Yvonne de Carlo.
Cactus watermelon jalapeños snacks.
Corner lot on SH 90 outside of Sugar Land, TX. Mobile home in back. Needs a little work. Watch out for the chiggers. I was on the watch for rattlesnakes, saw none, but when I got home, the chiggers said hello in the most painful way.
Nightclub, or ex-nightclub, on Hwy. 288 outside of Angleton, Tx.
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.
Water Tower, Chicago.
TOUGH BABY, the second Martin Fender novel, set in the Live Music Capital of the World, by Jesse Sublett, semi-legendary musician, with cover art by the lovely and brilliant Mona Pitts, now available on Amazon for your digital reading device. Who has read this book and been knocked out by its bluesy, noir tones and lyrical hardboiled edge? James Ellroy (LA Confidential), Michael Connelly (Concrete Blonde, Lincoln Lawyer), Robert B. Parker (the Spenser series), members of the Fabulous Thunderbirds, Nick Lowe, Mick Taylor (ex-Rolling Stones guitarist), and many more.
