Everyone in the band showed up at the loft on time. Sean did most of the heavy lifting, since Charles’s driver was sitting in the van to make sure that it wasn’t towed by the NYPD or stolen by thieves. Tammi and Johnny carried the rest to the elevator. Johnny noticed Frankie struggling with his drum set and went over to his young friend, lifting the snare drum off the stand. "Why the sad face?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Johnny had a good idea about the source of Frankie’s dissatisfaction.
"Let me guess. $20 to score?"
"No, I mean, yes." Frankie fumbled the cymbals and Johnny caught them before they hit the ground.
“Frankie, you have a problem, you can tell me.”
“Well, I got drums, new clothes, and sleep in a penthouse.” Frankie pouted with the disappointment of a spoiled brat, discovering his Christmas pony was stuffed with coal. “But there’s no money coming my way.”
“I never promised you an instant pay-off.”
“On the night before Thanksgiving you said that if we ever met a prince we would take them off and I thought we started this band to rip off Charles, but instead we’re playing in a band. I have nothing to show for it either. Nothing.”
“What about those new boots?” Johnny pointed to Frankie’s feet.
“A pair of boots costing $50.” The salespeople in Trash n Vaudeville were trained to spot junkies and watched his every move.
“Frankie, I formed this band to make music. My music. Your music. Not rob anyone.” Johnny dropped the cymbal with a definitive clang. "You aren’t happy with that, then leave and don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.”
"I said nothing about leaving, Johnny, but you’ve been making money with Sean and I’ve been cut out of the payday.” Frankie kicked the bass drum.
“You remember the first night we met?” Johnny grabbed the young boy’s arm. “Two men wanted you and you were going to go with them, but I stopped them, because all they wanted to do was hurt you.”
“I’ve been hurt before.”
“Not like they were going to hurt you, but nothing is your business on the strip, except for what is your business. I could have walked away and let them have their way with you and I didn’t. You know why?”
“No.” Frankie had asked Johnny ‘why’ a hundred times.
“Because I thought you were me. Not you and I didn’t want me to get hurt again.”
“Why would you think you were me?” They looked nothing alike.
“Because I was young once and that’s why I didn’t get you involved with Sean and me. You’re too young for the hustle, but also because GTH is about you and me starting new." Johnny slipped the cymbal into a case. "And tonight's gig is part of that escape plan.”
“LA, movie stars, palm trees?” He liked this dream.
“And more.” Johnny clapped the drummer’s shoulder. “Tonight we’re getting paid.”
"We are?” Frankie's dependence on Johnny was stronger than his smack addiction.
"You get it after the gig." CBGB’s owner had promised them 50% of each paid entry.
"Shit, getting paid is almost like having a real job.”
Elated by the prospect of earning enough to score, Frankie returned to taking apart his drum kit and Johnny went over to his own equipment. Sean had loaded the keyboard, PA, amps onto the elevator. Five minutes later he returned to the loft.
Everything was in the van, but the band. When he started toward the Tammi and Johnny touched his arm. "You can have your say after the gig. It won't be long." Long is all a matter of timing.
Tammi spotted Sean by the elevator. Sadness wrapped around him and she started toward him before she could take one step forward, the door to the stairway opened to let in Caroline wearing a skin-tight leather jumpsuit covered by a fur coat. She lifted two shopping bags.
"Sean, I found this fabulous designer on 8th Street. She sent me to the Pleasure Chest and they have greatest accessories for special occasion."
Caroline snapped a pair of studded leather bands on Sean's wrists and attached a spiked collar around her neck, singing Iggy's song off-key, "I wanna be your dog.”
Sean wasn't paying attention to her.
“Sean.” This was not working out the way Caroline had planned and she sauntered over to the redhead, "Don’t worry, you can have him after I'm done."
Tammi slapped Caroline and ran to the stairs. Sean tried to do the same, but Caroline caught his arm. "Not so fast."
"I have to catch Tammi.”
“She’s gone.”
“Because of you." Sean yanked the leash, snapping the gaunt blonde across the floor. Her face reveled with pleasure and she slinked into Sean's body. "If you want, you can punish me. I’m a bad girl.”
Johnny restrained his arm. "Men don’t hit women.”
“Fuck.” Sean stormed from the loft and Johnny warned Charles' twin, "You mess with Tammi again and I'll kick the shit out of you."
Caroline sneered at him, “Promise?”
"I promise." Johnny had no reservations about hitting a member of either sex.
"Then I'll be waiting for that day." Caroline ran down the stairs, her new heels clicking a Morse code for disaster with each step. If nothing worked out tonight, she had done her best to help her brother. Tomorrow she would convince Charles to abandon this entire sham. They could go to Mustique for the holiday. Anyplace was safer for Charles than his apartment.
She reached the street.
The van was speeding up Chrystie Street. Sean stood on the sidewalk. He was a fool in love and she called his name. The bass player glared with an intense hatred and this danger spurred her closer. "Sorry, I can get a little catty.”
"I’ve heard your kind of sorry before."
"You’re not so different from me."
“How?”
"In a strange way my brother died from his accident and from that day on I’ve been living like each one is my last. I don’t care about heaven or hell, just the right now.”
“Caroline, you and me doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense. See.” Caroline moved his head to the side and pointed to a black Bonneville motorcycle parked underneath a streetlight. “I bought it at Ralphie’s.”
“For me?”
Caroline handed him a key.
"I'm thanking you for the past couple of night. You can accept the gift or leave it.”
The empty street told him that Tammi had joined Cheri on the long list of girls who had walked away from him. Something told him the list wasn’t complete either, but Caroline was right.
There was only the moment.
Johnny had said it too.
Only the now.
He straddled the bike, stuck the key in the ignition, and kickstarted the Triumph to life, grateful at least one part of his life was working out right. Caroline cautiously touched him.
Sean wasn't in the mood for nice and yanked her by the hair onto the back.
“Stop it.” Johnny emerged from the building with Frankie.
Sean released Caroline, hoping that she would slide off the bike, but she wasn’t going anywhere, unless it was with him this evening.
“Where’s the van?” Johnny searched the street with worried eyes, hefting his guitar over his shoulder.
“Charles left with Tammi. I guess they’re going to CBs.”
“Nice bike.” Frankie admired the motorcycle. “I get boots and he gets a bike.”
“You do all right for yourself.” Johnny silenced his protege with a lifted finger.
“Be happy Sean got Christmased."
“Yeah, I’m the only one getting stiffed.” Frankie sulked off to the freight elevator.
"Who kicked his puppy?" Sean revved the bike.
"He's losing faith in Santa Claus." Johnny stuck his hands inside his jacket. the organ. "But he'll be happier after tonight.”
“How you think we’ll do?”
GTH had a drummer jonesing on dope, an organist in love with under-aged singer and a bass player who could barely played. There was only one thing to say under these circumstances.
“We’ll be fine.” Johnny waved to a passing Checker. “I’ll see you at the bar.” Frankie and Johnny got in the taxi. The cab made the light at Grand.
“I think we’re alone now.” Caroline wrapped her arms around his chest and Sean twisted his right hand. The bike roared away from the curb, instantly proving December was a cruel month for riding a motorcycle on this island.
Motorists off the Manhattan Bridge stared gape-mouthed at the madman on the flat black 750 Bonneville. Chinamen chattered about the crazy lo wais. The 3rd Street Hell's Angels drove in any weather, although those outlaws might have doubted his sanity, if they heard Caroline Ames urge him ride faster on the icy streets.
"Go, you fool. Go."
He goosed the gas and slalomed across Canal Street. His toe shifted the gear into fifth and his hand twisted the throttle. He had no destination in mind and once they hit 60 mph he ceased caring about anything, because the wind was the only thing that mattered after that speed.
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