BLACK to Reality (5 page)

Silence reigned on the way home. When Black dropped Roxie off she turned to him, the car door still open. “What are you going to do?”

“Turn it down. This isn’t for me. God’s just trying to torture me. It doesn’t mean I need to cooperate.”

“Sleep on it.”

“Good night, Roxie. And thanks. For everything.”

The drive to Sylvia’s seemed to take forever. Black was lightheaded from the booze, but not so much that he was seeing double – it was always a reliable warning sign he might have overindulged when he had to hold one hand over an eye while clutching the steering wheel to keep from falling.

Sylvia greeted him at the door. Her face changed almost imperceptibly when she smelled the alcohol. She returned to where she’d been sitting on the sofa, reading a book on her Kindle, and Black moved to her postage-stamp kitchen and got a glass of water.

“Rough day?” she asked.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“What were you up to?”

“I spent it trying to remember how to play guitar. Then tonight I jammed with some friends, and it reminded me that there’s no rewind on life.”

She regarded him curiously. “Why the interest in rekindling your musician days? Not that there’s anything wrong with that…”

“It’s not important. Just a suggestion from a friend. A well-intentioned friend, but in the end, a bad idea.”

“There’s no harm in doing something artistic with your free time.”

“I know. But I think my playing days are over. I prefer admiring my favorite artists from afar.”

“Hopefully not that far. Come over here and let me get a look at those magic musician hands.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all night.”

“It had better be.”

Chapter 6

Black awoke to dust motes floating lazily in the sunlight streaming through Sylvia’s window. He watched the display as he evaluated whether or not he was going to have a headache, and when the throbbing in his temples started, conceded that he had no reason to expect to get off scot-free after a bunch of rotgut tequila and a few beers. Sylvia was already awake, moving around in the kitchen. He trundled to the bathroom, took two aspirin, and was somewhat relieved that the hangover was no more than a two or a three – not the nine- or ten-alarm blazes he used to have when he was really putting it away. And he hadn’t smoked, which always seemed to ratchet up the pain exponentially.

He studied his reflection in the mirror and took in the slight jowls that were developing, the dusting of gray in his morning beard, the bloodshot eyes, and shook his head at the sight. What had he been thinking? What had Bobby? There were too many miles on the chassis. Maybe Bono or Johnny Depp could look like a million as they crossed from forty to fifty, but Black’s genes displayed a lifetime of bad decisions on his face like a map of the stars’ homes, and it wasn’t going in a positive direction. He wondered absently whether, if he had the money, he would go under the knife like Bobby so regularly did, and was glad he didn’t have to make that decision. Life had done it for him, and he was going to be spared turning into Mickey Rourke’s alter ego.

Sylvia’s musical voice called from the kitchen. “Honey? You want some coffee?”

“That would be awesome. I’ll be out in a few minutes. I’ll rinse off at home.”

“Whatever you want. I made eggs.”

“Did I mention I’m the luckiest man in the world?”

“Not unless snoring counts.”

Black struggled into his clothes and joined Sylvia for breakfast at her dining room table. They discussed dinner plans and her latest battles with the gallery owner over the best way to price and display her art. When he finished with his meal, he checked the time and apologized for having to leave.

“Sorry. I’d love to stick around, but I’ve got some calls I have to make.”

“Potential clients?”

“I wish.”

“Still dead on that front, then?”

“It’ll turn around. It always does. It’s just that my overhead is eating me alive now. I should never have listened to Roxie.”

“The old place was a dump.”

“No argument. But it was a cheap one.”

“So dinner at seven?”

“If you’re cooking. I’m so broke I’m panhandling from homeless people.”

“I’ve got some chicken and rice. I’ll whip something up.”

Black parked down the street from his complex and did his best to avoid Gracie, his landlady, but her unfailing radar was operating perfectly, and she opened her door as he tried to glide soundlessly by.

“Black. Lovely day, isn’t it?” she greeted in her whiskey-seasoned voice.

“Gracie, I was just getting ready to come by after I change.”

“To bring me the money you owe, I hope.”

“That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

“Sweetheart, last month it was a discussion. This month? I need cash.” Gracie was as tenacious as a lamprey when it came to rent, and even though they were friends, she had her limits. Judging by her tone, she’d reached hers.

“I know, Gracie. I’m expecting some shortly, and you’re first in line.”

“Shortly? What the hell does that mean? And don’t try to bullshit me.”

“It means that by Saturday I should have the money,” Black said with authority he didn’t feel, an image of the blood bank flitting through his imagination.

Gracie’s squinted at him. “You’re not lying, are you, handsome? Because if you don’t have the money by then, our beautiful relationship’s over. These apartments are a hot commodity. I love you like a son, but I can’t carry you forever.”

Black sighed. “I know, Gracie, I know. And believe me, I appreciate the extra rope you’ve given me. I only wish things were going better.”

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, boyo. Saturday the fat lady sings, and if you don’t have the money, it’s going to get ugly.” She paused, her message delivered. “Now, you want to join me for an eye opener? Sun’s over the yardarm somewhere.”

“Love to, but I have to earn my keep.” It was eight-thirty in the morning, but Gracie was dedicated.

“That’s a shame. The drugstore had the half-gallons on clearance. I cleaned them out.”

“Nobody ever said you weren’t a smart shopper. Now I’ve got to go. Stay safe, Gracie.”

The shower couldn’t rinse the stink of duplicity off him, and as he was toweling his hair dry, he felt lower than ever at having to flat-out lie to his addled landlady. Maybe he’d have to choke down his pride and go whining to Mommy after all…

The phone screeched like a wounded osprey, startling him out of his funk. He answered hoarsely, his hair still sticking up at all angles.

“Black.”

“Babe, have I got good news for you!” Bobby’s voice was annoyingly cheerful.

“I’m glad you called, Bobby. I did as you asked and checked out the band. They’re good. Better than good.”

“That’s super. Then it’s a done deal!”

“No. I tried playing for a few hours yesterday, and it didn’t go so well. I don’t think I can do this.” Black nervously rubbed his left ring finger, the tip of which was still red from bending the steel guitar strings, the calluses he’d had long ago only a memory.

“Come on. You’re frigging Jeff Beck. Hendrix. Richards.” Bobby paused, his total knowledge of guitar players obviously exhausted.

“Why do I get the feeling you haven’t listened to a word I’ve said?”

“I heard you. I get it. You’re playing hard to get.”

“No, I’m not. Besides, I’m pretty sure Richards is dead. A zombie or something.”

“Stop screwing around. They’ve got a legend coaching the band, and he’s a huge fan of yours. When I told him you were considering stepping in, he just about did a cartwheel.”

In spite of his better judgment, Black’s curiosity was aroused. He hated how easily Bobby could manipulate him, but had to concede he was good at what he did. “Yeah? Who?”

“Rooster Simms.”

The name stopped Black cold.

“
The
Rooster Simms?”

“Do we have a bad connection? Is there more than one? Of course it’s
the
Rooster Simms – how many guys do you know named Rooster? Anyway, we’ve got an appointment over at his recording studio in a couple of hours so you guys can meet, rap, or whatever you call talking shop these days. He’s really an admirer, Black. I’m not blowing smoke.”

“No, of course you aren’t. You’d never do that.”

“Come by my office in an hour and a half, and we’ll caravan there together, all right?”

“Much as I’d like to meet Rooster, this is a non-starter, Bobby.”

“Fine. Just humor me. I’ll buy you lunch. That’s a free meal just for showing up and playing nice. We got a deal?”

Black knew Bobby wouldn’t give up until he’d agreed, and his headache was returning, draining his will to resist. He nodded and closed his eyes.

“Okay, Bobby. But for the record, this is a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah, and then we all die. I know. Lighten up, buddy. You’re going to be a star, and you’d think I just asked you to teabag all of
Duck Dynasty
. I swear, some people…”

Black spent his morning reading about the last season of
Rock of Ages
, and the inevitable mentions of Alex Sands, the hottest thing in the world of pop since Justin Bieber and the narrow winner of the premier season’s contest. Alex was handsome, friendly, could sing as well as any, and had an undeniable star quality. A few articles covered the disastrous show by Last Call. A YouTube video of the guitar player’s temper tantrum at the end of his performance was one of the most viewed on the site, and Black watched it several times before finding earlier shows, where the band had shone.

Roxie sent him a text message alerting him that she’d be in late – she’d been called to an “emergency” meeting with her new employer that morning – and would be in as soon as she could. She still hadn’t arrived when Black had to leave for Bobby’s, and he left Mugsy dozing by her desk, feet twitching as he chased slow mice in his dreams.

Bobby was in high spirits when Black got to the office, and after a few minutes of banter, they set out for Rooster’s recording studio, on the wrong side of Normandy in a converted industrial building. Black parked on the street behind Bobby’s new Tesla. After glancing around the graffiti-tagged neighborhood, they made their way to an unmarked steel door with two deadbolts. The door swung open, and a muscular man wearing a tank top and sweat pants stared at them for a long second.

“We’re here to see Rooster,” Bobby announced, and the man nodded and pointed down the hall.

Rooster was sitting in a waiting area outside the control booth, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee as he read a recording industry magazine with a photo of an SSL console on the cover. He looked up as they entered, and his face broke into a wide smile.

“Well, look at this. If it isn’t Jim Black. Man, this is exciting. I remember some of your shows, back in the day. You probably didn’t realize it because I was laying low, but I came to several of them – I still remember the last one you played, at the Troubadour. I knew then you were going to be huge,” Rooster said, rising. “It’s an honor, man.”

Black tried to hide his embarrassment at the effusive praise from an industry legend like Rooster as he shook hands. “Well, that’s very kind of you. But it was a long time ago.”

Bobby slapped Black’s back. “The man’s modesty is incredible. Did I tell you or did I tell you?”

Black shook his head. “It really was a long time. Twenty years. Lot of water under that bridge.”

“Yeah, but it’s like anything else,” Rooster said. “If you got game, you got game. Look at some of the bands that were big back in the day. They’re touring like mad, doing better than ever. And they’re exciting to watch. Age is in your mind, man. The Stones are seventy. Mick Jagger is still packing stadiums and running around for two hours plus, showing no signs of slowing. What are you – half that age?”

“I’m forty-three,” Black said.

“Hell, man, Jagger and Richards were about that age on
Dirty Work
. That’s nothing. You’re just getting started. Am I right?”

“Doesn’t feel that way.”

“Why are you so down, man? I remember you like it was yesterday. I mean, you were good. Had that groove thing going. Ladies eating out of the palm of your hand. And talk about style. Some of the tracks on that first album were like going to school, you know?”

“All ancient history. That’s the problem. I picked up a guitar yesterday for the first time in forever…and it wasn’t pretty.”

“Yeah? Well, lemme tell you a little story. Back in the seventies I had a little tax problem. Wound up spending four years in jail. I didn’t play a note the whole time, and when I got out, I was so depressed I didn’t want to do anything but climb into a bottle. By the time I was over it, five years had gone by. When I picked up my axe again it was hard, man. For the first week, it was like, whose hands are these, you know? And then it came back, little by little, and within a month I did my first show. I’ve never looked back.” Rooster stubbed out his cigarette and finished his coffee. “If you ask me, a little maturity’s never a bad thing for a musician. It gives you perspective, you know? So all you’ve been doing is a little…seasoning.”

“Seasoning,” Bobby echoed.

“Let’s go into the room. I’ve got a couple guitars in there, and Luther here knows how to play some drums. Let’s see what you remember, all right?” Rooster said, gesturing to the studio door.

Black followed him in, and they filed past the console and into the main recording chamber, which was all polished hardwood. Several amplifiers sat in a corner, along with a rack with six guitars in it. Rooster got two folding chairs and set them up near a drum set behind isolation baffles. Luther slid two of the padded panels aside, revealing a six-piece Tama kit. Black approached the guitars and whistled.

“Nice.”

“Yeah, I use different ones for different sounds. What were you playing on last night?”

“A Telecaster.”

“Wasn’t your old guitar a Gibson?”

“No. A Gretsch. Red double-cutaway.”

“That’s right. I still remember the tone. Kind of like that one?” Rooster asked, pointing to another rack of instruments behind the drums. Black walked over to the rack and stopped short.