Crime Plus Music (19 page)

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so you're not a musician. What did you do?”

“Still do, when I get through in Polson.” Her eyes went back to the windshield and her future. “Produce, audio engineer . . . or I try to.” She nibbled on one of the nails that held the shiny cup. “Did you know that less than five percent of producers and engineers in the business are women?”

“Can't say that I did.”

I waited, but she seemed preoccupied, finally sipping her coffee again and then pouring herself another. “It's bullshit. We're raised to be attractive and accommodating, but we're not raised to know our shit and stand by it.” She was quiet for a while, listening to the lyrics. “Townes Van Zandt wrote that one. People think it's about Pancho Villa but one of the lines is about him getting hung—the one about the
federales
letting him
hang
around out of kindness I suppose . . . Pancho Villa was assassinated.”

“Yep, seven men standing in the road in Hidalgo del Parral shot more than forty rounds into his roadster.”

“You a history teacher before you were sheriff?” I didn't say anything, and the smile lingered on her face like finger-picking on a warp-necked fret. “Maybe Townes was smoking in Muskogee, too.”

“It's probable.”

Silence again, but she continued to watch me drive. “You're okay-looking, in a dad kind of way.”

“That's a disturbing statement for a number of reasons.”

She barked a laugh and raised one of the combat boots up to lodge it against the transmission hump, but realized she was revealing the pistol from the drape of the blanket before her and lowered her foot. It was another mile marker before she spoke again, her voice a little strained.

“My dad never talked about it; Vietnam. . . . He handled that Agent Orange stuff and that shit gave robots cancer.” Her eyes were drawn back to the windshield, and Polson. “He died last week and they're already splitting up his stuff.” The mile markers clicked by like spokes. “He taught me how to listen; I mean really listen. To hear things that nobody else heard. He had this set of Sennheiser HD 414 open-back headphones from '73, lightweight with the first out-of-head imaging with decent bass—Sony Walkmans and all that stuff should get down and kiss Sennheiser's ass. 2000 ohm impedance let you plug into a line-level output without loading it down. The big peak was 2 kHz in their frequency response curve and would seriously scour your ears; tough, too. They had a steel cord and you could throw them at a
talented
program director or a brick wall—I'm not sure which is potentially denser.”

It was an unsettling tirade, but I still had to laugh.

“You don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do you?”

We topped the hill above Billings and looked at the lit-up refineries that ran along the highway as I made the sweeping turn west. “Nope, but it all sounds very impressive.” The power of the motor pushed us back in the leather seats like we were tobogganing down the hill in a softened and diffused landscape, floating on a cushion of air, rushing headlong into the snowy dunes and the shimmering lights that strung alongside the highway like fuzzy moons.

She turned away, keeping her eyes from me, afraid that I might see too much there. “You can just drop me at the Golden Pheasant; I've got friends there doing a gig that'll give me a ride the rest of the way.”

Nodding, I joined with the linear constellation of I-94.

I had a vague sense of the club's location downtown and took the 27th Street exit, rolling past the Montana Women's prison, and the wrong side of the railroad tracks as we sat there watching a hundred and sixty coal cars of a Burlington Northern/Santa Fe train roll by. The quiet settled in the cab the way it does when there's so much to say, and like the muffled tires of the truck had been, the wheels were turning.

When she finally spoke, her voice was different, perhaps the most approaching sane of the night. “It belonged to my father. When I was leaving for Tennessee, he gave me a choice of those headphones I was telling you about, but I figured I'd have more use for the gun.” She placed her hand on the dash and fingered the vent louvers. She continued talking now, because she had to. “I got picked up by a few guys from Missouri and they tried stuff. They seemed nice at first . . . anyway, I had to pull it.”

I waited.

“I didn't shoot anybody.”

“Good.” I turned down a side street and took a right where I could see the multi-colored neon of the aforementioned pheasant spreading his tail feathers in a provocative manner. I parked the truck in the first available spot—it was still sifting snow—slipped her into
PARK
and turned to look at the girl with the strange eyes.

“Maybe I should've taken the headphones.”

“Maybe they're still there.”

She smiled and finished the dregs of her coffee, wiped the cup out on her blanket, and screwed the top back on the thermos. She placed it back against the console as the revolver slipped from her leg and onto the seat between us.

We both sat there looking at it, representative of all the things for which it stood.

“If you take that back to Polson, what are you going to do with it?”

“Probably throw it in the lake up there. It's never done anything but bring me bad luck.”

I leaned forward and picked it up. It was a nice one; S&W Chief's Special with not much wear. “How 'bout I keep it for you?”

She didn't say anything for a long time but finally slipped through the open door and pulled the guitar case from the bed of my truck, standing there in the opening.

The plaintive words of Haggard's “A Place to Fall Apart” drifted from the speakers and she glanced at the radio as if the Okie from wherever might be sitting on my dash. “I'd give a million dollars if that son of a bitch would go into a studio, just him and a six-string guitar, no backup singers, no harps—and just play.”

I watched her face, trying to not let the eyes distract me. “Maybe you should tell him that sometime.”

The eyes sparked. “After I get those headphones, maybe I'll look him up.”

“I wouldn't look in Muskogee.”

The wind pressed against her, urging departure. “He lives in Redding, California.”

She shut the door and clutched the blanket around herself, dragging the guitar case and walking away without looking back. She disappeared into the swinging glass doors with swirls of snow devils circling behind her, and all I could think was that I was glad I wasn't in Polson, Montana, and in possession of a set of Sennheiser HD 414 open-back headphones.

I emptied the pistol into my center console and then carefully wrapped the revolver in a bandana from my liner pocket, placed it beside the loose rounds, and locked the lid.

Twenty minutes later my daughter climbed in the cab. “Please tell me we're not staying at the Dude Rancher.”

I didn't say anything, and waited for her to put on her seatbelt.

She pulled the shoulder belt around in a huff, but then smiled back at me. “Oh, Daddy.”

“Merry Christmas, Punk.” I pulled the truck in gear, as Haggard softened his tone in my stereo with one of my favorites, “If We Make it Through December.”

She was now ruffling Dog's hair and kissing his muzzle, and it must've taken a good thirty seconds before she remarked. “Did you get a new stereo in the truck? It sounds good.”

I nodded as we held hands over the console, driving down from the airport. “Yep, it does.”

A BUS TICKET TO PHOENIX

BY WILLY VLAUTIN

O
TIS
WOKE
THAT
MORNING
TO
Lenny in the bathroom yelling on the phone. It was past 11 a.m. at Winner's Casino in Winnemucca, Nevada. Under the covers he shivered in the cold and could see his breath fall out and disappear into the room. He got up to find the window open and the heat off.

He set the thermostat to high, shut the sliding glass window, and looked out to see snow falling. It covered the van and trailer and the houses behind the motel. He stood seventy-seven years old, thin and tall with greasy brown hair. He found his clothes on the floor, dressed, and walked across the street to the casino. He used the toilet, lost five dollars on video poker, and went to the casino restaurant for breakfast.

In a booth he sat alone and filled out his Keno card, ordered a Denver omelet and a draft beer, when Lenny came in and sat across from him. Lenny was twenty-nine years old also tall and thin. He had short black hair and his face was red from the cold and snot leaked from his nose onto his handlebar mustache. He wore a black felt cowboy hat and two Levi coats on top of each other.

“Bet you got a Denver omelet and pancakes. You gotta be way too hungover for oatmeal and toast.”

Otis nodded. “Man, I'm gonna get pneumonia rooming with you.”

“Don't you know you're supposed sleep in a cold room?” said Lenny.

“Not in a freezer.”

“That's what you get for being born in Phoenix.”

“You were born in Phoenix, too.”

“But my folks are from Montana,” Lenny said and smiled. “The cold is in my blood. I can take anything.”

Otis shook his head and waited for his numbers to appear on the Keno TV bolted to the back wall of the restaurant. The waitress came and Lenny ordered drinks, a hamburger steak, three eggs over medium, and a side of French toast.

“I bet you're wondering why I was on the phone all morning?”

Otis nodded vaguely and kept his eyes on the TV screen.

Lenny sunk down in the booth. “The hot water heater in my house broke, and Wendy's having a fit 'cause I maxed out our credit card buying the new P bass. We're flat broke with no hot water and her sister and her three brats will be there in less than twenty-four hours.”

“That's rough,” said Otis and looked at him. “I hate showering in cold water.”

“And who does she call to help her but Dex. He's picking up a new water heater from Home Depot and coming over to put it in.”

“Dex is her ex-husband, right?”

Lenny nodded. “You know she'll fuck him and she always fucks best when she's mad or guilty and she'll be both.”

“But look at it this way,” said Otis. “At least you'll get a new water heater and you'll get it for free.”

The waitress came from the casino bar with a Budweiser and a shot of Jägermeister and set it down. Lenny drank the shot and leaned over the table. “Maybe this tour is cursed. Maybe this one's like the time we went out with Bobby Diamond.”

“Shit, man, don't say things like that,” said Otis. “The van caught fire on that run.”

Lenny drank half his glass of beer.

“And remember that guy in the room next to us at the Super 8 shot himself? And Bobby used to give me those three-page lists of fuck ups I'd make. He had to have a perfect memory, son of a bitch. Fuck that guy. Fifty bucks a day and only ten dollars per diem. One beer per set, it ain't human. And don't forget he picked up that retarded gal and had her ride with us for three days. This tour ain't that bad.”

Lenny finished his beer. “Even so I'd rather be out with Bobby. At least Bobby didn't make me dress up like a biker with a handle bar mustache.”

“What about me?” Otis said. “I have to play metal licks all night. I've spent my whole life trying not to play metal, and now I'm in a country band that plays metal.”

Lenny waved the waitress back over and they ordered two more beers and two shots.

“A movie called
The Martian
's playing at one,” said Otis as she walked away. “The front desk lady said the movie theater's barely a mile down the main street.”

“What's
The Martian
about again?”

“A guy stuck on Mars.”

Lenny laughed. “Man, we're already stuck on Mars. I hate this run. Mesquite, Laughlin, Henderson, then not even Vegas but a truck stop outside of Vegas, Tonopah, Reno, and now this place.”

“It's only twelve more days,” Otis said. “At least the shows have been good.”

“Harlan can sure pack them in. I have no idea how, but he can,” said Lenny.

“I'm getting depressed just thinking about him.”

The waitress came with their drinks and set them down. They knocked the shot glasses together and drank them.

“You think Harlan takes steroids?”

Otis looked at the numbers coming up on the Keno screen. “He might.”

“I've never seen a guy in that good of shape.”

“Me neither.”

“You hit?”

“No,” Otis said and then a Mexican kid came from the back with both meals and set them on the table.

Lenny put a napkin on his lap and shook his head. “I still can't believe I lost my bass.”

“Me neither,” said Otis and began eating.

Lenny took a drink of beer. “Did I ever tell you the time when I was seventeen and doing a tour with this band called The High Range Rustlers?”

Otis shook his head.

“We were playing a convention in Helena, Montana, and after the gig we drove to a friend of one of the guys to stay the night. Back then I never left my bass anywhere. My dad had lost a couple guitars over the years and he was the one who told me to never let the son of a bitch out of my sight. So I took the fucker in with me every time, no matter what. But that night I'd taken some mushrooms and we were drinking tequila and I was the guy bringing in everyone's personal gear. I took out my bass, set it on the ground, and started making trips. But I forgot the poor fucker in the dark and left her on the front lawn. It was the same time as now, November, and it was like today and had started snowing. Dumped maybe seven or eight inches, not a lot but enough that it covered my bass. We had the next day off. I woke up hungover as shit and didn't think about where it was. I just ate breakfast and walked around Helena. They had a party that night and not once did I think about my poor bass. The next day comes and we're loading out and suddenly it starts raining and it melts the snow and wham bam if my bass isn't there safe and sound in its plastic case. She caused it to rain so I'd find her . . . And then there was that time I went home with that gal and she pulled the knife on me so I ran out of her apartment. Wasn't until I'd gotten back to the motel that I realized I'd forgotten my bass. And the worst of it was I was so drunk I couldn't remember where she lived. But the next morning I went down to the lobby and there my bass was leaned against the front desk in that same case. The crazy chick had brought her back. My bass convinced a maniac with a kitchen knife to bring her to the motel. I got dozens of those stories. . . . Hell my dad gave me the bass for my sixteenth birthday and now I'm twenty-nine and I ain't half as big a fuck up as I was back then. But now, after all this time, she suddenly vanishes at a truck-stop gig outside of Las Vegas. No other gear goes missing, just my Dad's '72 P bass. And don't forget the manager of the room swore up and down he locked every door.”

“I don't even like talking about it,” said Otis quietly.

“How do you think I feel?” Lenny cried. “Thing's worth a couple grand.”

“And it was your dad's.”

Lenny nodded and picked up his knife and fork. “My dad's probably pissing on my head from heaven for being such a shit-heel.” He broke apart the three over-medium eggs, mixed them in with the hamburger and hash browns, and poured syrup over all of it.

“I really do have a bad feeling about this whole tour,” said Otis. “Don't forget Mickey lost his gold watch in Henderson.”

“But he left it in the van,” Lenny said. “Who leaves a watch sitting in a van on the seat for everyone to see?”

“But we were only gone ten minutes. Remember it was just a piss break. And there was hardly anyone at that gas station.”

“Well they won't let us have a key so it wasn't our fault the van was left unlocked. They get mad if we lock it and they get mad if we don't.”

“Mickey said his wife gave him the watch,” said Otis with a mouth full of food. “It was her grandfather's prized possession. She inherited it and had it engraved for their wedding day, ‘Mickey and Emily forever.' It's worth a thousand dollars plus, of course, sentimental value.”

“Who wears a watch anymore anyway?”

“You just hate him 'cause he doesn't like Sneaky Pete,” Otis said and laughed.

“What steel player doesn't like Sneaky Pete?”

“That's a good point.”

“Why couldn't it have happened to Terry?”

“You just hate Terry 'cause he drags,” said Otis.

“And why shouldn't I? I'm the bass player, aren't I? He has three beers and then he drags the rest of the fucking night. When I see him cracking that third bottle I just cringe. He and Harlan do nothing but lift weights and play on the Internet. Maybe Terry should listen to a click and learn how to keep a beat. And just 'cause he's Harlan's brother-in-law he gets keys to the van and gets paid more than we do.”

“He has keys 'cause it's his van.”

“Still,” Lenny said and took the side order of French toast, covered it in butter and syrup, and scraped it off the small plate onto the half-eaten eggs and hamburger steak. “And here's something else. Mickey thinks Harlan's about ready to sign some big Nashville deal.”

“Really?”

“He's probably going to be famous.”

“Jesus, you think that could be true?”

“I don't know. He sure packs them in. Even in these shitholes.”

Otis looked at the Keno screen and shook his head. “I hate to say what I'm about to say, but maybe we should stick this one out for a while.”

“That's what Mickey thinks too.”

“The problem is he'll fire Mickey.”

Lenny nodded and pointed his fork at Otis. “'Cause he's fat and bald, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Man, Harlan's an asshole.”

Otis nodded.

Lenny took a drink of beer. “As my dad would say, ‘Mickey is one sugar-picking son of a bitch.' And that trumps all looks, weight, and most deviant behavior.”

Otis laughed.

“You really think a guy like Harlan could hit the big time?”

Otis pushed his plate to the center of the table. “Did I ever tell you about the time I was in that band called the Black Dust Marauders?”

Lenny shook his head.

“It was when I was nineteen or so. All original songs. We put out a couple records.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Like Doug Sahm meets Yes. Prog country,” he said and laughed. “It didn't make a lot of sense. Weird time signatures and songs that would go on for ten minutes. But I dug it and the singer-songwriter's mom bankrolled the band. I made twenty grand just playing fifty or sixty nights a year. She must have lost a fortune. Anyway, we were doing a gig in Salt Lake and the band opening for us was Matchbox Twenty.”

“I think I've heard of that band,” said Lenny.

“They were famous a few years back. But that night in Salt Lake they weren't shit and all we saw was a brand new blue fifteen-seat Econoline with a matching blue trailer taking our parking spot. They were on a major label when labels still had the money. The Black Dust Marauders were topping out at forty to fifty people a gig and driving a fifteen-year-old Dodge. But hell, we brought the people that night. No one knew who they were. Even so, they had a merch person, a sound man, and that new goddamn van and trailer. I watched their set and that's when I was convinced that none of it made sense. That the whole thing didn't make sense. They'd sign anyone, throw money at anyone, even a blown-out tire on the side of the road. 'Cause to me that's what they sounded like. And then you know what happened?”

“What's that?”

“Maybe three weeks later we were in Boston, Massachusetts, and they were on the radio. I went into a mini-mart and heard them mentioned by a DJ. After that I heard them everywhere. They had a hit. I must have heard their song twenty or thirty times during that last week of the tour. What that says to me is maybe Harlan Sudrey will be the next Kenny Chesney.”

“We sure have to play enough of that shit.”

“Chesney's better than playing Harlan's ‘Riding That Wave like a Bull
.'
”

Lenny laughed and kept shoveling in his breakfast.

Otis finished his beer. “I got to say you look like an idiot with that mustache.”

“How do you think I feel?” said Lenny sighing. He put down his knife and fork. “The last thing I want is a handlebar mustache. 'Cause know who else has a fucking handlebar mustache?”

“Who?”

“Wendy's dad, that's who. Every time I go to kiss her she thinks it's her dad trying to stick his tongue down her throat. Man, it's even worse when we get in the sack.”

Otis laughed, crumbled his Keno card and put it on his breakfast plate.

Lenny set down a twenty dollar bill and his food voucher on the table and got up from his seat. “I got forty bucks on Arizona State and the game starts in an hour. I'll see you around. Remember he wants to do the Zach Brown song tonight and the Metallica one.”

O
TIS
WALKED
DOWN
THE
MAIN
street of Winnemucca towards the theater. Snow fell but wasn't sticking and the main road was clear and a constant stream of cars and trucks passed on the road. He darted across the street to a minimart, bought a large bag of M&M's and a bottle of Coke and put them in his coat pocket. He could see the theater marquee a block away when a man ran toward him on the sidewalk. As he got closer he could see it was the singer, Harlan Sudrey, dressed in a silver-and-black jogging outfit with matching silver-and-black running shoes.