The Drummer Read online

  Tape recorder. Fucker had set me up.

  I kept nodding like I was paying attention, but I was really watching the dark corridors behind the gates. I needed to shut this down and get out of Dodge.

  We passed a gate that was slightly open, a For Sale sign wedged between the bars, the corridor behind it pitch black. Maybe some crackheads or bohemian Quarter Rats were holed up in the house. All I needed was a crypt-dark courtyard.

  One movement: right arm reached for the gate while the left grabbed Todd by the neck, led him inside, pressure and propulsion making it like he was on a leash, no time to put up a fight. We marched to the courtyard and I pushed him face first against the brick wall. The only light was gray filtered moon, barely enough to make out shapes. Todd finally found his voice.

  “What the fuck, man?” A strain. He tried to keep the pitch deep.

  I kneed him in the kidney. He went down. I cupped my right hand under his jaw, forced it closed, wrapped my left arm around his neck and put the squeeze on, then groped his jacket until I had yanked out the micro-recorder, wheels spinning, just as I’d thought.

  I whispered in his ear, “You shouldn’t have been so curious. If you had only left it alone, man.”

  I was thinking suffocation, leave the body intact. Fingerprints? Fibers? DNA? Who fucking cared? Trace all that shit to a ghost, and I’d be long gone starting a new life by the time they found out anyway.

  I’d have to be a colder bastard than I was to follow-through. Memories played out in fast-forward—the band, our friendship, the fights, the shows, Sylvia. Goddamnit. Even after his set-up, I didn’t have it in me to take Todd out.

  He tugged at my arms and fingers, limp spaghetti compared to my vice grip. I heard his teeth grinding. Drool sputtered from his mouth. I slacked off, let him fall.

  I was five steps to the gate when Todd coughed out “Wait” between wheezes.

  And get popped for tax evasion, arson, and now attempted murder? Still, I slowed down and said, “Why should I?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “I think you set me up.” Held up the recorder. “I know you did. Who’s making you do this? The IRS?”

  He shook his head, massaged his throat. “For proof, that’s all. I was going to tell you about it later if you didn’t want to help.”

  “We call that blackmail, you lying piece of shit. And I don’t believe it isn’t a set-up.”

  Todd got to his feet and propped his arm on the wall. “You tried to kill me, and I’m still asking you to trust me. If you tell me you don’t want a reunion, I don’t have any choice. All Sylvia needs is one phone call. We didn’t want to have to do it like this. I need a break here, man. If I can get this thing together again…”

  He didn’t finish. I waited, but he kept silent.

  I held out my hand, helped Todd to his feet. “Let’s go figure this out.”

  He straightened, seemed all instant energy. “Man, if I didn’t need your help, I would kick your ass for that shit.”

  I balled a fist and punched him hard in the mouth. His lip split and ran bloody.

  I said, “I told you once. You can’t beat me. Don’t even try.”

  2

  I took him to a gay bar on Bourbon Street because I knew one of the bartenders and because being there would make Todd uncomfortable. He caught the rainbow flags draped over the balconies and stopped cold, crossed his arms and said, “No way.”

  “You need ice for the lip. It’s just a fucking bar. Don’t take any phone numbers, you’ll be fine.”

  “Last thing I need is to be recognized.”

  “Yeah, I forgot. Image. Everybody’s straight in Hollywood.”

  I headed inside. Todd followed, hands shoved in his jeans pockets. The bar was spare except for lights that sliced color into the dark and throbbed to the trance beats oozing from the house speakers. Pretty crowded, normal looking guys, not a leather hangout or flaming/shemale/crossdressing crowd. Todd stood out, exactly as I thought he might.

  I made room at the bar and got my friend Justin’s attention. He owned this place, and I knew the postmodern vibe wasn’t his style. The customers demanded, and he provided. I’d met him at an antique store uptown on Magazine Street while searching for furniture from the 1950’s. Turned out we both liked old furniture and deep-sea fishing. So I got a new racquetball partner and drinking buddy out of the deal, a guy to hang out with when I wasn’t with my girlfriend.

  The thing is, you wouldn’t know he was. Guy sounded like he’s gargling rocks, his accent that unique New Orleans blend of Southern ease and Brooklyn tough. He never worried about looking good, about throwing out the “vibe”. Like, instead of shaving his head when the hairline started fading, he just cut it short, kept it that way. No use obsessing over it, trying the creams or transplants, but shaving was a bit too vain. Justin was who he was.

  “A date?” Justin said, tilting his head Todd’s way.

  “Hooker. Cost more than a charter.”

  He laughed. I ordered a couple of Buds and a cup of ice. “Grab that table.” I pointed to a high one near the open French doors that gave us a good view of the street. The next block up was Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, a more famous bar, no rainbow flags, but their drinks were crazy expensive. Justin’s place was barely cheaper.

  Todd moved off. Justin came back with my drinks, leaned towards me.

  He said, “Guy looks familiar. Is he an actor?”

  “Do you get a lot of actors in here?”

  “No. Get a lot of personal assistants to actors lately. Cell phone cameras. Take a picture, and if the actor texts back an OK, see if this guy wants to meet so and so.”

  “Nifty. Shallow, though.”

  “Yeah, I need to hear a voice myself.” Justin rapped a beat on the bar. “Your boy there. Friend? Business? What the hell are you doing here with someone? I don’t need you experimentin’ or some shit cause a me.”

  He knew I was straight, knew I came here alone usually to watch a game when he was on the stick. Maybe I had made a mistake and Todd would be recognized after all.

  I told Justin, “He’s from my hometown, an old friend, but kind of a country boy. It’s fun to watch him react to a room full of dick lust.”

  “Always an asshole.”

  I grinned, lifted the drinks and made my way to the table.

  Todd faced the inside, watching his hands in his lap instead of the people. I pointed to one of the three TVs hung on chains near the bar.

  “ESPN,” I said. “Lighten up.”

  He blotted his lip with a napkin. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  Poor guy. I’d never had to deal with the slow death of fame. I had cut my own throat and felt much better.

  I said, “You’re still alive. Buck up, little camper.” Then I put the recorder on the table between us and said, “So, you swear this isn’t a sting?”

  That was enough to get a crunchy eyebrow from him. He handed the device across the table and I took it. Todd kept going. “I’m telling you, I was done with those guys long ago, glad to be. The Feds checked every one of us inside and out. They even asked me questions about you, some strange shit. You cleared out your investments, but we figured most of your money went up in the fire. Stefan was calling me, asking me to hide some guitars, a Merc convertible, some jewelry. You know, keeping that stuff out of the way, trading, we all did it.”

  “You kept your Ferrari?”

  “No, they got that first. I kept the BMW, already paid for. I had to drive something. Man, they said your cars were still in the garage. What the hell? Didn’t even take one?”

  I held up a thumb and forefinger. Zero.

  “You really loved those cars.”

  I didn’t say anything for a minute or two, and took long sips of beer to numb the headache Todd was causing me.

  “What do you think? I can’t believe you’re not interested,” he said.

  “Should have killed you.”

  “Come on, man. Yo
u’re kidding.”

  I stood and finished the beer, crushed the plastic cup flat on the table and watched it slowly rise again. “Yeah, about that, sure. But I would have thought by now that you escaped Fantasyland.”

  Todd acted glum again. I kept hoping for signs of sincerity, the dude I knew in college when we got the band rolling, playing parties and working our way up the local club scene.

  “Did you think I’d be thrilled about this? You think I was just waiting for someone to dig me up? Whew, glad that’s over. Jesus.” I turned and made for the door. second time in the past hour. I willed myself to keep walking this time. I had a busy night ahead—evaporating all traces of Merle Johnson from New Orleans, take what I needed and head north. Next stop, a place I’d mulled over after tossing a dart at a map last time I had an itch. I missed the map, but it landed damn close to the Great Lakes.

  Todd followed me out. Wasting his time. I was a block down, heading towards the river when Todd shouted “Cal!” at me.

  I waited for him to catch up. He whined my name a couple more times, a few people turning to see. When he was inches away I grabbed his arm and held tight, close to bone-crunching.

  “That’s not my name anymore. It’s Merle, all right? I like it a lot. You want to meet me for coffee tomorrow, we can sort things out. Just get it through your skull, I don’t want to be reunited, or reminisced, or any of that shit. I want to be left alone. Our type of music died long ago, but sing with your horn section and go Vegas. Get over it. Pretend I’m really dead, okay? I’m asking as a friend.”

  He looked hurt, childlike. Maybe he was. Maybe drugs and sex were only toys, and the devil’s real tools were greenbacks, loyalty, and lies. Whatever.

  “A friend wouldn’t ask me to do that,” he said.

  “Then I’m asking as an enemy, a stranger, call me what you want. Don’t make a big deal out of this. You up for breakfast or not? At least I can try to show you why I like it here so much.”

  It took him a minute, hands on hips staring at the neon signs in the distance, the sea of people thinking Bourbon was the real shit when it was really a show for the visitors.

  “Where do you want to meet?” he said.

  “Le Madelaine’s in Jackson Square. Easy to find, right? You’re staying in the Quarter?”

  He mumbled something that sounded like, “Over at the International House.”

  Just like Todd. Had to pick the popular spot in town. “That’s close enough. How’s eight sound?”

  He winced. “Since when do you get up at eight?”

  “I love this city in the morning. Can you get a wake-up call?”

  He nodded. No eye contact.

  “Come on, I’ll show you a quick way to your car. Don’t think of following me home.”

  He was slow to follow at first, hoping to subtly shift back to reunion talk, let me soak up the vibes until I was ready to rock again. Same pattern we had in the old days. I’d been on enough roller coasters with this band, this singer, and I was done.

  I led him down a few side streets back to Esplanade, walked on the neutral ground past the brownstones, some of them brightly painted—purples, yellows, green, Mardi Gras as way of life down here. A man walked his horse-sized dog the opposite way. A Quarter freak on an old bike waited for traffic to slow down so he could cross. He smelled like a week of bad choices.

  “I’ll walk you to the car,” I said.

  “I can make it,” Todd said, and he lifted his arms. Freaked me out. “Bear hug. Just for the sake of it, you know?”

  Must not have punched him hard enough. But what the hell. I wrapped him up, pounded his back a little, a real man’s hug, I’ll tell you.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t sure if I would show up. No telling what Todd might pull in daylight, like bring a VH1 crew with him, some bullshit stunt. I watched him turn and fade into the dark. He had done his homework, found me fair and square, so I owed him a little respect. Call it my guilty conscience, microscopic as it was. What did Todd want, the good old days? People leave for reasons. The ones left behind lie to themselves about why. It wasn’t up to me to paint the numbers for him.

  I ducked into El Matador, a dark hip bar where I grabbed a Negra Modello and hid in a shadowed booth, red vinyl benches, while onstage a Flamenco guitarist attacked the strings and an exotic beauty danced. She clapped and stomped and made it sexy. I watched for a half-hour until they stopped playing. The few people still there, the bartender and his friends, talked but I didn’t pay attention. I sat there another hour until it seemed they expected me to go.

  I finished another beer and left, thinking I had given Todd enough time to realize I wasn’t about to let him find where I lived. No way he would wait an extra hour, I thought before remembering he staked out these streets for two nights. I blitzed through the two tourist parking lots on North Peters Street. This was right across the street from my house. Hard to tell someone lived there from outside. It looked like what it was—an abandoned funeral home.

  *

  From the outside, anyone might mistake the funeral home and the offices next door as just another interesting old French Quarter home, charming in its decay. The enclosed garage between the two used to be for horses—the stable and feed loft were still there, an interesting clash with my pick-up truck and classic Caddy. The attic was straight out of horror films, complete with an old coffin used to transport bodies from World War Two, faded name on paper taped to the top, imprint of the soldier on the inside padding. Other empty caskets were stacked against the back wall.

  Halfway across the street I tapped the garage door opener in my pocket. The gears growled and the panel slid up. Easier than fumbling with a key after a night of drinking. I always thought someone was watching, waiting for the perfect ambush opportunity. For the most part, though, petty thieves were scared of ghosts and left me alone, didn’t try to break in. Just in case, I installed a security system for my own benefit, just so I’d know in case I walked in on surprise visitors. No alarms, though.

  I slipped inside and stood still as the garage door lowered. It touched ground and I was wrapped in darkness. Listened for anything over the rushing pitch in my right ear—nerve damage, sixty percent loss—concentrated with the other on the huge empty house. Maybe I wasn’t invincible. Todd had found me, so all the nights I’d come tromping in here thinking I was alone and safe, how could I be sure?

  I heard nothing except the normal pops and creaks. My eyes adjusted and the moonlight filtering through slits in the roof helped me see cheap caskets wrapped in plastic, my truck and my Cadillac. I told the previous building’s owners they could leave the caskets if they didn’t need them. I liked the mood. They even left thirty-year-old embalming equipment in a prep room on the ground floor. Pretty neat.

  I pushed through a door leading to the front downstairs parlors. A grandfather clock with Tempus Fugit inscribed on a brass plate still stood at the foot of the stairs. I climbed to the second floor, my real home, relying on memory and moonbeams until the midway point.

  Others had wanted to make a bed and breakfast out of the place, or an art museum, or just tear it down and build apartments. The deals kept stalling, and I had stepped in with cash on hand and no conditions. Told them I was thinking of making it a top-notch antiques shop.

  I flicked the upstairs lights and checked the security panel—lights all green. There were two big parlors, one that could be chopped in two by a rollaway wall, plus a couple of small guest rooms. A tiny kitchen and dining area. I used the second parlor as a bedroom, my atomic age suite filling the space nicely.

  The larger parlor was my studio—an old phono/stereo cabinet, a bunch of vinyl records I picked up on the cheap, looking for kitsch rather than collector’s value. In the center of it all was the prize. My four piece Slingerland drum kit, “Radio Kings” from the Fifties, pearl white finish, Gene Krupa snare. I miked it with a couple old Shure 57s and vintage tube Sennheisers, recorded a lot of beats and looped
them together through old Korg synths and a couple of PCs with some other samples of Big Easy street sounds. I was composing some wicked shit and didn’t have to worry about marketing it or making it fit radio.

  I didn’t play that night. Instead, I ebbed the chandelier light barely-there, flopped onto the green couch and sunk deep. I needed quiet time because I was screwed and hadn’t faced up to it yet. When I ditched my old life, I didn’t mind torching the house and the playthings because I was looking for something new, twenty-three and all for starting over. Fifteen years later, I wanted to keep my new life exactly as it was.

  First thought was maybe I should reveal myself to the public before Todd got the chance, trump his only card, then get the hell over to Europe before the Feds grabbed me. I could deal with spending the rest of my life in Europe, traveling between London and Berlin, Zurich and Barcelona. No one could freeze all the money because I kept it liquid, always moving.

  If I were selfish enough, sure. If I didn’t have friends. If I didn’t have my girlfriend, Beth, or Justin. If I hadn’t spent nearly a million on this funeral home six months earlier and filled it with stuff that made me happy. Not to mention the routine I loved—coffee at PJ’s or Le Madelaine, lunch at any of the thousand restaurants stuffed into old storefronts or warehouses, afternoons in antique shops and bars, nights with any type of band I wanted to hear, cheap and nearby, always good, too. Then the wee hours, pounding my own skins and building my own synth orchestra. Spending so much time with Beth, trying to love someone more than I ever had before.

  Thinking about it hurt like hell. I could show Todd around, beg him to keep a lid on, send him off, then expect the inevitable. I knew him too well, and he wouldn’t let me have my peace. All he wanted was the band back together—the attention, the drama, the center stage spotlight.

  I sat on the couch and pulled out the tape recorder, hit the rewind, and listened. It started with Todd giving an intro: “This is Todd Delacroix, and I’m about to speak with someone we thought had died years ago. The original drummer for Savage Night—”