The Girl On The Half Shell (16 page)

“Everything.”

“And you’ll stay away while we’re in New York. I mean, you won’t sell to her ever again.”

Jimmy stares at me, insultingly amused. “Your friend does a lot of drugs. Getting rid of me won’t help her, and I don’t think it’s necessary to point out again that she stole from me. But you can consider me gone after tonight if you do me this solid.”

I work my way past the line of agitated, waiting New Yorkers, face averted downward, with Jimmy Stallworth following. I’m hardly able to believe I’m about to crash the door at a New York rocker club so a New York drug dealer can finish a deal, all because Rene ripped off the wrong guy and I was desperate enough to come here.

“Wait here or I won’t do it,” I tell Jimmy a few feet from the door.

“Don’t even think to try to ditch me out here,” Jimmy warns.

I roll my eyes. The tough guy routine is really getting old. He may be a thug, but I don’t think he’s dangerous, and David my blond Nordic driver could kick the shit out of him without breaking a sweat if I called for him.

There is a pretty brunette in a sequined mini dress haranguing the bouncer with the list, and there’s altogether too much jostling near the entrance. Pushing through the crowd is an effort, getting the bouncer’s attention more effort, and the way he looks at me not worth the effort of acknowledging.

“Talk to me,” is all he says.

“I’m on the list.”

“Name,” he snaps.

I bite my lower lip and curse Rene in my mind. “I’m not on that list. I’m on the other list.”

Burly man looks up from the clipboard as if he wants to punch someone. “There is no other list.”

“Parker,” I whisper. “My dad is Jackson Parker.”

Oh crap, I don’t think this is going to work. As I turn away, a hand harshly grabs my arm and the bouncer gives me a hard stare. He jerks me behind him and I call out for Jimmy Stallworth, as the crowd in front of the door pushes me through it.

The walls and floors vibrate from the music of an edgy alternative rock song, and I feel like I’m suffocating in the packed, dimly lit room, trapped against the far wall beside Jimmy Stallworth and breathing in heavy waves of secondhand smoke.

Jimmy gives me a curious stare. “OK, what just happened?”

I shake my head. “I got you in. That’s what you wanted. Now leave me alone.”

He’s combing my face intently. “You’re not some Congressman’s daughter or something like that?”

I ignore the question and try to push through the bodies. A fat person in leather barges into me and knocks me into the wall, and Jimmy Stallworth pushes the fat guy away to give me room to walk.

We stand against the wall not talking. The band breaks, runs off stage, and the bodies in front of us become less compressed.

“I’m going to find a table,” I say.

“Good luck with that,” counters Jimmy sarcastically, lighting another cigarette. “Do you want to dance?”

Did Jimmy Stallworth really just ask me if I wanted to dance?
I roll my eyes. “There’s no band on stage.”

“Later. When the next band is up.”

“I thought you had to meet someone here?”

“Later.”

“What about Victor and Richard? You should probably figure out how to get your friends in.”

Jimmy crushes out his cigarette on the floor. “Fuck them. Rich college punks. They’re the ones who screwed up getting me on the list.”

I start to walk away.

“Where are you going?” Jimmy scolds me. “I expect you to come back.”

You do, do you?
“I’m going to the ladies’ room. Don’t follow.”

Of course, there’s a line, but at least in the quiet and cool corridor I’m away from Jimmy Stallworth. I hate that I’m waiting alone. No respectable girl goes to the bathroom alone, and I hate that I can’t seem to shake Jimmy or form a better plan about how I should pass the rest of my evening.

I lean against the wall, staring at the line that seems never to move. I give up. I didn’t really have to pee, but the time was well spent because Jimmy Stallworth is no longer lounging against the wall where I left him.
Free at last. Fuck the world of Jimmy Stallworth!

Over the noise of too many voices starts another deafening assault of music that turns the crowd totally haywire, into a churning, bouncing swarm that I can’t completely avoid even flattened against the wall. Trying to stay out of their way, I slowly inch to the door. A stocky punked-out Italian stops me.

“Miss Parker? Who the hell left you standing in the doorway?”

I am face to face with a man who has more than his share of tattoos and piercings and an authoritative air about him. He takes my arm and eases me away from the cold concrete.

“I’m Kevin, the manager. Anything you need, anything at all, you ask me. Jack and I go way back. How is Jack? I haven’t seen your Pop in over a year...”

I go from being completely ignored in the club, to getting a healthy share of stares as I am directed to a table roped off with a reserved sign.
How Rene would love this!
I sink into the chair held for me, frantically scanning the crowd, hoping that Jimmy Stallworth doesn’t see me here.

I look up, realizing Kevin has already asked me twice if I’d like something to drink. “I’m sorry. That band is good. I’ve never heard them before.” What was the vodka drink Rene ordered for us? “Bring me a Kamikaze.”

Kevin crouches down at my table. He smiles. “That’s Rip the Cord. That’s Vince Carroll on the drums.”

I sit back, stunned, and stare. “Vince? Vince Carroll?”

Vince; Sammy’s best friend his entire life. I haven’t seen Vince since Sammy’s funeral. The drummer from Sammy’s band. I fight to see through the crowd the musicians on stage. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, long wavy chestnut hair, yes that is Vince wielding the sticks.

Kevin’s eyes soften with emotion. “That’s Cory Jensen on bass. That’s JR on lead guitar.”

Oh god, it’s all of them, all the members of Sammy’s band except Sammy. New name, new lead singer, and still a band. I didn’t know that they were still a group. Everyone from my brother’s world just seemed to disappear after his death.

Jimmy Stallworth cuts across the floor, turns a chair backward against the table and sinks down.

“Good. You got a table,” he says, rummaging into his pocket for another cigarette to light.

I frown. “What are you? A curse? Why don’t you bother some other girl?”

He ignores me, orders a drink when the waitress arrives, and stares fixed at the stage. I sip my Kamikaze and watch Johnny Ramone arriving, telling me it’s way past midnight. Jimmy Stallworth rises from my table. The relief I feel hoping that he’s leaving is overpowering.

“You owe me a dance,” Jimmy says staring down at me.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

He has me by the hand, dragging me to the floor before I can stop him. On the dance floor he returns to fixed-stare mode, and I realize it’s the band he’s dogging with his eyes. He tries to get us near the stage, but navigating the crowd is like trying to swim in the ocean; two strokes and then a wave pushing you back.

Jimmy leans into me. “Do that pretty girl thing where you dance up next to the stage.”

Without warning, Jimmy creates a diversion, body slamming into people near us, so much so that security comes, leaving enough territory unclaimed that I rather easily sashay to the edge of the stage. Like the bad penny he is, Jimmy Stallworth somehow reappears, dancing in front of me.

He’s dogging the band again with his eyes and I can’t help but to wonder if Vince and the guys recognize me.

Jimmy stops dancing and grabs my hand. He pulls me back to the table. I stare at him. “What was that all about?” I ask.

“I needed to get someone’s attention.”

I make a face. “Since we’ve danced, can I assume our date is over?”

Jimmy laughs. “You can leave if you want to. I’ve still got business here.”

“But it’s my table.”

“Not if you leave.” And Jimmy turns away to order another drink.

“I could call security.”

Jimmy shrugs. “But you won’t. I’m carrying enough that they could bust us both for possession.”

Jeez, how could I have forgotten that he was a drug dealer?
I rise from my chair without paying. “You can take care of the tab. I should get something out of this.”

I start to leave when a voice stops me. “Chrissie? Chrissie Parker?”

I’m surrounded by Vince and the band. And shit, Vince is telling Jimmy Stallworth more than any smart girl would want him to know about her. I grow agitated as the guys sink down at my table, flooding it with beer bottles, and nervously I listen as Vince talks about Sammy, telling Jimmy Stallworth things I usually prefer to keep private.

Vince smiles at me. “I never expected to see you here with Jimmy,” he says. “How do you two know each other?”

“I don’t know her,” Jimmy replies quickly. “She cleared a debt by getting me into the club tonight.”

It’s a moot point, but I’m really pissed that Jimmy didn’t specify that it wasn’t my debt, but if Vince thought anything of that, it doesn’t show on his face.

“About that thing…” Vince says to Jimmy.

Jimmy’s dark eyes harden coldly. “That thing.”

Vince rises. “It’s all good. Why don’t we step into my office? Clear everything up now. It’s cool.” Vince smiles at me. “Why don’t you hang out with the guys until I get back? I don’t want you wandering off tonight. What’s that you’re drinking? A Kamikaze?”

I nod, even though I have every intention of slipping away the second I can. I watch Jimmy Stallworth and Vince disappear.

The conversation resumes and there is an irritated heaviness within Vince’s band that tells me they know about Jimmy Stallworth, and are not at all pleased with Vince’s association with him. Studying my glass, I try to follow the fast moving conversation, but I feel that edgy feeling you get when something is nagging at your memory.

I look up to see one of the guys watching and waiting expectantly for some kind of answer. What was the question? Oh, yes… “I’m just in New York just for a few days. No, Jack isn’t here. I had an audition at Juilliard.”

The conversation flows rapidly past me, and I stare at my glass, lost in my thoughts, feeling strange and not knowing why. I look up as Vince and Jimmy return. I can tell by Jimmy’s satisfied smirk that he just got paid by Vince whatever he needed to make up from Rene’s stealing. Vince’s glassy eyes reveal that some things never change. I feel a knot strangling my throat and try to escape the vividly rising pictures in my mind of Sammy and Vince in the old days. Only Sammy is dead and Vince is here, exactly the same.

Vince lifts my near empty glass from the table and sets a fresh drink before me. Their laughter and talking swirls around, not penetrating whatever this strangeness is that’s overtaken me.

Vince points at me. “You’ve got to sing one song with us, Chrissie.”

“No. I don’t sing. I’m a cellist.”

My words are slightly slurred. Did they notice? It’s hard to tell. Vince looks the same, but Jimmy Stallworth is staring at me in a way I find worrisome. I sway in my chair and Jimmy darts out a hand to steady me.

Jimmy leans into me. “You OK?”

“I want to go home,” I whisper, though why I implore Jimmy Stallworth for help makes no sense at all.

“She has the best set of female pipes I’ve ever heard and that was at eight,” I hear Vince say. “Come on, Chrissie. One song.”

“No, Vince. I really can’t.”

The action around me suddenly seems very fast, it moves in and out like a movie shock wave, and my befuddled brain registers that Vince has called Kevin the manager over.

Through my foggy senses I feel panic. “No, Vince. I can’t. I really can’t…”

“Sing one for Sammy tonight,” Vince says, rising.

Sing one for Sammy
, and I would because I loved Sammy and it would make him smile.

Vince has me by the hand, pulling me through the crowd. I’m staggering slightly and I don’t remember answering him. Did I answer him?
Oh shit
, he’s taking me on stage. Vince pulls off my jacket and the cool air touches my sweaty flesh.

I have to grab his arm to hold steady center stage. I don’t know if it’s my vodka-based fire drink or the welling panic inside me that is making it nearly impossible to stay balanced. It feels like I’m about to hyperventilate as he explains who I am. Jeez, now they know who I am, and I’m about to sing in front of Johnny Ramone and whoever that is from the Beastie Boys. And this is a New York crowd. A tough sell. I’ll be lucky if they don’t throw things and boo me tonight.

I shake my head and body to loosen up. The guys are waiting for a song. “Death by Degrees,” I say into the microphone.

Sammy’s one and only hit before he overdosed. It was the first song up on the tape in the apartment. I already sang it once to the city from our terrace. The words are fresh in my mind. Just pretend you’re on the terrace, Chrissie, and be prepared to run for the door.

Stay on the beat, Chrissie. Listen. Listen. Hit the beat.
I never perform. I never sing for anyone. But I just know how to do this. How to sing. How to move. How to use a stage and an audience. I always have.

Shit, one of my lockboxes has opened and I’m remembering things I don’t want to. Sammy used to say music was in our blood. We had no choice—it was who we are. The only place he felt alive was center stage. He was going to die on stage.
But you didn’t, Sammy, you died in your bedroom. And I’m the one who found you. Damn you, Sammy, I’m the one who found you!

I lean against the mike stand, breathing heavily, fighting the emotion, relieved that it’s done, and trying to figure out all the other stuff going on inside of me.

“One more, Chrissie. One more,” says Vince from the drum stand.

I am shakier and whatever is inside me is running loose, even more wildly than before I left the table. I should never have sung Death by Degrees. Why did I pick that song?

Across the room by the entrance there is a stir, a sudden gathering of people. I wonder who has arrived. It must be someone. The entire chemistry of the club has changed. An electric current shoots up my flesh. Black eyes lock on me. Alan. And I can tell by how he is staring that he heard every part of that wretched performance.