Emerald City (18 page)

“Yeah, you win,” I told him with a sigh. He hadn't, not yet, but I didn't want him to know that. “I'm off the story. Are you happy now?”

“You could have saved yourself plenty of grief and abandoned it the first time I called.”

I didn't bother to respond.

“You never stood a chance, Laura. Now you know it.”

He sounded so smug that I wanted to smash the phone into the wall. I tightened my grip on the plastic until my knuckles were white. “This is where it ends,” he said. “Remember that.” He hung up.

Steve was awake before me, sitting out on the deck and drinking coffee, looking out at the low mist covering Lake Union. In the distance the skyscrapers of downtown looked magical.

“Hey,” I said softly, and kissed the top of his head. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah. I guess I was exhausted.” He reached up and took my hand. “At least I woke early. How about you?”

I shrugged, poured myself some coffee and sat next to him. It had been a restless night, hours before my mind would switch off. Even then I woke every hour.

“What have you been doing?”

“Just sitting and thinking mostly.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“Nervous?”

“Shit scared,” he replied, not looking at me. “At the moment I'm just wondering how bad we'll sound.”

“You won't.” I knew my role today: to put what I needed aside, forget the story and the rage and support him, prepare him for the gig. I'd help with loading up the gear, then keep out of the way while they all psyched themselves up to play. And I'd be there in the audience, cheering him on. I'd heard enough of Steve's songs, his voice, his playing, to know he had talent. Whether it was enough, or the right talent in the right place at the right time, I wasn't certain. He'd need luck, too.

“When do you load up?”

“About five. If we're lucky we might get a short soundcheck.”

“You want to go out for breakfast?” It would be a distraction for him, and chances were he'd be too wound up to eat later.

“No,” he answered, then he brightened and changed his mind. “Yeah, why not? Where do you want to go?”

“Alki Bakery?”

“Yeah.” He smiled at the choice. “I haven't been there in forever.”

“Let me take a shower and we'll go,” I said.

“Did I hear the phone last night?” he asked before I could disappear.

“Yeah.”

“Was it him?”

I nodded and smiled. “I told him he'd won. It's over. At least let him think that.”

We ducked off the West Seattle Bridge at Harbor Avenue and headed north, glancing across the water to the downtown skyline. The joggers and cyclists were already out, pushing themselves along in the fight to be healthy. Around the point, just past the place where Luna Park, Seattle's answer to Coney Island, had once stood, the view opened out.

It was a clear day and we could see across the Sound to the Peninsula, the peaks of the Olympics rising, snow still on their caps, magnificent enough to make anyone believe in a god.

The road was broad, perfect for cruising. It separated the long, wide stretch of Alki beach from the houses, a mix of the newly-built, small condo buildings that had sprung up, and the old beach shacks that remained from the time Seattle's wealthy used to summer over here. The Bakery was part of a small group of stores clustered near the miniature Statue of Liberty, a curious memorial to the landfall of the first white settlers here.

We grabbed a table and soon the waitress arrived. I ordered a blueberry muffin and a latte; Steve selected a Danish and juice.

“No more coffee today,” he said. “Not when I'm singing. It tightens my
throat.”

The muffin was huge, more a meal than a pastry, and we ate with Saturday morning laziness. I'd brought the Times and we swapped sections, reading small news items to each other, laughing at the comics, feeling all the pleasure of the weekend.

All done, we crossed and walked along the sand holding hands. The sun was shining, the air felt fresh and clean; it was impossible not to feel hopeful. Steve stopped to pick up a tiny, perfect shell. He washed off the sand in a wave that lapped on the shore, then dropped it into his pocket.

“For good luck,” he said. “Can't have too much of that today.”

The afternoon passed quietly. Steve put fresh batteries in his guitar pedals and tested them, then checked and re-checked that he had spare strings and guitar picks before packing everything away in the old case he used to transport his equipment. I watched as he sat at the table and polished the instrument lovingly, feeling the electric nerves in the silence that surrounded him. He was wrapped in quiet, withdrawn into himself and everything shut out, even me.

Finally he took another shower and changed into freshly-washed faded jeans, with a baggy t-shirt and a flannel shirt on top, the sleeves rolled up to hide the holes in the elbows. I glanced out the window.

“You'd better wear a rain jacket, too,” I said. “It's sprinkling outside.”

I carried the guitar and case while he hefted the amp and speaker out to the car. With some care, everything fitted neatly. I started the engine.

The others were already at the rehearsal space. Connor had the drums all packed and ready to go, while Jerry and Wendy, the other guitarist, already had their equipment in their cars. A few minutes later we were heading in a ragged convoy toward Pioneer Square, finding awkward places to unload in the alley that ran behind the Central. A few more hours and we'd be back here, tearing everything down while the second band on the bill played, then heading back to Capitol Hill to stash the gear in the practice room before dashing back to catch Soundgarden. There was precious little glamor in being bottom of the bill.

I helped them haul everything in then pulled Steve aside. “I'll be there before you start. You going to get something to eat?”

“I don't know. I'll see what the others want to do. There are plenty of places around if we get hungry.”

I kissed him quickly and left. There were hours to kill before they'd start, a long, boring wait as the other two bands arrived, set up and soundchecked. With a little luck at least there'd be time for the band to set some levels. I'd sat during those times with others and knew how slowly the time dragged, how often I checked my watch to see that less than five minutes had passed.

The apartment was quiet, silence and tension filling all the corners. I dug out an old Ry Cooder LP and let the sounds of his guitar and husky voice take over the space while I made dinner, throwing together some meat and vegetables with soy sauce over rice.

But eating alone was no fun. There was no conversation, and even Ry's re-creation of the hard times of the Depression didn't fill that gap. I did the dishes and watched the news, then stretched out with the evening before me
until I could head back downtown.

I was numb. The feeling had grown over the last day and a half and now it spilled out. I'd had my reputation trashed. Rob had promised three months, but there would be plenty of people who'd remember way beyond that. People would avoid me tonight. Some would insult me. But I wasn't going to hide. I couldn't do that; I was innocent. I was going to live life the way I always had; it was the only way to carry on. And that began now; I was going to be there for Steve.

I wanted his band to be great but I was so scared that they wouldn't be good enough. He hadn't talked about it, but I knew how much he'd staked on this. It could be their big break. And if it didn't work he might break up the group, or at least put everything away for a while. Building him back up would take time and plenty of care. I'd do it, I'd do everything I could, but I'd be much happier if he was a success. An album on Tom's label would be a step forward. They could tour, even if it was in an old van and sleeping on people's floors. It would be something.

Time passed almost as slowly as if I'd been sitting at the Central, and the pile of cigarette butts on the balcony grew. Evening came and shadows lengthened, until the eastern sky was dark. I locked up and drove downtown.

I circled until a spot came free under the viaduct, then slipped in just ahead of someone in a big red Mercury. The night was warm and the misting rain still came down. I walked back up, the lights of the clubs and bars around Pioneer Square bright and gaudy. I spotted Connor and Wendy outside the Central, smoking and pacing around nervously as if they were looking for something.

“Hey,” I said, holding up a hand in greeting.

“Jesus, Laura.” Connor sighed with relief. “I'm glad you're here.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“Is Steve with you?” he asked

“Steve? Why would he be with me?” I felt the creep of fear up my back. “What's happened? Where is he?”

“He took off about a half hour ago.”

“Did he say where has was going?”

“Nothing. Not a word. I thought maybe he was meeting you somewhere.”

“I've just arrived.” My throat was tight. “Shit. When do you guys soundcheck?”

He glanced at his watch. “Another thirty minutes.”

“Does Steve know that?”

He nodded.

“He's probably just gone for a walk,” I said, desperately wanting to believe that and trying to make my voice sound casual. “You know what's he's like before a gig.” It was true. He'd always become wound up and fearful. A little time by himself to think often helped.

“We've walked around and looked.”

“Have you gone down by the water?”

“Not yet.”

“He's probably there, he likes to listen to the sound of it.” I smiled. “You
scared me for a minute there. I'll go look for him.”

I ran away from the noise, out through the darkness. I just hoped I was right. I had to be right. I kept looking around at every intersection, feeling my heart thumping and the sweat on my palms. Steve was out here somewhere, I told myself. He was just getting himself together. He'd be back for soundcheck and he'd play a great gig. Traffic sang on the viaduct over my head. I dashed across Alaskan Way and then picked him out in the distance, haloed by a street light, staring out over the Sound. In the distance a ferry boat sounded its horn.

“Hey,” I called as I came close, “are you okay?”

He turned, his face grim. “Yeah. I just needed a little space. Get myself ready.”

I stopped beside him, hearing the lapping of the water below us.

“You want me to leave you? The others were worried, that's all.”

“No, it's okay. I'm ready now. I just have this feeling we're going to be shit.”

It was the way he felt before every gig, expecting the worst. I squeezed his hand.

“I bet you'll be great. And you know I still love you, no matter how it turns out.”

I slipped my arm through his and we strolled back in silence.

My name was on the guest list. I turned my wrist to be stamped then walked in. The bar was already fairly busy, people making sure they had seats claimed for later. A few faces I knew turned away when they saw me. Tom
hadn't arrived yet. I claimed an empty table in the back corner where I could see the stage.

I drank and kept my own company, feeling alone and very vulnerable. No one came over to say hi. Word had spread quickly; I was being shunned and there'd be more to come. I could protest all I wanted but my name was on that album. Rob was right – people would believe I was involved with it. Why would they think anything else?

It was clever. At a stroke it made me powerless. I made my way back to the bar for another beer. A musician I knew bumped into me and said nothing, his face hard.

The soundcheck was no more than five minutes; the bottom of the bill had to take the leftover scraps of time. I was still sitting alone when the band came back to plug their instruments in and check their tunings. The other tables were full and a small crowd pressed close to the low stage, ready for Soundgarden later in the evening.

“Hi.” Steve's voice boomed through the PA, vocals on the edge of distortion. “We're Gideon's Wound.”

He turned his back, nodded four times and they kicked into the first song. The mix was bad, drums muddy, vocals too loud and the guitars too low. But even that couldn't disguise the fact that they were terrible. They were out of time with each other and Steve was singing flat. It wasn't punk, it was just a mess. My stomach was churning and my fists were clenched tight in my lap. I was holding my breath, hoping they could do something to make it right.

Tom slid into a chair next to me, pushed his glasses off his nose and took off his old GMC gimme cap. There were old bruises on his face turning yellow
and green, and the two smallest fingers on his left hand were taped together, a splint holding them straight.

“Jesus,” I shouted over the noise. “What happened to you?”

“I'll tell you later.” He nodded at the stage. “Just started?”

By the second number the soundman had fixed the balance. But there was nothing he could do about the band. I could see the frustration on Steve's face. He knew. My heart was going out to him, willing him to be great, to turn it all around before he lost the crowd completely.

I put my hands together loudly, but the applause was brief and polite, nothing more. Halfway through the set things improved. They played the single they'd released, and suddenly the beat was driving through and there was some energy and power, a crispness and urgency to the music. But it was too late and not enough. As soon as they finished the buzz of conversation resumed as if they'd never played.

“They were okay once they got going,” Tom said when it was over.

“You think?” I felt sadness filling me. I knew better. They'd blown it. Everyone in the room knew it. The band knew it. I needed to find Steve.

“Yeah, I do. Really. Hey, I got that list out in the car. You want to go get it before the next band?”

“Just give me a minute, okay?”

I pushed my way backstage. Steve's band was tearing down their equipment and the next group was waiting, eager to set up.

“Where did he go?” I asked Connor.

“Outside somewhere.”

He was sitting on a loading dock further down the alley, face in his hands.

“Steve.” I put my hand on his arm. He brushed it away.

“We were shit. We were complete fucking shit.”

“You weren't.”

He raised his head. “Don't lie to me. Please don't fucking lie.” His eyes glistened in the light. “Just go away, okay?”

Tom was waiting by the front door and we started to walk down First Avenue, the original Skid Row where everything and anything once went, back in the days when Seattle was a big logging town and prospectors gathered to head off to the Alaska gold rush. Now Friday night was alive with music and drinking and shouting and laughing.

“How was he?” he asked.

“Torn up.” Steve was hurting and I couldn't stop the pain. I didn't even know if love would be enough. “So what's the story? What happened to you?”

“I got in a fight,” he answered dully. “I lost. I don't want to talk about it.”

“You?” Tom wasn't the type for that. From the corner of my eye I could see him flinch at the memory.

“Yeah. Someone beat up on me.” He shook his head. “Walking up Pike after a gig one night.”

“You call the cops?”

“No. No point. They were long gone. Got my wallet, that's all.”

Okay, I thought. “‘Did you make the list of companies pressing records?”

“Yeah.”

“How many names?” I asked.

“Only five.”

“It should be easy enough to find out who's behind this, then.”

Tom said nothing. He'd parked his old Dart under the viaduct, where the road began to rise. Traffic zipped by, people on their way out to begin the weekend, others gratefully heading home. He went around to the passenger side, unlocked the door and picked a thin manila folder off the torn-up bench seat. “Here.”

“You could have just stuck it in your pocket and saved the walk.”

“I forgot. Sorry.” He tried to smile but it was a half-hearted attempt. “We'd better go back. The place'll be filling up.” But he didn't move. Instead he took something from his jacket and raised his arm, resting it on the roof of the vehicle. Streetlights glistened on the barrel of a gun.

I stared at it. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

“Tom. Shit.” They were the first words that came out of my mouth. I was watching the gun pointing at me and his finger resting on the trigger.

I'd never seriously suspected him. I'd never believed he could kill anyone, and now I was going to die too. I wasn't scared. I didn't feel anything. It didn't seem real, as if I was standing there, watching it happen to someone else.

“You? You murdered Craig? Why? Does it have something to do with what happened to you?” I stared at him, but his face showed nothing. He stayed silent for a long time. I could hear the traffic above us and see headlights passing in the distance on First Avenue.

“Have you ever needed money?” he said finally. His hand moved a little and the gun barrel wiggled from side to side.

“Sure.” My mouth was dry.

“I don't mean hitting someone up for a ten or twenty. I mean really needed money,” he said.

“No.”

“Try fifty grand,” Tom said. It was big enough money, more than most people could earn in a year. But it didn't seem like enough to make him kill someone.

“I thought you had an investor.” I wanted to keep talking, to put off the moment, to hope that something, anything would happen to save me.

“Yeah, I do.” He raised sad, helpless eyes. “Did. That's how much he put in. The only problem is he needed his money back. Some deal he had went south or something. And he wanted it back from me with interest. He gave me a month to come up with fifty thousand dollars, and I could pay the rest later. When I said I couldn't do it he made it very clear what would happen if I didn't come up with the cash.” He held up the hand with its splinted fingers and pointed at his battered face. “You want to know what really happened to me? That's what happened.” I heard the sound of him kicking at the dirt.

“I thought it was twenty-five grand.” They were just words, trying to postpone the inevitable.

“That's what I told people.”

“So it was all just for money.”

“Would you hate me if it was?”

“Yes.” He was going to shoot me; he might as well have the truth.

“You know why he came to me? The guy deals drugs. Not on the street. Big time. Heroin, coke. You name it.” He glanced out at the distance. “Did I
ever tell you about my dad?”

“No.” He seemed distracted and I shifted my feet, ready to run into the darkness. Then he raised the gun slightly, aiming it square at my chest, and carried on speaking.

“He was a rich junkie, inherited money from his own father. I saw him fall apart. I don't even know how many times I saw him shoot up. About the only good thing was that he died before he could run through all the money. Lucky for me, huh?” He didn't wait for my answer. “My brother was the one who got that bad fucking gene. It missed me but it stuck to him. He snorts, he shoots, and I look after him. But he's into the guy for five thousand. He's been beaten, the guy's threatening to take him out and kill him. I went to see him.”

I waited, letting him talk, letting him release it all. Maybe I'd have a chance to sprint away. I was clammy with sweat, my palms soaked.

“I begged him. I begged him to let Andy live. He's the one family I've got.” He looked at me and I could see tears glistening in his eyes. “I told him I'd do anything.”

“But you still borrowed from someone like that?” I asked. I almost felt sorry for him. And every second was a little more life and a bit more hope.

“Do you think I wanted to? He was the one who suggested it.” He raised his voice a little in a mix of anger and frustration. “I'd tried everywhere else and they turned me down. He thought putting money through the label would be a good way to launder it. He said he'd leave Andy alone if I did it. I needed the cash, Laura. I was desperate. I was going under. But I needed my brother alive, too. I used the money to stay afloat. When he wanted it back I asked him to be patient. I told him this music's going to be big, I know it is. But...” He let the words drift up into the sky.

“What's this guy's name?” I asked.

“Rick Everson. I've written everything down at home.”

My life wasn't flashing in front of my eyes the way people said it did in moments like these. Instead I was talking to someone I'd known for years, someone I'd liked and respected. Someone who was going to pull that trigger soon and leave me to die.

“Craig,” I said, filling the silence, trying to spin out my life.

“I went to see him. I'd supported him, I'd put out this album and his singles. I thought he could help me out from his advance. He said no.” He sounded aggrieved, as if Craig giving him the money would have been natural justice. “I went back on the Saturday. Just showed up with a bottle of Scotch. If he hadn't been on his own nothing would have happened.” He paused.

“I told him I was sorry and we had a few drinks. I just sipped but he was gulping it down. He liked Scotch. It only took an hour before he was pretty drunk.”

I didn't say anything, just let him talk. At least I'd know the full story, even if I couldn't do anything about it.

“Rick had given me the heroin. He told me to kill Craig if he wouldn't co-operate. If I didn't, he'd kill Andy. I didn't have a choice. I didn't.” I was breathing quietly, listening and waiting for any gap that might let me get the hell out of there. “And Craig owed me. I mean, really. If I hadn't put out that album no one would have heard of him. You know he'd played me the demos they did for ARP?”