Fire Lake (14 page)

I stared at Karen, sleeping on the bed--at her long
brown hair, her upturned mouth, her tan shoulders, her breasts-and
knew that I was falling in love with her. It was that simple. Only it
wasn't quite that simple.

I wanted and needed to protect what I loved. Banged
up the way I was, I wasn't sure I could do that. I wasn't sure I
could be there if Karen needed me, the way she'd been there when I'd
desperately needed her. And then there was Lonnie.

I'd wanted to kill him the night before. I still
hated him for senselessly involving me in his drug deal. But in the
cold light of a winter Sunday morning, I knew that I couldn't fairly
blame him for the beating I'd taken. Nobody had made me hold out on
Lewis and Jordan. Nobody had made me a friend to Lonnie. I'd chosen
that part myself.

I stared at Karen again and wondered if I was showing
loyalty to him to make up for the way I felt about her. If I was, it
could lead us both into trouble--following Lonnie's road to Fire
Lake. My guilts could get us both killed.

I managed to make it down the hall to the john. I
took a couple of muscle relaxants and a double dose of painkiller,
then stripped down and stepped into the tub. I stood under the shower
head for a long damn time, letting the hot water pour down my back
and legs. Gradually the painkillers kicked in, and I didn't feel so
bad anymore--about my aches and pains, about Lonnie, about anything.
Then Karen came into the shower and I felt better still.

We switched places under the shower head. She stood
facing the shower for a moment. When she turned back to me, her
pretty face was beaded with water, her tangled hair was jeweled with
it. She smiled her pouty smile and I felt like taking her right
there--in spite of my bruises.

We switched again and she picked up a washrag, rubbed
soap into it, and began to wash my chest. She washed my arms,
carefully avoiding the multicolored bruise on my shoulder. She washed
down my stomach, scarcely touching the blood bruises on my chest and
gut. When she got to my groin, she held me for a moment. I grew hard
in her hand.

"Karen," I said plaintively, over the
hammering noise of the shower. "You're torturing me."

She stroked me and sank to
her knees. Karen looked up at me, through the spray of the shower.
Her blue eyes were dark and drunken-looking. She shut her eyes
sleepily and I shut mine.

***

After the shower, Karen fixed coffee, eggs, and toast
for us in the kitchen. The place smelled of coffee, browned bread,
and butter. Karen found some paper plates and plastic ware, left over
from a New Year's Eve party, and, naked, we ate breakfast on the
living room couch. It still felt like the sixties to me, casually
eating breakfast across from my naked lover. And the way the room was
disarrayed, the patchwork chair, the confetti cushions, the way the
winter sunlight lit up the floor and walls, the shivery coolness of
the room, only added to that larkish feeling of freshness, of
impulsiveness. Except we were grown people, not college kids, and we
had a lot more to think about than making love again.

"That was very nice," I said, sipping the
coffee.

"I liked it too," she said, and her eyes
wrinkled up with pleasure.

"You know, I've never understood that. I mean,
what's to like?"

"Giving pleasure to someone you care for is ..
sexy."

"You're sexy," I said.

"I used to think I was," she said sadly.
"What changed your mind?"

"I had to do some things," she said, "when
Lonnie and I had habits. It kind of turned me off to sex."

I reached out and touched her leg. "You've made
a spectacular recovery."

She laughed. But the sadness stayed with her. "I
wish we'd met a long time ago," she said. I didn't say anything.

After a moment, Karen shook off her mood. "Are
we going to go look for him today?"

"I am," I said.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning," I said, "that I still think
you should go home to St. Louis."

To my surprise, Karen didn't immediately disagree.
Instead, she asked a very sensible question. "What happened
yesterday before the police came?"

I told her the whole thing--about Bo, Maurice, and
the guy with the shotgun.

"They were looking for cocaine?" she asked
when I was done.

I nodded. "My guess is that whoever they work
for fronted Lonnie some crack, and he lost it."

"Who was he supposed to sell it to?"

"I don't know, Karen. Somebody at that motel,
maybe. Maybe the bikers. Jenkins said they dealt dope. They might
have beaten Lonnie up and taken him off, with Jenkins's help."

"And then he tried to kill himself."

"It might have seemed like the only thing to do.
Look what happened to Jenkins."
 
"Poor
Lonnie," Karen said, shaking her head. "He never did have
any luck."

I laughed mordantly. "That's what he said when I
pulled out of the motel. That he had no luck, at all."

"You think those black men killed the clerk?"

"I'm sure of it," I said. "But he
didn't have the crack."

"No," I said. "They think Lonnie still
has it. That I helped him rip them off."

"I guess we have to talk to Lonnie to find out
what really happened."

"We?" I said.

She held up her right hand before I could finish
objecting.

"Harry, I've got to stay. The people you want to
talk to don't know you. They barely know me. But they'll talk to me."

I thought it over. If I hadn't been beaten up, if I
had more time, I could have managed on my own. I'd have to lean on
people, but I could get them to talk. Under the circumstances,
however, Karen's logic was indisputable.

"So, it's settled?" she said, getting up
from the couch and starting down the hall to the bedroom.

I said yes. But she didn't hear me. She was already
in the bedroom, getting dressed.
 

21

I loaded my pants pockets with muscle relaxants and
painkillers, before making my way slowly down the stairs. I also
pulled the Gold Cup and a spare clip out of the drawer of the bureau
and stuck them in my pea coat. Karen had gone down ahead of me, to
warm up the car. I wasn't going to be able to drive--at least, not
without working up a sweat. Besides, she knew where we were going and
I didn't.

Outside it was a bitterly cold December morning. High
clouds chased across the blue sky, giving the daylight the
changeable, uneven quality of light before a storm. It would snow
before the day was out and long before Karen and I were done with our
search. I hobbled past the ice-shagged dogwoods and down the concrete
steps to the lot.

By the time I finally made it into the passenger seat
of the Pinto, I'd worked up a sweat. I knew I'd loosen up as the day
went on, and my muscles warmed up, although bouncing in and out of
the cold wasn't going to do me much good. At that moment I was glad
Karen was with me.

I stared at her for a second. She was wearing her
tatty fur jacket and blue jeans. With her hair in that bun and her
face made up, she looked older and less vulnerable than she had in
the apartment. More like the off -duty elementary-school teacher she
really was.

"Ready?" she asked cheerfully.

I nodded.

Karen put the car in gear and backed slowly out of
the lot onto the side street running parallel to the Delores. She
drove up to the corner of Burnett and pulled to a stop.

"Where to first?" I said as we poised there
at the corner.

"St. Bernard, I think," Karen said.

"What's in St. Bernard?" I asked.

"A music store where Lonnie used to hang out.
His old manager, Sy Levy, owns it and a little recording studio
behind the store. Lonnie made his first tapes in Sy's studio."

"What makes you think Lonnie might have
contacted Levy?"

"Before Lonnie got hot and went off to
Hollywood, he and Sy were very close." She ducked her head and
added: "Sy was very good to me, too. When Lonnie and I were
down-and-out in St. Louis in '73, Sy sent me money to keep us going.
It wasn't like he could spare it, either. He runs a shoestring
operation."

"You think Lonnie might have touched him up?"
I asked.

"My guess is that Sy would be the first person
Lonnie'd run to, if he needed money or a shoulder to cry on. Sy's a
warm-hearted man. That's why his business has never gone anywhere. He
always thinks about his musicians before he thinks about himself, and
he never forgets an old friend. He's just the opposite of the kind of
sharks Lonnie tied up with in L.A. It took Lonnie a long time to
learn the difference. He thought all managers were like Sy, nice men
who'd look out for him and do the right thing by him." She
laughed bitterly. "Christ, was he ever wrong." She glanced
over at me.
"You want to give Sy a
shot?"

"Sounds promising," I said.

"Then give me some directions," she said.
"It's been a while."

I gave her directions to
St. Bernard. Karen turned left onto Burnett and we were off.

***

We found Sy Levy's Music World on Vine Street in the
ground floor of a long two-story red-brick apartment building on the
southern fringe of the old blue-collar, good Gatholic neighborhood of
St. Bernard. Karen let me out in front of the store, while she went
to find a place to park.

I'd kept an eye on the rearview mirror as we were
driving over, just in case we were being tailed. But if Bo and his
friends were following us, they were following from a distance. And
if Jordan was dogging me, he was in an unmarked car. Still, I didn't
let Karen out of my sight as she pulled around the corner and parked
the Pinto in front of an old clapboard KOC hall. When I saw her get
out of the car and start walking toward me, I took my first look at
Levy's shop.

From a distance, his store was indistinguishable from
the half-dozen other shops lining the block just one more storefront
on the ground floor of the apartment building. To my surprise, there
were no instruments hanging in the window-no saxophones dangling
like salamis in a butcher shop, no drum sets with their sparkling
cheerleader trim and big white bellies. Instead, Levy had hung dozens
of old 45s from wires. They ran in rows from the top of the window to
the casement, like a curtain of hot wax.

I examined the titles while I waited for Karen. There
was Elvis singing "Mystery Train." There was Nervous Norvus
doing "Ape Call." There was Fess Parker and "The
Ballad of Davy Crockett." Jerry Lee. Little Richard. Carl
Perkins on the Sun label. There were a few artists from the sixties,
too. Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett, Sam and Dave. And a couple of
rockers from the seventies. But from the preponderance of the
evidence, it was clear that Sy Levy had lost his heart to rock 'n'
roll about I956.

I peered through the curtain of records, into the
shop itself, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sy. All I could see were
peach crates full of records--some of them arranged on tables, with
index and artist cards in them, some of them stacked on the worn
wooden floors. A few microphones, angling from stands, were scattered
among the crates. And a couple of big black Fender amplifiers, with
finned horns on the high end, were sitting in opposite corners. There
were more 45's glued to the walls, along with several album covers,
including Elvis's first EP for Sun.

Karen caught me peering through the window. "See
anything you like?" she said with a smile.

"Christ," I said, "it's like a
birth-of-rock 'n' roll warehouse. Some of those records are worth a
fortune."

"That's Sy," Karen said. "That's his
whole way of life you're looking at. His whole treasure. Wait till
you see the studio."

She opened the shop door, and a little bell on a
spring jingled tunelessly. Karen stepped in and I followed her.
"There was no one in the shop itself. No one guarding the old
NCR register, sitting on a glass display case by the door. I glanced
at the display case. It was empty, save for a dozen red plastic
inserts for 45's. The glass panels were clouded over with dust and
grease. The whole store smelled of dust, mildewed cardboard, and
damp, radiated heat.

"Where is he?" I said, glancing at Karen.

She pointed to a corridor on the far side of the
room. "In his studio. Can't you hear it?"

And all of a sudden I could hear it--a faint tinny
sound of music, like the high-pitched buzz you pick up when you pass
someone wearing headphones.

Karen smiled nostalgically. The close, deadend
atmosphere of the shop clearly had a different meaning for her than
it did for me.

"This is where Lonnie made his first record,"
she said, looking a little dreamy. "This is where we had some
good times."

She smiled at me, and I smiled back at her.

"Is it okay to go back?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "Sy loves company."
 
I followed her across the room and down
the hallway at the far end. The hall was lit from above by a string
of bare bulbs and lined on either side with Steelcase shelves, empty
save for a couple of reel-to-reel tape boxes and a few coils of coax
cable. As we walked down the corridor the tinny sound of music got
louder and fuller. I couldn't make out the melody-the drums were
masking it--but it was definitely three piece, fifties-style rock 'n'
roll.