Salty (32 page)

Heidegger watched Turk patrol the stage, moving up front, racing across, banging into the guitarist, hopping around like the other members of the band—musicians half his age, or younger—like a maniac elder statesman of hard rock. Heidegger had wanted to call the band the Turk Henry Group,
but the manager now saw what Turk was after. He wanted to be in a band. A member of something bigger than himself. Although Turk had written most of the songs with the singer, this new band shared songwriting credits equally and made all the important decisions together. Heidegger even liked the name they'd chosen: Bangkok Claptrap. It wasn't as commercial as some of the names he'd put forward, but it had a certain underground charm. Whatever the name, the music was working. It rocked, with driving drums, a crunching powerful bass line as its foundation, and searing guitar interplay over some very interesting lyrics screamed out by a serviceable singer.

It would never go mega-anything, but Heidegger didn't care. He was just happy to see Turk playing music again.

…

If drums are the heart of rock music—the earthbound source of the beat—and the soaring screams of the guitar are the heavens, then the foundation that holds the earth and sky together is the bass line.

And Turk loved playing the bass guitar. It vibrated something in his soul; it filled him with a kind of electric charge, a life force coming straight out of the wall socket, connecting to his fingers and the strings of his guitar, fed back through an amplifier, then blasting into the universe. Turk was like Atlas, condemned by Zeus to hold the earth on his shoulders, to keep heaven and earth from colliding or, worse, tearing away from each other. It was an unglamorous job. The heavy lifting of heavy metal.

Turk walked to the edge of the stage, something he hadn't been allowed to do in his old band, and looked out at the audience. It was a crush of hair and leather, head-banging boys with their devil horn salutes flailing in the air, young women in skintight shirts flipping their hair as they danced.

Turk looked out on this pulsating mass of humanity and smiled; he couldn't help himself. The crowd moved him: the individuals who came to dance and thrash and mosh, putting aside the grind of daily existence to celebrate their animal natures in a timeless pagan debauch. It was rock and roll as spiritual communion. The music of the gods at crush volume.

They loved the music, and Turk, in turn, loved them back. Especially one woman, a dazzling redhead in a tight green tank top that displayed her wonderful, natural cleavage as she spun and danced with untamed abandon.

Turk made eye contact with her, and she smiled. He'd see her after the show.

It takes a lot of people to turn a manuscript into a book, and this book wouldn't exist without the intelligence, enthusiasm, and energy of Morgan Entrekin, Eric Price, Deb Seager, Jamison Stoltz, and all the great people at Grove/Atlantic.

Agents and editors around the world deserve some props! Thanks to Chandler Crawford, Michelle Lapautre, Devin McIntyre, Halfdan Freihow, Knut Ola Ulvestad, Elisabetta Sgarbi, François Guérif, Toby Mundy, Christopher Donnelly, Bill Weinstein, Tom Strickler, and Scott Seidel.

Big thanks to: Diana Faust, David Liss, William J. Overton, and Seth Greenland for early reads and advice, and to Jon King, Andy Gill, Hugo Burnham, and Dave Allen of the Gang of Four for all the backstage passes over the years.

And to Olivia and Jules for taking me to Thailand in the first place.

“T
HIS IS SO
fuckin' cool, man.” Morris burst through the doors of the lab carrying what looked like a log wrapped in black plastic. His white cotton smock, bearing the name United Pathology, flapped around his bony frame as he rushed forward. Morris was excited, breathless. He had something really good. His sneakers squeaked on the tile floor as he skidded to a stop in front of a young man with tall black hair.

“Bob. Dude. Check this out.”

Bob didn't look up from the computer. He slouched his skateboarder-lanky body in a stylish black chair designed to improve his posture, draping one of his legs across the desk so that one scuffy black shoe touched the side of the monitor while his other foot twitched to some unheard autonomic beat on the floor. He kept his eyes on the screen, thoughtfully stroking his trim goatee, as he scrolled through a digital gallery of young Canadian virgins on the Internet. He eyed the young blondes intently, staring at their pert breasts, ice-cream-scoop butts, and spread patches of pink surrounded by wisps of blond curls. They could have been Swedish or maybe Norwegian, but they were definitely from some frosty part
of the world. Cold and clean and young. Their bodies promising sex fresh as mountain air, clear as spring water, and as pure as new-fallen snow. Like a beer ad. Bob twisted in his seat, his pants suddenly too small.

Morris cleared his throat.

“Dude, it's totally grisly.”

“Can't you see I'm busy?”

Undaunted by Bob's lack of enthusiasm, Morris put the package down on the desk in front of him and began to unwrap it.

“It smells a little.”

“Then don't open it.”

“I thought you liked tattoos.”

Bob heaved a sigh and moused his way out of the porn site.

“Put it in a tray, all right?”

Morris nodded and crossed the lab to the sink. He pulled out a large stainless steel examining tray and carried it back.

“Good idea, Bob. These things are always seepin' a little.”

Morris gently plopped the package in the tray and pulled the plastic away, unveiling his prize. Bob recoiled at the sight, instinctively covering his mouth and nose. Morris looked at him, surprised.

“You gonna puke?”

Bob shook his head.

“Check out the tattoos, dude. Check 'em out.”

Morris picked up the severed arm and rolled it over. Congealing blood oozed out and smeared the surgical tray. It was a tough-looking arm. Muscular and hairy. Tattoos were scattered up and down, inside and out. The letters
H-O-L-A
etched into the knuckles. Morris rotated the arm again and Bob saw an exceptionally beautiful tattoo of a woman laying naked on her back with her legs in the air. A man lay with her, his head buried between her thighs.

“What'dya think, man?”

Bob covered his nostrils and leaned in close. The tattoo was skillfully drawn, with real flair. The woman's body seemed to quiver, as if she were coming.

“Good, isn't it?”

Bob looked up at Morris.

“It's amazing.”

Bob opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a Polaroid camera.

“Rotate the arm a couple of inches up.”

“Like this?”

“Up.”

Morris complied. Bob got close to the arm and then pushed the button. Flash, whir, ding. The camera spit out a photo. Bob stuck the picture in his pocket and put the camera back in the drawer. He looked at Morris.

“I'm thinking about making a coffee run. You want some?”

“Let me go. I've spent too much time with the arm. I need a break.”

Bob looked at the arm.

“What are we supposed to do with it anyway?”

Morris wrapped the appendage in the plastic.

“I gotta take it to the lab at Parker Center tomorrow morning after they drain it or whatever.”

Bob shot Morris a look of disbelief.

“This is evidence?”

Morris shifted his weight from foot to foot, something he did when he was nervous or really had to pee. He took his sunglasses out of his pocket and stuck them on his nose so he wouldn't have to look Bob in the eye.

“Bob. Dude. I don't know that it's evidence for sure.”

“Is it from a crime scene?”

Morris finished wrapping the arm.

“Double latte, right?”

Bob shook his head.

“Whatever, man.”

Morris spun on his heel and left. Bob sighed, picked up the arm, and walked it over to a large freezer. He swung the big silver door open and slid the arm onto a shelf filled with hundreds of other lumps, bumps, cysts, clippings, cuttings, kibbles, and bits. Bob sat back down in front of the computer, but the blondes had lost their allure.

He pulled the Polaroid out of his pocket and watched it slowly finish developing. It was a clear picture of the tattoo. The artist was obviously very talented. Bob looked closer, studying the woman. Intricately drawn, her breasts hung voluptuously, spreading across her chest and swinging down just a little toward her armpits. She had a full head of long black hair that flowed away from her body. Her legs, arms, and ass were perfectly proportioned, not thin or skinny; there was nothing girly about her, she had a womanly weight. A sensual mass. Her mouth was a half smile, half grimace, as her body bucked and kicked in the throws of orgasm. Her eyes wide open as if surprised by the sensation.

Bob looked at her and felt a strange sensation of his own. It was as if he knew her. Or maybe, closer to the truth, as if she were the woman he wanted to know. His idea of what a
sexy woman looked like. Bob felt a pang of jealousy when he looked at the man's body. Although Bob was considered by many people to be a good-looking dude in relatively robust shape, he couldn't compete with the taught and articulated muscles, the pure sexual power of the man in the tattoo. All that energy focused between a woman's legs.

Bob ran his finger over the Polaroid, following the line that detailed her thigh to her belly to her breasts to her lips. He surprised himself when a little moan came out of his mouth.

Bob absently traced a line with his finger slowly down his chest, across his belly, to his crotch. He felt a swelling.

It was a very good tattoo.