Tumblin' Dice (8 page)

He said, “You want to talk about it, Ange?”

“What's to talk about?”

“There's something on your mind.”

The waitress brought them their drinks and Angie told her Felix was joining them, could she show him to the table when he gets here?

Then Ritchie was thinking maybe that's all it was, just business, living in the grown-up world, and he said, “So, who's this guy?”

“Felix Alfano. Officially he's the casino director. The casino has a management contract with a company called the Pennsylvania Accommodation and Gaming Company.”

Ritchie said yeah.

“So,” Angie said, “he's the real thing, a real gangster.”

Ritchie drank his Scotch, a small sip, and put the glass back on the table saying, “And Frank wants to be just like him when he grows up.”

Angie said, yeah, well, no, well, “I'm not sure.”

Ritchie watched her look at him, think about it, decide to tell him, then decide not to. He could tell he was coming in the middle of something, so he said, “Ange, it's okay. I don't need to know.”

She said, “Shit, you know, you make me feel like I can tell you.”

He shrugged, said, you can if you want, “I don't mind. You need someone to talk to, that's okay.” He didn't mind. Years ago he might have said he didn't care, got into a big fight about it, but that wasn't it anymore. Back when he was a tortured young artist and she wouldn't leave Frank and he screwed every chick he could for revenge, everything got to him, but not now. Now he was looking at Angie in her business suit, sitting in the restaurant, and she wasn't torn up inside exactly — it wasn't like all that kid stuff drama they'd had. He wasn't sure what it was.

She said, “Frank used to at least pretend to care about the Showroom. He'd go after the big acts — Diana Ross, Santana, hell,we had Dylan a few years ago.”

Ritchie said, “I remember.”

“Then he started thinking he should be running more than just the Showroom. He started trying to run the casino and he stopped going after the good acts, started booking in the Chinese acts, circuses.”

“I've seen the people here,” Ritchie said. “You've got to give them what they want.”

“Novelty acts. Last month we had a thirteen-year-old girl in here singing the blues.”

“She have a good voice?”

“She's singing Billie Holliday, singing about her best friend screwing her man.”

“Well,” Ritchie said, “she'll be better when she has her heart broken.”

“Or when she gets her period.”

Ritchie said, yeah, that, too.

“You know what Frank's got me doing now? He wants to do a tribute show.”

Ritchie said, oh yeah?

“That Australian Pink Floyd show sold out fast and now Frank wants to do a whole British invasion thing, get tribute bands doing the Stones, the Who, the Yardbirds, the Animals.”

“They were all ‘The' bands weren't they? We were on the right track with the High, just a little too late. What about the Kinks?”

“You don't think it's a dumb idea?”

“Anything that gets a musician a paying gig's a good idea. You see what's going on now, all this idol bullshit, taking them on tour, glorified karaoke. It's hard to get a gig these days.”

“Yeah, but tribute bands? They don't even play their own music.”

Ritchie said, so? “They play music, don't they? I mean, people don't complain when they go to the symphony and Beethoven's not there.”

“I guess.”

Ritchie said, “You still care about the music, don't you?” and she said, “Does it sound stupid when I say yes?” and he said, “You might not want to spread it around.”

At least she smiled. This was a new Angie, though, this was someone Ritchie wasn't sure about. The past, the old Angie, the kid, there was a whole if-I-knew-then-what-I-know-now thing about it. He would have handled that a lot different, not got strung along while she couldn't make up her mind. He would've just walked away.

No, that was bullshit and he knew it — he never would have just walked away.

She drank her club soda and said, “I told Frank if he wants to do a tribute show it should be all '80s — Cyndi Lauper, Madonna.”

“Get a Springsteen band doing
Born in the USA
, maybe a Prince.”

“Something like that. Have you seen this Classics Albums Live?”

Ritchie said, “Cut for cut, note for note,” and Angie said, yeah, and Ritchie said, “When we finish this tour I'm going to be doing one with them, Zappa's
We're Only in It for the Money
.”

Angie nodded a little and said, “Yeah, they're doing really well. Couple of guys started in Toronto, now they have permanent shows in Vegas and Orlando.”

Ritchie said yeah, and Angie said, “So I was thinking, it's cool to play a whole album live, takes everybody back to when they were teenagers in the basement getting stoned and listening to
Dark Side of the Moon
over and over,” and Ritchie smiled and said yeah, wanting to know where she was going with this, and she said, “But sometimes, you know, when you hear a song it takes you right back to where you were when it first came out,” and Ritchie said, yeah, “You should hear Cliff intro ‘Red Light Street,' asking where people were when they first heard it,” and Angie said, “Yeah, like that, and then we remember the next song that came on the radio,” and Ritchie said, “Probably ‘Money for Nothing,'” and Angie said, or, “‘I Want to Know What Love Is,' or ‘All She Wants to Do Is Dance,'” and Ritchie said, “If you want Don Henley it'd be ‘The Boys of Summer.'”

Angie said, yeah, “That was the summer of '85 wasn't it? So what else happened that year, what do you think of?” and Ritchie was thinking how that was around the time the High couldn't be in the same room with each other and Angie was starting to be really strung out, but what he said was, “I don't know,
AIDS
? Was that the year of Live Aid?” and Angie laughed a little and said, I don't know, but, “What I'm thinking is, why not put a show together based on the year? Say we do 1985, get a band and they play all the hits from that year, not just from one album, and we get a giant video screen and we show scenes from that year.”

“You mean like the news,” Ritchie said, and Angie said, “Whatever's iconic from that year,” and Ritchie said, “Iconic,” and she said, fuck you, Ritchie, but playful, and he was nodding and saying, “Actually, Ange, I think it's a good idea, but maybe don't start with '85, start with '68 or '72,” and Angie said, “Sure, the Showroom is wheelchair accessible.”

Ritchie said, hey, “Homer Simpson said it, rock'n'roll peaked in 1972.”

“Well, what an authority, but there are lots of good years.”

Ritchie said, yeah, “We had some good years,” and looked right at Angie and she looked right back at him, looking like maybe she wanted to ask for something, talk about something real.

Then the waitress was at the table, followed by a guy whose whole face was smiling, a guy who was confident, sure of everything, and happy to see Angie.

She said, “Felix.”

Ritchie stood up, got ready to shake hands and Felix looked at Angie, said, “Wow, I'm always happy when that jerk Frank cancels and sends you.”

She said, “I'm sure you are,” and Felix said, I am, and touched her shoulder. Angie looked at Ritchie and said, “This is Ritchie Stone,” and Felix said, “Yeah, yeah, sure, the High.”

They shook hands and Felix sat down. The waitress disappeared and Felix said, “I saw you once back home: you guys opened for Bon Jovi. You had that great song, ‘Out in the Cold.'”

Ritchie said, yeah, that was us.

Felix said, “Yeah, that was a great show. I'm looking forward to the show here. You guys gonna rock the place?”

Ritchie said, yeah, sure, and then he looked at Angie. She was nervous, but not like she was caught between two guys. Ritchie could tell there was nothing going on between her and this Felix but business, though Ritchie was surprised by the guy, he was younger than he expected, mid-thirties, not so rough around the edges.

Something going on here, all right, and Ritchie couldn't tell if he wanted to know what it was or not.

He did want to find out what was going on with Angie, though. Shit, he was hearing a sappy song in his head again.

Felix said, “So, you two are old friends or something?” and Angie said, “Or something,” and Felix smiled and nodded. Then he looked at Ritchie and said, “And you've known Frank for a long time?”

“I knew him a long time ago,” Ritchie said, “I don't know that I could say I've known him a long time.”

Felix said, “I don't think he's changed much,” and Ritchie said, well, “We can hope,” and Felix laughed.

Ritchie liked the guy, he was all right, had that look on his face like he could have a good time, like he wasn't always trying to prove how tough he was.

Then Felix said, “So, Angie, when Frank tries to bring these bikers in to take us out and it doesn't work, will you take over as Entertainment Director?” and Ritchie watched Angie think about it, not freak out or deny it or say, what are you talking about, or anything like that, just think about it and say, “I'd have to get a raise.”

Felix said, yeah, “Of course.”

And Ritchie was thinking, this could be interesting.

• • •

On the bus they'd been talking about the last twenty years, what they'd been doing, Cliff telling Dale and Barry about the real estate business, how good it was in Toronto, house prices going up all the time, but the later it got and the more Scotch he drank, the more he told them the truth. Told them about sucking up to all these young assholes with money, stock brokers and skinny chicks with baby strollers bigger than cars, nothing ever good enough for them. What he really wanted to say, though, was look in the bag, man, me and Barry stole thirty grand from a couple of shylocks. He really wanted to tell Ritchie, open up the bag and say, what do you think of that?

But the jerk probably wouldn't care. Cliff could never understand the guy: Ritchie never seemed to care about the money at all.

Now they were at the Huron Woods Casino in one of the hotel bars, this one called the Longhouse and made up to look like the inside of a big tent, plastic-covered pillars supposed to look like logs, some actual leather on the walls and probably fake animal skins, just Cliff and Barry, Barry saying Frank Kloss was the Entertainment Director and Cliff said, “What the fuck? Here?”

Barry said, “Yeah, you didn't know?”

“No. I don't know, maybe I heard something, that when his management company went under, he went to work for a casino. I thought it was in Windsor?”

“It was. He was booking acts into it. I guess he got to know the guy running the place, went to work for him. Then he quit and went to Niagara Falls.”

“Quit or pissed somebody off? This's Frank we're talking about.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Cliff said, shit, “He finished ripping off bands, moved up to ripping off old ladies.” He waved his empty glass at the bartender and looked around the room. It was mostly empty, late afternoon, a few older people, nothing that looked like it might be fun for Cliff. Maybe one woman, sitting with a guy in a booth, looked to be in her forties and so did the guy. She looked good, though, dressed up a little, wearing a low-cut dress, gold jewellery, make-up, like she was out for a good time.

Barry said, “I don't know how many other bands he ripped off. I just know about us.”

“Fuck,” Cliff said. “And he's here?”

“Got an office in the administration building right over there.” Barry pointed with his drink but Cliff didn't think he had any idea which way the admin building was. Huron Woods, like every other casino, gets you inside and then turns you around — you don't know if it's day or night, if you're coming or going.

Cliff saw the woman looking like she was flirting with the guy, her hand under the table, and wondered, did they just meet or are they having an affair? That kind of spark couldn't be in some old married couple. He said, “Well, fuck, I hope I don't see the bastard,” and Barry said, no?

“I'm hoping we do.”

Cliff looked at him and said, why, “You want to punch him in the face as much as I do.”

“I was thinking we'd ask him,” Barry said, “for our money.”

“Ha, good one. How much you think it is, like a million bucks?”

“I was thinking two,” Barry said, and Cliff realized he was serious, said, “You figure two million?”

Barry said, “We got basically nothing for the first three albums after the advances.”

“And they were the only ones that sold.”

“We don't even own those songs. Every time I hear fucking ‘Red Light Street' on that commercial it pisses me off.”

Cliff said yeah. The song, pretty much a comeback to the Police's “Roxanne,” the story from the hooker's point of view, saying I may not
have
to put on the red light, but I do what I want, nobody tells me what to do. Shit, Cliff remembered putting the lyrics together — most of them anyway — after a hooker he spent some time with in Chicago made fun of Sting, saying how he thought he told her once and he wasn't going to tell her again, put away the make-up, her saying, yeah right, “He thinks he can tell me anything
once
,” looking at Cliff, “he better think again.”

The High were opening for Bon Jovi and Cliff spent the afternoon in the hotel with her, and now he tried to remember her name but didn't come up with anything. She was sexy but really short, he remembered that. Brought her backstage, watched her leave with one of the record company guys, and he pretty much wrote the song while Jon was living on his prayer.