Also the phone, which Bob handed Jon as he marched the dog out into the hall, closing the door as he went. Toni stood and watched as Jon touch-toned Nolan’s number.
On the third ring, he heard Nolan’s voice: “This is Nolan.”
“Nolan! Listen...”
“You’re talking to a machine. Leave your message at the beep.”
Jon just looked at the phone.
“What’s wrong?” Toni said.
“An answer machine,” he said. “Now I’ve heard everything. Nolan’s got an answer phone! I don’t believe this.”
The phone said, beep.
Jon left his message, Bob locked his dog back in the bedroom, and they all went back into the club, where Jon and Toni headed for the stage.
For the last set.
4
WHEN SHE blew the words on “Heartbreaker,” Toni knew she was scared.
Certainly not stage fright — she’d been singing with rock bands since junior high — but some other kind of scared, something in her stomach that was far worse than butterflies.
Something cold.
Something alive.
Fear.
When the song was finished, she rushed over to Jon and whispered, “Fill in with something. I need a few minutes.”
Jon nodded, and away from the mike, stage-whispered to Les, Roc, and Mick to “forget the list — do ‘Light My Fire’ next,” a song Toni didn’t do anything on, which would give her a chance to take a break.
She stood inside the cubbyhole room stage right as the band went into the old Doors classic, Jon doing right by the elaborate pseudo-baroque organ break at the beginning. She was breathing hard. She wanted a smoke. She’d given it up two years ago and rarely had felt the urge since the first hard months, but now she wanted a smoke. She went out and bummed one off Tommy, the roadie, sitting at his sound board halfway down the dance floor, over stage left. Then she returned to the cubbyhole, sucking in smoke as if it was food and she was starving.
Mick was singing. He didn’t sing very well, and in fact was incurably flat, but the Doors tune lent itself to that: the late Jim Morrison was known for many things, but singing on key wasn’t one of them. Then the band went into the instrumental section of the song, Jon taking the organ solo, a sing-song thing that climbed the scale in mindless little would-be Bach progressions.
She wondered if that big sandy-haired guy — Jesus, was he big — was still in his booth, waiting for his mythical phone call. She decided to find out. She’d have plenty of time; this song went on for nearly ten minutes. She wandered back through the club, nodding as fans touched her arm and made comments about the sad fact that the Nodes were splitting, and then she was in the bar, where the big sandy-haired guy was sitting in the booth, talking intensely with a woman.
A woman in white with a black cardigan and tinted glasses and a beautiful face and — even seated in a booth it was obvious — a beautiful body.
Suddenly the cigarette was burning her throat I knew there was a reason I quit these fucking things, she thought, and went up to the bar and put the cig out in an ashtray up from the bottom of which a little picture of Bob Hale stared. Standing next to her at the bar were two young women.
Toni had seen these women before; they had been to hear the Nodes at the Ramp in Burlington a few months ago, part of a group of half a dozen hard, hoody-looking bitches, one of whom had been attracted to Jon, and vice versa. She was one of the two at the bar, a lanky brunette about nineteen, in jeans and jeans jacket and a Nodes T-shirt; lots of eye makeup, and smoking a cigarette.
The other woman was in her early twenties, medium height, boyish build — nothing remarkable, other than the close-set beady eyes, the lump of a nose, the thick lips with permanent, humorless sneer, the dishwater blonde hair greased back in a ducktail, the black leather jacket and red T-shirt and jeans, cigarette dangling from the Presleyesque lips, a hand on the other girl’s shoulder.
Toni couldn’t remember their names, but she did remember that the night Jon and the brunette had spent a break in the band’s van, the beauty with the ducktail had come up and smiled at Jon during the next break and, cleaning her nails with a switchblade, told Jon if he ever touched Darlene (that was the first girl’s name; what was the second one’s?) again, she would cut his balls off and hang ’em over her rearview mirror. Jon hadn’t argued with her. He’d tried to make a joke out of it later, about what a cornball creep that dyke was, doing her Sha Na Na routine. But it hadn’t come off: Jon knew the dyke had meant what she said.
Terrific, Toni thought It wasn’t enough somebody shows up from the part of Jon’s past that included that thief Nolan; the dyke and Darlene had to turn up, too. Wonderful.
She ducked back into the club. Jon was still playing his organ solo, getting ready to let Roc take over on guitar.
“Light My Fire”—the baroque opening, anyway — had been the first thing she’d ever heard Jon play on the organ. She’d been in a music store in Iowa City — the Sound Pit — looking at PA equipment with some of those jerks in her old band, Dagwood, and Jon was playing a Crumar portable organ, asking the clerk if he knew anywhere he could find an old Vox Super Continental. The clerk was trying to sell Jon a Moog synthesizer, telling him nobody played combo organ anymore, and Jon was saying, “Bullshit, the punk and new wave bands are all using old Vox and Farfisas.”
When she heard that she knew she’d found a kindred spirit. She started up a conversation with him, and soon they were having a drink at the Mill, a bar in downtown Iowa City, and then they were in bed at his apartment, or anyway the room he kept on the bottom floor of the antique shop he’d inherited from his uncle, a shop that had been closed since the uncle’s death.
Rock’n’roll, it seemed, was not Jon’s first love. He lived in a cartoonist’s studio, with drawing board, boxes of comic books, posters of comic strip characters like Dick Tracy and Batman and Tarzan, some framed original strips, making a gray-walled, cement-floored former storeroom a four-color shrine to comic art. Even the finely carved antique headboard of the bed they were in had some drawings tacked to it — Jon’s own work, and good work it was, at that.
“Are you a musician or a cartoonist or what?” she’d asked him, letting the sheet fall to her waist as she turned to look at his drawings; she liked her breasts and liked having him look at them as she looked at his art.
“I don’t know if I’m either anymore,” he said. He was sitting up in bed with a pillow propped behind him. His chest was almost completely hairless, she noted.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’ve been at this cartooning shit for as long as I can remember.”
“Oh, and you’re all of twenty.”
“Twenty-one. I’d guess that’s about how old you are, too. And I bet you aren’t finding rock’n’roll an easy life, either.”
“You’re right,” she admitted. “I been at it eight years, and it’s a hard go, even if you’re good at it, and I am.”
“Yeah, well, I’m good at cartooning and I’m not making it.”
“It’s hard to make it in any of the arts.”
“No kidding. Oh, I’ve had a couple of things published in the undergrounds. Ever hear of Bizarre Sex?”
She smiled. “Try me.”
“That’s the name of an underground comic. I’ve done a couple of science fiction parody things for ’em. Doesn’t pay much.”
“It’s a start.”
“But it isn’t a career. I don’t know. I don’t have much interest in commercial art, and the comic book field doesn’t appeal to me; the pay sucks and they’re doing the same old superhero junk, only badly.”
“What about a newspaper comic strip?”
“Landing a syndicated strip is almost impossible, particularly if you don’t do humor, which I don’t.”
“I thought you said you did two parodies for that underground comic.”
“Yeah, but I doubt many newspapers would want to carry ‘Dildos in Space.’”
“You may have a point. So where does music come in?”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard you play the organ. You’re good.”
“Aw, that’s nothing serious with me. I played off and on with some bands when I was in junior high and high school. I don’t think I could make a living at it. And I’m not sure I’d want to, if I could.”
“Why?”
“My mother was in ‘show biz,’ and she had a shitty life, playing piano and singing in bars, on the road all the time, dreaming of being on Ed Sullivan someday, only he’s dead now, and so is she.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“Kids? Me? Hell, no.”
“Then you wouldn’t be doing anybody a disservice leaving ’em behind when you went on the road, would you? If that’s what your problem is.”
He thought about that a while. Then he said, “What kind of band would I be in? I hate disco. I hate country rock. I hate heavy metal. There isn’t much I could stand to play, except old sixties stuff and maybe some of the new wave music coming out of England and the East Coast.”
And that had been the beginning of it. She had told him about her mock-Blondie band, Dagwood, which she wanted out of, and together they made plans to launch what became the Nodes. She knew about Roc, Mick, and Les, and they all got together in a friend’s garage and jammed through some material, and two weeks later they had relocated in Des Moines, to be with the booking agency that had handled the now-defunct Dagwood.
Leaving Iowa City for Des Moines seemed to be slightly rough for Jon. He didn’t say much about it but he was apparently very close to this guy Nolan, though they seemed to have had a minor falling-out of some kind lately, which made it easier to Jon to leave. So he said, anyway.
She had only seen this Nolan a few times. Actually, he seemed to be using the name Logan, but Jon always referred to him as Nolan. She didn’t know if Nolan had ever even noticed her, really; to him she was probably just some twat Jon was shacking up with. They’d never exchanged a word.
But she had noticed him, all right. Looked him over good.
He was handsome, in an ugly way. A big, lean man with the slightest paunch, with dark, somewhat shaggy hair that was graying at the temples, and widow’s peaked. He had high cheekbones, a mustache, and a mean look, but those eyes, those narrow, squinting eyes, had something else in them besides meanness. Intelligence, for sure. Humanity? Humor? Maybe not.
At the time, Nolan had been running some sort of restaurant in Iowa City, in which Jon was a partner, it seemed, though he didn’t say much about that. When she saw Nolan, he’d be dressed in a sportcoat and turtleneck and slacks, something casual, in a country club sort of way, and the guy looked good, looked right. Only something was wrong; something about him made her think of a gangster.
She used to kid Jon about that.
“I wonder what your gangster friend’s doing right now,” she’d say, sitting up in bed in a motel room, watching TV, on the road with the Nodes.
“Probably sticking up a bank,” Jon would answer, with a funny smile.
She and Jon had continued to share a room on the road, even though their romance had turned into a friendship, albeit a friendship that included sleeping together (but only occasionally screwing) and getting out of each other’s way when an attractive member of the opposite sex came along. She had a feeling Jon could have been serious about her if she let him, but her insistence that she was not a one-man woman, that marriage and whatever were not in her plans ever, cooled him off a bit.
And he did seem to like the freedom to go after the bitches, like that Darlene she’d spotted out in the bar. Jon was a weird kid, in a way, so goddamn straight. He didn’t even smoke dope — no drugs at all; no booze to speak of, either.
There was that one time, however, that he got good and plastered. It was at a party at some trailer out in the country, where a guy had a hog roast at three in the morning after the Nodes had played a particularly long night at a particularly rowdy bar. The girl Jon was with, a short little blonde in halter top and jeans, was the sort who wanted to drink but would not drink alone, and so Jon drank with her and later crawled off into the woods with her, too. But by the time he ended up back at the motel with Toni, he was plastered — plastered in the way that only someone who doesn’t get plastered often can get plastered. And he started to talk.
And he told her the damnedest things.
About him and Nolan.
And bank robberies and shooting somebody called Sam Comfort, some crazy old man who was a thief himself who Jon and Nolan were looting, and wild goddamn things about some girl getting her head blown off by somebody called Gross, and shoot-outs in lodges up in Wisconsin. And the next morning Jon asked her to forget all that stuff he told her last night, and there had never been a word about it since.
Till tonight.
“Light My Fire” was almost over.
She got back up on stage, and Jon gave her a little smile and she gave him one back, nodding, and they went into the next song.
Playing tambourine and singing back-up, she glanced over at Jon, and he was into the music — not a sign of worry. And she felt better. Jon had left a message for Nolan, and the woman in white and her big sandy-haired stooge didn’t know that. And that made Toni feel better; the cold feeling at the pit of her stomach was gone.
Then she noticed Jon flubbing the words on “Jailhouse Rock.”
And at the back of the room, standing by the double doors, the big sandy-haired man waited and watched.