Tough Baby (Martin Fender Novel)

Tough Baby eBook Smashwords format

TOUGH BABY

A Martin Fender Novel

by Jesse Sublett

ALSO BY JESSE SUBLETT

Rock Critic Murders

Boiled in Concrete

Never the Same Again

Une Vie En Noir

History of the Texas Turnpike Authority

JESSE SUBLETT

First published in 1990 by Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

13579 10 8642

Copyright © Jesse Sublett, 1990 All rights reserved

“Who Put the Sting on the Honey Bee,” by Jesse Sublett.

© 1988 Big Striped Cat Music, BMI. By permission of Big Striped Cat Music.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Sublett, Jesse.

Tough baby / Jesse Sublett. p. cm.

ISBN 0-670-83325-8 I. Title.

PS3569.U218T68 1990 813'54—dc20 89-40690

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Cover design by Jesse Sublett.

Photo by Mona Pitts of Neon Beige Photography. Model: Jana.

Big thanks to Mona, a great photographer and amazing model. See more of her work here:

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Neon-Beige-Photography/136768616356344

This book is dedicated to Lois.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Jesse Sublett, photo by Todd Wolfson.

Jesse Sublett is an author, musician and artist currently based in Austin, Texas, where he lives with his wife, Lois Richwine, a son, Dashiell, and three cats. He writes fiction and nonfiction, poetry, music, journalism.

Jesse has also ghost written several books.

Tough Baby,
his second novel, was originally published by Viking Penguin in 1990, the second in the Martin Fender series. These novels received rave reviews from James Ellroy (LA Confidential), Michael Connelly (The Lincoln Lawyer), Gerald Petievich (To Live and Die in LA), LA Times, Kirkus and others. The novels have been optioned for films and television projects many times; however, as of this writing, no project has been consummated.

Jesse’s artistic career began to blossom in the late 1970s. He formed the seminal punk rock band
the Skunks
in Austin in 1978 with cohorts Bill Blackmon and Eddie Munoz. The Skunks were the first band of their type in Austin and were hugely influential in the development and growth of the Austin music scene and the Austin sound. Jon Dee Graham replaced Eddie Munoz on guitar in 1979 and the trio still performs several times a year to their intensely loyal fan base. Jesse still plays in various ensembles, often as a solo troubadour performing original and traditional blues, murder ballads and whatever.

Jesse is a prolific author, freelance writer, blogger, and musician. Visit
http://jessesublett.com
for updates and links to his new music and new books and other works. Digital versions of his work are available on Amazon and the iBookstore or iTunes. Some of his works, including
Rock Critic Murders
, is available as an enhanced iBook for the iPad, with music, video and tons of visual images, which add new dimensions to his hard-rocking, high intensity mysteries.

For more information on Jesse's work, plus blogs, art, politics and more, including information on other ebook titles and music, visit
jessesublett.com

Jesse’s memoir,
NEVER THE SAME AGAIN,
chronicles his first two decades as a musician in Austin and Los Angeles in the blues, rock and punk scene, and the traumatic ordeal of his girlfriend being murdered by a serial killer in Austin in 1976. In 1997, when he was diagnosed with Stage 4 throat cancer and given a four percent chance of survival, Jesse decided to reinvestigate the case and write about it. He also rededicated himself to writing and playing music, and beat the odds. The story is riveting, sad, funny, tragic, life-affirming. Bestselling authors James Ellroy and Michael Connelly agree, hailing it as “harrowing, essential writing.”

TOUGH BABY
was written under the influence of Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, Robert Johnson, Lou Ann Barton, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble, the Fabulous Thunderbirds, and Bryan Ferry.

INTRO

There were four people in the room. One was a doctor, one was a comatose girl, one was a homicide detective, and one was a rhythm and blues bass player being held for suspicion of attempted murder. The room was cold. My knees shook. I was the bass player.

The girl’s chocolate brown skin made the doctor’s hand appear sickly white as he felt her cheek. Machines were hooked up to her, bandages were wrapped around her head. Her eyelids were as black and swollen as plums.

The doctor gave us a nod and Detective Sergeant Jim Lasko took me out into the hall. A nurse walked by, doing a double take when she saw the Austin police department badge clipped to the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. The shirt accentuated rather than disguised his beer gut and just barely hid the leather holster on his hip. Lasko shook his head slowly as he tugged on the short hairs of his beard with the callused fingertips of his right hand. He played bass guitar, too. I’d even given him some lessons.

“Well, Martin,” he drawled, “you aren’t the only one of your combo who got himself in trouble last night. One of the other dicks said your guitar player was almost cited for disturbing the peace early this morning.”

I just shrugged.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Lasko, I just spent eighteen weeks on the road with Leo Daly, and no, I’m not surprised at anything he does anymore. He can play the hell out of a guitar, but he’s definitely a couple of bricks shy a load. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“Well, you know what they say about people who live in glass houses. We’d better talk some more about what happened last night.”

We walked down the hall together, two men from very different lines of work with a couple of things in common: a love for rhythm and blues and an attempted-murder case. We found a place to drink coffee and sit down. What I really wanted was a dark, quiet comer to lie down in.

CHAPTER ONE

For the most part, it had been a good gig. It was nice to be back in our hometown again, and the Continental Club was packed, especially for a Sunday night. Maybe they’d missed us. I was wearing my black vintage suit, playing my candy-apple Fender Precision bass, as usual. The four of us played loud and tight, showing off our road muscles while keeping the arrangements lean and tough.

The first set went smoothly. We liked to warm up with a song list built mostly around Al Green and Wilson Pickett classics—ones that the saxophonist, Ray Whitfield, really shined on. Our second set was generally more hard-boiled and raunchy, consisting of some of our originals and whatever vintage material struck our fancy that particular night. Lately that meant a raft of rocked-up Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters. And that was Leo’s chance to really cut loose on guitar and vocals.

During the last song before our break, I happened to glance back at the drum riser just a split second before a splintered missile flew past my right eye. Billy had broken a drumstick. He whipped a spare out of his quiver without missing a beat, not even losing the ash off the end of the Kool cigarette screwed into the comer of his scowl. I looked over at Leo, who was bent over his Stratocaster, coaxing a high wail out of his treble strings, lost in solo land. Ray hadn’t noticed the near miss either. He was standing coolly on his corner of the stage, his black hair so severely slicked back that it looked painted on.

No need to get surly just because I nearly lost an eye and no one noticed. I thumped my bass a little harder, tilted my head back, and took a deep breath. My bags were still in the van, packed. My girlfriend and her eight-year-old boy were in the audience, and I hadn’t had a chance to tell them hello. We’d rolled in from Baton Rouge at a quarter to ten, just enough time to wolf down some chips and salsa while the two roadies set up the gear. Then we took the stage for the first set and they stepped out. At first I assumed that they’d gone to the sandwich shop next door to get us something to eat during our break, but a dozen songs later, there was still no sign of them.

The crowd cheered Leo on as he executed a sizzling pick- slide down the fret board and started chugging out the final refrain like a true R & B road warrior. The tempo picked up, Ray kicked in, and the crowd whooped and whistled louder. They didn’t care that our nervous systems were jangled, that we were tired and hungry, or that our guitar player had set fire to a dressing room in Baltimore, trashed motel rooms in three states, and disappeared with the van for almost twenty-four hours in New Orleans and never told us where he went.

At the moment, I didn’t much care, either. After the song ended, I put down my bass and stepped off the stage. Ladonna was making her way back.

&&&

I gave her a great big hug, drinking in the smell of her hair and the feel of her body pressed close to mine. She made a sound in my ear, and then we kissed.

“Hi, Martin,” said a young boy’s voice. Ladonna and I broke apart enough for Michael to give me five. I stood back and looked them up and down, up close for the first time in eighteen weeks. Ladonna DiMascio, a broad-shouldered platinum blonde Italian, stood a head shorter than my six feet. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, and she smiled a smile that tingled my road weary muscles. Michael stood with his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his Levi’s, the sleeves of his black T-shirt rolled up, the laces of his Converse All Stars undone, the way all the kids were wearing them.

“Sounds great, Martin,” said Michael.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It’s good to see you,” she said.

“It’s good to see
you,”
I said. The usual gold hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes, and her porcelain white face bore the usual knowing expression. She wore a short emerald green vintage jacket with padded shoulders, and a tight-fitting miniskirt. “You look great. In fact, you look extra great.”