Zipless (6 page)

“Aye, most of the time. Until Paolo takes over, then I step back and let him do his thing.”

Chris nodded. “I’m Chris O’Conner. Wanna get tuned up together?”

“Aye, sure. You want to use Paolo’s axe?”

“Got my own, thanks.” He bent to his guitar case and started to open it.

“Mind if I ask ye a personal question?”

Chris shrugged.

“You responsible for all those weird noises coming from Lou’s room earlier?”

He looked up at Bluto. “I guess I am.”

“And you were with her last night too?”

Chris nodded.

Bluto was looking at him incredulously. “You got together with Lou more than once?”

“Well, yeah, why wouldn’t I?” He opened his guitar case, hearing a sharp intake of breath as the light caught the guitar’s reflective blue surface.

“Wow, man. Wow. That’s beautiful.”

Chris picked it up and strapped it on, smiling down at his favorite guitar. “You ready?”

“Aye.” Bluto grabbed his and together they began to tune up. “I’ve only seen a guitar like that once before. Years ago. When I saw Snakebite play the Barrowland Ballroom in Glasgow. That guitar picked up every light in the place. People were jumping up and doon, trying to get a wee look at themselves in the reflection. That Crash dude would let girls kiss it. Bloody thing was covered in lipstick by the end of the night. Great night, that. Great band. Shame what happened to…”

Chris looked up as Bluto trailed off.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” Bluto stared, eyes wide. “It’s you. It’s you! I didnae recognize you without all the makeup. Oh, my fucking god, I’m gonnae play with Crash fucking Burns!”

“Hey, man. It’s no big deal.” Chris shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t Crash anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. But Bluto didn’t seem to care.

“You disappeared. After the singer died. Jake… What was it?”

“Allende. Jake Allende.” Amazing. His name still hurt. Even after all these years it was still hard to believe he was dead. Jake had been so alive. So fucking alive. But he’d been blotted out. By a fucking needle. “Come on, Bluto. What’s the song we’re gonna be doing. Key?”

The door opened and Bluto glanced over. “Hey, Lou. Remember that band, Snakebite?”

Lou went to a corner of the room and rummaged around in a big leather bag. “Aye, vaguely. One hit wonder, over-produced, they all ended up overdosing or choking on each other’s vomit or something.” She shoved her hand deeper into the bag and looked over at them. “That the one you mean?” She pulled out a sheaf of papers.

Chris stared at her, willing her to shut the fuck up. He looked over at Bluto who seemed to be frozen with embarrassment.

Bluto tried to intervene, to head her off at the pass. “You’re a wee bit harsh, are ye no?”

She shrugged as she walked towards them. “Another junkie band with more showmanship than talent. That singer was a joke.”

Chris held his breath as she shoved a piece of paper into his hand. She hadn’t said anything unforgiveable. There was actually a lot of truth in her brutally-stated opinion. He opened his mouth to inform her that there’d been only one junkie in the band.

She looked up at him. “People who waste their lives like that? In thrall to heroin?” She grimaced. “They’re an insult to all the people who died of cancer. The ones who wanted to live.”

Her lip was trembling and, as she turned away, he thought he’d seen tears in her eyes. He turned to look at Bluto. “Just drop it,” he said quietly. “Let’s get to work,” he added more loudly. “What song are we doing?”

“The one you’ve got in your hand,” Lou said, still with her back to him.

He glanced down at the paper.
Song for Margaret. Words and Music: Marzaroli
. The title was followed by sheet music. He shook his head. “I can’t read music.”

Lou turned to him, rolling her raccoon eyes.

“I can learn anything by ear. Do you have a recording I can listen to?”

She nodded and returned to her enormous leather bag, soon pulling out an iPod attached to massive headphones. She tapped away at the iPod as she ambled back.

She pushed a chair toward him with a foot. “Sit,” she barked, then put the headphones on his head. He watched her as she walked away. In his ears the song started, sweet and mellow. She was talking to Bluto, who was nodding and smiling. Bluto handed her something, then left the room, waving and grinning. She came back, pulling a chair with her. She sat on it in front of him, bending slightly, then clipped a capo onto the neck of his guitar. The song continued. He played a single chord, and she shook her head, putting her hand over his and sliding it a couple of frets up the neck. He played the chord again. This time she nodded and moved closer. He looked down. His leg was between hers, the guitar in his lap—and she was either staring at his crotch or trying to look at herself in the guitar’s reflective mirror.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a pick. In the song, a slow, sad phrase was playing over the rhythm guitar. He’d already heard it twice. The third time he played along with it. Lou smiled and nodded. With more confidence, Chris continued with the song, adding some length and vibrato to the final note. Would she mind him changing it a little? Adding something of himself? She wasn’t smiling any more. She was just staring. Maybe she didn’t like it. He played the phrase again, adding a small run in the middle. He had the repeating phrase down now, just had to hear the solo. He listened to the lyrics. Bluto had a good voice, gruff yet tender. The song was about somebody dying. Someone called Margaret. That was Lou’s middle name.

The song was reaching its emotional climax in the final verse. He’d thought it was a song about losing a lover, but it wasn’t. It was about losing a mother. Being left alone. The feeling of fear and confusion. Chris closed his eyes. He’d known those emotions. Back in South Carolina, the third foster home, his social worker with tears in her eyes, telling him that Mom had died. Liver failure due to chronic Hepatitis C. Fifteen years old and he’d finally understood why his mother had dropped him at the local children’s home nine months earlier. Why she’d been crying, telling him it was better this way. She’d loved him; he’d always known she loved him. In her way. Not more than the smack, though. Never more than that.

The final line of the song registered, and then it was into a full-blown screaming wave of agony disguised as a guitar solo. Chris didn’t even try to play, just listened. Until the headphones were wrenched away.

“Zippy, you okay?” Lou’s voice was soft and sweet. “You’re crying,” she said, as she collected the solitary tear that was making its way down his face.

One single tear, he thought. The first he’d shed for Mom in so many years. He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just…” He remembered the final line—having to stay strong for the younger brother who was falling apart. One of the Marzarolis had written the song. And he was sure it was the one sitting in front of him. What she’d said earlier about people dying from cancer who’d so badly wanted to live. He took a deep breath. “My momma died when I was fifteen.”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded like she knew exactly how he was feeling. “The song made you cry?”

“Yeah.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You sure you wanna do this one on the show? I mean, it’s a great song. No doubt. But it’s kind of a downer.” He sniffed, trying to do it unobtrusively.

“I suppose it is,” she said.

“What’s the newest song? Would you consider that one?”

“Um. The band hasn’t recorded it yet. But they’ve played it live a few times and it went down well.” She picked up the iPod. “I’ll let you hear it and you can tell me what you think.” She put the headphones back on him, then walked away. He started to listen, aware that she hadn’t walked far, and that she was watching him.

It wasn’t the band playing, just a single guitarist. The song started out with a few simple chords and a little nimble finger picking. Was it Bluto playing? Or maybe the brother, Paolo? Whichever one it was, he got a nice full sound out of his guitar. But when the first verse started, it certainly wasn’t either one of them singing. It was a woman. And it was a fine strong voice, clear and pure, with an aching beauty. No vibrato, no runs, just straight melody. No strain on the high notes, perfect pitch, almost effortless. There was a noticeable accent; the singer was making no effort to sound American or at least transatlantic.

He turned and glanced at Lou, who immediately turned away and pretended to be going through her bag. It was
her
singing. He was sure of it. Such a lovely voice, accompanied by excellent guitar playing. The song was good. Very good. It had the feel of something old that had been modernized. The lyrics were about never giving up on something, never surrendering. It sounded like her. “Who wrote it?” he said over the music, then pointed a finger at her.

She blushed, nodded.

“Paolo or Bluto on guitar?”

She shook her head.

The tempo of the song was building, the guitar playing intensified. “You?” he asked.

She nodded, then turned in the direction of the door as Bluto came crashing through it, half-carrying another man. They both fell to the ground. Over the sound of the music he could hear Lou shrieking. He pulled off the headphones.

* * * *

“Chiz, you drunken bampot! Are you incapable of staying sober?” Lou rushed over as Bluto climbed to his feet. “Let’s get him on the couch.”
Don’t kill him, don’t kill him,
repeated in her head.

Lou stared down at Chiz’s grinning mug, as she, Bluto, and soon Zippy, dragged his drunken carcass to the couch and heaved him onto it.

“They’re after me,” he slurred.

Lou grabbed a bottle of water and emptied it over his head, smiling with satisfaction as he spluttered. She pointed a finger in his face. “It’s
me
you’re in trouble with, laddie.”

Chiz started to giggle and hiccup. He might be a drunk, but he’d never been a mean one, Lou thought. And he was used to playing drunk. But— “Where’s Alasdair?”

“With some Jamaicans.”

“What Jamaicans?”

“We met them at a bar down the street.”

“So he’s at a bar? Which one?”

Chiz shook his head and rolled off the couch. “He’s no at the bar anymore. Got to go, lass. Them…they’ll be here soon.” He pushed himself up on his feet and stood there, weaving dramatically.

“The Jamaicans? Why are they coming here? What the hell did you do to them? Are they bringing Alasdair?”

“Naw. He went away with them.”

“Went with them where?”

Chiz tried to take a step back, but ended up falling on the couch. Lou stood over him, hands on hips. Chiz looked a little terrified. “Jamaica?” He asked it nervously, trying to push himself into the couch away from her.

Lou bent over and grabbed him by the shirt. “Tell me that—” She shook him. “—the fucking drummer—” She shook him again. “—hasn’t fucked off…to fucking Jamaica.” She kept shaking him until Bluto intervened.

“Careful, Lou. You don’t want him hurling everywhere.”

She stepped back, glaring at Chiz.

“Sorry, Lou-Lou.” Chiz pushed himself up again. “I tried to stop him. But those Jamaicans were pretty persuasive.”

The door opened and Lou turned to glare at the interruption. Two New York City police officers stood there. “That’s him,” said the female, pointing at Chiz.

Lou thrust her hands into her hair, forcing herself not to pull it out. “What did he do?”

The officers went over to Chiz and the male slapped handcuffs on him.

“I didnae mean to upset you,” Chiz said to the woman. “I just saw you…and well…I fell in love. The uniform. That fierce expression?” He grinned at her stupidly.

“You also offered me a joint and invited me back to your hotel for some rumpy-pumpy. Whatever the hell that is,” she said, furious.

“And took off running, though it was more like staggering,” said the male officer. “That was the easiest chase ever.” He rubbed his rather rotund belly contemplatively. “Thanks for that, at least.” He hauled Chiz to standing. “And now it’s time for you to take a little ride in my vehicle.”

“You can’t arrest him,” Lou yelled. “I need him. He’s my drummer.”

The female officer fixed her with an icy glare. “He’s gonna be charged with every possible thing I can think up.” She pulled on Chiz’s arm, leading him towards the door. “But first he’ll be spending some time in the drunk tank.”