~ SMOKING JIMI ~
A Novel by Chad Peery
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed are imaginary. Their resemblance, if any, to real-life persons, places, or counterparts is entirely coincidental.
~Dedication~
I wish to express my gratitude to all, present and departed, whose patience and support helped me keep faith in myself, and to tell the story held within these pages. This is for Janet, Jan, Susan, Lynda, Jace, and especially for you, Bonnie.
~Acknowledgements~
Special thanks to John Dufresne and his writers’ group for conveying the craft of writing in a kind and thoughtful way. If I were better at names, I would have a long list of fellow writers and mentors who have come and gone through the years, all leaving the mark of their wisdom.
I do wish to thank John Kay, Bob Welch and Mick Fleetwood, all of whom gave a young Chad Peery the opportunity to experience worlds only imagined by most of us. I also wish to honor the work and the lives of the many incredible musicians and support people who shared the path of my life.
Gassho.
SMOKING JIMI
A Novel by Chad Peery
It was 1999, the year we were supposed to party, the year I almost lost my life. It started with a 6 a.m. phone call from Mitch Damian, our old band’s ex-manager, who hadn’t been heard from since he ripped us off back in the ‘70’s. He told me he was dying, and begged me to meet him, to “break bread one last time.”
So, there I sat in a Wendy’s restaurant across the table from Mitch, whom I could only describe as a bundle of human embarrassment with his fake mustache, blond wig, and gold chains. I prayed no one would recognize me.
“Are you hearing me, man? One million cash! C’mon, Brad, you’re killing me here.” Mitch’s cynical leer and off-center jaw gave him the gravitas of a weasel. As if to drive home his point, Mitch bit into his cheeseburger and chewed furiously, glaring at me with the expression of a cannibal.
“Look, Mitch, tell you what, it’s been great seeing you again but I’ve got a photo shoot to get to and I’m a little short on time today.”
Before I could get up, Mitch launched into a weepy rant about how we’d been through so much together and how I should consider all the things a million dollars would buy.
While Mitch rambled on, my stomach soured. If it weren’t for him, two people I loved would be alive, and my old band would still be together. I took a drink of Diet Pepsi to quench the angry coals, while Mitch, with a gluttonous thrust, packed his cheeks with a fist-full of fries.
“Mitch, c’mon man. What comes next? You gonna ask me for my credit card number? Isn’t that how these scams work? Tell you what, it’s been real— see you around.”
Mitch gulped his wad of fries and dabbed his fake mustache. “Brad, man, sit down. I don’t want your money. I’m here to bring you money, my friend. Enough bigtime, big-cash money to gag a calculator!”
“Mitch, just stop. There are no million-dollar gigs for washed up, one hit wonders. Besides, Frank died a long time ago. Stick this in your calculator— no keyboard player, plus no band, equals no scam.”
Mitch held up his palms as if he were directing traffic. “Brad, C’mon now, I just learned about Frank. Why didn’t somebody— you know?”
“Why didn’t somebody tell you?” My stomach coiled as I leaned into his face. “Last time anybody saw you was nineteen-goddam-seventy two. Frank died right after you ran off with our money. Should’ve been you in my Porsche that night instead of him.”
“Hey, c’mon, Brad, gimme a break here. Like, what was Frank’s problem, you know, why’d he do himself? Brokenhearted over a guy? What?”
“I’m looking at the reason why.”
Mitch recoiled. “Who? Me? C’mon, everybody knows Frank was a fag, but he was OK. I never did nothin’ to the guy, honest.”
“Like hell!”
Scornful faces turned my direction and I lowered my voice.
“Frank’s whole life was the band. After you ripped us off things turned ugly, fast, especially for Frank. He got real quiet, withdrawn, I should’ve known. Borrowed my Porsche one night— said he had to get out into the desert, do some thinking. The Highway Patrol said he was doing over a hundred and forty when he hit that wall. Wasn’t enough left of him to have a funeral with. All because of you.”
Mitch shifted his eyes. “Look, Brad, like I just didn’t know. I mean, I’m sorry. That whole thing was just— a business deal that went wrong.”
“Stealing our money— that’s your idea of a business deal? You gonna sit there and tell me the cops aren’t looking for your sorry ass?”
Subdued perversions flickered at the curves of his mouth, just like back in ’70 when he conned us into signing that one sided management contract.
“C’mon, that’s old news. I’m living the clean life now.”
“You? Clean? Give me a break.”
Mitch craned towards me, his breath heavy on the onions. “Brad, listen, don’t shut the door on this one, you don’t get a lot of chances in life. None of us are as young as we used to be.”
My fists slammed the table. “Young? You ripped us off! You turned our best years into living hell.”
Heads turned. My words seemed to flitter around in the silence, like bats trapped in a room. The murmur of conversations slowly recovered.
“Let’s just take a breath, here,” Mitch said, and took a delicate nibble from his cheeseburger. Children at a nearby table snickered as they flicked french fries at each other, and Mitch gave them a disapproving glance.
“Brad, let me give it to you straight. You guys were just like those dumb-assed kids over there. If you’d have gotten your hands on all that money, you would’ve screwed yourselves up. I’ve seen it before— drugs, cars, women— wow, you know, come to think of it, I actually did you all a big favor.”
Blood roared in my ears. “Favor! Favor?”
“Well, yeah, sure, I— I mean, I guess you could say I did you guys a favor. Sort of, anyway.”
“I’ll show you a goddam favor!”
Cat-quick, I grabbed Mitch’s hamburger and shoved it into his face with such force that his chair toppled over. Arms flailing, Mitch crashed onto his back and laid still, his eyes blinking, his hairpiece dangling. The ice in the soft-drink dispenser made a ghostly click. Shocked diners stared.
“Sorry everybody, I guess— I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
Heart pounding, I made for the door. South Florida’s heavy breath steamed my face, while the sky had darkened and soured beneath an approaching thunderstorm. As I made for my car it occurred to me that I’d never done anything as crazy as decking Mitch in a public place. If only the guys could have seen this! Too bad I didn’t have one of my cameras ready. Too bad none of us kept in touch anymore.
“Wait,” Mitch called from the doorway. With the gait of a penguin he shuffled along, trying to catch up to me. “Brad, man, I’m sorry, I was wrong. I screwed up, OK? You guys all think I flipped out and stole the band’s money, but I didn’t. I just made a bad investment, that’s all. Hey, don’t give me that look, I did it for the band, man, I did it for you and the band and everything. Brad, think about it. If things would’ve worked out, I’d have been everybody’s hero. All my life I wanted to make it up to you guys. Is that so much to ask?”
Mitch’s head gleamed beneath wisps of blond hair— the remnants of his once-thick mane. His liberated toupee resembled a soggy rodent, and he jammed the thing into the pocket of his sports jacket.
“Some people from up north might be looking for me, gotta be careful till things cool down,” Mitch said, fingering his phony mustache.
“Who’d your rip off this time?”
“Look, man, I gotta eat too. And I’m telling ya, this deal’s gonna set us up for life.”
“Mitch, there’s no goddam band. Find another meal ticket.”
“This your Honda?”
“Screw you.”
“Aw, geez,” Mitch said, scowling up at the boiling storm clouds. “That looks bad. Let’s book.”
Like the turbulent sky, my mind must have clouded over, and for some reason I unlocked the door for him. As we drove out of the parking lot, I formulated at simple plan— dump Mitch off a few blocks away, make him walk back to his car, and by then I would be long gone. At that moment, a great bolt of lightning froze before us, suspended between earth and sky, and then released with cracking roar.
Hoping to avoid the deluge I headed south onto Federal Highway, a wide boulevard that cut through Fort Lauderdale’s car lots and tourist traps. Like probing artillery, dollar-sized raindrops smacked the windshield, and then the fusillade cut loose for real. The staccato drumming on the Honda’s roof became a hammering roar, while all around us wind whipped palm trees vanished behind curtains of rain. The downpour became ridiculous even for South Florida— it was like driving through a carwash gone berserk.
“Brad, pull over, just pull over, will ya? Man, I can’t take this, you gotta stop.”
“What’s your problem?”
Mitch crossed his arms over his chest like a corpse in a coffin. ”Please, man, just please!”
I pulled over to the curb. “You losing it or what?”
He gestured at the storm. “Brad, look, we gotta talk. How can you think straight if you’re driving around in all this crazy stuff? Christ, you can’t even see where you’re goin’!”
Disgusted with myself, I killed the ignition. “It doesn’t rain in Buffalo or wherever you’re hiding out these days?”
Lightning flashes drew skeletal shadows along Mitch’s face— a roadmap of his crooked perversions. Footfalls of thunder rumbled as he turned his mug towards me.
“So, looking good there, Brad. You dark-haired types age better than us blond guys— I’ll bet you dye your hair, right? Ha, just kidding, but least you still got hair. Know what? When I saw you walking into Wendy’s, I said to myself, ‘Wow, there’s Brad, man, he’s the dude, he’s still happening, he’s still rock ‘n roll!’ You work out? How’s your health?”
While he prattled on about how my hairstyle made me look like a studly version of Jim Morrison, I had this lovely vision of shoving Mitch into the rain-swollen gutter. Then, I remembered his condition.
“When you called, you said you had cancer. I’m sorry. Really. And I apologize for getting violent in Wendy’s. That isn’t like me.”
“Cancer? Well, actually, I don’t have the big C, but I am startin’ to put on a gut. Does that count?” Mitch chuckled and rubbed his belly. Thunder mimicked the grumble of indigestion.
“I can’t believe this! I should’ve known that cancer thing was a pants load. Lies are like farts, there’s never just one. Especially with you.”
“Hey, I had to come up with something, you weren’t even going to meet me, remember? Besides, what I’m tellin’ you ain’t no lie. Last week, I got a call from an attorney with this wealthy client who’s a huge fan of the Jammies. This dude got totally freaked when he saw that where-are-they-now Jammies’ special on MV 1. Called his lawyer, who called the producers, who called me, and bingo, hello bigtime!
Mitch paused to nod in agreement with himself.
“So, like I was sayin’, this, uh— client, he wants to book a personal appearance by the band, paying one million bucks apiece. You guys’ll hang out at his ranch, get treated like kings, play a few of the old songs, maybe get laid, ya know, party down a little, and everybody goes home rich and happy. This dude’s a real fan. He knows how that record company screwed you guys over, and he wants to take care of things. Think about it my friend: one million bucks, tax-free. Besides, it’s my chance to make things right, know what I mean?”
I shook my head at the rain-blurred windshield. “And I’m supposed to fall for this? What’s your angle?”
“Me? Angle? Look, I bumped the price up for you guys. Know what the original offer was? One mil for the band, period. I told ‘em we’re talkin’ about a bigtime band here, it’s one mil apiece, or no deal. I got ‘em to pay me a million bucks too, so you guys don’t have to take my commission outa your share. See how I went to bat for you guys?”
Mitch coughed up a laugh. “Besides, I’m the one who got it all started: I talked MV-1 into doing that piece on you guys. Those punks didn’t even know who the Jammies were before I pitched ‘em. Now I got you guys a million bucks apiece. Me.”
A truck swooshed past, blanketing my Honda in a wall of water which made the car shake like a wet dog. Mitch cursed all rain and all trucks. Muttering, he pulled a cigarette pack from his plaid jacket, tucked a cigarette behind his ear, and tapped the pack again. A paper worm tumbled into his palm.
“Is that a joint?”
Mitch scowled as if I’d asked a really dumb question. “What, this? Just a pinstripe, you know, a little something to take the edge off. Hey, you and I used to get high together, remember?”
“Nobody, especially you, smokes anything in my car, understand?”
Something inside felt good as I watched Mitch put away his joint. It’s not that I cared one way or the other about pot. I smoked it in the old days, who didn’t? But I quit that sort of thing a long time ago when a soul-shuddering tragedy destroyed my heart, and drowned my joy down to the last ember. Pot can be an amplifier, and I never wanted to turn its funhouse lens upon the grief that smothered my life.
The wind had let up some, but in its place the rain came roaring down, pummeling the car with newfound vigor. Denied his smokes, Mitch pouted like a child, which made me despise him even more.
“Why don’t you just go? Haven’t you screwed my life up enough?”
Mitch’s eyes narrowed. “Brad, you ever seen a million bucks, cash, ever? That’s gotta be one, sweet sight.”
“Why should I believe that some rich— moron wants to pay us that kind of money?”
“That’s true, he’s very rich,” Mitch said, nodding.
“Who’s the guy, Mitch?”
“Him? Oh, he’s harmless. He just likes to party and spend money, you know, like one of those connoisseur guys.”
“The name, right now, or you’re walking back to Wendy’s.”
Mitch swallowed. “Pablo Lupa,” he said softly.
“Lupa? Where have I heard that name? This guy isn’t some sort of drug dealer, is he?”
Mitch cocked his head like a curious dog. “Excuse me? Mr. Lupa is not a drug dealer. He just happens to be one of the wealthiest men in South America. Hangs with a lot of big name European bands. Everybody who’s anybody knows him.”
“Where’d he get his money?”
“Like, I’m supposed to know? His cash is green, ain’t it?”
“And you expect us to stay at this guy’s ranch? In South freakin’ America? Do you know how weird that sounds?”
“Brad, all that matters is that this cat’s rich and he’s paying cash money. Lots of people have flown down there and partied with the dude. Iggy Krotch and his band just made the trip. I’m tellin’ ya man, it’s cool. It’s gonna be one righteous week full of gettin’ high, gettin’ laid, and gettin’ rich. And that, my friend, is called livin’ the good life.”
“I can understand why this Pablo Lupa would want to fly Iggy Krotch’s band down there, but why us? The Jammies had one hit that barely cracked the Top-10, and our second album tanked. Nobody plays our music or even remembers us, thanks to you.”
Mitch scowled at the windshield, as if the driving rain had scribbled curses upon the glass. “Well, maybe I forgot to mention it, but you guys had bigtime record sales in South America. Especially that second album, where you played all that heavy rock and jazz stuff— what was the name of that record?”
My stomach tightened, and it wasn’t due to fast food. “Jamrods. In case you forgot, that was also our band’s original name. Know what burns me? The Jamrods could have amounted to something if we would have stayed true to our music, we were damned good. Should have told you and that record company to take a flying leap. But no, we listened to you, we got greedy. And the kicker? We changed our name to the Jammies, sold out, got a hit record— and ended up broke.”
Mitch heaved a sigh. “Look, OK, I screwed up, but I saw an opportunity to invest the studio advance money, so I went for it. I did it for the band.” Mitch shook his head. “Besides, those record company assholes had it in for you guys. Tried to kill your second album, but they forgot to get the word down to their South American distributors. Your LP sold like crazy down there. Pablo Lupa was a huge fan— yours were the first two records he ever bought. Played ‘em till they wore out. Knows every song by heart. To him, you guys were as big as the Stones.”
“The Stones’ manager never ripped them off. What ever happened to the royalties from all those records we supposedly sold down there?”
Mitch flinched as thunder cracked.
“Well, you know how those record companies are— you got yer expenses, yer advances, yer this and yer that, but hey, we’re talkin’ peanuts compared to what we’re gonna make off this one gig. Think of it, man— fly to South America, jam for this cat, and bingo, it’s the 70’s again. Only this time, we’re instant millionaires. All of us.”
“We’re short one keyboard player.”
“So? You still play guitar, don’t you?”
I hesitated.
“You were the best. Jimi Hendrix asked about you once. Said you were hot.”
“C’mon, Mitch, Hendrix was dead way before we got to Hollywood.”
“Well, must have been Clapton or one of those cats. You know how I am with names, right?”
Although I knew Mitch was lying, how I wished Jimi Hendrix would have noticed me. When I was still a teenaged, three-chord-playing, growing-his-hair-long, punk-assed wannabe, I saw Hendrix perform in San Francisco. I couldn’t believe anyone could do that with a guitar! It was as if a musical god had descended to earth to show us mortals what could be— if only . . . .
“Still got your old axe?” Mitch asked.
“Maybe.” My Fender Stratocaster was tucked away in my closet. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d touched my old friend.
“Talk to Jon or Danny lately?”
“No, I haven’t. On that MV-1 show they said Jon was living in a Colorado monastery and Danny was holed up in the Rocky Mountains in some militia camp. Sounds like they’re both wigged out, and I doubt if either one plays anymore. That’s what you did to us. We ended up hating everything— the music, those record company jerk-offs, and especially you. At Frank’s memorial, Danny swore that the next time he saw you he’d kill you with his bare hands. Still want to get the band back together?”
A brilliant flash cut the gloom and a snapping roar rattled the car. Mitch grimaced as the boom faded into the wail of wind and rain.
“Danny— said that?”
“Yeah, said he’d squeeze the life out of you nice and slow. And he meant it, too.”
Color drained from Mitch’s face.
“Brad, c’mon, that’s ancient history, right?”
“Seems like yesterday to me.”
“I’ll bet Danny won’t even remember. Besides, he was always sayin’ weird stuff. But he was a damn good drummer. And you know what? I’ll bet Jon can still sing and handle a bass guitar. Gotta be like riding a bicycle, right?”
“Frank fell off his bike a long time ago.”
Mitch took a deep breath. “Here’s the deal— Pablo Lupa plays keyboards and he wants to jam with you guys, so he must already know the songs, right?. Tell you what, I’ll make a call and arrange your cash advance tonight. Five figures. Is there a problem with me bringing you that much cash money?” He waited with smug, spidery patience.
I exhaled through clenched teeth.
“Brad, what do you have to lose? You got something going on in this town worth a million bucks? Look at you, you take pictures for a living, you’re driving around in a beater. Where’s your threads? C’mon, man!”
I stared at the churning windshield. No, I didn’t have a thing to lose, especially compared to the promise of that kind of money. Actually, the photography business hadn’t been too good lately. I glanced out the window at the ghostly image of a lone car, slogging past my Honda, struggling through the deluge. Thunder banged overhead.
“Brad, let’s make this real simple. Yes or no, may I bring you a large amount of cash tonight?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Smoking Jimi Chapter 2
I unlocked the door to Carol’s house, a ranch-style cocoon. Carol sat on pillows near the muted TV, hunched over a book. She was an agoraphobic, and concealed the windows behind heavy drapes, as if she feared being sucked through the panes into the vast horror of the outdoors. Perhaps her edgy vulnerability was what attracted me to her— I suppose every man needs to be someone’s hero.
Home. And the children. Three-foot-tall dolls, dressed in colonial era children’s garb sat in miniature chairs, while others gazed stoically from display cases. Carol’s favorite doll, dressed in royal blue and leaning on a cane, stood on a pedestal next to a rubber plant. The dolls’ faces carried the inane imprint of bliss, which lately, had begun to creep me out.
A wrought-iron banister flowed into the sunken living room with its brass and-glass fireplace, which had never held a fire. From the walls, photographs of Carol gazed down with an expression of attractive pain and mock concern.
“Finished up early,” I said, as I set down my camera bag.
Carol glanced up from her novel, all blonde hair, glasses, and sweet curves. She wore her favorite silk robe, and flashed a reflexive smile.
I sank into the black-leather sofa and rested my eyes on the television. Wide eyed reporters, using their best game-show expressions, were aghast at the latest scandal. I clicked off the remote.
That afternoon, I had taken some shots of a decaying, art deco dump in South Beach. A Hollywood film company was considering it for a movie location, and this was the first decent paying job I’d had in a while. All I could think of at the photo lab was Mitch’s offer. It now occurred to me that greed and the prospect of easy money wasn’t really what had me fascinated to the point of distraction— it was the idea of playing music again, of getting it right this time. And being free— really free.
“You had some disturbing calls today,” Carol said, while pretending to read her book. “A man with an odd accent asked a lot of annoying questions about that old band of yours. Right after that, a dirty-sounding man phoned. He told me that you took pornographic pictures and wanted to hire you. He was so rude I had to hang up on him. Brad, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Hire me to do what?”
Carol slammed the book shut. “Brad, are you taking porn pictures? Are you that desperate?”
“Dammit, you know better than that. Who was this guy? Did you get his number?”
“Caller ID said the number was blocked. Pornographic photos, Brad?”
“Gotta be somebody connected with Mitch.”
“Mitch?”
“My old manager. Saw him today. Offered me a million dollars.”
Carol dropped her book. “For what? To take dirty pictures?”
“No! He wants us to put the band back together. Some rich guy in South America supposedly wants the band to play for him.”
“And you said yes?”
“Not exactly.”
Carol threw down her reading glasses. “Brad! Are you insane? You said no to a million dollars?”
“I’m thinking it over. It’s for some guy I’ve never heard of, and it seems like there’s always some sort of trouble going on down there. Besides, this deal may not be on the level. Mitch is a lying thief— I can’t believe a thing he says. He might be trying to pull some kind of scam to save himself from loan sharks.”
“See? That’s your problem. You always go negative.”
“Negative? You don’t really know me every well, do you?”
“All I need to know is that you’re stuck taking pictures for a living, if that’s what you call it.” She gestured at the dark television screen. “Haven’t you’ve seen what’s going on out there? Do you know what Y2K is going to do to our economy, the banks, everything? On what you earn, it’s a good thing you don’t have a family to support.”
“Not much chance of that around here, is there?”
She gave me a spiteful stare. A familiar, dark feeling juiced up inside me, seeping from the wound where I used to love her.
“Brad, quit playing these games. I was up front with you, wasn’t I? When we first met, I told you I never wanted children. Sometimes you have such a loser’s attitude.”
“Attitude? At least I don’t pretend that a bunch of stupid dolls are the real thing.”
A timid rapping at the front door interrupted our argument.
Carol grimaced. “If it’s kids peddling something, get rid of them, I’m getting a headache. And don’t give them any money— they’ll just keep coming around.”
I opened the door. A neatly dressed boy and girl shifted on their feet, their eyes cast downward. I figured they must have overbearing parents, just like I once had. If these were my kids, they wouldn’t behave like beaten-down dogs. The little girl mumbled something about raising money for band uniforms. I traded a twenty-dollar bill for a candy bar.
As the kids walked down the driveway, I noticed a blue Ford Taurus parked across the street. Shadows obscured the driver’s face, but I could tell he was watching us, and not in a very friendly way. I figured it was probably the kids’ father, one of those overbearing types, and I felt his glare of disdain as I shut the door.
Before Carol and I could return to our argument, the doorbell chimed again.
I expected more kids.
Mitch!
“Man, it’s happening, I’m carrying.” He glanced over his shoulder at the blue Taurus, and then pushed past me into the foyer, cradling his wadded-up coat it as if it held a newborn.
“Excuse me?” Carol said, getting to her feet.
“Carol, this is Mitch, our old band’s manager.”
“Oh, yes, Brad has told me so many wonderful things about you, I’ve been dying to meet you, welcome to our home.”
I led Mitch into the living room where he flopped on the black leather sofa and patted the cushions, inviting us to sit, as if we were his guests.
“Just met with Pablo’s attorneys and they were absolutely amazing. Told them to give us a few days, and we’ll be ready to rock.” Mitch unfolded his coat and fat packets of hundred-dollar bills tumbled across the tabletop. Carol gasped.
Mitch smacked his lips at the packets of cash, as if they were Danish pastries. “Check this out, Brad! Should’ve seen these guys, dishing out a hundred and fifty thousand bucks in cash. Unreal! This is your advance of fifty K, and there’s going to be nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars more for each of us.”
Carol released an orgasmic squeal.
“Did you sign an agreement?” I asked.
Mitch chuckled. “Man, that’s not how these people do business. Not at all.”
“Where’s Jon and Danny’s share? And what happens if we can’t find them? Are these characters expecting their money back?”
“Don’t sweat it, we’ll find ‘em. I put Jon and Danny’s share in a safe place, and I had Pablo’s attorneys wire my cut to Bernie up in the city. That should keep the ginkster off my back for a few days, if you know what I mean.”
“So, if this thing falls apart, you’re going to split for Buffalo, and these so called attorneys are going to come looking for me. Same old Mitch.”
Carol put her hand on Mitch’s knee. “He didn’t really mean that, you know.”
“Brad, check out the goods. Nothing says it better than fifty thousand dollars in good-old, American greenbacks.”
I picked up a packet. The hundred-dollar bills came fifty to a stack— crisp and new, smelling strongly of money. Were they real? What should I check? Serial numbers? A haunting feeling crept from the currency, up my arms and into my heart— that this would turn out like every other event in my life— badly. Still, a part of me wanted to believe, to play music again, to pull my old Stratocaster out of the closet, make those strings come alive, and then walk away with all that cash.
“Ain’t it great, man?” Mitch put a five-thousand dollar packet to his nose. “Smell that ink, right from the vaults. This is righteous beyond belief. Look,” he said, getting up, “I’ll meet you first thing tomorrow at the studio. Why don’t you see if you can find Jon and Danny?”
“Hold on. Exactly how are we supposed to get down there and back?”
“Pablo Lupa’s private jet. The lawyers said we shouldn’t sweat a thing, it’s all arranged. Brad, I’m telling you, these guys are hooked up with the right people. The fix is in. These days, you gotta be connected.”
“Mitch, listen to me, and listen good. We get paid in full before we step on any damned airplane, right?” The moment I heard myself say the words, I knew it was over— we were going.
“Absolutely. You’ll get confirmation of the transfer, the whole nine yards. If it doesn’t happen like they say, you guys walk, and the deal’s off. And don’t worry about your passport— they said you won’t need that kind of stuff, everything’s taken care of. Pablo Lupa’s really excited that we’re coming down. He’s already practicing your songs. Ain’t that something?”
“That’s wonderful news,” Carol said.
“We’re on, buddy,” Mitch said, as he headed for the door.
“Hold on,” I said. “Did you give my phone number out to anyone? We’ve had some weird calls.”
“Not me.” Mitch picked up the candy bar from the hall table. “Hey, check this out, my favorite.”
“Please, help yourself,” Carol said.
Mitch pocketed the candy bar. “Cool. Tomorrow then?”
As I let Mitch out the front door, I noticed that the blue Taurus was no longer parked across the street. In its place, a shadowy, malignant vibe remained.
Smoking Jimi Chapter 3
I blinked awake to Carol’s collection of miniature carousels, frozen mid twirl beneath the poster of a couple close dancing, printed from a series I’d sold to a national magazine. Last night Carol had argued and she locked herself in the office— which kept me off the computer, so that I wouldn’t check out Pablo Lupa or find anything to dissuade me from going to South America. Even though a large insurance settlement had padded her way through life, she had always said, “You can never have too much money.”
Last night, after arguing with Carol, I had dug out my old address book and called Jon’s mother, who lived in my hometown of San Jose, California. After giving me Jon’s Colorado address and phone number, she explained that that my old bass player lived in the monastery of some secretive religious order. “He run off with them damned Vituscans, whoever the hell they are. My son, my own flesh and blood, he never writes, you know it’s been years.”
I couldn’t bring myself to call Jon’s number. If he refused to go, it would all be over— no South America, no million dollars, and part of me wanted to keep the dream alive. I couldn’t get a lead on our drummer, Danny Dugan. I finally found one Dugan in the San Jose phone book who recalled Danny: “I knew that punk,” the elderly man had said, “always in trouble, gettin’ in fights. He was one of them rock musicians, always high on something, you know how musicians are.”
The MV-1 Jammies special had described Danny as a mountain-bound hermit. I could just picture his cabin— a paranoiac’s lair, bristling with guns and strung with booby traps. I figured that Jon would be able to find him, since they had always been close, at least back in the band days.
Carol drifted into the bedroom and sat next to me on the bed. Mornings used to be our favorite time for lovemaking. When we first met three years ago, she made me feel like the hero I’d always wanted to be. I immediately fell into the deep end of the love pool, sold my condo, and moved in with her. But now, I was just another of her oversized dolls, a part of her insipid collection, and this doll was ready to walk. Restless thoughts tugged like little fiends. What if we couldn’t find Danny? Could any of us still play? What about the dangers?
“Any requests for breakfast?” Carol asked in her cutest voice.
“Pancakes sound good.” She hadn’t made breakfast in months. It’s amazing how the prospect of money changes things.
Carol put on a satisfied air and walked out the door with extra movement in her curves. Her shape still reminded me of Gjerna, the only woman that I had ever loved with both body and soul.
As I showered, I reviewed a mental checklist. Which cameras and lenses to take? I had a few nickel and-dime portrait sessions on the calendar. Reschedule? I laughed, thinking how I could be returning from South America a millionaire. Millionaire! Then, I’d show the world what a real photographer could do.
As I shaved, I felt a familiar disappointment. Sure, I could pass for a worn-out thirty-something, but I still thought of myself as twenty five, and it wasn’t fair that the mirror didn’t reflect that. I threw on a black polo shirt with khaki trousers, smiling as I recalled Mitch telling me I resembled Jim Morrison.
In the living room, my guitar case sat upon the tiled floor, its velvety interior yawning open. Reclining in its velvet bed, my sky blue Fender Stratocaster still bore the scars where I used to strum, and the fingerboard’s finish was worn through where I learned my first chords. I picked up my old guitar, hefting the familiar weight. Corroded strings dug into my fingertips, and when I plucked the E-string, it snapped like a rotten rubber band. A great sadness came over me.
“Brad, honey, I thought you might like to practice, so I brought out your guitar.”
I promised my Stratocaster a new set of strings, and gently laid my old friend to rest.
As I ate pancakes, I counted out forty thousand dollars. With the calmness of a bank teller, Carol watched me spread crisp, hundred-dollar bills next to the empty fruit bowl and my cluster of vitamin bottles.
“I’m taking ten thousand with me, and I’ll leave forty thousand with you for safekeeping, just in case something happens. OK?”
“You mean—” She blinked, as if pushing back unpleasant thoughts. “Don’t worry, honey, you’ll be fine. Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I went on the Internet.”
I ignored her obvious lie. “Find anything on Pablo Lupa?”
She gave the money a devious glance. “Not much, really.”
“What’s that mean?”
She shrugged. “Well, I did learn that Pablo Lupa inherited a lot of money. He’s a free spender, likes the company of musicians, and lives in a big South American estate. That’s all there was.”
I took another sip of coffee. It had turned cold.
“Why do I get the feeling that’s not all there was?”
“Brad honey, don’t be negative, you’ll be amazed how different things will be if you just believe. You know I’m behind you one hundred percent.” She sat back, all smiles and sweet curves.
* * *
Fort Lauderdale traffic was crowded with the usual mix of beaters and luxury cars. I sang to a Sam Cooke tune on the Oldies station, and then laughed out loud, thinking of all the money I was going to earn playing a few lame songs for some rich eccentric. It seemed as if an ancient, stone wheel had begun turning, and this newfound momentum made my heart shine like the sun after a storm. No more portrait work! I had always dreamed of being free to do creative photography. Money meant freedom— real freedom, like I had known only once in my life, so long ago. I had earned that million dollars, every cent of it, by swallowing the slow poison of the empty years of my life.
As the sun dimmed the Stones’ Paint it Black came on the radio, and the creepy feeling of being stalked cast a shadow. I checked the rearview mirror. Who could tell in all this traffic?
I parked at the rear of my photography studio behind Las Olas Boulevard, and checked things out. Nothing unusual— just the butt ugly backsides of trendy storefronts. When I reached my studio’s backdoor, my stomach fell. The alarm was off! Had I forgotten to set it? Were those fresh scratches? I unlocked the deadbolt. Insurance covered my equipment— lighting, flash pods, a computer, a medium-format Mamiya, plus a few older Nikons and lenses. Luckily, my top-line Nikon and best lenses were safe in my bag. As I entered the studio, I sensed that my sanctuary had been violated, but also that the intruder had vanished, leaving only his breath’s exhaust— a vapor trail to nowhere.
Enough foolishness. It looked like everything was where it should be. As I set my camera bag on the desk, languid models gazed from the walls along with creative baby shots and a few artistic black and-whites. At one time, I reasoned that if I’d come close to making it big in music, then why couldn’t I find success as a photographer? As always, I had an artistic vision, but that creativity was under appreciated. I often took a unique, imaginative approach to wedding or portrait photography, but lately, my referrals were falling off.
I turned on the computer. In a few minutes, I’d hop onto a search engine and see what I could discover about Pablo Lupa. A check of the answering machine revealed three hang-ups, and then came an irritating voice with a Miami accent, claiming to be a photographer who had met me at a party. He bragged about how much money he’d just made doing porn, offered to get me in, and gave his cell number. My heart raced as I scribbled down the information. Now I would find out who the hell had been calling my home with porn offers. I felt as if I were scrubbing graffiti when I hit the delete button.
Someone pounded the glass of my front door.
Mitch!
The comedic wig and phony moustache provided a clownish frame for his panic-stricken scowl. I unlocked the door. Clutching a briefcase, Mitch pushed past me into the studio.
“Where the hell you been, man? I was parked out there damned near an hour. We’re not alone, either. Check out that blue Taurus down the street. These guys just showed up, and they’re checking us out.”
I peered out the window. “Looks like the car parked across from my house last night. Thought it belonged to those kids’ father.” I snapped a 400-mm telephoto lens into my Nikon, and used the viewfinder as a telescope.
“Two guys,” I said. “Maybe fifty yards out. Looking this way. That’s odd. The passenger appears young, but he has white hair.”
Other than those two strangers, the street seemed normal for that time of morning— the occasional Lexus, an in-line skater, and old man Pierce washing his antique store’s windows. The sensation of being watched was intense.
“Dammit,” Mitch said. “Gotta be Bernie’s boys from the city. But why? I called him last night, told him Lupa’s lawyers were sending him fifty grand, and now he does this. Can’t trust nobody.”
“How much do you owe this guy?”
“A few bucks. No big deal.”
“How much?” I asked, as I led Mitch away from the door.
“Oh, what, two hundred fifty thousand, plus interest. Probably up to three by now. Hey, I hit a bad patch, got on the wrong side of things, then my partner backed out of a deal, ripped me off.”
“Imagine that. Great feeling, isn’t it?”
“Hey, look! The white-haired guy’s gettin’ outta the car!”
I framed him in my lens. The man was my height and build, trim, perhaps six feet tall, and in his late twenties. Strands of snow white, shoulder length hair lifted in the breeze as he walked toward us. Watching him, I felt an air of familiarity, and then the sickening jolt of a prey’s premonition.
Mitch punched his palm. “Let’s ditch these guys. Got your car?”
“Out back.”
Mitch grabbed his briefcase. “We’re outa here. Go.”
I locked the front door, threw some film into my camera bag, grabbed my cell phone, and hustled Mitch out the back door. I was so nervous that when I started the car, I twisted the ignition so hard the key almost snapped off. As the engine roared to life, I checked the alley. A scruffy dog barked at a Dumpster near the street. What could be in that container? Someone hiding? Watching? One way to find out. I put the Honda in gear, punched the gas, and when we reached the Dumpster I hit the brakes hard and sounded the horn. The lid of the trash container rose. A face like a crumpled beer can peeked out. Dead eyes cringed. The dog chuffed, greeting the bum with a wag of his tail.
“What’s with you?” Mitch shouted at me. “Move this goddam car, for Christ’s sake!”
I tore onto Southeast 10th and floored it. Mitch scrunched around in the seat, watching for the blue Taurus, his eyes gone wild. We sped past crowded rows of homes, and then I cut a quick left, squealing onto Southeast Second Street. I saw an opportunity, and so I braked hard, skidding into the driveway of a private residence, nearly throwing Mitch into the windshield.
“What the hell?”
“Shut up and stay down,” I said.
We had pulled onto a driveway that separated two houses. I drew the Honda up to a garage at the rear of the property and yanked the emergency brake. From the street came a flash of blue as the Taurus sped by. I cursed as I let out a long breath, aware that my heartbeat was racing faster than that Taurus.
“Jesus, man, those guys must really want my ass,” Mitch said.
“Probably have to wait in line.” I made sure the Taurus was out of sight before I pulled onto the street, and then doubled back toward Las Olas. “They’ll get dumped onto an eastbound, one-way street. We’ll be long gone by the time they figure it out.”
Mitch snapped open his briefcase. “Bastards would like to get hold of this, wouldn’t they?” Rows of hundred dollar bills stared at me, crisp and green.
“Who’s in the Taurus, Mitch? That car was parked on my street last night when you came over.”
He cleared his throat. “Don’t know. Guy with the white hair kinda looks like Edgar Winter, you know, that cat who plays—”
“I know who Edgar Winter is. You rip him off too?”
Mitch gave me a look.
“How do we know these guys aren’t Pablo Lupa’s pals, keeping an eye on his little investment? And some creep’s been calling my house and my studio. You were in such a rush that I left his number behind. What the hell you got me mixed up in?”
Mitch snapped his briefcase shut. “Maybe those guys are after you instead of me. Ever think of that?”
“After me? For what, decking you in Wendy’s?”
Mitch took out a cigarette, and then grimaced as he cradled it in his palm, unlit.
“I’m callin’ this whole thing off,” I said. “It’s getting too damned weird.”
Mitch gestured at the dash. “Man, think! What do you have to lose? You got something cooking in this stinking town that I don’t know about? You gonna walk away from a million bucks just ‘cause of two guys in a Taurus? Tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna make tracks and leave these pecker heads in the dust. Screw ‘em.”
I crowded my Honda onto Sunrise Boulevard, and headed west toward I-95. Mitch was right. What did I have to lose? Portrait photography? Carol? Wasn’t life supposed to be more than just a lame excuse for not being dead?
“So, you ever get a chance to find Jon?” Mitch asked.
I took a deep breath. “He lives in Wort Rock, Colorado, in some monastery. Couldn’t find Danny.”
“Jon’ll know where he is. Let’s get our butts down to the airport.”
“I have Jon’s phone number.”
“You didn’t call him, did you?”
“No.”
“Good.” Mitch heaved a sigh. “We gotta handle things the right way— in person. No telling where Jon’s head’s at. We might need the old persuader,” he said, patting his briefcase. “Gimme your cell phone, I’ll get us a flight outta there.”
“Right now? Today?”
Mitch rolled his eyes.
“What about your car?” I asked.
“You mean that delivery van? Borrowed it from a guy up in the city.”
“You can’t leave it in front of my studio. It’ll get towed.”
“You gotta think large, man, we’re millionaires now. I’ll take care of him later.”
“Remind me to never lend you anything.”
Mitch cocked his head. “Hey, I gotta do what I gotta do. Let’s just get our butts out to Colorado before something goes bad. I got a feeling, and my feelings are never wrong.”
“Yeah, Mitch, you’re a regular psychic hotline.” I turned northbound onto I 95, keeping watch in the rearview mirror. My cell phone rang.
Mitch turned white. “Don’t answer!”
“It’s just Carol.”
She sounded as if she were lonely, making up a reason to call. “Brad, honey, I wanted to let you know I put the money away safely.”
“Carol, something’s happened, and I have to leave town right away. If strangers come to the door, don’t answer. Watch the caller ID. If you don’t know who it is, let the answering machine get it. Tell anyone who asks that I’m out on a shoot somewhere. There were some guys waiting for us at the studio. I think they know where I live.”
“Brad, honey, your guitar?”
I pressed the mute button. “Mitch, what about my guitar and passport? I could zip back home—”
“No! Why take a chance? Christ, we’ll buy you a new guitar, we’re millionaires, man! And forget your passport, I told you that you don’t need it, didn’t I?”
“C’mon, you gotta have a passport.”
Mitch fingered his fake moustache. “These people are connected. They’ll get us down there and back, no problem.”
“Getting back’s the part that worries me.”
“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s no big deal. Sometimes, you gotta take a chance. That’s life, ain’t it?”
I returned the phone to my ear. “Carol, I’ll call you tonight.”
I handed the cell phone to Mitch. “Get us a flight out of West Palm Beach, I doubt if anybody will be watching for us all the way up there. I can’t believe those two bastards were hanging around my studio, and my house too! Who are these people?”
“I honest-to-god couldn’t care less. Let’s just blow town, get the band back together, and get this show on the road.”
Smoking Jimi Chapter 4
As the Boeing leveled off, I reclined my leather seat. I should have known better than to let Mitch call in our reservations. With wrinkles of concern pasted over his lying face, he had told me that only first class seats were available for the flight to Atlanta, and the same for the connecting flight to Denver, so we’d need to reserve them right away before they were gone. The connecting flight to Denver was the same as the one out of West Palm— two of us sat alone in the first class cabin, while the coach section behind us was half-empty. On the good side, we had left South Florida and White Hair behind hours ago, and even though I had paid for the first class tickets with cash, my wallet still bulged.
Mitch pressed the call button. Our flight attendant, a redhead around my age, greeted us with a professional smile.
“I’ll have a Bloody Mary, and my friend will have one too,” Mitch said.
“Make mine Diet Pepsi, please.”
Mitch grabbed my arm and whispered, “Order a real drink for me and we’ll get you a damned Pepsi later.”
“Sir, I’ll bring you two drinks if you like, it’s not a problem,” she said, with an attractive kind of amusement. “Anything else I can get for you,” she asked, as our eyes met.
I lingered in the dreamy folds of her gaze for a moment, before I managed to tell her no thanks.
As she walked away, Mitch tugged my sleeve. “She’s a hot one, I think she wants me.”
“Mitch, you could count the women who want you on a hand with no fingers.”
I had to admit, she was easy on the eyes, and come to think of it, I had never been with a redhead, which made her all the more intriguing. But this wasn’t the time or place.
Mitch tilted his head towards me. “Gimme some money.”
“Money? What do you call that stuff in your briefcase?”
“That’s Jon and Danny’s cash. Gotta keep that hundred K for them. Can’t be short, they gotta think this is on the level. Lemme borrow, say, you know, twenty of them benjies for some walking-around money. Hey, don’t give me that look— you’re a millionaire, man! Gotta start thinking large, living large, you know?”
“What do you need that kind of money for?”
“Hey, it’s just a loan. No problem, I’ll pay you back before we get on Pablo’s jet.”
“Oh yeah? And who’s going to pay me back after Danny kills you with his bare hands?” I stifled a grin as Mitch blinked back unpleasant thoughts. Counting twenty of my hundreds into his palm, I tried to think of it as play money.
After the drinks arrived, Mitch poured both mini-bottles of vodka into a glass and topped it off with tomato juice. After several swallows, he let his head fall back against the headrest.
“Hey Brad, got any kids?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“Don’t know. Suppose I put it off for later, or the women I was with never wanted any, or, well, it was always something. I thought one day there would be a time for that, but it just never happened.” The rest was none of Mitch’s business, how each passing year hung heavy with a longing for the son or daughter I never had, and probably never would. Why did I always end up with the same sort of women? Why didn’t I learn?
Mitch drained his glass. “Family’s the most important thing. I got two kids, both with my ex-wife. I don’t see ‘em much, but they know who I am. At least I got that.”
While Mitch ambled about the aisle, stretching his legs, I gazed out the window, contemplating the women of my past. Thinking back, it was hard to tell one from the other— three years and out was the pattern. At one time, I believed Carol would be different. Now, just as I knew Mitch was a lying thief, I understood that Carol and I had reached our time. She had turned out like the others— it was as if I had been a beat-up doll handed down from one uncaring sister, to the next, to the next.
The plane bucked through an air pocket, reminding me of that bumpy ride in 1971 when the Jammies went on a European tour. We were the opening act for the Electric Butterfly, and our three-week tour went by in a wild flash of sold-out concerts across Europe, finishing up in Denmark.
I smiled in a sad way, recalling those two weeks in Copenhagen with a beautiful blonde named Gjerna. I keep her letters and one precious picture stored in a safe-deposit box. That faded photo is all that’s left of her now— and it represents the one time in my life that really meant anything.
I thought back to that Copenhagen concert, and how we had just begun playing when I noticed her sitting in the front row. While other fans did their ridiculous carrying on, she looked straight into me, as if we were the only two people in the room. Time after time, I was drawn to her soft, blue eyes, so entrancing that once I even slipped up and forgot the chord changes. When I motioned her to meet me at the side of the stage, she nodded with a sly smile. Yes! I was going home with this one! Grinning to myself, I fantasized about the night I was about to have. When the encore finally ended, I giddily rushed to the side of the stage to claim my prize.
There she stood.
She was somewhere in her late teens, but so what? Scandinavian countries view things differently, I told myself. I led her backstage to the dressing room where we talked for a while. She was so attractive that even Frank, our gay keyboard player, seemed to be admiring her. Soon, Gjerna and I shared the backseat of a taxicab, on our way to the hotel, and I congratulated myself. What an incredible night this was going to be! Sure, pulling chicks was easy back then, I did it now and again. But this one, I thought as I stifled a chuckle, just wait till I get her back to the hotel, I’m going to slowly unwrap her like a Christmas present, take my time and really enjoy her.
When we got to my room and Gjerna removed her jacket, I almost bit my tongue. This had better not be a dream, I chortled to myself. We sat on the bed and talked, getting to know each other in simple English phrases— hers colored with a charming Scandinavian accent. I offered her a drink, and in her sweet way, she said no. As we talked, it dawned on me that I was in the presence of an intelligent young lady, which left me feeling awkward and ill at ease. Here I sat, next to a stunning woman who could easily have defined female perfection for the next hundred years, and I was tongue-tied! Hadn’t I brought her to my room as a prize for my youthful hormones, her body mine to ravish and brag about the next morning? Then, why had I become a kid on his first date, frozen by her light, intoxicated by her closeness?
That night was a gift for which I was totally unworthy. Through the fog of memory, I can still see the mist of our souls making love, swirling, intertwining, leaving the empty shells of our physical forms behind.
The first glow of dawn opened the most beautiful day I’ve ever known. Even though I’d only been with Gjerna a few hours, I marveled at how we bonded so completely, as if we’d drawn upon a familiarity brought forward from a past life. When we held each other and watched the sunrise, it was the most powerful moment of my life.
Now, she’s just a precious memory, and God, how many times have I wished that I hadn’t left her there? Every cell in my body still longs for that woman, my sweet Gjerna, Now, she’s gone forever, at least until the next life finds us again. Perhaps then we won’t be cheated the way we were this time.
I gazed out the jetliner’s window at puffy clouds, as soft and unique as her, floating beneath a deep blue sky. I smiled, recalling our first few days together, and how the two of us floated like clouds through that timeless city, adventure and romance at every turn.
When I told Mitch I was staying a few more days in Copenhagen and wouldn’t be flying back with the band, he went ballistic:
“So, she’s a babe, the world’s full of babes, and I got this deal cooking that’ll take us right to the top. Brad, don’t be a jerk, you’re gonna have babes like that one lined up outside your door every night. I can just see it now: ya got yer blonde, yer brunette, yer redhead, and ol’ Brad’s got ‘em all mixed up together in bed to where ya can’t tell who’s doin’ what to who, and man, he just gets this big ol’ grin and jumps right in the middle a’ that ol’ pussy casserole! It don’t get no better, am I right? Huh? Ya ever done that? No? Then why would you want to get yourself hung up on just one babe? We got that big California gig coming up, and we gotta go back in the studio. This ain’t the time, man. Tomorrow, your ass is on that plane, or else!”
On the return flight to America, Mitch’s rump sat next to my empty seat, while Gjerna and I spent another perfect day in Copenhagen. We strolled past blooming gardens in tranquil parks, and explored quiet streets along peaceful canals. We watched the world go by from a sidewalk cafe, where passers-by smiled at this young couple so in love. I’d never been so high. For those few, precious days, I had something beyond love with Gjerna, and it will stay with me until my last breath.