The power trio assaulted CBGB’s with a 110 dB barrage, as the muscular lead guitarist executed a hundred push-ups during a drum solo. Jumping to his feet, the blonde strongman flourished a hot water bottle and his band sang, "Blow, Sun, blow."
"I love this band," Nick Arcc shouted to Max Levy.
"What’s to love about them. They suck." The mainstream producer had heard about the punk scene from several junior promo men, although none of the previous three acts warranted a shot at any venue larger other than a toilet stall in the bar’s wretched basement toilet.
"Sure, they suck, but watch this." Nick Arcc pointed to the singer. The water bottle expanded with each breath in an extraordinary display of lung capacity. Within a minute the balloon popped and the muscle-bound singer threw the shredded rubber to a girl in a tank top. The band finished the song and the guitarist bowed to the thinning audience.
“Was that great or was that great?” Nick scanned the bar. There were less than thirty people in CBGB’s and that was counting the staff.
Taking advantage of this break, the balding soundman switched on the lights to end the band’s set. The blonde singer scowled at getting the hook, figuring the record producer was here for his band. He was dead wrong and the pony-tailed forty year-old said, "I've seen enough."
"Not so quick." Nick Arcc held Max Levy’s arm. "We came for the next band. GTH."
"And you've seen them before?" The producer was well aware of the gay A&R man's predilection for boy bands resembling the New York Dolls instead of Menudo.
"I’ve been to the rehearsals." The ban from the loft hadn't barred his sitting the reeking stairwell and he had been surprised by commerciality of their sound. “The band has the raw power of Grand Funk and this girl is a combination of Stevie Nicks and Janis Joplin with Nina Simone thrown in for soul.”
“Nice sales pitch.”
“Only the truth.” The music was good, but the girl was special.
“It better be, because I have very little time to waste on third-rate bands. Like exactly zero seconds.” Marvin checked his Rolex. It was solid gold.
“Hey, would I waste your time?” Levy was a legend and you didn’t fuck with legends in the music scene.
“You better not. Who do you think I was speaking to this afternoon?”
“Lemmie from Motorhead?” A long shot.
“Seriously.” The record executive had a short fuse.
“Seriously?” Nick racked his brain for the most obvious major name, eliminated the top three, and guessed, “Neil Diamond.”
“Very good.” Max Levy was on a first-name basis with the industry’s big hitters. He had made them millions. When he called, they answered him. “I’m trying to arrange a tour with Elton. A double-bill does wonders for records sales.”
“The whole world’s been waiting for Elton and Neil; LA, New York, Frisco, Chicago and all the Midwest points in between.”
“It is major.” Fifty cities in 70 days.
“And I’m impressed.” Soft rock, mega-tours, and all-star bands were a sick merry-go-round ruining Rock and Roll and the old farts ruling the record industry force-fed the teenage masses MOR groups like Yes and Foreigner., but worse was the horrifying possibility that the kids enjoyed listening to that drivel.
“Certainly empties the warehouses of their back stock and Neil is uptown at Trax, while I’m here with you waiting for a band that no one has ever heard of. Name me the last New York band to hit it big.”
”The Young Rascals.” Blondie was on the jukebox. Anyone with half a brain could tell that she was going to be huge.
”Correct and you know why?” Max shouted into his ear.
”Because no one wants to deal with prima donnas.” Lou Reed was a pain in the ass and the New York Dolls had been a nightmare for the record companies.
”Plus the rest of the country doesn’t like weird.” The Stooges’ and New York Dolls’ implosion on their record companies had cost several people’s reputations.
”GTH isn’t weird.” Nick was getting anxious. GTH should have drawn a bigger crowd than this.
”What kind of name is GTH? There was this band out of Detroit. Death. They had a great song and were asked to change the name. They refused and no one has heard from them since.”
”We can work with the name, but you hear the story about the Stones’ first promoter. He was paying them fifty dollars a month and their van had a flat in Scotland. He refused to send them the money to buy new tires. how much money Mick and Keith earned with BLACK AND BLUE this year? $50 million and more with the tour. And the producer who was too cheap to send them the money for tires is running a Fish and Chips shop in Blackpool, at least how Keith told it at One-Fifth.” Nick had his own names to drop around the dinner table. Whether the story was true was unimportant, once Max Levy said, “Okay, okay, I’ll wait for the band.”
“Six months from now you'll thank me for turning you onto GTH and then spend the next two years screwing me out of my cut." Record executives were magicians at transforming their hindsight into prophecy once the risk was a sure thing.
"I wouldn't screw you," Max Levy protested, even though the music industry’s profits depended as much on the companies’ shorting the A&R people's percentages as the mismanagement of the artists' royalties.
"Tell me that, when they have a #1 with a bullet.” Nick ordered two more beers.
“Is that your Great White Hope at the front door?” Max Levy commented discouragingly, “He seems a little rundown.”
Johnny was talking to the owner at the door. His skin was the color of mozzarella, but Nick touted the guitarist faithfully, “He’s the new Jeff Beck. You care to meet him?”
"I’ll wait, till after the show."
If GTH was as appalling as the previous group, he could meet a psychopathic blonde model from Buffalo at Trax on 72nd Street. She was wild in bed and reputed to pegged next month’s Vogue cover.
"And if other producers show?” Nick seeded doubt, even if Max Levy was a hard surface to sow.
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
“I’ll inform him you’re here anyway.” Nick walked toward the door to greet Johnny, but stopped hearing the heated discussion with CBGB’s bearded owner.
"Nobody told me tonight was Hanukkah.” Johnny was also disappointed with the turn-out, but Jewish holidays decimated Manhattan’s nightlife
"You said you could pull in a good crowd,” the bearded owner waved a stack on $1.
“They’ll be here after Jayne County's set at Max's." It was 11:05 and the owner pointed to Frankie, nodding by the pinball machine. "Your drummer’s ready for bed or Bellevue."
"The Heartbreakers have put on their best shows in worse condition."
"That's the Heartbreakers. They have a following.” The owner had booked over a thousand bands this year. Most of them were unmemorable, 15% were listenable, and 5% stood a chance at making a name, if the drugs didn’t catch them first and the owner said, “You're nobody."
"Not for long." Too many people around this scene had started as nobodies for Johnny to take offense.
"Your set starts at 11:30.” The owner ran a tight night. “With a crowd or without."
"You said midnight."
"11:30."
“You bastard.” Johnny shoved the door open. Tonight was starting to suck.
Across the street a solitary derelict hovered over a burning trashcan. Snowflakes fell cold on his hands. The van was parked by the curb. Tammi and Charles were huddled in the front seat. They looked at him with anxious smiles. Johnny didn’t want to tell them that no one had show up for GTH and spotted Handsome Dick Manitoba strolling down the sidewalk with two members of the Dictators.
”How’s it going?”
”Fuck off.”
They were in a bad mood, since they were not welcome at Max’s whenever Jayne County was performing due to a fight between the two. No one came in after them, until a motorcycle roared across the Bowery and skidded to a foot from Johnny. Sean looked over to the van, as Caroline slid off the bike without saying a word. Johnny wasn’t asking any questions about their prior whereabouts.
“Nice entrance other than you’re late.”
"Anyone inside yet?" Caroline asked unbuttoning her fur coat. She was in brand-new leather from Patricia Fields. Everything about her said money and power.
"A few people from the other band and the Dictators." Johnny wished that he hadn't given her opening, for she brushed her ashen strands into order and announced haughtily, "Then we're on time."
Caroline waved to her brother and entered the club.
“That bitch gets on my nerves."
”She has that talent.” Sean saw the empty sidewalk. Even with the cold this wasn’t a good sign. ”What’s up?”
”It’s dead in there.”
”Where is everyone?” Sean stamped his feet to revive his toes.
”Not here.” Johnny placed his hand over the heat emanating from the motorcycle’s engine. No one gave anyone a gift this valuable without asking for a favor the other person wasn’t capable of giving in return.
”No one?”
”No one.”
“It’s a tough city.”
Sean’s heart was suffering a thousand deaths and he glanced over to the van.
“Unforgiving too.”
“Sean, Tammi’s only doing what she thinks is best.”
“She say anything about me?”
“Nothing.” Johnny hadn’t spoken to her, but a lie couldn’t hurt her.
“And I won’t stand in her way.” She deserved a better life, even if it wasn’t with him.
“I’m glad to hear that. We’re going on at 11:30.” His eyes were locked on broad avenue, as if he were expecting to spot a billboard with his name on it, except the Bowery only possessed neon signs above the various dive bars patronized by the local drunks.
“I thought it was 12.”
“The owner changed his mind.”
“So we have to set up?”
“Go get Frankie. He’s inside.”
Sean entered CBGBs and Johnny waved for Tammi to help them with the equipment.
“Is it time?” She asked in her black leather outfit. It cost a fraction of Caroline's clothes, but Tammi was a punk. Charles' sister would never be one.
“A change in plans. We’re going on at 11:30.”
“But there’s no one here.”
“We’ll stall as long as we can.” Johnny opened the van’s van door. Sean came out of the bar with Frankie. He picked up an amp and carried it inside without saying hello to Tammi, who examined the motorcycle.
”So now you see.” Charles stood next to her. “Sean has made his decision.”
"Charles, I don’t want to talk about it.”
"I know, but I want to talk about it now,” Charles stated, while mentally composing his next words. “This is hard for me to say.”
“Go ahead.” She dreaded this and the two of them moved away from the van, as the driver handed equipment to Johnny.
“I want you to move in with me you could move in with me.”
"Charles, I'm too young to live with anyone."
"I can give you anything you desire. No more working. No more dancing naked. Say the word and you and I can disappear. You name the place, we can go there." Paris, Rome, and Tahiti materialized from a purple haze. Tammi shared the romantic mirage and felt awful saying, "I can't."
"You mean you won't, because of Sean."
“No,” she answered whether or it was the truth.
Even faced with this rejection, Charles wanted the best for Tammi.
“I'm sorry to confuse you before the show by sharing my feelings."
The word ‘feelings’ gave her the creeps. The words to the song whispered in her mind. If she had a knife, she would have operated on her heart. “Charles, sorry.
“Sorry?” He had to find the answer.
“Any girl in her right mind would have said, “Yes.” But I can’t feel anything for you. Not now and you deserve someone to care about you. When I first met you, I thought you were just another rich kid, but you’re a member of this band and that is more to me than a lover.” Charles didn’t deserve to be hurt for loving her.
"But you might change your mind," he pleaded against his better judgment. “It’s not my mind that has to change.” Tammi broke away, intending to inform Sean that they had to give it another try once the set was over, since he played bass better with a heartache. “I got to get dressed. Tammi rushed over to grab a small amp from Johnny, who shouted to the organist. “Charles, you stay with the van, so no one rips off equipment.”
“I’ll guard it with my life.” Charles Ames III slashed his cane in the air, wishing a sword was inside the shaft. Killing Sean wouldn’t take much with twenty inches of steel.
In the fifteen minutes it took them arrange their equipment on stage, five people entered into the bar for the previous band. Not one of Johnny’s friends from 42nd Street, CBGBs, Max's, the Terminal Hotel, or old schoolmates from Queens walked through the doors. A congealing lump was constricting his breathing and Johnny staggered onto the sidewalk for air.
A bag of dope and a needle would halt the Con Ed clock ticking off the seconds to 11:30. A bag was $10. A needle cost $2. The dealers on East 4th Street was five minutes away. Johnny was on the verge of leaving for Avenue B, when a taxi u-turned on the Bowery and pulled up to the sidewalk. Its passengers were the greatest band on the punk scene. The gawky lead singer in the motorcycle jacket grinned at Johnny’s relieved expression. “You didn’t think we were showing?”
“You did cut it a little close.”
"Who’d want to see Hercules burst his balloon?"
"Once is more than enough," Johnny admitted and the longhair lead singer clapped him on the back. "We brought the everyone from Max's. So kick out the jams, Johnny Boy."
"Count on it like the plague." Johnny spotted three more taxis racing down the Bowery and two others cutting the corner at Houston. He pointed out the rush to Charles in the van. The organist rolled down the window and Johnny said, “Our public is coming to the rescue”
”This is for us.” Charles watched a group of punks round the corner and three groups of girls were crossing the Bowery.
”For us and no one else.” Johnny smiled with relief and explained, “New York is a city of seven million people. Less than a million inhabited Manhattan, most of them working nine-to-five. Only a few thousand inhabited are nocturnal. It doesn’t take many of those to change an ordinary evening into a night to remember. Are you ready for this?”
”No.” Charles was trembling in the van. It wasn’t from the cold.
”Me neither, but once we hit the first chord, we’ll be ready, trust me.”
”I thought your first rule was ‘trust no one’.”
”It is, except for when I ask you to trust me.” Johnny shook hands with two musicians. “There are always exceptions to the rule. I’ll send out robert once we’re set up on stage.”
In the next fifteen minutes over two hundred people entered CBGBs. Half were Caroline Ames’ guests, dressed in leather for this costume ball. Any antagonisms between the pretenders and the punks evaporated like glue, after her friends bought drinks for anyone in a leather jacket.
CBGB's owner greeted the new clientele with open hands. They didn't ask about the guest list or try to cadge free drinks.
A little after 11:30 a flock of slumming strippers from the Dollhouse piled into the club and Josie Cane searched for her roommate and found her standing at the bar with two young men.
”Josie, these two men founded PUNK magazine and they love GTH.” Tammi in a slick black leather jumpsuit looked like a licorice mermaid gifted with feet. “They love us without having heard us.”
”The word on the street is you’re great.” The taller writer gawked at the slender redhead with starstruck admiration.
”People are taking about us?” The teenager was dumbstruck by these writers’ asking her questions. No one had ever paid her any attention, unless she took off her clothes.
”They say you have a voice.”
“I’m sure.” Josie saw the way he was looking at Tammi. His eyes were not focused on her throat and she took off her rabbit-fur jacket, revealing a leather vest without a bra underneath it. The two young men stared at her breasts and the black woman asked, “You never seen black boobs before?”
”Yes, ma-‘am.”
”Then screw your eyes back in your head and give me and my girl a little space. We need to talk.” Josie motioned for them to move along and turned to Tammi, fingering the jumpsuit. It was butter-soft. “Now that’s some fine leather.”
"Charles bought it for me along with the boots.” She modeled the stiletto heeled calf-high shoes with a spin.
”So he really is a millionaire?” Josie searched the crowd for a pale-skinned blonde man with a limp without finding anyone fitting Tammi’s description of her benefactor.
”Very much so.”
”And?” The men in the bar were good-looking and Josie’s fellow dancers were making friends.
”I think he wants me to move in with him.”
”Leaving me all alone.” Josie would miss Tammi.
”Maybe.” The young singer was embarrassed by this reply.
“Girl, don’t tell me you’re still hooked on that loser.” Josie swung her head to the stage and saw the source of Tammi's anxiety. “That’s him on stage next to the skinny blonde?”
“Yes.” One snide smile from Caroline crumbled the last fragments of her confidence.
“You want me to run interference?”
"No, I’ll get him in the end.” Tammi was short of breath.
“How?” Josie signaled the bartender for a drink, as the Dollhouse dancers worked the newcomers like conventioneers on expense accounts. “By playing the wallflower at the bar?”
“No, I have my ways.” People were staring at her. Some were talking about her. They all seemed to have the word ‘slut’ on their lips. "You'll have to excuse me. I have to put on make-up."
Tammi hurried through the crowd to CBGB's tiny dressing room and examined the reflection in the distorted mirror. The young redhead in the tight leather pants and laced-up skirt was a runaway stripper. Times Square devoured them morning, noon, and night. She was never winning back Sean and for the first time since hitting the highway she contemplated heading home.
If she grabbed the midnight bus from the Port Authority, she could reach Portsmouth by dawn. Tammi had the money in her leather jacket to rent an apartment near the Navy Yard. She would work at a restaurant and finish her high school education at night. People in Kittery would gossip about the dead junkie’s daughter running away for a month or two, but by spring they would have added this misadventure to their rumors and myths of her life. She might meet a sailor from the West and bury her past with a move to Texas. Pushing the tears from her eyes, she stood to flee the dressing room, only to bump into Johnny.
“Where are you going?”
“Out for some air.”
“No, you’re not.” He instantly diagnosed her panic as stage fright. "Tammy, this has to be less scary than dancing at the Dollhouse."
"No, it’s not. There all I have to do is take off my clothes and I’m a star." Her body was flesh and bones, while her voice belong to her soul and no one else.
"Listen to me.” Johnny held her hand. “I recognized you were special in Sean's room. Not for your body, but what was in you.”
"I don't feel special." She poked her head from the dressing room. CBs was packed.
"You will after tonight.” The distressed young girl needed to hear the truth from a friend. “All these people are here for GTH. Our music. Our songs. Your voice. I know what people thought about you in your hometown. That you were no good. That you would never be any good, but they were wrong and with you GTH can make it in the toughest city in the world. Unless of course you let a few hundred people scare you and who are they? Just punks. Punks like you and me. Wait till we play the Garden, then you can have stage fright.”
"You ever consider a job as a guidance counselor?" Tammi pulled out a Kleenex.
"I’d rather be the leader of the GTH pep squad. Go GTH Go." The guitarist took the tissue from her hand to broaden the runny mascara to an inch-wide band of black underneath her eyes.
"I must look like a raccoon." Tammi jerked away from his cosmetic administrations.
"On stage you'll be a sex goddess." Johnny picked out the platinum wig from the Trash N Vaudeville bag. ”What’s this?”
"They say blondes have more fun, but I like me the way I am.” She had bought the wig for a reason.
”Humor me and try this on for size." Johnny wasn’t taking no for an answer.
"I’m not competing with Caroline,” Tammi declared defiantly, as Johnny arranged the platinum wig on the teenager’s head.
“No one said you were.” Johnny didn’t believe her lie, because it was too obviously not the truth. “No one said you were. See.”
She posed before the mirror and liked the reflection enough to pout at this blonde version of herself.
”You like it?”
"No, I like you as you, because you're special and don't let anyone tell you different." Johnny pulled off the wig and stuffed it in the bag. He gave her $10. "Go get yourself a drink."
Tammi obeyed Johnny and exited from the dressing room. Sean’s eyes followed her to the bar, where she ordered a Wild Turkey and downed the shot in one gulp. The liquor burned her throat and she repressed a cough.
"Whiskey's good medicine for your throat," Nick Arcc said behind her.
It didn’t hurt being polite to anyone with serious connections in the music industry and Tammi said, "Sorry about that scene at the loft."
"Think nothing of it. If I can survive a tour with the Dolls, then I can handle a little rough stuff from your bass player." Nick turned to a longhaired older man desperately trying to be hip in a new Schott leather jacket. "Max, this is Tammi West.”
”You know my name?” She toyed with her hair.
”It’s my job to know your name.” The bearded producer tapped her hand and said to Max. “This girl combines Billy Holiday’s seduction with Janis’ power and she has the voice to sing pop."
"We haven’t any pop songs." She figured the slick longhair was important or else Nick Arcc wouldn't have bothered with the introduction.
”Your band doesn’t, but you could.” He was putting a bug in her ear.
”I don’t think the rest of the band is into pop.” Tammi heard the seduction of fame in his voice. He wasn’t interested with GTH. He wanted her.
"Being flexible is the key to longevity in this business.” Max Levy had produced hits with doo-wop, garage, Acid rock, AOR, pop, and would have no prejudice against punk, if it sold records. "Are you as talented as Nick says?"
"Better." The bourbon depth charge was warm in her belly.
"You’re not shy about blowing your own horn?"
"If it keeps people from driving me off the road, why not?” Tammi shrugged with the indifference of youth. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m going onstage."
”What I tell you?” Nick Arcc watched the young girl push through the crowd and the record producer said, "Her having that spark doesn't mean anything, if she can’t sing."
“The public has been waiting for this girl,” Nick bubbled, waving to the booker from Great Gildersleeves.
“She’s a complete unknown.”
“They already have a hit song and breaking her onto the charts is your job."
“You have any idea of the cost to promote a hit in this business, if they’re not mainstream.” The record companies were happier selling the same LP year in and year out rather than finding new talent outside the ken of the young. Albums like Pink Floyd’s DARK SIDE OF THE MOON and HOTEL CALIFORNIA would bankroll the corporations into the next century, for old was new to the young, if old was the only new they had to buy in the future.
“A lot of money.” Nick had failed six times to promote his bands, but he had come close and wasn’t giving up until a gold record hung on the wall of his West Village apartment.
“And the right connections and promotion and no one hit the charts without playing the game.” Top-market radio DJs and executive program directors were given cocaine, critics were flown to concerts, and stuck in hotels with groupies to insure good reviews. Max Levy narrowed his eyes. “Everyone gets what they deserve on each side of the LP; the musicians, the producers, the DJs. And if I’m successful, I get a pat on the back and an extra slice of the pie. But not for nothing.”
“Trust me, Tammi’s worth it,” Nick countered, as the audience chanted for GTH.
Inside the dressing room Johnny discreetly steadied Frankie with two lines of cocaine. Sean tried to speak with her, but she answered with the turn of her back. Charles took offense at Sean’s disturbing Tammi and wondered whether a bare wire running from an amp carried enough voltage to kill him. His murderous reverie was cut short by Johnny saying, “Listen to that.”
“They’re calling for GTH.” Frankie emerged from his narcolepsy.
“That’s us.” Tammi jumped in the air. “Going to Hell.”
Her body popped with energy, although this passion was not shared by Sean and Charles, who were caught in the high beams of the panic truck. Johnny prayed they emerged from this shock on stage and clapped his hands.
“All around the world people are listening to disco, soft rock, middle-of-the-road progressive rock, the Beatles, the Grateful Dead, but yesterday isn’t the answer for tomorrow. Tomorrow is the answer for tomorrow and we are the tomorrow.”
“And there’s a record producer here.” Tammi wanted the rest of the band to realize how important this gig was.
“Record producer?” Sean fought back an onslaught of bile.
“He’s with the guy you nearly dropped down the elevator shaft." The raccoon eyeliner, Italians boots, and black leather jumpsuit propelled Tammi into the 21st Century.
“This is our night.” Johnny pointed to each member of GTH. “Stop worrying about this show. On the stage the lights will blind you and the audience is invisible. We’ll be great. We ready?"
"Yeah," they answered and Johnny breathed a sigh of relief that Charles and Sean had responded in unison. He strapped on the new StratoCaster guitar and handed Sean the Fender bass.
"You ready, hippie boy."
"Never readier." Sean had only performed before this many people as a giant bunny at his primary school's Easter pageant.
"Holy shit, Iggy and Bowie are in front." Tammi put her hand over her mouth.
“You’re kidding?” Frankie loved the White Duke.
Tammi stopped the drummer from leaving the dressing room. "Just a joke to lighten us up.”
"I hate jokes like that."
"Hopefully the next time she says it, it will be true.” Johnny handed each band member a small sheet with the set’s five songs. "We kick off with TAKE ME HIGHER followed by LOVE NO LOVE, WAY TO NOWHERE, SUMMER’S ALMOST GONE, and finish with MAYBE TOMORROW. Five songs. One-two-three-four-five. No changes. We did it right this afternoon, let's do it right tonight."
"And LOUIE LOUIE as the encore?" Charles Ames III rose to his feet, sharing the excitement on Tammi’s face.
"Three chords. ADE. Follow my lead, Tammi, you know the words?”
“Fine little boy he waits for me. Me catch a ship for cross the sea.” Tammi held up a piece of paper with the lyrics on them.
“Those are the words?” No one in Sean’s high school had ever deciphered the lyrics.
“They are for a girl.” Johnny peeked out of the door. "The crowd’s restless, so let's soothe the savage beast."
At the entrance to the club the bearded owner watched the band’s mount the stage.
Over three hundred people had paid covers tonight.
If GTH were good, he’d offer a weekly gig, sucker them with small advance, and lock them to an unbreakable contract. His search through the desk for a standard contract was disrupted by five bikers in leather jackets.
”Only Hells’ Angel allowed.” It was an unwritten rule.
”We came all the way from Jersey to see this band.” The leader had tape over his nose. Someone had broken his nose, although not recently. “We can pay the cover and we’re not wearing our colors.”
”I don’t want any trouble.” There were no Angels in the bar and five covers added up to another $25.
”No trouble at all. Thanks.” The thick-boned leader handed the owner the cash and the five of them went to the bar, wrapping chains around their fists. This was payback night.
A girl’s voice yelled over the sound system, "ONE-TWO-FOUR." and the band launched into TAKE ME HIGHER. Tammi danced across the stage to the audience and her energy rippled through the front row of people at the stage to the crowd at the bar. Everyone was nodding their head like the furry toy dogs on a car dashboard and Johnny’s inflammatory guitar further incited the crowd. Charles’ driver had heard the song over a hundred times and began bopping like a hundred cylinder engine. Noticing the squat Italian, Nick Arcc smugly shouted to Max Levy, "If they can touch him, this girl will earn you millions."
Despite playing in the band from day one, Sean was not been prepared for Tammi’s transformation from the teenage runaway to a bigger than life star. He had been a fool to do drugs and a larger one to run astray with Charles’ sister. Now wasn’t the time to reproach himself and he stepped forward to back her chorus of LOVE NO LOVE. "That's how I feel 'bout you. Love no love and nothing more. What can you want from me. Love no love and nothing more."
Tammi's month at the Dollhouse had paid off, as she taunted the men with the tease of taking off her clothes. Her smoky voice brought the women in the audience to tears. At the end of LOVE NO LOVE they burst into WAY TO NOWHERE leaving the audience no time to catch their breath.
Impressed by the crude spectacle, Max Levy mentally replaced the scorching guitar with a synthesized violin, dropped the bass player’s vocals in favor of female back-ups, erased the frenetic drums with an electronic drumbeat to metamorphorsize a potentially minor rock hit into a world-wide monster disco smash dance-fevered America would snapped up like the last gasp of air on a spaceship.
"Get the girl in my office and we might have a deal."
"Might?" Nick asked, as if he had misheard Max Levy. "I show you a new talent. Why? So I can hear 'might'? Clive Davis or Seymour Stein wouldn’t have given me a 'might'."
"Okay, I'm interested. Tomorrow." Max Levy wasn’t so out of touch to allow this girl to sign with another lapel, although the rest of the band presented a host of problems and he nudged Nick Arrc. “Only her.”
“The rest of the band won’t care for it.”
“Well, do they need to know?”
“Not really.” Nick Arcc hated this side of the business, since the someone screwed usually was the person lowest on the totem pole.
“I’m late for a party with Foghat. Elton John and Kiki Dee have a table. Care to come?”
Most A&R men live and die for such a stellar invitation, except Nick Arcc was more interested in flirting with Lance Loud, the young singer from the Mumps, who had been the star of AMERICAN FAMILY on PBS. "I have to get Tammi in your office.”
"You diligence will be rewarded." The producer patted the shorter man.
“I’m sure it will be.”
The longhair producer left CBGBs and Nick gave him the finger, because Max Levy's biting guaranteed the interest of bigger fish. "You goddamn dinosaur."
The hairy A&R man surveyed CBGB's for any of his competition, but his rivals were at Trax's or the Bottom Line or in New Jersey searching for the next Bob Dylan or Bruce Springstein and Nick moved closer to the stage.
Tammi motioned for the Dollhouse girls to join her on stage. Josie was followed by Crystal, April, and Sharon. The dancers tantalized the mostly male audience with a mischievous bump-and-ground daisy chain. The young girl signaled the band to repeat the chorus two times and the dancers stripped off the chintzy dresses. The crowd surged forward and the free show on stage was about one minute away from a riot, however the owner of CBGBs was more concerned about a heavy-set man in his forties walking through the front door.
The 9th Precinct bagman had collected the monthly cut, so the undercover officer had to be from Narcotics, Vice or the State Liquor Authority. Dancing without a cabaret license was a $1000 violation and the owner said, "I'll tell the girls to stop."
“No need.” Sgt. Weinstein flashed his badge. No one had hit any downtown banks for several days and he worried that he had driven his prey to ground.
"Can I get you a drink?" The bearded owner had yet to meet a NYPD cop who was adverse to freebies.
”No, I’m good.” The 9th Precinct notoriously guarded the privileges on its books from poachers and Sgt. Weinstein waved off the offer. "I’m interested in a little information."
The owner maintained cordial community relations with the police and asked, "On who?"
"The kid on stage?" The overweight policeman spotted the old lady’s Robin Hood.
"Johnny Darling’s been here a couple of years. He does drugs, otherwise___”
"I'm not talking about Johnny, his junkie drummer, the runaway or that albino." Sgt. Weinstein yelled an inch from the owner’s ear. "I talking about the bass player and don't tell you don’t know nothing or else I'll close you down."
“Hey, no reason to act so heavy." The owner had a business to run. "His name is Coll, Sean Coll. He arrived in town about a month ago. Fell in with Johnny. Plays pinball good. He steals quarters from the machine. Haven’t caught how yet. He lived with the lead singer, but started with a rich bitch, the organist’s sister."
“Your help has been appreciated.” Sgt. Weinstein was pleased by this information, since the bass player was a dead ringer for the description from the old lady in Union Square, and the detective worked his way through the heaving audience.
Halfway to the stage his progress was stalled by the sheer density of the crowd and he decided to wait after the show to take the bassist into custody for an old-fashioned questioning in the back alley. A few punches to the gut and he would spit Johnny Darling's name as the mastermind behind the ATM robberies. This case was reaching its conclusion and he prayed the band finished their set soon.
Getting ready to segue into MAYBE TOMORROW, Sean sensed eyes watching him. Caroline was talking with a boy, resembling NANCY’s comic strip boyfriend, Sluggo. His hands were caressing her back. Deeper into the crowd he spotted an overweight man in his early-forties wearing a tie and flubbed the chords to MAYBE TOMORROW. He was the something amiss with this picture and Sean stepped over to Johnny.
"There's a cop in the audience."
“A cop?” Johnny grimaced with a flourish of atonal feedback. Sgt. Weinstein was no punk rock fan. This had to be about the ATMs. “Finish the set and I'll deal with him."
Sgt. Weinstein half-expected the two to run and started for the stage.
A muscular blonde biker and four others like him knocked the detective aside. They were hunting a victim, but their phalanx couldn’t break through the tightly packed rows of men striving to touch the strippers’ blurring breasts and hips, although when the young singer leaped into the wall of bodies, the blonde biker with a bandaged over his nose hauled her violently over the bobbing heads.
Tammi couldn’t break free from his grip and Sean roundhoused him with a right fist to the biker's ear, then dragged the teenager onto the stage.
The biker gang retaliated by whipping the audience with chains and car antennas. Their leader scrambled onto the stage, waving a wicked stiletto. Sean dodged the first deadly thrust. The back swipe nicked his neck. Blood spurted in the air and he deflected the next lunge of the knife with his hand. Johnny saved him a more grievous injury by throwing a mike stand at the biker. Sean’s assailant ducked the missile, and its base clobbered Caroline's new friend on the shoulder.
Sean dropped his bass and headbutted the biker. Cartilage crackled and he snapped forward to strike his skull on the biker's right eye socket so hard the bone crumpled under the impact. The big blonde keeled into the melee and Sean seized the knife from his enfeebled hand. Nearly blackouted the face of his assailant in 6th Grade materialized and he lowered the blade for the thrust under the biker’s ribs. Any ADA would have offered him a plea for manslaughter in the second degree, except Tammi blocked his arm. “Don’t.”
“Why?”
“For me.” He nodded and she dragged him off the stage to the rear of the club.
Caroline watched the two flee and saw her brother's face crumpled with lifelessness. She had to separate the two for Charles sake and fought to trail them through the rear door. Bobby Vacca recognized the imminent showdown between the three in the alley and charged through the fracas, knocking a pile of people to the floor to clear a path to the front door.
Chairs and bottles flew through the air. The fight at the front of the stage had degenerated into a general riot. Fearing the mob’s turning on the upper class, Johnny grabbed Charles and pointed to Frankie insensately battering the drums like an octopus on Speed.
"You’ll be safe behind him."
"Where you headed?" Charles Ames III was terrified about re-injuring his spine.
"To find Tammi and Sean." Johnny’s real reason was to prevent Sean’s arrest.
The guitarist elbowed his way through the packed bodies and reached the detective, as he pulled out the shoulder-holstered .38.
”Get out of my way.”
”No.”
The cop clutched at Johnny’s jacket and several fishhooks pierced the meaty flesh in his right hand. He screamed involuntarily and Johnny Darling warned him, "Don't move or else____"
The barbs drove deeply under Sgt. Weinstein’s skin and he squeezed the hustler's neck.
"I'll catch your friend. Believe me, he won’t get away.”
“I know, believe me, I know.” New York was a big city, but it could get very small in a hurry.
At the rear of CBGBs Sean threw his body against the door and dragged Tammi into the bleak alley. He fought the urge to run and said, "Tammi, we have to speak. I know I’m no saint, but there’s a cop's after me for the ATM robberies.”
"Then why aren’t you running?" Tammi dropped her arms in frustration, for the longer he stayed the more she desired to be Bonnie to his Clyde.
“Because I have to tell you something.” He had less than a minute to say what was on his mind, after which they could get on his motorcycle and drive to the ends of the earth.
“What?” Her body was shivering in the cold.
"I was in love with that artist and she broke my heart. When we met, I felt nothing for you. Nothing for me.” Sean tried to look into her eyes. It was too dark to see anything other than her silhouette. “I didn't want to fall in love again."
"And you have with Caroline?"
"No, I'm not in love with Caroline.” Someone was pounding on the door. Sean had to leave. They had to leave. Together. “I'm in love with you. Possibly from the first night I met you."
"Sean___" Tammi failed to finish her sentence.
Something struck Sean in the head and he swooned away from Tammi. A darkness deeper than an arctic winter swarmed his vision and he hit the ground, hoping that the coming unconsciousness didn't last forever, then he vanished into a flurry of midnights destined to last until dawn. It seemed like a long long way away.
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