Exile (24 page)

I want to hug him but instead I sort of pat his shoulder. His shirt is cool with sweat. He doesn’t move, but he does smile at me. Getting warmer.

“So,” Jon says after packing up, “do we want to go over to the Rickshaw?”

“Let’s go to Space Panda first,” says Caleb, “and see about the tape. After that . . .” He glances at me. “Maybe.”

I don’t respond. If we are meant to go to the Rickshaw, I will face it. But I’m glad we’re going after the tape first.

We thank Petunia, explain that we have a bunch of driving to do, and duck out as the last band is playing. It seems clear from her frown that we won’t be playing
Forecast: Sweaters!
again anytime soon. We can probably expect some snarky comments online about our behavior,
typical LA drama queens
, that kind of thing. But hopefully there will also be mention that the set was great.

We get in the van, and after a couple blocks of silence,
Caleb finally turns to me. “Was that true? What you said about Val? That her mom was engaged to Kellen?”

“Yeah, all true,” I say. “But I don’t know what it means.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Of all the things she’s ever said,” I admit, “I felt like I believed her last statement, about how she’s done everything in the best interest of the band, most.” The more I think about it, the more I can’t believe how I rushed to judgment, how easily I let myself believe in conspiracies without actually finding out the truth, without trusting the people around me.

“She doesn’t seem like the sleeper-cell type,” says Jon. “Though if she is, storming out on us would have been the perfect time to go get the tape.”

“Shit.” All my thoughts reverse. Val and her fake ID. Her friend Weezil, who could drive her there . . . and she’s got a half hour head start. . . . Suddenly, I’m right back to fearing the worst.

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MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 2m
If all of music is connected by a single, secret soul,
I think I now know where it lives.

We barely speak for the next mile as Randy muscles his way through traffic.

“Even if she is after the tape for herself, or for her mom, or even Candy Shell,” says Randy, “she doesn’t know where it’s hidden.”

I imagine us all in the Vault searching, her on one side, us on the other.

“Neither do we,” says Caleb.

“Yes, we do,” says Randy as we sit at a red light. “
Search for a hidden yesterday
. That’s what we do after we kiss Daisy, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, it’s obvious,” says Randy. “Okay, not
obvious
, it did take me a little while to figure it out, or I should say to remember it.”

“What?” Caleb asks.

“He’s talking about one of the greatest rock ’n’ roll cover controversies ever. I remember going with Eli to vinyl shops and he was always looking for it.”

“Randy!” Caleb nearly shouts. “For what?”

“Do a search for
Yesterday and Today
, by the Beatles.”

“That’s not one of their albums,” says Jon. “I have the whole box set.”

Randy groans. “It’s not one of the
digitally remastered
albums. The iTunes versions are the British versions. This was an American release. They did the albums different in the US and England back then.”

“Got it,” I say, clicking on a link. There is a photo of the Beatles sitting on a luggage trunk, like the kind people would have taken when traveling across the Atlantic on steamships. “What about it?”

“Look for the picture with the babies.”

I scroll down and there it is. Another version of the cover, with the Beatles all dressed in white smocks, and covered in baby-doll heads and pieces of meat. “Gross.”

“But kinda awesome,” says Caleb, leaning over.

“Exactly,” says Randy. “The reaction to that cover was so bad that Capitol Records recalled all the copies, and they pasted a new cover over it, but then word got out, and lots of
people tried to soak off the new cover to get to the old one. Lots of warped copies out there. My dad had one. But Eli and I were always looking for a perfect original cover that escaped the recall. There were very few.”

“So, if this Carter guy had one,” I say, “that’s where the tape is.”

“That’s got to be what he means,” says Randy.

Caleb has leaned away and is typing into his phone. When he feels me looking, he says, “Weezil’s number is in here from when Val used my phone. I’m trying to get in touch with her.”

“She’s not going to respond if she’s after the tape,” I say.

“But if she’s not, and she cools off and realizes she needs a ride home, she will.”

By the time we park ten minutes later, Val hasn’t replied.

We end up a few blocks from the club, and when we round the corner we find a giant snaking line to get in.

Given that I will probably live my life without ever boarding an intergalactic starship or meeting alien races in far-off nebulae, this may be the closest I come to experiencing alien life. It’s group after group of spindly club girls, all twenty-something (if not teens with fake IDs), dressed in shimmery short skirts with strappy tops, hair in spirals, glitter everywhere, multicolored eye paint, impossible heels, and most (and often too much) of every thigh. The dudes who surround them almost look like they should be on chain leashes fastened to metal collars. They loom with
rounded shoulders in their baggy dress shirts, professionally torn jeans, and gelled hair. They speak in grunts. The women answer in high-pitched roller-coaster voices, twittery laughs with wide mouths. They’re constantly preening. A part of me wants to understand their customs, their language, and yet I might as well be an astronaut in a baggy white suit, except an astronaut would be noticed. Here I am invisible to them.

Caleb, Jon, Matt, and I stand off to the side while Randy gets in line. In his flannel, jeans, and beard, he looks like someone who’s come to fix the plumbing.

The walls thump, deep waves of bass washing over us. Through the high windows of the two-story brick façade, we can see wild lights spinning. There is a bar up on the roof, edged in palm fronds, and laughter spills down from it like rain.

The line barely moves, as groups keep strutting right up to the front, checking with the burly black-suited bouncer, and then walking right in.

“This is going to take forever,” says Caleb.

“Hey! Hey, you four!”

The shouts of the bouncer get our attention. And he’s looking at us.

“Yeah, you!” He waves us over.

“Um . . .” I glance at the band, and we make our way to him.

The giant man leers down at us. He has two fingers to a
Bluetooth device in his ear. I notice a camera keeping watch from over the door, silhouettes up above, possibly looking down.

“Which one of you is Caleb?” he asks in an impossibly deep voice.

“Me.”

“The manager says I’m supposed to let your party in. IDs.”

“We’re not twenty-one,” says Caleb.

The bouncer exhales, so bored by this. “They’re minors,” he says into the Bluetooth. “Uh-huh . . . we’re going to need a chaperone.”

“Kill me,” says Jon.

Caleb motions to Randy, who pushes out of line, causing huffs around him.

The door opens and a tall, professionally dressed woman with jet-black hair and giant brown eyes steps out. “Right this way.”

“Any idea why the manager is letting us in?” Matt wonders from behind us. “Do you think we’re in trouble?”

“Stay cool, Matty,” says Jon. “They obviously knew we were coming.”

“Yeah, but
who
knew?” Randy wonders aloud.

Maybe the DJ got word that we were coming somehow,” I say. “Maybe he knows to help us.”

Caleb just shrugs. He’s deep in Fret Face.

We enter a world of dark and pulsing light that smells
almost tropical. We have to walk single file through the tight crowd. The music hammers at my chest and saws at my ears. No melody, just urge and overkill. We pass a bar gleaming in red and amber, lined to the high ceiling with sparkling bottles, and a dance floor that is literally crushed with people.

“Whoa . . . ,” Jon breathes. He’s pointing to a platform along the far wall, where a line of girls wear identical skimpy silver dresses wired with white LEDs. They look like androids and dance with stiff movements. I wonder if they are paid to do that, or if that is really their idea of fun.

Caleb’s hand slips into mine as we thread through the shoulders and hips, as if our troubles are less important than getting through this zombie horde alive. Ahead I see a staircase to the balcony, where a couple DJs spin. The one in the center is lit in red and wearing a welder’s visor. The disco ball reflects in the glass. Something tells me that’s Claro.

We’re led up the stairs to the balcony. More stairs lead up to the roof. We’re behind the DJs now, where two minions scramble back and forth to crates of vinyl.

Our escort proceeds to a huge metal door with a heavy spinning handle, like a bank vault. We push through and find ourselves in a high-ceilinged room. When the door seals behind us, there’s a whoosh of air and the thump of the club is extinguished. The assault is replaced by whispers of tinny music and I see that it is coming from headphones. Everyone in here is wearing them. They sit in leather chairs,
plugged into stereo systems on low tables between them, each with a turntable. The walls are lined with dark wood shelves like we’re in an old library, complete with ladders that slide along, only the shelves are filled with records. The clientele are all hipsters in fashionable vintage attire, cool hats, flouncy dresses or jeans and sneakers, thick glasses and beards and scarves. Or maybe they’re all time travelers from the sixties. They talk quietly about records by the walls, or bop their heads along to the headphones. Waitresses dressed in tweed skirt suits bustle in and out of a door on the side, delivering cocktails and coffees.

Daisy sits obediently by the door. We all pet her head lightly. It feels like sandpaper.

“Okay,” says Caleb, “wow.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” says Randy. “There is a god.”

“Must resist . . . the urge to find . . . all Ramones records,” says Jon. He vibrates like he’s hooked up to electrodes.

“Are you kidding me?” says Matt. “
Zeppelin II
, and
2112
.”

“I thought drummers had to choose sides in the great Bonham versus Peart debate.”

Matt shakes his head. “That’s like debating pancakes and waffles. Totally different. Both awesome.”

“And both need the maple syrup goodness of lead guitarrrr!” Jon air-guitars.

“Sshh!” One of the tweed librarian-waitresses holds a finger to her lips.

I am busy scanning the stacks. They are organized by genre. Rock, jazz, R & B, and soul.

“This way.” Our escort leads us across the thickly carpeted room, stopping at a set of chairs by the high back windows, which look out on a collage of back porches and windows and layers of city. We find ourselves standing before two older men.

The man on the right has a badge pinned to his tan jacket. He’s not wearing headphones, but the man on the left is. Seeing us, he slips them off his bald head. He’s wearing a slim black suit and looks like he just stepped out of a casino in a James Bond movie. I feel like I almost recognize him. He smiles, eyes on Caleb, and he and Randy seem to know exactly who this is.

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MoonflowerAM
@catherinefornevr 2m
Who’s up for staying young forever? Grown-ups = legalese and loss.

“Hey, Randy,” the man says over tinny headphone music. “Caleb, it’s nice to meet you.” He reaches over and carefully lifts the needle off the spinning vinyl. As it slows, I see it’s the Doors’s
L.A. Woman
.

The man puts out his hand. “Kellen McHugh.” In his other hand he holds a thin black cylinder.

Caleb shakes, manners taking over. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hey, Kellen,” says Randy, and it doesn’t sound friendly. “What brings you to San Fran?”

Kellen holds the cylinder to his mouth and inhales, and I realize it’s an electronic cigarette. It lights up blue at the tip. Kellen has thin features, kind of hawk-like, and small glasses. He looks more literary than rock star. When he
exhales, the cloud of steam smells like mint.

“Same thing that brings you here, I’m thinking.” Kellen motions to the man beside him. “This is Detective Saunders. He made the trip up with me.”

I suddenly have that feeling of being in detention (only happened once), or grounded (a few times). Both Caleb and I are silent.

“I’ve heard you’re a great musician,” Kellen says to Caleb, “and I also know that you recently found out about your dad. That was probably kind of a shock.”

“Yeah,” says Caleb tightly.

“I’ll be honest,” says Kellen, “I don’t really know why you’re here, but based on what I’ve heard, I suspect that maybe it has something to do with Eli’s lost songs.”

Caleb just shrugs.

“Look,” says Kellen, “I don’t want this to be complicated. I always suspected Eli was working on those last songs. I’m sure they’re genius. When he never delivered them, not to mention bailed on the band, it really messed things up for all of us.”

“You make it sound like none of that was your fault,” says Randy, his tone frigid.

“We all play our parts,” says Kellen. Back to Caleb: “I completely understand you wanting to find your dad’s lost songs, but I also don’t want your life to get messed up by Eli, like mine did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Caleb asks.

Kellen produces a fold of papers from his jacket and hands it to Randy. “That’s a copy of the contract Eli signed with Candy Shell Records. You saw a contract at one point, with Burn Bottom Records, right?”

That last comment feels like a slight. “Yeah,” Randy grunts, leafing through the pages.

“So you can verify that it’s the real thing. Any songs that Eli wrote during the time that he was in Allegiance to North are technically the property of Candy Shell,” says Kellen. “The fact that he passed away doesn’t change that.”