maybe you think I’m a bitch. A lot of people do.” Her eyes were on me, searching. “But I think we’re kinda alike. Maybe you don’t think so, but I feel it. Know what I mean?”

  “Alike?” I shook my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But of course I did. Kitten was messed up, this town she was stuck in was messed up, Creedly was messed up, and I was messed up. Maybe we did, in some way, want the same thing. And once again I was struck by the thought that she knew exactly what I’d give up to get what I wanted.

  Her next words confirmed it. “What I’m sayin’ is that we both know what we need, and we can get it together.” She reached out and took my hand. I was struck by how different it felt from Nita’s, rougher, colder, the metallic bands of her rings pressing against the flesh of my fingers. “I can be good for you.”

  There was a nakedness about her expression that almost got to me, but I resisted the notion and pulled my hand away. “I said I’d stick to the deal.”

  The dark glint came back into her eyes. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

  I forced a grin. “No smarter than you, I’d guess.”

  “Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “Don’t worry about me. But we do have business, so I’ll see you later.”

  “We’ll see.” I turned and left, and this time she didn’t come after me.

  Sam and Rob were still standing with Beanie and Cecil at the doorway. Using my bandanna, I wiped sweat from my forehead.

  “What happened to you?” Sam asked.

  “I got detained.” I looked back toward the jukebox, but Kitten had disappeared.

  Sam started to say something else, but Beanie suddenly reached between us and pointed a skinny finger at a table near the bar. “There they are.”

  We all turned and followed the line of his finger.

  “Remember?” Beanie said. “I told you about ’em, Butch and Whiskey. They’re my buddies.”

  At a table, a burly couple sat facing each other, two pitchers of beer, two mugs, and a pack of cigarettes between them. A red scar ran across Butch’s stubbled right cheek, and tattoos decorated his arms. The oversized brown-haired woman with him was stuffed snugly into a black leather halter top, a large red rose tattooed on her bulging bosom.

  “You remember?” Beanie asked, and then he giggled. “She’s the one with the big you-know-whats.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said, “we remember.”

  “I put in a good word for you.” Beanie grinned at us. “They’re pretty heavy with the other bikers.”

  I took another look at their table. At the same time, Butch glanced back and caught my eye. Discolored teeth emerged from the bushy beard, and he raised his mug in our direction before draining it.

  Cecil finished stamping the hands of another group of bikers. “Butch bought Beanie a coupla beers and he’s flying.” He winked. “You know Beanie; he’s a cheap date.”

  Rob, his face paler than usual, shifted to let the bikers pass by. His gaze followed the group, and he murmured, “Man, you weren’t kidding about the bikers.”

  “Yeah,” Cecil said, “they all kind of showed up at the same time, didn’t they? I’m surprised you didn’t hear ’em arrive. You really oughta take a look outside. It’s pretty amazing.”

  “Let’s check it out.” Sam started toward the door.

  Glad for any excuse to leave the lounge, I followed Sam and Rob through the lobby. We stepped outside, our breath suddenly bursting into little clouds of mist, and gathered on the sidewalk. Tires and gleaming chrome stretched the length of the block.

  “Holy shit.” Rob stared up and down the street. “It’s like a friggin’ Harley-Davidson lot out here.”

  Sam let out a low whistle and strolled down the sidewalk, inspecting the various choppers angled in to the curb. I knew nothing about motorcycles, but Sam understood the meaning of these bikes, ticking off the model names and numbers to himself as he moved past each one. Halfway along the line he said, almost reverently, “These are serious machines. Custom choppers.”

  After another pass down the line of bikes, Sam finally satisfied himself. “My dad would love to see these bikes.” His eyes were wide. “He really would.”

  I nodded but said nothing, knowing that Sam’s father had permanently messed up his leg in a motorcycle accident. “Maybe we’d better get back inside before the natives get restless.”

  Rob and Sam nodded and reluctantly headed back up the steps to the front door. I was about to follow them inside when I stopped and looked down the sidewalk. As if I had willed the vision, Nita emerged from the mist near the end of the block, her blonde head caught by a streetlight. The vision seemed to waver and shimmer as she came nearer. I held my breath, wondered if I was hallucinating, watched her come closer, and, convinced that she was real, stepped back down to wait for her.

  “It’s you,” I said when she
got near. “I thought you’d left.”

  She smiled back at me. “Not so lucky, mister. No place was open around here, so I had to drive out to a coffee shop near my motel.”

  My wide smile surprised me. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  She scanned the motorcycles and raised an eyebrow. “Everything going O.K.?”

  “So far, I guess.”

  “So, then, I finally get to hear your music. I’m excited.”

  “You sure you want to go in?”

  She put her fists up like a boxer. “I’m sure. I’ve been to punk shows in San Francisco worse than this. And I’ve got my club boots on.”

  I looked down at her heavy-soled black shoes. “You might need ’em. But stay close to the stage where I can see you. I might need your help.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She grabbed my arm and we walked into the bar, where Kitten and the Hell’s Angels were waiting.

  The unholy trinity was now a reality.

  I REUNITED WITH Sam and Rob on the stage, which now seemed like a fragile little island in a sea of bodies and drifting cigarette smoke. The background growl of bikers swirled around us, and my adrenaline, which didn’t need much additional stimulation, kicked up higher. I lit a cigarette, strapped on my Strat, and checked the tuning. Sure enough, the heat in the bar had put me out of tune, but I quickly retuned and tried to steady my racing mind. A few moments later, Yogi and Mick walked up with Evangeline. She lingered at the edge of the stage, shooting glances back into the lounge. Nita had found a table near the front of the stage off to my right, but I couldn’t see her unless I stepped to the edge and squinted through the lights.

  While Yogi slid behind the drums and warmed himself up with a few rolls, I quickly reviewed the list for our second set. I worried we didn’t have anything fast and hard enough for this crowd, and, with a glance out toward the bar, I wondered if and when the bottles might start flying.

  We started off with Blue Oyster Cult’s ominous Don’t Fear the Reaper, and I thought I heard a mild buzz of approval coming from the tables beyond the dance floor. By the second verse, Kitten had returned to the floor with some of the other locals, but the bikers remained at their tables. Kitten danced around till she was sure I had a clear view of her swaying butt. She was getting it on, pretty obvious. Did Nita notice the bumps and grinds being sent my direction?

 

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