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Chuck Freadhoff - Free Booze Tonight Page 19


  From the corner of my eye I caught sight of a guy climbing atop a booth. A moment later, he was standing, swaying drunkenly as he tried to sing along. In the booth behind, another guy was climbing too.

  Oh no, I thought. It was a little early for things to get out of control. But Toughie slipped out from behind the bar and within seconds was at the booth. She jerked the guy back into his seat without breaking a sweat. She pointed to the booth. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it looked like “Sit. Stay.”

  I exhaled and glanced at Vincent the Hammer, who was tapping his foot to Sweet Home Alabama, the proud mob boss daddy having a bang up evening out.

  Grassman forced his way through the crowd and joined me behind the bar. He leaned close enough so I could hear over the noise.

  “This is fabulous, Joey. Agent Viola is convinced that the bar’s legit. She’s going to save me. I think I’m in love.”

  “Great!” I shouted and shoved three beers across the counter to a guy in a Dodgers’ baseball cap.

  “How’d you do it? How’d you ever get all these people in here?” Grassman asked.

  “The band!”

  “What?”

  “The name of the band!” I yelled and pulled a crumpled chartreuse flier from my hip pocket and put it on the bar. In huge red letters it said: “FREE BOOZE TONIGHT” and in tiny letters underneath it said: Featuring Delilah. Below that were the name of the bar, the address, and the time of the show. “I named the band Free Booze Tonight,” I said.

  Grassman turned and took in the bar. “I can’t believe no one complained or demanded free drinks?”

  “They all knew it was too good to be true, and when you’re ready to have a good time, you’re not going to let something like paying for your own drinks get in the way.”

  He slapped me on the back and laughed. “You’re a genius.”

  I took in the mob scene in front of me. Genius? Maybe or maybe smart like the guy who thought if he invited just a couple of fleas into his carpet, he’d be safe. I said a silent prayer that the place wouldn’t get out of control, folded my arms across my chest for a second, and just watched Delilah. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, everything would be okay.

  Then Ralph wandered in the back door and slipped behind the bar to get close to Toughie.

  “You get Ethel home?” I yelled as he squeezed past.

  “No. She’s out front.”

  “What?”

  Ralph shrugged. “She said you wouldn’t invite her to the party, so I did. You need to be nicer to your grandmother, Joey.”

  I was so startled that I didn’t even hear the motorcycles. Not at first.

  “You brought my grandmother here?” Shouting over the music was making me hoarse.

  “Yeah.” Ralph beamed like he’d won third place in a sixth grade saxophone contest.

  “And you left her out front?” I looked toward the door.

  “They’re still getting out of the van. Takes awhile with the walkers, you know.”

  “They?”

  “She brought her friends from the rally. They’re nice people. Mellow, man,” he said. He grinned and flashed a V sign with the first two big, fat, fingers of his right hand. “Peace bro.”

  The rumble of the Harleys was unmistakable now, and I knew the neo Nazi skinhead bikers were back. I glanced around the bar. No one else seemed to notice the noise of the hogs idling out front. I felt like a cat that senses an earthquake moments before a ten point oh destroys the western hemisphere.

  “Cover for me,” I yelled at Toughie and shoved past Ralph.

  I weaved and pushed my way through the packed bar toward the front door. I glanced behind me once. I’d been wrong. One other person had also sensed the descending doom. Fed, camera rolling, was a step behind.

  I got through the door just as Ethel and half a dozen other Medicare hippies were facing off a gang of outlaw bikers over an open patch of concrete directly in front of the bar. A couple of kids whizzed past on their skateboards but neither the flower children nor the bikers, their eyes locked on each other, paid them any mind.

  I glanced at Ethel and her fellow traveling lefties, all decked out in tie-dyed leisure suits, headbands, hearing aids, and wilting flowers in their hair. About half a dozen of Ethel’s crew were behind her pushing walkers. She was waving her protest sign — Stop The Bombing — at the bikers who’d bunched together on my right. I turned slightly to take in the skinheads.

  The last time I’d seen this group they’d favored purple doorags. Maybe they’d figured this was a special occasion because they’d swapped out the purple for pink. They were still wearing the tight-fitting black pants and a couple had on chaps. A swastika, encrusted with rhinestones and fake diamonds, hung on a silver chain around the leader’s neck. The guy had the build of a small grizzly.

  A cop car cruised by slowly. Ethel and the grizzly glanced at it. “Pig” they said in unison. Maybe I could build on that, diffuse the situation.

  “So, about the cops,” I said. They both ignored me.

  Ethel defiantly jerked her chin at the grizzly. “You need to show some manners, young man,” she said, totally unfazed by his girth. “We were here first.”

  “Outta the way, old lady,” the biker said. “There’s not much room and we’re going in.”

  “Hold on a minute,” I shouted.

  But Ethel paid no attention. She lowered her sign and stuck it out like a parking lot barrier blocking the entrance. Her purse dangled from her arm.

  “Listen buster, I faced down Nixon’s goons back in the day and I’ve spent more time in the slammer than all you tough guys combined,” she said.

  A syncopated noise, a bang, bang, bang, came from behind her. I turned. The fellow traveling ex-hippies were banging their walkers and Rite Aid canes in unison on the sidewalk.

  “Do you have a grandmother?” Ethel demanded of the grizzly.

  “Well, yeah, but … .” he stammered. I think the seniors’ syncopation had thrown him off his game.

  Ethel shuffled toward the door.

  “Grandma, wait!” I yelled but she shook her heard.

  The biker’s eyes filled with anger and I was sure he was going to clock her. But then Ethel stopped, turned, and held out her hand to him.

  “Peace, love, and harmony. It’s what the world needs. Let’s go in together.”

  “Ahhh … .” the biker stammered, apparently startled by Ethel’s sudden conciliatory gesture.

  “You have a date for tonight?” Ethel purred.

  “Ahhh … .” He glanced behind him. The other bikers shrugged. “A date, ah … no.”

  “Good. Neither do I.” She shuffled over to him and hooked her arm through his. “What’s your name?”

  “Norman.”

  “I’m Ethel. I like my whisky neat with a beer chaser. You can buy the first round. By the way, Norman, the necklace has to go,” she said and touched the rhinestone-covered swastika. “I’ve got some spare love beads, if you’d like.”

  The bikers and ex-hippies filed two-by-two into the bar, a whiff of Old Spice (Fresh Scent) and talcum powder trailing behind them.

  I got back behind the bar and kept the beers and mixed drinks flowing – Vincent the Hammer favored Black Russians and I made sure his glass was never empty for long. Delilah was singing her heart out, and the outlaw bikers and ex-hippies settled in and were giving a whole new meaning to cross generation communication.

  Near midnight, Hakim announced that they’d be taking a break and the band members put down their instruments and headed for the edge of the stage. I paused just long enough to take in the place. An odor of alcohol, sweat, and a weird mix of perfume and cologne that reminded me of urinal cakes, filled the place. An unfocused energy edging toward spontaneous combustion pulsated through the crowd.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. All I had to do was keep the lid on for two more hours and I’d be home free. I was even starting to think about what I’d do the next day, which was long-term pl
anning for me.

  That’s when the dwarves showed up.

  The front door opened and closed. I glanced up but didn’t see anyone. I grabbed another couple of beers and shoved them across the bar to Norman the miniature grizzly.

  “Let me through. Let me through,” a voice came from the crowd. Then I saw them. Shaq and a band of extremely agitated little people were pushing, shoving, and weaving through the crowd toward the bar.

  Our eyes locked. “I’m going to kill you,” Shaq yelled and, like a gnome ducking behind a tree, he disappeared again among the forest of legs. He resurfaced a second later behind Norman. I caught a glimpse of Shaq as he dodged to his right, then left trying to get around Norman who, totally unaware of Shaq’s existence, stood his ground.

  “Get out of my way,” Shaq screamed and kicked Norman in the leg.

  Norman looked down. “You did that on purpose. Say you’re sorry, you little runt.”

  “Who you calling a runt?” Shaq screamed.

  “Uh oh,” Toughie said next to me, and ducked below the bar. A nanosecond later she pulled Ralph down with her.

  Shaq’s hand disappeared inside his double-breasted suit jacket and reappeared a second later with a gun. But there were too many legs, too close, and he couldn’t raise the barrel. That gave Norman the opening he needed. He swooped Shaq off the ground and hoisted him above his head, ready to throw him across the bar. Shaq’s fedora sailed.

  “Say you’re sorry,” Norman yelled.

  “No,” Shaq screamed, waving his pistol, trying to get a bead on me as Norman swung him back and forth.

  “I’ll throw you all the way to tomorrow, you little runt,” Norman said.

  Ethel jumped to her feet and started bashing Norman in the chest with her purse. “Put him down, Norman,” she demanded. “Remember, love is the answer!”

  The Roo boys spotted the gun in Shaq’s hand, scrambled out of their chairs, pulled their own pieces, and formed a blockade as thick as the Wall of China in front of Vincent the Hammer.

  “He’s got a gun!” a women screamed, her voice shrill enough to make Psycho fans smile. The crowd rushed for the door. Norman swung Shaq. Ethel banged on Norman. Shaq swung the pistol toward me.

  That’s the moment Delilah became a star.

  She stepped to the mike and, a cappella, began singing God Bless America. The bar fell silent. People at the door stopped and turned at the sound. The Roo brothers lowered their guns. Ethel stopped bashing Norman, put her purse on the table, and turned moonily toward Delilah. Norman stopped swinging Shaq and lowered him gently to the floor. Shaq holstered his weapon. Norman bent down, picked Shaq’s fedora off the cement, dusted it off, and handed it back to the dwarf, now sandwiched between a grizzly and grandma.

  Toughie and Ralph stood up behind the bar and Ralph saluted. I leaned both hands against the edge of the bar and took in the room full of patrons — straights, gays, businessmen, blue collar types, men and women, young and old, all standing a little straighter, all mesmerized by Delilah’s singing. Some had their hands over their hearts and others dabbed tears on their cheeks. Even Jimmy and James were standing at attention.

  I swept the bar and came to rest on Fed the video guy. He was filming Delilah, but he glanced at me and I gestured to Norman, Ethel, and Shaq.

  “Did you … ? I mouthed.

  He nodded.

  I pointed to Delilah.

  “Got it all,” he mouthed and gave me a thumbs up.

  I knew then the guy with the elevator had it all wrong. Sometimes, it’s best not to know what’s coming. I thought of Mickey keeling over in the alley behind the bar and Vincent the Hammer’s idea that I should make Delilah a rock star. Now Ralph and Toughie were together next to me, tears were running down Grassman’s cheeks and next to him Agent Viola was biting her lip to keep from crying. Vincent the Hammer, the proud father, beamed and everyone listening knew that Delilah’s voice would make an angel weep with envy.

  Yup, sometimes the unexpected things, life’s little surprises, are better than anything you can dream up.

  Chapter 62

  The Roo brothers pounded on my door a little before nine the next morning. I stumbled from bed, my throat dry, my eyes like sandpaper. The pounding came again and for a moment I wondered if last night really happened or if it was just the alcohol.

  I got to the front door, cracked it open, and stared at Jimmy and James through the tiny opening.

  “Vincent the Hammer wants to see you,” Jimmy said.

  “Let’s go,” James said.

  “Listen, guys, I held up my end of the deal. Delilah was great last night. She’s going to be a star. I’m going back to bed.”

  Jimmy stared at me. James stared at me. It was like trying to trade jokes with a firing squad. No response.

  “Now,” they said in unison.

  “Okay, okay give me a minute.”

  I slipped on my jeans and a T-shirt, ran some cold water over my face, brushed my teeth, and followed them to the Continental at the curb.

  I’d hoped to speak with Delilah after the gig the night before – okay, so I’d hoped to do a little more than just talk – but Vincent the Hammer had insisted that Delilah ride home with him, and I had to spend some time with Fed and make sure he understood exactly what I wanted, so I hadn’t gotten home until almost four in the morning.

  I relaxed in the back of the Continental and watched the scenery of greater L.A. slip past. Yeah, I thought. City of the Angels. The smog covered the mountains, the palm trees looked stressed in the heat, and the streets were full of potholes. It never looked better.

  Sunday morning, traffic was light and it didn’t take us long.

  Vincent the Hammer had his iPod going when we came in. This time, though, he’d traded his show tunes for Don’t Stop Believing. He was wearing a T-shirt with an KISS logo on the front.

  “Sit,” he said and pointed to the folding metal chair across the desk.

  I sat.

  “I’m listening to new music. You opened my eyes last night,” he said.

  True, it was a change from his usual but I wasn’t sure trading Rodgers and Hammerstein for Journey was a step up. I felt like a guy who’d talked someone into moving from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan to Bishkek, Kyrgystan. Sure, it’s different but … .

  Vincent the Hammer glanced at a laptop open in front of him. He turned it so I could see the screen. “You seen this?” he asked.

  Before I could respond, Delilah danced in from a hallway on my right. I glanced at her and realized that my mouth was open. She was beautiful, a true vision.

  “Ah, Spare Parts, what brings you here?”

  “Jimmy and James.”

  She smiled and nodded at the laptop. “You see it yet?”

  “No,” I said. After my late-night chat with Fed, I’d pretty much let him run with it.

  Delilah tapped the keyboard and the video played again — a four minute spot that began with a shot of the flier, switched to the faceoff between Ethel and the neo Nazi skinhead bikers, seamlessly dissolved to the near riot when Norman was swinging Shaq over his head, and ended with Delilah’s stunning voice mesmerizing the crowd.

  It was ten times better than I’d hoped for when I told Fed to put it up on You Tube. I smiled.

  “Damn thing’s got a virus,” Vincent the Hammer said and beamed.

  “What?” I said.

  “No, Daddy,” Delilah said. “It’s gone viral.” She turned to me. “It’s already got over two hundred thousand hits, and it’s only been up for a few hours.”

  I started to speak, but figured I didn’t have anything to add.

  “I just got off the phone with a guy who books acts for Letterman,” Delilah said. “He wants me and Free Booze Tonight on the show.”

  “You done good, Joey,” Vincent the Hammer said.

  “So, we’re even?”

  “Yeah, you can keep breathing for now. But no more fake guitars or I’ll have to kill you.” He looked past me to Jimmy a
nd James. “Take this character home.”

  “Wait,” I said and looked at Delilah. “Maybe you could run me back to my place. There’s something along the way that I wanted to show you.”

  “No,” Vincent the Hammer said. “Jimmy and James will take you.”

  “Oh, Daddy, don’t be so … so old,” Delilah said. She touched my arm and nodded to the door. “Let’s go.”

  She was driving her yellow Audi coupe with the top down. I had to shout directions, but not long after we left Vincent the Hammer’s house, we pulled into a horse stable in the San Fernando Valley, one not far from Griffith Park.

  The sun was already hot and the air smelled of horse droppings and hay.

  “Oh boy, Spare Parts, you really are a romantic, aren’t you?” she said and swatted at the flies buzzing around her ear.

  “Trust me on this,” I said. She eyed me suspiciously. “Really.”

  I grabbed her hand — she didn’t resist or try to pull away — and led her into the stables. When we neared the rear entrance, I slipped behind her and covered her eyes with my hands.

  “Okay, we’re going to take a couple of steps outside, then turn to your left.”

  We shuffled outside and got turned. I pulled my hands away and Delilah looked at Dimples in the corral. The elephant was so happy to see Delilah that she trumpeted.

  “Dimples,” Delilah screamed and ran to the corral, crawled through the slats in the fence, hustled to the elephant, and hugged her. I followed Delilah into the corral and waited a few feet away while she and Dimples got reacquainted. Finally, Delilah turned away from Dimples and skipped over to me.

  “How’d you manage this?” she said.

  “My friend Irving, the ad man. He’s going to use her in a commercial, so they brought her in from Vegas. They’re not shooting for a couple of days, so I thought I’d bring you out here.”

  Delilah threw her arms wide. “Wow, the past twenty-four hours have been the happiest of my entire life.”