The Drummer Read online

  THE DRUMMER

  a novel by

  Anthony Neil Smith

  Copyright 2006 Anthony Neil Smith

  Originally published in print by Two Dollar Radio Books in 2006

  E-reader Version (2nd edition)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  PRAISE FOR THE DRUMMER...

  “A fun read about drugs, rock and roll, brawls, and banging (drums, groupies, and otherwise).”—Publishers Weekly

  “If you had any connection with--or nostalgia for--the '80s heavy-metal rock scene, Anthony Neil Smith's "The Drummer" should be right up your dark alley. Smith writes with force and clarity.” —Dick Adler, Chicago Tribune

  “Therein lies Anthony Neil Smith's casehardened tale of rarely won and ignobly lost fame, which he relates with the knowing intimacy of a guy who's been in the rock spotlight a time or two. He demonstrates that the interdependence of past and present is as organic as veins and arteries. 'Maybe I just should have paid my taxes,' he wearily admits. But, the tax on bad choices has been paid, and Smith, with his 2nd novel, carves out an emotionally raw and adventurous stylistic identity.” —Jules Brenner, Mystery Scene

  “Anthony Neil Smith has penned a masterpiece of heavy metal noir.” — Victor Gischler, author of Gun Monkeys and Go-Go Girls of the Apocalypse

  “The future is assured. The future is Anthony Neil Smith. Let the devil rejoice.” — Ken Bruen, author of The Guards, London Boulevard, and Cross

  “The Drummer solidifies Anthony Neil Smith's growing reputation as a fearless prose electrician...delivering raw voltage straight to the page.” — Sean Doolittle, author of The Clean-Up and Safer

  ...AND SOME NON-PRAISE

  “Unfortunately, the book itself is pretty much ass...Half a good novel, half crap.” — PatGuy, the Talk Back Forums.

  When the first edition of The Drummer was published in 2006, the folks at Two Dollar Radio asked if I would be willing to donate a portion of my royalties to the charity of my choosing. As the book was really a love song for New Orleans, written a year before Katrina hit, I chose an organization dedicated to helping New Orleans make a recovery.

  For this e-edition of The Drummer, I’d like to continue the charitable streak, but pointed in a different way this time.

  In 2008, my wife and I adopted a kitten from a small humane society in Southern Minnesota. These people do a wonderful job of helping orphaned animals find new homes, and we could tell immediately that they felt passionately about their jobs.

  So here’s to the Martin County Humane Society in Fairmont, Minnesota. I’ve decided to donate the first two weeks royalties from sales of The Drummer’s e-reader edition to their organization. After that, I’ll give them another 10 dollars for every hundred copies sold.

  Thanks so much for the good work you’re doing, and thanks for taking care of our kitten until we adopted her.

  --Anthony Neil Smith

  1

  New Orleans, 2004

  The bleached-blond fancy boy stood in the doorway of this small bar at the edge of the French Quarter hoping to be recognized, but those days were long gone. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade and hoped my darker hair, nose job, and older skin would keep me hidden. Fat chance.

  I was at a table near the window on a chilly night two days before Thanksgiving, listening to an acid-bluegrass trio sing about eating squirrels, joke songs like that, played top-notch on box guitar, banjo, and electric bass. I ignored the guy in the doorway who still hoped people would whisper about him, but the bar’s handful of regulars and a few tourists were not big fans of the “hair metal” he and I had played years ago. That’s one reason I drank there often.

  He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans, his hair now a shag when it used to hang halfway to his waist. Face still boyish despite the years, maybe harder to recognize in a crowd. He picked me right out and started over, taking in the cinderblock-spare room, paint-stained tables and old stools cramped close, band in the far corner on a stage that looked as if it had been built in someone’s garage. He made a snub face at the bluegrass.

  Fuck you, I thought, wanting to rage on his Hollywood looks and give him deep scars, make him piss blood, knock my memory out of his head. But I showed him nothing—no emotion, no recognition, no friendly nod. You’ll have to make the first move.

  Standing by the table, he could barely look me in the eye for a weird moment before he pulled up a stool.

  “Shit, it is you,” he said.

  “Yeah, Todd.” No use pretending anymore.

  “We thought you might be dead.”

  I shook my head, eyes on my beer. “I tried to be.”

  *

  Back in the Eighties, I played drums for a heavy metal band called Savage Night. Todd was the lead singer. We had one platinum album, a bundle of decent videos on MTV, and several years of successful touring. The money rolled in, the chicks wanted us bad, and near the end, radio spun our power ballad all day and night.

  We found out we were broke on a tour of Japan. The record company dropped us—grunge was conquering our space—and we owed millions to tour promoters. After a decent show in Tokyo, the four of us sat in a sushi restaurant and tossed around possibilities. Todd thought we should add a keyboard player and do another album more pop than metal to pay off our debts and make us maybe superstars, the way Aerosmith morphed from bluesy bar band to kid-friendly Top 40.

  That wasn’t a bad idea, but it didn’t help with our other obstacle—the IRS. They wanted the group to declare bankruptcy, sell off our houses, cars, and vintage instruments. Investments, too. So while Todd’s plan seemed solid, I made a different choice and never looked back.

  I disappeared.

  The money wasn’t the only factor. I’d thought of the idea earlier because of some personal problems, but it was more fantasy than possibility until that night.

  First I went back to the hotel and found a Japanese groupie with bright pink hair, maybe nineteen, sleeping outside my room. I woke her, helped her inside, and fucked her hard and fast from behind while she was bent over the table facing the world outside from five stories up. Her hair glowed like magic in the blue moonlit darkness. I wondered if sex would ever be this easy again, something I hadn’t thought about since high school when I joined my first bands and went from a Dungeons and Dragons Geek to Bad Ass in a matter of weeks.

  When the pink-haired girl left, I made a few calls and spread nearly half a million dollars across the world in bank accounts and investments under aliases. Then I shaved my long brown hair to a flattop, tossed on simple jeans, T-shirt and sneakers, and left the hotel through a back door without telling anyone. Passed a few groupies and reporters, but they didn’t know me. Never got past the hair, I guessed. I flew back to the States on the first available flight.

  At home, I torched the place by soaking the den in vodka and lighting a vinyl copy of Savage Night’s live EP, tossed it on the floor. Let everything burn. I hated doing that to the garage full of vintage sports cars, but keeping even one would have tipped my cards.

  Bought a cheap ride for cash the next day and didn’t stop traveling until New Orleans caught me in its charming claws. I told people my name was “Merle”. I started over my quiet non-rock star life with plenty of money and the freedom to do whatever I wanted. It felt funny because the reason I had joined those bands in the first place was so I could do whatever I wanted, no worries about money, no responsibilities beyond keeping a good beat. Fortune and fame had messed me up—messed us all up. Being anonymous in a cro
wded world was the better choice.

  But I had been young and stupid. I didn’t realize until several years later that in order to fake your own death, you need a body, roughly your own size, and even then the lab geeks would figure it out eventually. So I’d fucked-up my plans a little. In spite of that, I liked my life on the off-ramp and never regretted the choice. Until Todd caught up with me.

  *

  I waved my hand at the bartender and ordered two more beers, then turned to Todd.

  “Still drinking, right?”

  He shrugged. “Not as much, but sure.”

  “Still shooting up?”

  That grin again. “Jesus, Cal, you are sour, man.”

  My old stage name, pushing buttons like that. Calvin Christopher. I liked “Merle” better.

  “We didn’t know what to think,” Todd said. “Pissed at first, you leaving in the middle of a tour, quitting when we needed you most. Then the house fire. We thought maybe you’d really died, got drunk while playing with matches or something.”

  I let him talk. He wanted an explanation from me, but I didn’t plan on giving him one. The only thing I wanted to know was how he found me and why he bothered. I sipped my beer. “Really?”

  “No body, though. No bones. That kept us going, a flicker of hope. All these years.”

  “Hope you’re not looking for an apology.”

  “After what you did to us, it was better when I thought you were dead.”

  “Still pissed?”

  “I ought to kick your ass.”

  I almost laughed. “You can’t. Really, there’s no way you could.”

  My lead singer tried to stare me down. God, he was easy to read, expecting me to apologize so he could feel superior like he had on stage, prancing around in his spandex while teenage girls reached for him from the front row, separated by a gulf of gates and security guards. But I was older, wiser, not at all wanting to erase the years.

  “How did you find me?”

  He slouched back in his chair like a GQ model. “That’s really bugging you, isn’t it? You can’t believe you left a trail.”

  “Todd—”

  “It’s no problem, especially with the Internet. But you were good. Even the VH1 researchers were stumped.” He shifted towards the table, a conspiratorial lean. “Some guy called and asked if you might’ve pulled an Elvis. Hell if I know, right? So he emailed some photos of you in their casino. It’s a surveillance guy, see, spying on everyone. Turns out he was a fan, knew the public story, and caught on after an hour of watching you play blackjack. Do you realize you keep old habits? Arms doing drumbeats when you’re nervous or excited?”

  I had grown lazy, living so long as someone other than me that I forgot anyone could’ve mistaken me for me. In New Orleans, metal lovers were a minority, and I doubted most remembered who we were except for that damn retro video channel. I’d been more into alternative-country since those days. That or chamber music. Can’t beat a steel guitar or a string quartet. Late at night, when I didn’t want to think anymore, I dialed in Internet electronica from Europe.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I told the guy it wasn’t you, that you were really dead and this is a good likeness is all. But I knew, man. It all made sense.” He held a two-fingered gun to his temple like he was acting in a video. I checked outside the window to be sure he hadn’t ambushed me with a film crew. “I did my own investigating, asked around, and picked up some leads. They’re calling you Merle or some shit, but I played along. Said you hang around this neighborhood, maybe you live close. So I’ve kicked around a few days, got lucky tonight.”

  “Where’s Sylvia?” She was his ex-wife, still his manager, still his soulmate. At one point, she co-managed the band and handled publicity. Before she chose Todd, she was sleeping with both of us. I lost out. “She come along?”

  He said, “Back in Cali. I kinda took off on my own here. Don’t need her permission.”

  I nodded, kept my cool, already planning a second grand disappearance—bye-bye to my home, my girlfriend, new friends, and the antique drum kits. I tried to imagine a way to keep Todd from pulling back the curtain on my secret life. In New Orleans, I had sunk my fingernails in deep and didn’t want to let go.

  I held up my palms. “Got me fair and square. Now what? We go public? You turn me in to the Feds? Or is it something else?”

  His lips went thin and wide and I wanted to rip a gaping hole there.

  “Blackmail?” I said.

  “Nasty word. What’s that do except dirty the waters for me, too?”

  “I don’t want a reunion.”

  He sighed. “I wish you’d at least think about it first.” Todd’s pride fell enough for me to understand how tough this was for him, asking for anything from me. “The guys and me, it wasn’t easy after you bailed. We could’ve hired a new drummer, but without you, Doug didn’t seem to care about playing bass. Plus that financial shit, so we declared bankruptcy, broke up the band. We’re not struggling or anything. I’m singing, you know.”

  “And Doug?”

  Todd shook his head. “We don’t keep in touch. Wish I could tell you. In fact, finding you seemed easier. I was hoping you could bring him back in, if he’s up to it.”

  Doug was the closest thing I had to a brother, and the one I worried most about. Yeah, him being the most torn-up about me made sense, since I was the guy in the band who knew his secrets. His sister Alison, she was being protective of him last I heard, so maybe he’d pull it together and outlive us all. I couldn’t help but smile a little at that.

  “What about Stefan?” I said. Our German guitarist.

  “A few DWIs, did some session work in London. Last I heard he was busted with heroin, possession with intent. Fucked up, isn’t it?”

  I spun my finger in the air and yawned. “Like the end of a movie. The sad demise of Savage Night. Look, the music business has moved on, and we’re dinosaurs.”

  Todd shrugged. “Sylvia did a little snooping. We could get six million if we did it now. Seriously.”

  I turned away, watched the bluegrass group. I had arranged all my royalty money to go to Doug anyway. It was my penance for past mistakes. I was set, happy, anonymous. “I don’t want it.”

  “Damn it, what’s wrong with you? It’s not like you had a miserable time with us.”

  I took a nice long drink from my beer, thinking how to play the next hand. No way I would let him drag me into the daylight. I could vanish again, although with less time to do it right, the trail would be easier to sniff. It occurred to me that I could kill Todd’s sorry ass, get rid of the body, and go about my business. Made a nice idea for a video, I guess, but in the end, I couldn’t do that. I’d never killed anyone anyway, and Todd had once been a close friend. A pompous jerk, sure, but you have to forgive lead singers for that. It’s in the blood.

  I sighed, gave him what I hoped was an interested look. “I admit, I’m curious. Let’s go find a quieter place to talk it over.”

  He nodded. “Show me your city, man. Your digs.”

  I stood, belted down the last of my beer. The bluegrass band was covering “Roxanne” as a two-step romp.

  Todd said, “You really like this stuff?”

  I pointed to the guy’s banjo. “See how worn and beat up the instruments are? Like they’ve been played nonstop for twenty years? That’s what I like, because the music sounds like that banjo looks. They gave us new instruments every concert, paint shiny, drumheads without a mark on them. Perfect. I got tired of sounding perfect.”

  “I never thought of it as perfect. We were good.”

  I slapped him on the back like a pal, grabbed his shoulder. He brightened, old friends again. He should have been suspicious. Or I should have been more so.

  *

  After five minutes of memory lane, it didn’t feel so bad. I’d compartmentalized all the reasons for leaving, made a nice logical list, but Todd was right about one thing—we’d done some crazy shit.

  �
��You remember that, right? Spring Break for MTV. Man, how did we get through that song?”

  We laughed so hard, we had to hold each other up.

  I said, “I could only concentrate on those girls in the front taking their tops off.”

  “The ones from Tennessee State?”

  “The redhead, man. I tried to talk to her after the show, think I puked on her.”

  “And?”

  I gave a thumbs up. “Still got laid.”

  We walked deeper into the French Quarter, streets I knew well enough to tell friends they should keep away after dark. Heading up near Louis Armstrong Park, Congo Square. Good hole-in-the-wall clubs along there. No streetlamps for blocks, the façades of private homes, padlocked gates leading to their courtyards. In daylight, busy and normal. As we walked, though, I felt shadows, vampires, buzzards, watching from nooks and crannies.

  Todd was pretty loud, first asking me how many more blocks, glancing over his shoulder like he expected something. Then he relaxed and spun a long summary of his life to date. I hadn’t asked.

  “Then I did that solo album a couple years back, you know,” he said.

  “Hey, I don’t keep up. I didn’t know.” Fucking lie. I knew every song on that CD backwards and forwards. I obsessed over it for days, finding all the mistakes, the dull rhythms, the insipid lyrics, all prettied and synthesized. What a sellout.

  “It’s doing all right, helping me climb the charts again.”

  Todd was lying, too. The album tanked, the single barely on air a week, panned brutally in Spin and Maxim—little prick reporters mocking our generation’s taste and style more than anything else. Even Todd didn’t deserve that.

  “A different sound, a little adult contemporary, maybe, but if you don’t grow, you die in this business. Unless you’re AC/DC. So I used a horn section. That was a kick, I’m telling you.”

  Something about the way he talked—not the words, but how he held his head, like he was talking to his chest—rang an alarm bell in me. I watched him more closely, tried to pick up a clue, and then I did. His breast pocket, a rectangular bulge.