The stage had been set up near the rear of the 50,000 square foot building, in the corner furthest from where the line of truck docks was located. It was through these sliding doors that the unwanted transient visitors typically entered. Two members of the tour security force were present in the warehouse at all times, both to the protect the musicians, technicians and managers and to prevent the theft of the equipment itself. Sitting on the stage was a ten-piece single bass drum kit, a scattering of microphone stands, stacks of Marshall amplifiers, and the microphoned Baby Grand piano that Bobby Z himself played. All of these instruments were wired into an elevated sound and control board, staffed by a few longhaired technicians, that sat in the center of the warehouse—about where it would in one of the venues the group played in. Above the stage was a scaffolding holding various spotlights that would shine down on the musicians. Sitting in front of the soundboard were a few chairs were Stan Jacobs, the tour manager, and few of his assistances sat.
“All right, everyone,” Stan announced as their morning officially began. “No need to go crazy with the lighting or the theatrics. We’re still just trying to get Miss Laura plugged in for now.”
“I wouldn’t mind plugging into her,” one of the sound techs said to the other techs through the microphone and headset system they shared.
“You got that shit right,” said one of the others. “She’s a lot better looking than Dex ever was.”
“Probably doesn’t suck dick as well though,” remarked the lighting operator.
“I don’t know,” returned the first. “She’s Jake Kingsley’s old lady. If she wasn’t up to standards, I bet he would’ve paid for professional dick sucking lessons for her.”
Laura, who along with the rest of the band, heard none of this conversation, was at her assigned microphone stand just to the right of Bobby Z’s piano. Unlike several of the other stands, hers only had an instrument mic and not one for vocals. It had been determined rather quickly in the process that using the redhead for backup singing on some of the tunes that needed it was not helpful to their cause. A music stand stood next to her mic stand and contained the sheet music for the tunes they were doing (although the goal was to lose this accessory as soon as possible). She held her alto sax in hand and was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was the only female member of the band or the crew. She was also, thanks to Pauline’s negotiating skills and the fact that National desperately needed her to continue the tour, the highest paid member of the tour other than Z himself. For this gig she was being paid a weekly salary based on what Jake and Celia had been paying her—fifty dollars an hour—multiplied by the average of sixty hours per week of actual work. In addition, it was written that she would be given her own hotel room at each stop and her own private, enclosed bunk in the tour bus.
“How about we take it from the top to start the day?” asked Z, as everyone called him. He sat in a chair behind the piano. He was in his late thirties and had a head of dark hair that was meticulously styled even though this was only a rehearsal and not a performance. He was skinny and wiry, his thin arms on display thanks to the tank top he wore. He had on a pair of cut-off jeans that fell to just above his knobby knees.
“Sounds good to me,” said Stan. “We can skip the intro piano solo though. Laura is not in that part and this is all for her benefit. Just hit it from the first notes.”
“Right,” Z said, looking at Eric Bland, known as ‘Squiggle’, who played the trumpet, and Ross Salazar, known as ‘Sally’ who played trombone. Neither of them was featured in the opening song, Crying in the Dark. They nodded and set their instruments down on stands behind their microphone stations, and then walked over to the stage left area.
“All right,” Z said, playing a few random notes on his piano. “Are we ready to do this thing? Homer?”
John “Homer” Coyle was the drummer and one of the primary backup singers. “I’m ready,” he assured Z.
“How about you, Groove?” Rob asked the bass player, Russel Steele, who was called ‘Groove’. He did not play an electric bass on stage. Instead, he had his arms wrapped around a microphoned stand-up double bass that stood six and a half feet tall and was played pizzicato, or by plucking the strings instead of using a bow.
“Ready for Freddy,” Groove assured him. As if to show this, he plucked out a brief serious of notes.
“And you, Laura?” Z asked next. She had yet to be given a nickname. They had wanted to call her ‘Red’, naturally, but she had told them in no uncertain terms to come up with something else. They agreed to this but they were still getting to know her—and she them—and nothing that seemed to fit had been determined as of yet.
“I’m ready,” she said with confidence. This was the second week of rehearsals and she thought she was doing pretty well. It helped that she had always been a Bobby Z fan and was very familiar with all of the tunes on his first three albums and several of the tunes on his newest release.
“Okay then,” Z said. “Crying in the Dark. Give us a four count, Homer.”
Homer gave them a four count with his drum sticks and they launched into the tune. Since it was one of the songs from the new album, and thus not one she was as familiar with, Laura had to keep her eyes on the sheet music. Her playing was a bit listless through this one, but nobody faulted her for it, understanding that she was still trying to memorize her parts. Proper phrasing would come later.
They ran through Dark three times, including having to stop and restart twice, and then began working on the next song in the set, Eyes of Blue, which was from Z’s second album. Laura did not need the sheet music for this one—it was one of her favorite Bobby Z songs—and did not even bother turning the page to it. She shined, playing her parts with proper phrasing and not making a single error or missing a single note. Nevertheless, Z had them run through the tune two more times, just to make sure they had it down.
By this time everyone was hot and sweaty despite the fact that they had been swilling down Gatorade like it was going out of style. There was no air conditioning in the warehouse and they were in western Pennsylvania in the summer. It was hot and muggy.
“Let’s take ten, guys,” Z told everyone. “Maybe even fifteen.”
Everyone left the stage and the soundboard and scattered around the room in various groups. Z and Stan sat together on the instrument cases and lit cigarettes while sipping from their Gatorade. Homer, the drummer, picked up another bottle of Gatorade and drifted over to talk to one of the security guys. Laura sat down on the edge of the stage and picked up her own bottle of Gatorade. Her mouth was very dry. Sally and Squiggle both came and sat next to her. Sally lit up a smoke. Squiggle took out a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth.