Rock Chick 06 Reckoning (26 page)

Something that was somewhere I
did not
want to go.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“No,” I replied honestly.

“Is anyone gonna ask
me
if I’m okay? It was my fuckin’

head that nearly got blown off,” Pong demanded.

“They were aimin’ at Stel a Bel a,” Buzz commented, throwing himself on his side lengthwise at the foot of the bed.

“So?” Pong snapped.

My eyes moved to Pong. “Are you okay?”

Pong looked at me, lost his annoyance and grinned.

“Sure. Bitches were al over me last night. Bein’ in mortal danger appears to be an aphrodisiac.”

I rol ed my eyes back in my head.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” Buzz said to Pong.

“A fuckin’ idiot who had a foursome last night,” Pong shot back.

Oh lordy.

“I’m too old for this shit,” Floyd muttered.

The phone rang and I got up on my elbows and watched Hugo move toward it.

“No comment, Hugo,” I reminded him.

“I speak English not Swahili, mama. I heard Mace. I hear you. Jesus,” he paused, beeped on the phone and greeted,

“Yeah?”

I flopped back down on the bed re-thinking my career path. Then re-thinking my romantic path. Then my careening thoughts conjured up a sketch of a woman who would be sil y enough to shut Hector down. Then the look in Mace’s unguarded eyes flashed before mine and I got a ful body shiver.

Then I heard Hugo say from above me, “Stel a, it’s Monk.”

I opened my eyes to see Hugo standing at the side of the bed.

Effing hel .

I did an ab curl and reached a hand out for the phone.

I wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.

Monk had had someone with a rifle in his club last night.

Worse, that someone fired the rifle. Even worse, Monk had missed out on post-gig last cal due to a frenzied stampede. Even worse, Monk would have no entertainment tonight. We were set to play there again and there was no way in hel we were going to do that.

“Monk,” I said into the phone.

“Stel a, beautiful,” Monk gushed exuberantly, not sounding angry at al .

Erm, what?

“Monk, I’m sorry about –” I started.

“Did you see
The
Denver Post?
” Monk interrupted me.

“Um, no,” I told him. “Not exactly.”

He didn’t care if I saw it or not and I knew this when he announced, “The Pal adium was mentioned five times in
The Post
. Best advertising you can get, fuckin’ free! This is shit-hot.” Monk continued speaking happily in my ear.

“We’re gonna double the cover charge tonight. We’l make a kil ing.”

He wasn’t serious.

“Monk, we can’t play tonight,” I said.

Silence then, “Why the fuck not?”

I looked around at my band. They were al watching me.

“Wel , because we got shot at last night,” I explained.

“So?” Monk asked.

“With a rifle,” I went on.

“And?” Monk pressed.

“Pong nearly got his head blown off,” I continued.

“Last night, Pong had women drippin’ off him,” Monk returned. “That boy hasn’t been that lucky since the University of Colorado women’s vol eybal team came to see your show.”

I remembered the night the vol eybal team came to see the show. That hadn’t been a good night, at least not for me and definitely not for Mace. It had ended in a five o’clock in the morning phone cal that saw Mace extricating Pong from a situation where Pong lost al his clothes (but his black bikini briefs) in a game of strip poker. When he tried to get them back, he’d learned how strong a gaggle of col ege-aged female athletes could be. And let’s just say that Mace hadn’t been al that thril ed to have Pong sitting in the front seat of his silver Chevy Avalanche wearing only his black bikini briefs.

“Even so –” I continued to try to convince Monk of the seriousness of the situation which kind of pissed me off, considering there should be no convincing to do.

“Stel a, you’re playin’,” Monk broke in.

“Monk, you can’t think –”

“I can and I do. You don’t play tonight you never play the Pal adium again,” Monk threatened.

My body got tight.

“Monk!”

“Not only that, Stel a, you don’t play tonight, I start talkin’

to the other club owners. Talkin’ about shit like wandin’, searches and that fuckin’ Mace guy gettin’ in my face and puttin’ his hands on me.”

Effing hel .

“Monk, listen to me, we can’t play tonight. It’s too dangerous.”

“No, Stel a, you listen to me. You play tonight or you don’t play in Denver. Anywhere in Denver. Ever again.”

“Are you threatening me?” I snapped.

“It’s not a threat. Trust me.”

My luck sucked!

Before I could retort, the phone was ripped from my hand and I watched Hugo put it to his ear.

“Monk, you got Hugo,” he said into the phone, his deep, velvet voice an angry purr. “Yeah,” he went on. “No, you listen to me you circus freak cracker. We play tonight, you double the cover and we get the take.” I stared in shock at Hugo’s words as Hugo paused for a few beats then kept talking. “Quiet, you’re listenin’ to me now, motherfucker.” The angry purr got angrier and I held my breath. “You open the doors an hour early to get folks in. You fol ow the security protocol to the letter. The… fuckin’… letter. You understand?” Hugo paused again, nodded his head once then went on, “We play thirty minute sets, not forty-five. You put signs up that say no bags, purses or backpacks al owed.” I heard yel ing come from the phone but Hugo forged ahead. “No one wearin’ bulky clothes either, no jackets, no sweatshirts, nothin’. The minute you hit code maximum, you close the doors. No one gets in unless someone goes out. We clear, motherfucker?” There was more yel ing coming from the phone and I glanced around at the band. Leo was in the kitchen, three empty coffee cups dangling forgotten from his fingers.

Floyd had angry eyes narrowed on the phone. Pong was grinning. Buzz was biting his lip.

I looked back at Hugo when he started speaking again.

“You try to fuck The Gypsies, we got problems. You don’t want problems with me, motherfucker. I know you like toot, I know who you get your toot from and I know you’re tappin’

his piece. He’s a serious guy and he don’t like sharin’,

‘special y with a circus freak cracker. You want him to stay in the dark and you to stay supplied with blow, not to mention your piece of ass, you keep your fuckin’ mouth shut. Now, are we clear?”

Silence from Hugo and the phone.

Then Hugo said, “Damn straight, motherfucker,” he beeped off the phone and tossed it to me. “We’re good,” he told me calmly.

I blinked.

“We’re… good?” I asked hesitantly.

“Monk’s on board,” Hugo replied.

I threw out my arms. “Hugo, are you nuts? We can’t play tonight! We can’t play until this shit is over.”

“Be cool, mama, we’l be al right,” Hugo responded.

I stared at him, mouth open.

Everyone was nuts. Everyone, that was, but me.

“You’re nuts,” I told Hugo.

“Anyone want eggs? I’m cooking,” Leo cal ed from the kitchen.

“I’d kil for some eggs. You got bacon?” Pong asked me, entirely unaffected by al the scariness happening around him.

“You’re nuts too,” I said to Pong who just grinned at me and pushed off the bed.

“Toast. I need toast. With grape jel y. And loads of butter,” Buzz said, exiting the bed as wel .

“There’s bread. There’s bacon too,” Leo announced, head in the fridge.

I looked at Floyd.

Floyd didn’t look happy.

Final y, one sane person!

He stared at me and shook his head.

I waited for him to intervene, to bring sanity into our crazy world.

Then he shrugged.

“Is the coffee done?” Floyd asked as he got up and walked to the kitchen too.

Shitsofuckit!

I flopped back on the bed.

Beautiful.

This was just beautiful.

“You better cal Mace, get him to set up the security detail,” Hugo said from his place leaning against the kitchen ledge.

Even more beautiful.

Mace was going to have a shit fit.

And here I was, pul ing him in to help me and my band.

Again!

“Stel a Bel a, you want eggs?” Leo asked.

I looked at Juno.

She blinked at me then panted a bit. I watched as she gave up the fight against consciousness, rol ed to her side and groaned as she stretched out, preparing for her doggie nap.

Eyes stil on Juno, I answered, “Yeah, I want eggs.”
Chapter Twelve

Set List

Stella

“Denver, let me hear you make some noise!” I shouted into the mic, stil playing my guitar, the music roaring from the amplifiers.

At my demand, the crowd went nuts.

I looked to Buzz and smiled. He smiled back while jacking his head up and down. My gaze moved beyond Buzz to see Floyd’s head swinging back and forth, his shoulders bunched up, his fingers crashing on the piano keys. I stepped back and looked behind me to see Pong’s hair was flying out wild as he shook his head and banged the drums. My gaze moved to Leo who had his head bent, staring at the stage but his feet were hopping up and down to the beat.

Hugo was playing the keyboards, something he rarely did. He said this was because it gave him bad flashbacks of the organ lessons he’d taken at church, lessons forced on him by his bal -buster of a grandmother.

I felt badly about giving Hugo flashbacks of his bal -

buster grandmother because I’d met her and she
wa s
a bal -buster.

But we needed the keyboards.

We were ending our third set on our fourth encore of Bob Seger and The Silver Bul et Band’s “Get Out of Denver”.

Keyboards were paramount. You didn’t do “Get Out of Denver” without keyboards.

Hugo had had to suck it up.

He hated it but he did it for the band.

I executed the finishing riff with the drums, keyboards and piano crashing al around me. Then, as the keyboards and drums kept the excitement going, I put my arm up in the air, finger pointed to the ceiling, bounced my head and shoulders with my finger slashing the air, one, two, three, four and then we al jumped high one last time as I brought my arm down in a wide swipe and the music stopped.

I turned to the mic, wrapped my hand around it and smiled to the crowd.

“That’s rock ‘n’ rol !” I yel ed and a wal of sound hit us as they screamed back.

“We need a beer. Give us fifteen minutes and we’l be back,” I told them and they screamed again.

I grabbed the neck of my guitar and swung it in an arc, moving my hair out of the way with a shake of my head and disengaging the black leather strap (that had kil er, tiny, daisy flower silver rivets running up each edge, a double threat, girlie but stil rock ‘n’ rol ) from around my shoulder. I placed my guitar in its stand and walked between Buzz and Leo to the stairs that would lead offstage.

The crowd had moved from fanatic screams to clapping and stomping rhythmical y, chanting the word “Gypsies” over and over again. They were hoping for encore number five and I had to admit, I was high enough to give it to them.

But seriously, as high as I was, as much as the music and the crowd were feeding me, I needed a fucking beer.

* * * * *

Let’s just say Mace hadn’t been happy that our evening plans had changed from a quiet dinner and a talk about our future to his having to pul together a security detail for a death defying rock gig.

After the band left, I cal ed Mace and managed to talk him around (okay, so it could more appropriately be described as yel ing him around). But once he gave in, to my shock, Lee phoned and started yel ing at me too. Then Luke phoned. Then Hector. Then Eddie. I hung up on Hank and then had Roxie phoning me, yel ing at me for hanging up on Hank.

The Hot Bunch weren’t al that excited about me getting shot at again but more, if I was putting myself out there, the Rock Chicks were coming for moral support. And that they
really
didn’t like.

As for Roxie, she just didn’t like me hanging up on Hank.

I was in a pickle. I couldn’t make the Rock Chicks stay home. I couldn’t let down the band.

Either way, I was screwed.

So, I stuck with the program.

These cal s were intermingled with cal s from reporters and friends; both wanting to know what was going on.

Since I wasn’t al owed to talk to reporters and since I didn’t real y know what was going on, these cal s were short and annoying.

So I decided to quit answering the phone and Juno and I cleaned my house, top to bottom. Wel , Juno didn’t clean.

Juno watched me clean part of the time and snoozed the other part.

Then I worked on the set list. This took awhile considering it might be the last gig I’d ever play. I told myself I wasn’t being morbid, just prepared, but I knew whatever it was, it had to be special.

What I didn’t do was nap, play my guitar to soothe my troubled soul or come to any conclusions about my effed up life.

I should have done al of those or at least some of them or at the very least the last one. But I didn’t have it in me.

* * * * *

This hope was dashed.

By the time Vance took me to The Pal adium, the doors were closed because the club was already at maximum capacity. I could see there was stil a line straggling al the way down the sidewalk (half a block!) and curling around the corner. Al of this and the show didn’t start for thirty minutes (or, as it turned out, fifty, as the band gave me trouble because they always gave me trouble).