Emerald City (3 page)

“There was never anything that might have suggested drugs?”

She raised her eyebrows. “That depends what you mean by drugs. Did I know he smoked pot? Of course I did. You only had to walk into his house and there was the smell of it.” Her fingertips made small circles on the polished wood floor. “I've spent a working lifetime around students. Getting stoned isn't going to kill anyone, and I'm sure you know that as well as I do, Ms Benton.”

“Please, call me Laura. Everyone else does.”

“Laura, then.” She paused. “A long, long time ago I had a boyfriend who died of a heroin overdose.” She looked away for a moment, straining for a glimpse of the past. “If he hadn't, well, who knows, maybe I'd have ended up living somewhere else, doing something different.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, it's a long time ago.” Her voice was small and tight. “But you don't forget. Did I know Craig was using heroin? Yes. Sandy, too. They quit at the end of last year. We even talked about it.”

“You did?” I asked in surprise. I'd never imagined it as a topic for conversation over coffee. “What did they have to say?”

She stared at me and countered with a question of her own. “How well did
you know Craig?”

“Like I told you, hardly at all.”

“Well,” she began slowly, “he was a smart man, and he could be ambitious. He had his publishing deal – he had to explain what it was to me – and he was seriously negotiating about a record contract. He wasn't going to mess that up.”

“And what about Sandy?”

“You know she waitresses?”

“Yes.” It was on the coroner's report.

“Don't let that fool you,” she warned, looking straight at me. “Sandy's very intelligent. She's got a degree in psychology and she uses her brain. She shot up with him. I think she wanted to see what it was like.” She thought for a moment. “She always seemed to... keep a kind of distance from it. Craig was a junkie. I'm not sure Sandy ever really was, not in the same way.”

“Why did he start, did he ever say?”

“He was blocked in his songwriting. He thought it would help him.”

It was so clichéd that I looked at her for a moment, not sure how to respond.

“And did it?” I asked finally.

“It's hard to do anything productive when you're out of it,” she said, bitter experience in her voice.

“But they did stop?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “He needed to clean up for his record deal and Sandy made sure he did that. She kept him off it, too.”

Except he'd died of an overdose. That question remained.

“What do you think happened on Saturday?” I asked.

“I don't know. They were home in the morning, I saw them when I went for my walk. Then I heard him take her to work in the afternoon.” She hesitated. “After that the next thing I knew was flashing lights and sirens outside and I went to see what was happening,” she said with sad finality.

“Where's Sandy now, do you know?”

“I think she went to stay with her mom. Or maybe a sister, I don't remember. Anywhere that wasn't here.” She stood up gracefully. “I'm sorry I can't be more help.”

I switched off the recorder.

“Thanks. You've been really useful. What about this Harry down the street, do you think he'd talk to me?”

She laughed. “I'm sure he'd talk to you for hours if he was here. But he's in the hospital – he fell and broke his hip a couple of weeks ago. I visited him yesterday and told him about Craig. He'd already seen it on the news.”

“Is there anyone else around here...?” I let the question hang but she shook her head.

“We were the ones he was close to.” She escorted me to the door and waited as I tied my boots. Before I left she put her fingers lightly on my arm. “Please, if you're going to write about him, do him justice, please. He deserves that.”

“I'll try,” I promised.

I hit rush hour going home, the cars thick as bees along the viaduct and up Aurora Avenue. Steve was already there, sitting on the couch, boots resting on the scarred coffee table, a plate of Asian noodles and vegetables on his lap. He was the only guy I'd dated who really loved to cook. The first time I ate at his apartment he made a dish with scallops, crabmeat and mushrooms in a white wine and cream sauce that was so complex and delicious it made me take him seriously; anyone who could master that had to have something about him. These days we split the cooking. He was better than me in the kitchen, quicker and more assured, although I'd never have told him that.

“That smells good,” I said. I reached over to steal some and he rapped my fingers with his chopsticks.

“Yours is in the kitchen. You'll probably need to nuke it. Where'd you get to, anyway?”

“West Seattle,” I said, and told him about the day.

“So what do you think?” he asked after I finished. “Was it just an overdose?”

“Probably.” I ran a hand through my hair. Sometime soon I'd need to put
more of the blue black dye on it and have a trim to get rid of the split ends. “On the surface it looks pretty straightforward. Boy meets drug, boy leaves drug, boy goes back to drug.” In the kitchen I scooped the rest of the noodles from the pan and put them in the microwave. “How was your day?”

“Same old,” he answered with that small, wry smile that I loved. It always lit up his face. He had his faults, sometimes quick to take offense for no reason and hold grudges, but when he smiled that way I could forgive him almost anything. “Washing dishes isn't exactly a thrill a minute. I've got band practice this evening. You want to meet up at the Comet for a beer after?”

“Sure. Who's driving you over to the rehearsal space?”

“Connor's swinging by. I just need to get my stuff together. We should be finished by nine, how about that?”

“Yeah, that's good. I'll do the dishes. Hey, do you know Sandy, Craig's girlfriend?”

“Not really,” he answered. “I think I met her a couple of times. But she's a good friend of Dani's.”

“Which Dani?” I knew three, each with the name spelled differently.

“Down at the Two Bells.”

“Oh yeah, I know who you mean.” She worked a few shifts a week at the tavern, a woman with thick, dark hair, long beaded earrings and a sweet hippie smile. We weren't the best of friends. “We could go there instead, if you want.”

“You want to talk to Sandy, huh?”

“I do,” I told him. “It seems like the next step if I'm going to do it right.”

“I guess,” he said doubtfully. “She might not want to talk, though. Think
about it. She's going to be really torn up at the moment.”

“True,” I agreed, “but do you have any better ideas?”

“Let me think about it. I'll see you at the Comet about nine.”

A horn sounded out on the street. He picked up the guitar case and gave me a long, passionate kiss before dashing out. That had always been his way, that small tease to leave me smiling, happy, hungry to see him again. Whatever we had, how unlikely it was, it worked. I'd always over-analyzed my relationships in the past and they'd all fallen apart. This time I was trying not to look at it too deeply, just enjoy it and hope it might last.

The Comet was a Seattle institution, a beat-up barn of a tavern up on Capitol Hill, at the corner of 10th and Pike. It was the kind of place where the décor stayed dusty, none of the chairs matched, and the clientele didn't want it to change. Behind a thin partition a pool room offered some peace away from the loudness. An old, dusty poster behind the bar offered to buy the bar a round if Nixon was impeached, a dream long since faded to dust.

I walked in a little before nine. I felt comfortable here; the Comet wasn't a meat market, women could sit and enjoy a beer without any hassle. And I could be here a while. Steve's sense of time went elastic when the band was rehearsing. About nine regularly stretched to nine-thirty or later. I ordered a bottle of Henry Weinhard's and stood at the bar looking around. It was a typical Monday night crowd, diehards in their plaid shirts and jeans, a few old timers in stained gimme caps, heads down, eking out their Social Security checks and nursing their way through a pitcher of Rainier. The clack of cue and balls came from beyond the wall. The barman flipped through a stack of LPs, finally selecting King Crimson's Discipline. It was a record that would clear most
places in seconds but seemed just right here, the mix of guitars and intense rhythm an odd contrast to the subdued mood of the room. I smiled at him and nodded in approval. He was too cool to notice.

Steve rolled in at twenty after, eyes bright, face flushed and happy from the joy of playing, carrying his guitar case. I bought him a beer and we sat at one of the tables.

“Good?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, tentatively at first, then more firmly, “Yeah. We've been working on this song of Connor's and it finally feels like it's coming together.” They had a space in one of the old warehouse buildings down the street, a warren of barely soundproofed rooms most of the Seattle bands used, the air around the place full of raucous, conflicting sounds every evening.

“Ready for the Central?”

“I think we'll do okay,” he answered without too much conviction. The band was set to be bottom of the bill at the Central Tavern in a week and a half. With Soundgarden as the headliners the place would fill early, so they'd have a good crowd, and a few record label scouts would undoubtedly ease their way in. It was the biggest gig they'd ever had and I knew the nerves were building.

“You'll do fine.”

He took a sip of beer and shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned.

“Who knows? Maybe we'll knock 'em dead.” He grinned.

“I bet you do.” I grinned back.

“Maybe.” He drained the bottle in a long swallow. “You still want to go to the Two Bells?”

“Well, it'd be good if I could talk to Dani,” I admitted.

“You mind dropping me off at home first?” Steve asked. “I'm beat.”

“It's fine, I can just leave the car there and walk in. No biggie.”

Instead, when I parked on the street outside the apartment, I realized I felt drained. I really didn't want to walk downtown and back, especially at night; I didn't even want another beer. Steve took off his jacket and propped the guitar case against the wall. I walked through to the living room to close the drapes. The answering machine glowed green on the counter. There was just one message. I pressed the button.

“This would be a good time to stop looking into Craig Adler's death. If you know what's good for you, quit now,” the voice said menacingly, then hung up.

Steve looked at me, eyes wide. “Fuck,” he said, “what was that about?”

“I've no idea,” I answered quietly. I didn't know what else to say. People just didn't threaten music journalists. I played the message again, then once more, noticing how my hands were shaking as I moved them. I didn't recognize the voice, I'd never heard it before. He spoke the words in a flat, matter-of-fact way.

“That's just...” Steve tried to find the word but couldn't. He put his arms around me and held me tight. “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” If Craig's death really was a simple overdose, then why the call? This changed everything. Every fucking thing. No one was going to threaten me if Craig had ODed. Someone had killed him. I didn't know what to do. My mind was racing. Call the cops? I needed to talk to Rob, and find out
who might have known I was on the story. I needed to know way, way more than I did. For right now, though, all I wanted to do was press the words out of my mind.

Overnight a mist had drifted in off the Sound. Down below me Lake Union was covered in a wreath of fog, and in the distance only the skyscrapers of downtown pierced through to blue sky, their top stories odd and disembodied.

I hadn't really slept; I'd tried, but the phone message kept playing over and over in my head. Steve had been restless, too. Normally he crashed out like the dead; this time he'd never fully settled after we stopped hugging each other. I felt like shit.

I kept the radio on low in the kitchen, catching the news from NPR as I fixed coffee and toast. I could hear Steve moving around in the bathroom and singing something I didn't know. He came out looking fresh, his hair still damp from the shower, his face pink and smooth from shaving.

In the mornings he always had a scrubbed Midwestern look. His eyes were clear, an arresting golden brown with long lashes, and he had a flared, freckled nose and full lips. That was ironic, given that he'd been so eager to ditch the place, leaving Cincinnati the day after he graduated high school. I could understand why; we'd gone there at Christmas to visit his parents. They lived in a rambling new Colonial so far in the suburbs it seemed halfway to
Columbus. We sat around and tried to make conversation. They still couldn't understand why he wanted to be a musician, and an independent woman who wrote for a living was just alien to them. For the entire four days we stayed they sniped at me, barbed comments about babies and marriage, until I wanted to run outside and scream. His sister came by with a pair of happy children and a harried husband, passing through on their way to the mall. Even escaping to the grocery store was difficult, a twenty-minute drive through characterless subdivisions. When the plane landed back at SeaTac I'd breathed a long sigh of relief. As soon as the wheels hit the ground I turned to him and told him I understood exactly why he'd left.

He came up behind me, kissed the back of my neck and stole a slice of my toast.

“How are you feeling?”

“Crappy.” I tried to smile but it didn't work. “How about you?”

“The same. I kept hearing his voice.”

“Yeah.” I took hold of his hand and squeezed it.

“What're you going to do about it?”

“Talk to Rob and see what he says.”

“Are you going to give up?”

“No way,” I said firmly. “Not now.”

He looked at me as if he was going to speak but said nothing.

“I can't let him scare me off, Steve.”

“I know. So what are you going to do today?”

I counted the items off on my fingers. “Go to the Rocket, then the Bells, and talk to the guys who were in Snakeblood with Craig,” I told him. “And I
have to write up a couple of reviews later.”

“That should keep you busy enough.” His voice turned serious. “Just be careful, okay? That message was scary.” He glanced at his watch. “Shit, I got to go.” He kissed me again. “Later, missy.”

“Don't forget we're going to the Vogue tonight.”

He grinned. “Jayne County. Who could forget that?”

Rob sat up sharply. “Fuck, are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” I sat down in his office. “No one's ever threatened me before.”

“Not even for a bad review?” He smiled, but the humor fell flat.

“What I'm wondering is who could have known.” I told him what I'd done the previous day. “I don't see any way it could have come out of that.”

He looked at me guiltily. “I'm sorry. It's my fault; I made a few calls.” He sighed. “I thought maybe I could find something out, help you along a little. I talked to a whole bunch of people. I said you were working the story.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Some musicians, promoters. And I called Tom Hardy. I figured he might be able to help; after all, he put out the Snakeblood album, I figured he'd know Craig.”

“You didn't think I could do it myself?” I asked sharply.

He shook his head. “It wasn't like that.” He saw my glare. “Really, it wasn't, you know me better than that, Laura. I'd have done the same for anyone; it's part of my job.” He held up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry,” I said. “So it could have come from any of them.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Or people they talked to; I asked them to pass the word. I had no idea...”

I stayed silent for a moment, thinking hard. “I'll tell you something, though.”

“What's that?” He reached for the cigarettes then put the pack away again.

“It means there's something out there to find and someone doesn't want me to find it. Someone killed Craig.”

The room was silent for a long time.

“Yeah, it would fit,” Rob agreed slowly. He looked me full in the face. “We should call the police. You didn't sign on to investigate a murder.”

“And what are you going to tell them?” I asked. “That someone threatened me about pursuing a story? They've already written the death off as an overdose, they're not going to want to complicate things.”

“So what do you want to do?” he asked. “Keep on going with it, or quit? I understand if you want out.”

“Keep going, of course.”

“You're sure?” He stared at me.

“Hell yeah, I'm sure.” I sounded more defiant than I'd intended, but I wanted to make my point.

“Good.” He smiled. “Look, if you're right, we have something bigger than we thought on our hands.” His voice turned serious. “Be careful. I mean it. No story's worth your life.”

Those words ran through my head as I walked back down the stairs.

They were prepping in the small kitchen area when I arrived at the Two Bells just after ten-thirty. The tavern was right in the heart of Belltown, the strange, amorphous area that extended between the downtown core and Queen Anne, a place where the apartments were still cheap and artists could afford their lofts.

The Bells was only a small space, one of Seattle's art bars, filled at night with the hip and the hopeful, or people coming in to enjoy the burgers and potato salad. The artwork on the walls changed on the first Thursday of every month. Sundays they had plays or readings, and Mondays nights brought live music.

A couple of people were sitting at the bar, one drinking coffee, the other sipping slowly from a glass of Rainier. I took a stool near the corner and Dani came over with a cup and the coffee pot, her hair in a tangle as if she'd just woken up. In summer she'd be wearing shorts every day but for now she was still in her usual long skirt and t-shirt.

At one time she and I used to meet here on Thursday nights and have a beer before walking down to First Avenue to the Frontier Room, where Nina would hold court behind the bar in her leather dyke gear. A drink there, settled in the back room dive bar with the jukebox blaring, then we'd go next door to dance at Tug's, feeling safe among all the gay men.

Then, a couple of years ago, I'd dated one of Dani's old boyfriends. They'd split up long before, and we only went out a few times, but for some reason she never explained, she resented it. She even quit speaking to me for a while. She had thawed since, but it had never been the same.

“Hey,” she said, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her apron. It was polite chat with a wariness and reserve in her eyes. “Haven't seen you
in a while. How have you been?” The words seemed strangely formal from someone who'd once known all my secrets.

“Just busy,” I explained with a shrug. “We've been in a couple of times to eat but you weren't working.”

“How's Steve?”

“He's doing well,” I said, waiting as she lit a smoke. “His band's at the Central next week.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Big time.”

“Let's hope so.” I paused. “It was bad news about Craig.”

“Yeah.” She rested her elbows on the polished wood of the bar and cupped her hands under her chin. “You can imagine what Sandy's like. I mean, she was the one who found him and called 911.”

“I heard that,” I said. “Look, The Rocket wants me to do a piece about what happened. But from what people seem to be saying, it wasn't like Craig was shooting up any more.”

She gave me an appraising look and drew down some smoke. “So what you mean is you want to talk to Sandy?”

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath. “Come on, Dani, we've known each other a long time. This isn't the kind of story I usually do. I promise you I'm not going to give her a bad time. I just want to find out what happened. No,” I corrected myself, “I want to find out what happened and why.”

She grimaced and shook her head, tapping her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.

“Look, Craig's dead. Can't you just leave it at that and let her be?”

For a second I considered telling her about the message. But maybe it
was better to keep quiet about that for now. The whole world didn't need to know yet. Not until I was certain what it meant. I thought for a long time.

“You know, the thing I really don't get is the why,” I said finally. “He had his publishing deal, the band was about to sign with this big record label. I guess he and Sandy were pretty tight, and if everyone's right, he'd kicked his habit. So why shoot up again, that's what I want to know. I mean it, I'm not out to sensationalize anything. I just want to try to explain it.”

“You really believe shit like that can be explained?” Dani finished her cigarette, grinding out the butt in a metal ashtray and tracing patterns in the dust.

“I don't know,” I answered honestly, “but I want to try. There are a lot of people around here who cared about Craig's music. People believed in him. You know the kind of crowd the band drew when they played.”

“Even if you find an explanation, what does that do?” she asked guardedly.

“It tells the story.” I answered. “It rounds everything out. I don't know, maybe Craig had some more things recorded. They'll come out and that'll be it.”

“And some kid'll be put off shooting up?”

“Who knows?” I looked at her and shrugged. “I'm not trying to offer him up as some big moral lesson. But maybe he just deserves something, nothing more or less than that. That's not too bad, is it?”

“I guess not,” she agreed slowly. “Are you still living in the same place?”

“We're still up on Queen Anne, yeah.” She knew it, she'd spent quite a few evenings there in the past.

“I'll talk to Sandy.” Her voice turned dark and serious. “It's up to her,
though, Laura. I'll give her your number and see if she wants to call you. But I need you to promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“That you won't try and track her down some other way. I mean it.”

What did she think I was? “I promise,” I told her.

“Good deal.” She nodded and gave me a small, noncommittal smile, hair bobbing in front of her face. “I'll tell her and see what she wants to do.” She stood up. “I'd better finish cutting the onions. Say hi to Steve for me.”

It was still barely eleven. If I hurried I could reach the market and find Mike, Snakeblood's drummer, before the lunchtime rush began. Sometimes it seemed as if half the aspiring musicians in the city worked there or for the Muzak Corporation.

I walked by the Josephinum and glanced up at the top floor, where Elvis had stayed when he was in town filming It Happened at the World's Fair. Having the King here had been a huge deal, all over television and the newspapers. My dad believed it would put Seattle on the map and dragged me and my mom to see it when it came out. We all left disappointed.

Then I was at Pike Place, one of Seattle's great landmarks, almost as well known as the Space Needle. It was right in the heart of the city, part working market, part tacky tourist trap. Back in the early Seventies the city council had planned to pull it down, but people had said no. Instead they'd raised the money to keep it, buying bricks with their names on that lined the floor of the entrance. It was an odd building, overlooking the Sound, the only place I knew where you entered at the top then worked your way down, floor by floor, finding odd little restaurants, kitsch traders and strange little shops that didn't
quite seem to belong in this world. Even after a lifetime here I still didn't know my way around it properly. In the right mood I could spend half a day there, coming out after lunch overlooking the water with a bag full of produce and some dusty little items I didn't need that had caught my eye.

There was the usual gaggle of sightseers in town too early in the season clicking cameras and taking joyful video of the guys at the fish stall tossing whole salmon around. I threaded my way past them and through to the sandwich stall, where the stools were already filled and a line of people waited for food and coffee. Mike was busy in the back, chopping up lettuce and tomatoes for later.

He didn't look much like a musician, but maybe that was the trick of it. In Seattle the real musicians never looked like they should be playing instruments. Instead they seemed as if they'd be happier fixing holes in the street.