Getting in Tune

by Roger L. Trott

  I waited for her to reach my side of the street and start for the front of the grocery store before I stepped out of the phone booth. “Hi, Rita.”

  She stopped and stared at me.

  “Remember me? Daniel, from the Killjoys?”

  “Oh.” Her jaw started working frantically at a wad of gum. “Hiya.” Without the heavy makeup and go-go boots, she looked like a typical fifteen- or sixteen-year-old on her way to buy a copy of Teen magazine. Mick would be dead meat if she ever got on the witness stand.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” With my heart pounding, I had difficulty keeping my tone conversational and casual.

  Her gaze darted around, stopping on the blue house across the street. She giggled nervously. “I can’t, y’know. I would, but I’m like really, really grounded, and I’m just supposed to get some things and be back at the house, and I’m not supposed to talk to anybody, especially someone like you.”

  “C’mon, Rita. I just came from seeing Mick at the jail.” I held her small brown eyes. “He asked about you.”

  Her chewing stopped. “He did?”

  I nodded. “Look, he knows you didn’t turn him in. We all know it was Tanya. But they’re holding him for statutory rape. You know what that is, right?”

  Rita paused, then gave me a tiny nod.

  I went on. “And he could get, like, fifteen or twenty years.” For some reason, that didn’t sound bad enough. “And they might send him back to England.”

  Her eyes grew big, white space around brown pupils. “But I thought—”

  “Look, let’s talk for a minute, O.K.? We can sit in my car. That way nobody’ll see you.”

  Her gaze flew around again before resting on me. “Well, O.K., I guess, but I gotta get back home soon, y’know?”

  I walked her over to the station wagon and held the front passenger door open. After looking around again, she slid in, and I checked my watch. Shit, three-twenty. I didn’t have any time to screw around. My mind spun. What would Mick say to her? What words would make this scared little girl recant her story? Standing beside the station wagon, I conjured up Mick’s smirk and listened for his voice. Bloody hell! Play her up, mate.

  I got in on the driver’s side and popped out the Tommy Bolin tape. “Rita,” I said, leaning toward the young girl, “Mick wanted me to tell you that he really likes you. In fact, he thinks you’re pretty special and really hot. That’s what he said. And I can see why—” I stopped. The words sounded ridiculous coming out of my mouth.

  But to my surprise, Rita smiled, and it was oddly grown-up and knowing. Then her eyes narrowed and her lower lip pushed out, making her look again just like a pouty little kid. “But he didn’t call, he didn’t come by or nothing. How could I know?”

  “Look, Mick wanted to, believe me, but we’ve been really busy. We had to play last night, and we’ve got this Heart gig tonight. But now Mick’s in jail, so....”

  Rita popped her gum. Frown lines appeared below her dark bangs. “But they ... the police, they made me tell them. I didn’t want to, y’know, but Tanya, she told my daddy everything, and....” Her hands fluttered up like frightened sparrows.

  “Rita, you’ve gotta help Mick. He wanted you to be there at the Heart concert tonight. He wanted to see you before we left tomorrow.”

  “He did?”

  And then true inspiration hit me. I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the last of the comp tickets. “He insisted I give you this.”

  She took the ticket and studied it.

  “It’s our last comp ticket—gets you in for free. But, with Mick sitting in jail, it’s no good now, I guess. It’s too bad, though, because Mick thought you might get the chance to meet Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart.”

  She kept looking at the ticket. As she did, my attention was caught by the sight of a man coming out of Rita’s house. He strolled across the lawn and peered toward the grocery store. Worried that he would see us, I flipped down both visors. Rita started to look up, but I pointed to the face of the ticket. “See? The show starts at eight, but we have to be there by five.” I clicked the face of my watch. “That’s only a little more than an hour from now.”

  As I talked, I kept one eye on the figure across the street. To my relief, the man, probably Rita’s dad, returned to the house after taking a long look at the grocery store.

  I reached across for the ticket, but she pulled back. “You have to be there at five?”

  “To set up and sound-check. But we won’t make it unless you help him.”

  She continued to clutch the ticket, and her eyes became watery. “How can I? I’m grounded, and the police already wrote everything down.”

  “You could retract your statement.”

  “Retract?” She frowned. “What’s that mean? Like, lie?”

  I paused for a second. “No, not really. Just take it back. Tell them that you were pressured by Tanya to say everything, that you just hung out in the room with Mick and that nothing happened.” I looked at her; she was considering this. “But you’ll have to do it now, or we won’t be able to play tonight. And Mick ... one way or the other, you’d never see him again.”

  “But my daddy—” Her eyes froze. “He’d absolutely kill me.”

  “Mick needs you, Rita. The whole band needs you. Don’t you want to see him again?”

  She turned away and pressed her forehead against the side window. “I can’t do it. I’ve ... I’ve gotta go.”

  With the comp ticket still in hand, she flung open the door and started out. I reached out and caught the sleeve of her jacket. “Mick’s going to prison without your help. He’ll never sing again, and you’ll never see him again. Please help him.”

  Rita started to cry. “It’s not my fault. I don’t know what to do.” Her head shook from side to side. “I don’t know what I can do!”

  I tugged at her arm, and she suddenly quieted and looked across the interior of the car at me, as if hoping that I would give her the answer. Her young face became red and scrunched up, shedding years by the moment, and my heart dropped away at the sight of it. Charm her, play her up. Yeah, sure. But, shit, that wasn’t my skill. Driving people away was what I did best.

  Christ, I couldn’t do this anymore.

  I searched my brain for another voice, a voice that spoke the truth—at least, the form of truth that a sixteen-year-old would understand—simple, direct, no bullshit. And what other truth was there, really? I sorted through my mess of a mind for the voice that came from a knowledge of the perfect notes, the Universal Chord. It had been there for a moment last night, I was sure now. For that moment I had felt the connection, and then it had disappeared into the chaos of crashing glass. And then later, when I had played my songs, I had felt it again, but....

  I shook my head. That’s what had driven Pete Townshend crazy. It wasn’t that the Universal Chord didn’t exist. It was just that you couldn’t hold on to it. The notes formed, pulled together in perfection, and then they faded away, note by note, decibel by decibel, to a whisper that you could no longer hear. It was there, but it wasn’t. But, now, from somewhere, someplace, I heard the ringing, sustained purity of the chord again; and then I heard Evangeline’s words in Nita’s voice.

  “Rita,,” I said, “I can’t tell you what to do. All I know is that you can’t go around hurting people you care about, even if you’ll never see them again. I lied to you about what Mick said. He likes you—I think he really does—but I made some of those things up. I don’t know if he wants to see you again. And maybe you don’t really want to see him again. But you’ve got to follow your own heart. People connect for a reason.” I looked into the distance through the windshield. “I don’t know why.”

  She gazed at me, her brown eyes, like Nita’s, swimming in pools of watery whiteness, and suddenly a great sob burst from her. She pulled away and ran from the car. Without looking, she dashed across the boulevard.

  As she reached the other side of the street and disappeared into the ho
use, I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. I’d fucked up again, hadn’t I? Christ, why hadn’t I learned? The same damn mistake, over and over: Honesty, the truth, was no fucking good.

  THE BLUE BOMB was parked on the street in front of the Mai Tai’s side load-in doors. I pulled up behind the van and walked into the lounge, still trying to think through a last-gasp plan. Rob and Sam were sitting on the front edge of the stage, suitcases and rolled-up sleeping bags at their feet. Behind them, Yogi was down on his knees, tunelessly whistling while taking his drum set apart. Nobody else was in the bar, and nothing but broken strings, strips of masking tape, and bits of glass were left on the stage. The bar no longer looked anything like the Marquee. Maybe, I thought now, it never had.

  Sam saw me first. “Did you talk to the little bimbo?” His voice echoed around the hard wooden edges of the lounge and came back to me. He held out the van keys.

  I exchanged them for the station wagon keys. “Yeah, and she’s not a bimbo. Anyway, she wouldn’t do it.”

  “Shit,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “Mick really bit the big one this time. I actually feel sorry for him, and I never thought I’d say that.”

  “He could be looking at some serious jail time,” I said, my stomach churning. I shifted my gaze to Rob. “So you’re O.K. with just leaving him?”

  Shrugging, Rob replied, “Like we talked about before, we can probably do more good for him in Creedly than we can here, so what’s the point in staying another night?”

  I didn’t have a good answer for him, so I just sighed, rubbed at my eyes, and searched my mind for some way to keep the band together.

  Rob exhaled, rocked on his heels, and sprang to his feet. “Well, that’s it, man. We’ve got the van packed. We only need to get Yogi’s drums in the station wagon, then we’re rolling. Your stuff’s still up in the room. So’s Mick’s.”

  For the hundredth time, I checked my watch. “It’s not five, yet. Let’s talk about it some more.”

  He flipped his hair. “Talk about what?”

  “I’ve been thinking. Maybe we can still put a set together. We only need thirty minutes or so. And we’ve got my three songs. That‘s—what?—fifteen minutes if we stretch ’em out? Maybe we can—”

  “Christ, Daniel, give it up. I told you, we’re outta here.”

  As if on cue, Sam picked up a suitcase. “Let’s get these things in the wagon.”

  “Hey!” Yogi’s head popped up from behind the bass drum. “You’re not leaving without us.”

  So it was a done deal. They were all ready to split and just assumed that I’d go with them. “Screw that,” I said. “Yogi’s right. I’m not leaving until I see what happens to Mick. We just can’t leave him.”

  There was a long silence.

  Yogi finally came over to the edge of the stage and looked down at me. “When I said ‘us,’ I didn’t mean you, Daniel. I’d stay for sure if we were playing. I was talking about us, not you or Mick.”

  Irritated, I stared up at him. “Us? What the hell are you talking about?”

  With his free hand, Sam hoisted a sleeping bag and looked over at me. “You’re gonna love this.”

  “Love what?”

  “He’s talking about Evangeline.” Sam shook his head in a slow, weary motion. “Yogi says she’s going with us.”

  “I don’t get it.” Now I was shaking my head. “Going where? To the Heart gig?”

  Rob grabbed the other suitcase and sleeping bag. “Yogi’s taking her home with him.”

  “He’s what?” I looked up at Yogi. “But—”

  “Save your breath,” Sam said. “We’ve already tried to talk him out of it.”

  My forehead creased. “She’s going to Creedly with you? Why?”

  “We talked about it this morning,” Yogi said, grinning down at me. And then he sang out, “I think she loves me, so what are you so afraid of?”

  “C’mon, Yogi,” I said. “wake up. Look, I hate to break this to you, but it’s pretty unlikely that she loves you.”

  But Yogi kept grinning. “Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. But I know she likes me—she told me so—and she’s ready to get out of Puente Harbor. She said she’s going to follow her heart.”

  Hearing those betraying words again, I grimaced. “Look, Yogi, that’s totally crazy. What about her stuff? And where’s she gonna live? In your folks’ house?”

  “He’s got a plan,” said Sam. “You should hear it.”

  “That’s right.” Yogi was still grinning. “She’s going to get a—”

  I waved him off. “Not now. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

  Sam and Rob started for the door.

  “Hey, hold on!” I yelled. They stopped and looked back at me. I searched my mind for hope, for some Who-like vision of resurrection. “You promised you wouldn’t leave until five. We’ve still got a half hour. Mick could still show up. Maybe they’ll let him out.”

  “Fine, man.” Rob sighed. “We’ll stick around until five if it makes you happy. We’ve gotta wait around for Yogi, anyhow.”

  “By the way,” Sam said, “we could use some change for the trip home. We get paid yet?”

  I stared at him and felt my face go red. “Where’s Mr. Tom?”

  “Last time I saw him, he was in the restaurant.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” I started weaving through the lounge, and then I stopped and pointed a finger at the two deserters. “Don’t leave before I’m back.”

  ALL THREE OF THEM were outside on the sidewalk with Beanie and Cecil when I returned. Rob and Sam were sitting on the fender of the station wagon, and Yogi, humming to himself, was standing across from the two bouncers. It was almost dark and the air had become dank-cold again, but I was more aware of the dampness under my arms. I looked at the guys and knew that I wouldn’t tell them what had just happened inside. It didn’t really matter. The Heart gig had slipped away, Mick was in jail, and the band was breaking up. What did a few dollars matter at this point?

  Rob made a show of checking his watch. “Five-fifteen, man. We need to get truckin’. We get paid?”

  “Sure.” I pulled up next to Yogi. Beanie and Cecil nodded a greeting in a way that told me they knew what was going down.

  “Cool.” Rob held out his hand.

  I pulled out the wad of cash and counted out four twenties each into the palms of Rob, Sam, and Yogi. Turning away so they wouldn’t see how few bills remained, I stuffed the rest into my pocket.

  Sam fanned out the four bills and angled them into the streetlight until Andrew Jackson’s face lit up. “Eighty bucks? Shouldn’t it be more like a hundred and fifty?”

  I shrugged. “We’ve gotta figure out expenses before divvying up the rest. We’ll do it when I get home.” The truth was that Mr. Tom had deducted $240 for the rooms—twenty bucks per room per night—which had left us with a net of $510 for the week. I had argued with him, had told him that Astley said the rooms were included, but he wouldn’t budge. $510. Not much for five nights of dangerous work.

  “When’re you heading home?” Sam asked.

  I shrugged again. “I’ll see how tomorrow goes.”

  “Let us know,” Rob said. “Like Sam said, we’d be willing to go over and talk to his folks.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, still doubting that they’d be willing to face Mick’s father.

  “Well.” Rob looked at Sam. “We still need to pick up Evangeline, so we’d better get going.”

  “I’m ready,” Yogi said, still sprouting that goofy grin.

  Beanie, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, started bobbing around. “I can’t believe you’re gonna blow off playing with Heart. Ann and Nancy Wilson.” His eyes bloomed. “Man, oh, man.”

  “I can’t, either,” I said under my breath. Then louder: “They gave you the tickets, didn’t they? You can still go.”

  “We’ve got’em,” Cecil said, “but it won’t be the same.”

  “That reminds me,
” I said, looking directly at Rob, “I better call over there and see if I can reach someone. At least I can give them a heads-up that we’re flaking out.” Rob shifted from one foot to the other, turned away from me, and glanced down the street. All other eyes went this way and that, avoiding each other, avoiding mine.

  The momentary silence hung there, glances still darting around in the almost-dark. Sam finally broke it, turning to Beanie and Cecil and saying, “Well, look, you guys take it easy. I hope you get outta this shithole soon. And look us up if you ever get to Creedly.”

  Then Sam looked at me. “Give my regards to Mick, huh? I hope you can spring him, but I bet they let him off easy. That girl was asking for it.”

  “Sure, Sam.”

  “You guys ready?” he asked the others.

  Yogi opened the back door of the wagon.

  Rob shifted and faced me with lowered eyes. “Sorry it came down to this, man. I guess some things aren’t meant to be.”

  “I guess not.” The moment felt strangely like a breakup with a girlfriend. With events now rushing forward out of control, I felt myself starting to grin from the sheer weirdness of it all.

  “If I don’t hear from you tomorrow, call me when you’re back,” Rob said. “We’ll settle up the bills, and I’ll get my gear out of the house.”

  Now I was grinning. I couldn’t help it. “Take it easy, Rob. And give my love to Candi.”

  His eyes came up angry, and he stared at me before looking away again. “Sure, man.”

  Stepping out of the circle, I watched as handshakes were exchanged. Sam climbed in behind the steering wheel and started the engine. Rob climbed in beside him, and Yogi slid into the back. With Beanie and Cecil waving, they started away, and I turned my back and headed for the door of the Mai Tai. Hearing the sound of the station wagon rumble away, my stomach double-clutched and the trap door of my depression began to open up. I forced my mind to move forward. I had to get the stuff out of the room and figure out where I was staying tonight. No way I was spending another night at the Mai Tai, especially by myself. And I really had to go by the jail again....