The police from the 9th Precinct cleared CBGBs. The punks left with words of encouragement or clever insights for guitarist handcuffed to the bar, although Frankie, Dove, and his Russian boyfriend passed without a comment. Charles Ames III stopped to offer the name of a lawyer, except gruff cop ordered him to keep moving and Bobby escorted the crippled organist to the van.
Soon the giant security guard, the owner, Johnny, Sgt. Weinstein, and the ten cops were the last people left in the bar. The officers planned on killing off their shift glomming drinks from the fat owner, however the detective tapped a blackjack into his palm and said, "Finish your cocktails, gentlemen. I have a few questions for our young friend."
“He’s more than welcome for a polite conversation at the Precinct house.” The desk sergeant’s deference was a clear acknowledgement of the detective’s connection to Capt. Williams. “The night is still young.”
“No, this is a private matter.” Sgt. Weinstein brandished his bandaged palm.
“Understood.” The desk sergeant downed his drink and sherried the other officers from the bar. Once they were gone, Johnny apologized, "Sorry about the hand."
"Accidents happen." The detective lifted Johnny's lapel and poised the barb an inch from the blonde guitarist's eye. "Anything else you need get off your chest?"
"It’s like I told you. The first night Sean got into a fight with this biker form Jersey.” Johnny had no trouble telling the detective the truth. He had emptied his accounts under the dead men’s names and thrown away any evidence other than the money.
“Why?” The small facts made up the bigger picture.
“The biker was trying to rob me. Sean doesn’t like bullies. He knocked out the biker. A couple of weeks ago the biker attacked Sean at Max’s and tonight he tried to kill him. Where is he anyway?”
“He disappeared same as your friend.” Sgt. Weinstein let go of Johnny. He was only telling him what he saw with his own eyes. “I sent a car over to the Hotel Terminal for Sean. You probably know why I came here.”
"You're a music lover." Johnny quipped without earning a grin from the guardian of Times Square .
“My taste run more toward Coltrane than rock, but I was trying to question your bass player in connection to a series of robberies on ATM machines.” Sgt. Weinstein pulled out a notebook.
“What’s that have to do with Sean?” Playing dumb was his best option at this moment.
“I don’t know, but two days ago I almost caught the thief in Union Square. He gave an old lady a Christmas present. For twenty dollars she described her Santa Claus.”
Sgt. Weinstein read from the last page. It was blank.
“ White male, a black leather jacket, height 5-11, 170 pounds, white male, blue, eyes, spiky brown hair. Sounds familiar, right?"
"Lot of people fit that description on this scene.”
"And his looking like a caveman?" The focus was narrowing to his prime suspect.
"Well, that's not me."
"No, it's not, because this thief had a Boston accent. Where’s your friend from?” “I never asked.” This line of questioning was getting too close for comfort. Sean had to leave town, for the Law was an expert at making the guilty seem more guilty. Johnny lifted his hand cuffed to the bar. “Have I done anything wrong?”
“You tell me.”
“Like I said in Times Square, I'm a changed man." That impromptu meeting had occurred less than a month ago. "So if I’m not under arrest, then could I go home. It’s been a long night.”
“No, you’re free to go.” Sgt. Weinstein freed Johnny and added, “I find your friend and I’ll squeeze him and everyone talks in the end, because I'll offer him a deal. Him for you. Then where will you be? In jail over the holidays and they don’t have no White Christmases on Rikers. You keep that in mind.”
“I plan on spending Christmas with my friends.”
“You’ll make friends real fast on the Island.”
The thickset detective waddled from the bar and Johnny rubbed his wrist walking toward the door. The club owner was sitting at his desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper.
"Pretty exciting show” Everyone was of the same mind.
“And we didn’t even get to do our encore.”
“Tough break and that fight will cost you."
“That biker started it. You let him and his friends in.” Johnny lifted his hands in protest.
"He seems to have cut out, so your band has to pay for the damages."
"Why us? We did nothing." He prayed Sean wasn't at the hotel.
“Maybe you didn’t, but your bass player was another story." The owner wasn't as lenient at the police.
"He was defending himself."
"The damage to tables and chairs and broken glasses comes to about $750.” He tugged on his beard and jotted a series on numbers. He rounded the numbers to the nearest hundred and handed the paper to Johnny. “You drew three hundred covers at $5 a head. 50% of the gate ends up at $750.”
“Your math adds up to us getting screwed.” Johnny crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. Other than the PA, the booze behind the bar, and the pinball machines nothing in the bar was worth $750. “Thanks for nothing.”
"I promote bands, not riots." The owner could con all the bands, since Max's and CBGBs monopolized the punk scene not that any other bar in New York was fighting them for that privilege.
"What about another gig?" Three hundred covers were 250 above the usual Monday Nights at CBGBs.
"Give Great Gildersleeves or Kenny’s Castaway a shot. I hear they auditioning bands." The owner didn’t need the grief from the 9th Precinct and motioned for his giant bouncer. "You have ten minutes to haul away your stuff. Merv will help you."
"Thanks for everything." The fight and Sgt. Weinstein’s suspecting his role in the ATM robberies coupled with CBGB's fat owner banning any future performance from GTH had ruined the success of this evening night and Johnny and shambled onto the Bowery. Frankie, Bobby Vacca, and Charles were waiting by the van. Johnny described the disaster in twenty words omitting the good parts, because there were only minuses.
"The cop wants to speak with Sean.” “Why?” Frankie was inwardly pleased by Sgt. Weinstein wanting Sean. He wanted back his spot with Johnny.
“I don’t give a shit. Let's pack and leave. I'm sick of this place."
"You get our cut of the door?" Frankie had a hole to fill in his arm.
"The two smashed chairs inside the club are yours.” Sean’s motorcycle was parked in front of CBGBs. He probably hadn’t risked riding his bike. At least his escape had worked in their favor.
"You mean we’re not getting paid?”
Kiss flew in private jets, Zeppelin lived in mansions, and David Bowie had servants. Having seen the limos in front of CBGBs on other nights. Frankie had believed Johnny’s talk about stardom, but they had become dust in the wind just like all the lies anyone had told Frankie.
"Not a penny." Johnny was too annoyed to reconvert the wavering drummer and stormed through the bar to the stage. He angrily unplugged the wires to his amps. Frankie broke down his kit in a careless tantrum, while Bobby quickly coiled the wires for the organ and Charles Ames III stood stunned on the edge of the stage. Johnny was too exhausted to baby-sit anyone tonight, but asked, "Have you seen Tammi?"
"Not since the show." It was a little too early in Tammi's career to pull the disappearing star routine, although tonight’s melee justified her absence. "She either went to the loft or the hotel."
"I thought tonight, she and I____"
Johnny was being threatened by the police and this rich bastard was worried about a girl not in love with him and running off with Sean. Strangely he hadn't mentioned his missing sister.
"The riot fucked the show and screwed GTH. Leaving me with what? I’ll tell you what. Nothing. And you and Frankie are only worried about yourselves. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Johnny lifted an amp and nearly threw it at the bottles behind the bar. Erring on the side of reason, he lugged it to the front door, at which stood Nick Arcc.
"Great show.”
"The police begged to differ." Johnny continued out the door, disgusted that the promo man’s obvious come-on.
"The police can’t afford records.” Other people’s misconceptions rarely discouraged the A&R man and Nick Arcc produced a card from Max Levy's record company,
“More important are the people who sell them.”
“He saw us?” Levy was a big name.
“He liked GTH enough to offer you a contract.”
“You’re joking?" Johnny loaded the amp into the van.
“Not at all. You should meet him. Tammi should meet him. I'll guide you through the rough spots on the contract.”
“Contract?”
“Yeah, contract.” Nick could have easily schlepped GTH around to various other labels, except Max Levy’s having witness the effect of Tammi’s talent facilitated the sale. Of course the teenager didn’t need to hear about ditching the rest of the band until after signing a specifically worded contract.
“You’re serious?” Johnny repressed a cough.
Nick nodded, seeing the sweat bead on the guitarist’s forehead. Johnny looked sick and the producer stepped back from him. He didn’t need to be sick over the holidays.
"Even after tonight." Hope blossomed on Johnny's face, as if he were hearing the ABC’s WIDE WORLD OF SPORTS opening with the agony of defeat reversed to the thrill of victory.
"Even after tonight." Hope blossomed on Johnny's face.
"He loved it." The guitarist’s willingness to bite the bait was almost comical.
“Helping you make it is a small part of my job.”
"Thanks" Johnny's life had been resurrected by the sleaziest A&R man on the planet.
"Thank you. Signing with Levy will be as much a favor to me as it will be to you.” Nick Arcc gave him the business card. “Call me tomorrow. With me at your side, I'll make sure no one takes advantage of you."
"Yeah, we’ve heard about how you take care of bands." Nick Arcc’s tactics were well known of the scene and Johnny was equally distrustful of Max Levy. “Any advance money will be deducted off the top of their record sales along with the cost of studio expenses.”
“It’s the standard ripoff, but my offer has to be good news to a band nobody had heard before tonight.”
“You’re right.” GTH was down to two options; Levy or break-up. Nick Arcc normally would have tried to offer Johnny a drink at Cisco Disco, but clapped the pallid guitarist on the shoulder.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
“It’s already tomorrow.”
“Not for the rest of the world.” Nick smiled with the contentment of a job well done.
Inside the club, the owner asked, "What did the fat little hairball say to you?"
"He asked us to meet Max Levy." Johnny flourished the record producer's card.
"Max Levy?" The major labels never showed any interest in bands from CBGBs.
"He was here tonight, right?" Johnny’s doubts disappeared with the owner’s reply.
"Perhaps I was a little hasty in not booking you guys again. You have a manager?"
"Not yet, I'll keep you posted." Johnny walked away, grateful to the band, the audience tonight, and the most deserving of his thanks was New York for its continually providing miracles when you needed them most. The song was right. If you could make it here, then you could make it anywhere, but why bother about anywhere else, when all you really wanted was here.
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