“I’ve met some of the nicest people here in Manhattan, and they’ve invited me to come out to Los Angeles. Some of them are famous! It’s so exciting, Jed. I’ve learned from them—about myself and…just everything! I know that sounds silly and like I’m over excited, but it’s true.
“Here’s what I really have to say, Jed—I’ve learned that I’m not the same girl who said goodbye to you. I know I told you I’d wait, but that was wrong. I’m moving on, Jed. It’s not your fault, and there’s no one else. It’s just time. I’ve grown up. I’m sure you have, too.
“I’m glad you’re coming home safe, and I’ll always remember what we had, but it’s the past, and I was fooling myself to think I could go back to it. The future is an open road. It’s many roads. I need to travel my road without you now, and you need to travel your own.
“I’ll always remember you.
“Annabelle”
I lingered on her signature, my mind a maze of echoes as I stared at the curls and lines that made up her name. Every other letter I’d gotten in the last six years had ended, “Love, Annabelle,” and the starkness of her name on the last line—by itself and without the love—sent a stronger signal to me than all the other lines in the letter combined.
Lies, I thought, anger rising up in me. If she’d meant the bit about love in all those other letters, she’d have waited. A lousy month? After six years of carrying the torch for me, she couldn’t wait another lousy month to see me? To talk it over? To tell me in person rather than writing it down and running away? Again, I imagined the handsome actor convincing her to pack her bags and fly away with him. What else had he sweet-talked her into? And out of?
Across from me, Annabelle’s grandmother had watched me read, and now I looked up at her.
“She brushed you off, didn’t she?”
I didn’t answer her. I didn’t know how.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” she said, reading my silence and wringing her hands. “I had hoped she’d offer you something. Say she’s waiting for you out there. But now…” Her voice had been on the verge of breaking, and now it went over the edge as she said, “I’m never going to see her again.”
The old lady’s words and her tears made me even more confused. “Why?” I asked. “Did she break up with you, too?”
“You could say so,” she managed to say.
She leaned forward and moved the newspaper aside. Underneath it was another envelope. She opened it with trembling fingers, removed a letter, and handed it to me.
I looked at the sheet of paper, seeing more of Annabelle’s perfect handwriting but now written on hotel stationery. The logo at the top said “The Hotel Dorado” and underneath that, a Los Angeles address.
This letter was far briefer than the one that had been waiting for me on the piano.
“Dear Granny,” it said. “I won’t be coming back to New York. You can give away anything I left behind. Give it to the poor. Or keep it if it will do you any good. You were always so good to me.”
This letter was signed “Love, Annabelle,” so it was good to see that she was still capable of expressing an emotion like that. Whether she’d meant it or not was a different matter.
“When did you get this?” I asked, handing it back.
“Two weeks ago,” came the reply, barely above a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me, too.”
I sat there with her for a few more minutes, telling myself I should be polite but feeling too empty to figure out the right things to say. For the first time, I realized how much of the last month I had spent imagining the reunion with Annabelle, how much of my life had been given over to a fantasy without realizing it. Wasted time, I thought.
When I finally stood to go, the old woman made no move to see me to the door—just stared at the letter in her lap. Neither one of us finished our tea.
* * * * *
The guitar being all I had, I felt a little nervous walking along crowded Hudson Street with it the following night, and I kept a firm grip on the case’s handle. Only a month before, it would have been a rifle in my hands, and I could still feel the smooth wood of the stock and the hard steel of the trigger guard as I walked down the street even though I had surrendered the weapon in Germany. My rifle had been my constant and trusted ally throughout the war, outlasting and outliving untold numbers of my human comrades. Given the choice that evening, I would rather have had it back if holding it again would have made me feel as whole and clear-headed as it had in the French and German villages it had gotten me through. Walking down Hudson Street, I felt neither whole nor clear—more like fragmented and muddied, to say the least.
Saturday evening was turning into Saturday night, and revelers were out in force. More than one jostled me on the sidewalk while traffic crept slowly by, the rumble of engines and the melodies from car radios competing with the sound of music coming from clubs and the buzz of conversation that bubbled up along the sidewalk and spilled out from every bar, café, and soda fountain. When I’d get bumped into, my first response was to reach for my sidearm, but then I’d remember I didn’t have one anymore, that I was a civilian now and among people who were supposed to be friends, not enemy combatants, not Nazi sympathizers. So, I accepted the mumbled apologies of the people who knocked up against me and held even tighter to the Harmon’s case. Then I’d get jostled again, and the whole process would start over.
The city smelled of diesel and cigarettes, just the way I remembered it, and I took a little comfort from this, telling myself that those were the things I’d fought for and that it was good to be home. It didn’t exactly feel good now that Annabelle had shoved off, but I told myself it was good anyway. I’ve found that if you lie to yourself often enough, you start to forget the truth.
Having kept my guitar from being yanked away in the tide of humanity on Hudson Street, I stopped in front of the Break O’ Dawn and went inside. When I’d auditioned the afternoon before, still numb from my visit with Annabelle’s grandmother, the club had been empty and lit up. Now, it was dark and crowded, with tiny tables spread across the floor and a polished bar along the left side of the room. A jukebox played a sleepy tune, probably selected by someone who’d already had a few too many and was primed to start crying in his beer. Dark and dreary though the place seemed, it was packed with patrons; every table looked occupied and the crowd at the bar was two and three deep. At the back of the club, I saw the low stage; on it were a stool and two microphones. The sight made me even more jumpy than I’d been out on the street, and I came pretty close to turning around and going back out into the night.
I wonder now how my life would have turned out if I had.
Something spurred me on, though. Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was desperation. Regardless, I shouldered my way into the crowd at the bar and got the bartender’s attention.
He was in his fifties and looked like he’d seen it all. When I held up my guitar case, he appeared unimpressed—just pointed at the stage like I should walk up there on my own and get started. “What are you waiting for?” his expression suggested. “An invitation?”
“How about a tequila before I start?” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the din.
The bartender shrugged, turned to the conglomeration of liquor bottles on the wall behind the bar, and after a few seconds placed a full shot glass in front of me. I thanked him though I’m sure he didn’t hear me. Then I tipped my head back and swallowed. The tequila stung going down; I felt it all the way past my kneecaps. It did the trick, though, and I set the glass on the bar before heading to the little stage.
A jaded-looking ginger waitress at least ten years my senior gave me her best come hither smile as I threaded my way through the tables. I smiled back, walking the tightrope between polite and disinterested. The prospect of some company after closing time was not something I relished at that point, but I knew myself well enough to keep my options open. She wasn’t my type, but right now no one was�
�which, in a sense, also meant that just about anyone might do if my mood shifted. I conjured a picture in my mind of waking up with her in my flop, our legs entwined with loosened sheets; it was depressing, so I shoved it down below the surface even though I knew that if I stuck around the Break O’ Dawn long enough the image would have to come up again for air.
Setting the Harmon’s case on the edge of the stage, I flipped the latches and got the big red guitar out of its plush nest. Then I climbed up and took my spot on the stool, taking a moment to tune before turning on the microphone set up to catch the sound. I strummed a dominant seven chord to get a feel for how the Harmon sounded in the noisy nightclub. Before the chord could finish ringing out, the jukebox went silent and someone—the bartender?—turned a spotlight on, illuminating the stool, the guitar, and me. This sudden illumination caught me by surprise, and I looked up quickly, having to hold back the urge to dive for cover.
No enemy came at me, though, and it didn’t look like any of the Break O’ Dawn’s patrons had even noticed the spotlight or the guy caught in it.
Smoke hung thick in the air. It would have burned my throat if I hadn’t already done that with the tequila. The liquor had done its job, though, taking the edge off on a night when my nerves were wound tighter than my guitar’s strings, but I still wasn’t happy about all the smoke that curled up from the glowing ends of every cigar and cigarette in the club. It made me feel like I was back in Europe, dealing with destruction I thought I’d said goodbye to. There, I might have been skulking my way into a bombed-out building, inspecting the smoldering remains of enemy soldiers, swastikas still visible on their charred uniforms. Here, I was in a nightclub filled with revelers, some who’d never tasted war and others, like me, who’d spent years convinced that the taste of war was the only thing they’d know for the rest of their short lives.
Squinting against the smoke, I tried to look past the lousy spotlight, but it was no good. The light practically blinded me to the rest of the room. It would have been nice to look out and catch a friendly smile, a look of encouragement, but there was none of that tonight. I was the entertainment, and barely that. The background noise, really. The real entertainment in the Break O’ Dawn was the kind you pour into a glass or squeeze when you’re on the dancefloor. My guitar and I were inconsequential.
Determined to change that despite my feeling like a fish out of water, I threw everything I had into the first notes I played. I’d been practicing all day, and my fingers were killing me. Not only did my hand want to cramp with every chord I formed, but there were also deep grooves in my fingertips where the steel strings threatened to draw blood, my callouses having mostly faded during the war. The few chances I’d had to pick up a guitar in Germany or Belgium, I’d used the opportunity to learn “The Blacktop Blues,” a record they played on Armed Forces radio in heavy rotation. It was a song about a guy whose girl splits with him and he has to hit the road rather than run the risk of doing something he’ll regret. That night, it felt like the song had been written for me. It was a raucous jumper, and though I’m not that strong a singer, I knew I was making up for that shortcoming with my playing. I could feel the ringing chords and syncopated picking intruding on the conversations, celebrations, and seductions that were in progress at all those tiny tables.
I got through the first two verses fine, feeling like myself for the first time since I’d processed out of the army. The song had never sounded so perfect as it did that night, and even my voice came through for me as I sang about heartbreak and rage, the lyrics pouring out of me with more intensity than I’d ever felt myself capable of. I was the guy in the song, and my rage and frustration came through in every phrase.
The feelings built to the point where I was just about screaming the last line of the second verse. I wanted to smash something. The solo came next. It was my only means of release.
And that was when things got strange.
As my fingers flew through the first licks in the solo, it sounded to me like the guitar was the only thing making noise in the club. The audience seemed to have gone silent. The laughter, the rowdy shouts…all of it faded into nothing.
It was like I was alone. My fingers danced over the frets, but the people who’d made all the smoke in the room weren’t there to hear the notes anymore. I got lost for a few seconds, pulled into the vibrations of the guitar strings, sucked into the soundwaves created by the tension and the tuning, the force of my pick, and the power of the microphone and the speakers it was plugged into.
And then I wasn’t in the nightclub anymore.
I was standing face to face with Annabelle, our lips inches apart. There was nothing romantic going on, though. She looked angry and scared, and I felt all the emotions I’d been dealing with since her letter—anger, betrayal, confusion, jealousy, and more.
Part of me—the part that was really me, the guy who knew he was supposed to be in a Greenwich Village club playing guitar for drunks—was trying to figure out what the hell had just happened, how I’d ended up here, standing in a long hallway with my body pressed up against Annabelle, one hand gripping her shoulder and pushing her against the wall while the other held…a gun. Yes, I recognized the feeling of a gun in my hand, and I was pressing it into her abdomen.
And another part of me—a part that didn’t feel like me, like I’d stepped into another Jed Strait’s body—was really in charge. I was nothing but a passenger, and this other Jed was filled with all the anger I’d felt upon reading her letter—and a whole lot more.
It wasn’t a dream. I had a body. I could feel the fabric of Annabelle’s dress where I’d grabbed onto her shoulder, could taste the alcohol on her breath as she panted in fearful response to my anger and the weapon I threatened her with.
“Where is she?” I said, my voice a seething hiss.
“I don’t know,” she said, desperation in her tone.
The other Jed knew what he was asking about, but I didn’t.
He didn’t like what he’d heard. “Liar!” he grunted.
And then things shifted. The closest thing I can compare it to is watching a movie where the film has broken and been repaired, only a chunk of the footage got lost in the break.
Everything…jumped.
I was still standing there, shoving Annabelle against the wall, but her hair was red now, not the mass of blonde curls I’d been waiting to run my fingers through all the time I was away.
This red-headed Annabelle looked at me with contempt. “You can go to hell!” she said, her voice a blast of venom.
I heard a gunshot.
Everything jumped again.
I was looking at my hand. It was red with blood.
Blonde Annabelle was saying, “Bastard.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and I knew it was her blood on my hand.
Another jump.
Annabelle was redheaded. She held the gun, not me. It was a German Luger, and its barrel was smoking.
And I knew the blood was mine.
My vision went black as I felt the floor fall out from under me.
And then I was on the stage in the Break O’ Dawn again. A final chord was ringing out of the Harmon. When I looked down at the guitar’s neck, I saw the strings were slick with blood. My left hand felt like it was on fire, and the pick in my right had gone soft from the friction I’d just punished it with.
Looking up, I saw that a few of the patrons nearest the stage were staring at me. No one applauded. A few tables away, the jaded waitress was looking at with me with tears in her eyes, and I didn’t know if I’d just played the most moving piece of music she’d ever heard or if I’d unleashed a demonic volley on the strings that had scared the seductive nature right out of her. Maybe both.
I didn’t wait around to find out.
Wiping my bloody fingers on my pants, I stood up, set the Harmon in its case, and buckled it shut. Then I walked out of the club, unsure of whether I’d played for five minutes or two hours. I didn’t think about getting paid or payi
ng for the shot of tequila. I didn’t think about anything but getting away from the Break O’ Dawn and its spotlight.
You’re losing your mind, Jed, I thought as I bolted through the door. Not losing. Lost. It’s gone. You’re gone. Done.
Six years of war hadn’t left me shell-shocked. Seeing guys blown apart who I’d spent months side by side with hadn’t gotten me sent to the nuthouse. Even the last awful thing I’d been through in the war—the thing that had left more guys dead than I could count—had done nothing more than rattle my fillings where just about anyone else would have lost his mind. And now, playing guitar in a stateside nightclub with nothing more dangerous in front of me than a lusty waitress, I was flipping my lid.
A hallucination, I told myself. There could be all kinds of reasons a guy could have a hallucination and it wouldn’t mean he was completely bughouse.
Maybe there’d been something in the tequila, I thought, something that could have caused me to start seeing things.
But it had been more than a hallucination. I’d felt the dress. I’d felt the gun. You didn’t feel things that weren’t real when you hallucinated them, did you?
If you were off the rails, though…
Outside the club, the sidewalk was not as crowded as it had been when I’d arrived at the Break O’ Dawn. Now, I was the one doing the jostling, and I heard a fair amount of curse words at my back as I ran in the direction of the flop I’d dropped a dollar on the day before, enough rent for four nights. Above me, the moon shone down, the same moon that I knew was shining far away on Annabelle. I kept telling myself she was safe. It wasn’t Annabelle who was in danger, I knew. It wasn’t Annabelle who was losing her mind.
Chapter Two
Painful though it was, I sold the Harmon to Sid Drummond the next day; he gave me top dollar for it, probably more. Combining that cash with what I already had from my discharge left me enough money for a used set of civilian clothes, a cardboard suitcase, and a fourth-hand Meteor.
The Blacktop Blues: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 1) Page 2