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  “You bet.”

  “You’ll start tomorrow.”

  “You bet,” I said again.

  “Jimmy, James, take him back to that shit hole bar where he works,” Vincent the Hammer said. He was done with me and started fiddling with his iPod.

  I stood up and stated back toward the front door. The Roo boys fell in behind me. A second later, music was filling the room again. The Bee Gees, “Staying Alive.”

  I looked back at Vincent the Hammer. He was smiling.

  Chapter 6

  This wasn’t going to be easy. I had to make Delilah, Vincent the Hammer’s only daughter, into a rock star. And I had to do it fast.

  To make sure I didn’t’ slack off, Vincent put me on the advance installment plan. Every advance in his daughter’s career bought me another installment of living. If I got behind on my payments, Jimmy and James would repossess my lungs. It was a highly motivational arrangement and I was eager to succeed.

  Then I met Delilah.

  My friend Irving the PR guy would have said Delilah had a certain unappreciated inner beauty. She couldn’t sing either.

  She wasn’t Creature from the Black Lagoon ugly. In fact, she wasn’t really ugly at all. She was just sort of plain. But she seemed to have a Janice Joplin thing going and apparently didn’t think just being plain was good enough. So what she lacked in outright bad looks, she tried hard to make up for with attitude.

  The first time we met didn’t go well. She was sitting on the edge of her couch, strumming her guitar, mumbling a song. A Marlboro was between the fingers of her right hand, an open bottle of Southern Comfort at her feet. It was ten in the morning.

  She’d screamed “come in” at the door when I knocked. I’d stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  “Who the hell are you?” she said.

  “I’m Joey. I’ll be your manager today.” I figured I’d try humor first. I didn’t have a lot of cards to play.

  She put the guitar down on the couch next to her. Took a long drag, an even longer swig, burped and said, “You’re the piece of shit tried to sell my old man the fake John Lennon autographed guitar.”

  “It was a mix up.”

  “Yeah, right. You either have cajones of stainless steel or you’re really stupid. You don’t look like you’re much in the balls department, though. So let’s see, what’s that leave?”

  She picked up her guitar and started strumming again. She had a point. It really had been a stupid idea. At the time, though, it had looked so easy.

  Mickey, the recently deceased hit man, came in the bar one night and started talking about how Vincent needed a really great gift for his daughter. They were fighting and he needed something to make up. That got me thinking about my friend Pablo the Forger. So I bought an electric guitar, had Pablo forge John Lennon’s name and slap a date on it.

  I convinced Mickey that I was so down on my luck (I didn’t have to make that part up) that I’d consider parting with my one prize possession - my autographed John Lennon guitar which I had from my days as an advance road manager for Frank Zappa and the Mothers. Vincent the Hammer paid top dollar.

  “Hey, I just grabbed the wrong guitar, that’s all,” I said to Delilah.

  “Oh please.” She said please like it had six syllables.

  What the hell, I thought I’d try honesty. Nothing else seemed to be working. “How’d you know?”

  “Jesus. The date, man. It was signed 1997. Whoever signed it switched the last two numbers. It should have been 1979.”

  “It’s Pablo. He’s dyslexic.”

  “You used a dyslexic forger? You really are dumber than dirt.”

  Things weren’t going well. I had to try again.

  “I’ve had some experience in managing bands. Advance work mostly. But I understand what it takes to make it to the top.”

  “Vincent threatened to kill you didn’t he?”

  “I thought maybe I could lend you a hand. Offer a few pointers.”

  She slowly lowered the guitar to the floor and laced the fingers of her hands together across the fretted neck and leaned forward. The smoke from her cigarette drifted up, almost obscuring her face.

  “You know, Joey, you’ve got a real problem. I don’t want anything from my father. The guy’s a mobster, for God’s sake. You think I want to owe my career to him? You’re dumb, but you’re probably smart enough to answer that without notes. In other words, you’re fired.”

  I couldn’t leave. I needed the job to keep breathing. James and Jimmy were waiting in the car downstairs to dole out my next installment.

  “Perception’s reality,” I said.

  “What the hell’s that mean?” she said.

  I had no idea, but at least I had her attention. I’ve been getting by on my slick tongue and half-baked ideas for a few decades now. I’d make it up as I went.

  “Being a rock star. It isn’t how good you can sing, how well you can play the guitar. It’s how good people think you can sing and play.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look you gotta be original. You think drinking Southern Comfort will give you an edge? But Janice already did that. Hell, you need to drink peppermint schnapps or something.”

  “Drinking peppermint schnapps is going to make me a rock star?”

  I probably should have said Wild Turkey, but I was on a roll. Besides, I had to look like I knew what I was talking about.

  “All I’m saying is that it’s all spin, all marketing. You gotta be new, different, edgy.”

  “Different, edgy?”

  “You got a band?”

  “No.”

  “No problem. Listen, I’ve already booked a gig for you Saturday night. I’ll get a band.”

  “Where the hell’s this gig?”

  “No, no. You let me worry about that. You keep practicing. I’ll be back tomorrow about this time.”

  I left before she could say anything. I’ve heard that humans are capable of tremendous feats when they’re under pressure. I read one time about a mom who dead lifted a Chrysler off her baby. Saved the kid’s life. Hey, all I had to do was pluck a rock band out of thin air.

  I walked toward the Roo boys’ Continental waiting for me at the curb. I stopped and filled my lungs with L.A. smog. Life is short, enjoy every minute, I figured.

  Chapter 7

  Ralph came by the bar that night to see if I was still alive. He sat on a stool nursing a Coors, a ten spot on the bar next to his elbow.

  He turned and looked around the bar and back at me.

  “How come this place is always empty?”

  “Because no one comes in.”

  “How the hell you stay open, make any money?”

  “We don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Make money.”

  “How can you stay open if you don’t make any money?”

  “It’s a front.”

  “What?”

  “You ever hear of Grassman Guzman?”

  “Of course. Everyone knows the Grassman. His slogan’s great. ‘I got the biggest baggies in town.’ ”

  “That’s him.”

  “So what’s the Grassman got to do with this?”

  “He owns the bar, Einstein. You look at the books, the place is packed every night. I just keep it open for appearances. He sends someone by every now and then. Does the paperwork. Figures out how many margaritas and beers I sold the week before. It’s a living.”

  Ralph stuck the ten back in his pocket.

  “So what you going to do with Delilah?”

  “I’m going to make her a star.” I gestured past him to the empty room. Guzman didn’t care what I did with the place so I’d decorated it the way I wanted.

  The walls were covered with murals of Jagger, Dylan, Hendrix, and others. All of ‘em playing left handed. Except Hendrix. He was playing right handed exactly the opposite of the way they should have been. Pablo did the murals. I’d guess I should have known.

  “Did I ever
tell you about when I was the advance road manager for Frank Zappa and the Mothers? Did it for about five years. I quit after we toured Europe. I woke up in the middle of the night in another anonymous hotel room and realized that not only did I not know what hotel I was in or what city I was in, I didn’t even know what country I was in. I decided I’d had enough. But along the way I learned a lot about managing a music career.”

  Ralph sipped his beer and nodded. “Zappa died a long time ago. That’d mean you were, oh, about fifteen when you were waking up in that hotel room.”

  I wiped down the bar. I leaned forward. “Vincent the Hammer bought it.”

  “Vincent tried to have you killed.”

  “Good point.”

  “So what you going to do about Delilah?”

  “Get her a gig and hope for the best.”

  “You better do more than hope. Vincent isn’t a patient man.”

  “I know. The Roo brothers are my new best friends. We go everywhere together.”

  “She have any talent?”

  “How the hell would I know? I’m a worse judge of talent than Davey.” I nodded to the far corner where Davey the critic had passed out facedown on the table.

  “Davey’s tone deaf.”

  “Yeah, that’s my point.”

  “You’re in trouble.”

  “I prefer to think of it as an opportunity to succeed.”

  “You’ve been listening to those Tony Robbins tapes again haven’t you?”

  Chapter 8

  The idea came to me in the middle of the night. I called Grassman Guzman the next morning.

  “Grassman, it’s Joey.”

  “It’s my favorite non-working bartender. What’s up?”

  “I need a favor, man.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “I said no. Every time I do you a favor I end up regretting it. I still remember you talking me into giving you a pound of pure Mexican Mindfog for, what the hell was it again? Oh yeah, you were gonna freeze dry it and make pot popsicles or some bullshit like that. So, no. No credit. No favors. Goodbye.”

  “Wait, Grassman. This doesn’t cost anything.”

  There was a long pause. “Dealing with you, Joey, it always costs something.”

  “Yeah, but this is legal.” I was hoping the novelty would appeal to him. It did.

  “Okay, you’ve got my attention,” Grassman said.

  “I need to put together a rock band for a gig this Saturday night.”

  “So why you calling me? You need a lead singer?”

  “No. I’ve got a singer. But I was thinking you could ask Snookie to do me a favor.”

  “My cousin Snookie?”

  “Yeah. He plays the drums, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does. He’s damned good too. Too bad he’s in prison.”

  “When’s he get out?”

  “In about five years.”

  “That’s too late.”

  “Where is this gig anyway?”

  “Right here, at the bar.” Grassman didn’t say anything for a moment. I figured he was thinking the obvious. He was.

  “No one but Davey ever comes into the bar. You won’t get an audience.”

  “I got that covered.”

  “Another one of your pot popsicle plans?”

  “Perception is reality, Grassman. It’s a karma kinda thing.”

  “Karma, eh? Well …” He paused for a long while like he was thinking of something. “You know my kid, Alphonse, plays the drums. He’s pretty good. He’s no Snookie, but he’s pretty good. I’ll bring him by in a couple of days, we’ll get set up. You can hear him play.”

  “Cool. Book ‘em, Grassman. I’ll get back to you with the details.”

  Most guys would have asked an obvious question or two about Grassman’s kid. Maybe gotten a few details. But I’m not a real detail type of guy. Besides, I still had to find a lead guitar, rhythm guitar and a bass player. I figured talent was optional. Volume wasn’t. They had to be able to drown out Delilah. If anyone actually heard her sing, her career would be over and I’d be moving in next door to Mickey up off of Angeles Crest Highway.

  So I didn’t think much about Grassman’s kid. Besides, I had to call my buddies Ken at Kinkos and Irving the ink-stained wretch. I was smiling. My plan was coming together. It’s probably exactly how Custer felt just before he pissed all over Sitting Bull’s teepee.

  Chapter 9

  My grandmother, Ethel, called just as the Roo boys waddled into the bar the next morning. I’d hung up from talking to Grassman a couple of minutes before and assumed he was calling back. I find wishful thinking rewarding. It’s usually better than the alternative.

  “How come I gotta call you all the time, Joseph? You never come to see me.”

  “I was there last week, don’t you remember?”

  “Well of course I remember. What do you think, I’m senile? It isn’t nice to make fun of an old lady, Joseph.”

  “I wasn’t making fun, I was just reminding you that I was there, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, that was last week. You know, Joseph, I’m old. There’s no telling if I’ll even be around next week. You should come see me while you have the chance.”

  “For God’s sake, you’re only seventy four. You’re not even close to being dead yet.”

  “No thanks to you. It’s my family that keeps me alive, you know. Having something to look forward to. And you, you show up willy nilly just whenever you want. You’re cutting my life short, Joseph. You need to visit your grandmother.”

  The Roo boys settled onto bar stools like two bison and waited. They were wearing sun glasses. Maybe the neon signs were too bright.

  “Hey, Ethel, I might not even be around next week myself so I’ll try to get by to see you this week, okay?”

  “Joseph, are you in trouble … again?”

  It was the pause that always got me. She’d use that pause to windup and then throw that last word across the airwaves like a Sandy Koufax fastball aimed right at your head. Again. Damn, arguing with Ethel was like trying to outmaneuver General Patton. Every time you said something, she had a flanking and blocking move already in place. But then, she’d been practicing on me for a very long time.

  “No, it was just a figure of speech. I’m not in any trouble. Everything’s great.”

  The Roo brothers smiled in unison. It wasn’t reassuring.

  “Look, I’ll get by as soon as I can. I promise. I gotta go.”

  “Okay. Be good. Call your grandmother. You have a girlfriend yet?”

  “Goodbye.”

  I hung up. The Roo boys seemed to topple off their stools. They hit the ground seconds apart like dueling avalanches.

  “Vincent wants to see you,” James said.

  “Hey, I’m working hard trying to make Delilah a star.”

  “That’s why he wants to see you,” Jimmy said. “He wants a progress report.”

  I glanced back at the phone while we walked to the door and realized that I was truly ambivalent. On one hand I really wished Ethel would call again, give me a few more minutes. But then again, if she called, I’d be talking to her, wouldn’t I? I went with the Roo brothers without protest.

  Chapter 10

  This time Jimmy drove, and James rode shotgun. They stared straight ahead. Their sunglasses were black plastic frame jobs. You couldn’t see their eyes. A small blessing.

  “So how about those Dodgers? Think they got a shot this year?” I said. It was the nerves. That’s when I noticed the Rosary beads and small, gold cross hanging from the rear view mirror. Maybe I should have brought up the Pope.

  “Who’s Ethel?” Jimmy said. Apparently he wasn’t a fan.

  “What?”

  “The lady you were talking to in the bar. On the phone. Ethel. Who is she?”

  “She’s my grandmother.”

  “You don’t visit your grandmother?” James said.

  “Well, yeah, whenever I can. But, you know, it’s been k
ind of crazy around here lately.”

  “We visit our grandmother,” Jimmy said.

  “Regularly,” James said.

  “Like clockwork,” Jimmy said.

  Their heads never moved. They stared straight ahead, the sunglasses sucking in daylight light like miniature black holes. Great, now I’ve got hit men passing judgment on how well I meet my familial obligations. Oprah could have a field day with this.

  “Where’s she live?” Jimmy asked.

  “In the valley.”

  “Where in the valley?” James said.

  “Sherman Oaks, why?” The car was silent. This couldn’t be good. And then it hit me. “No wait. You guys aren’t thinking …”

  “We’re going to visit your grandmother.”

  “But what about Vincent?”

  “He’ll understand. He’s got a grandmother too.”

  “Cool,” I said.

  But the truth was, I didn’t really feel any better knowing that the upper crust of L.A.’s criminal element had a soft spot for grannies. How could life get any better? Then I settled back and imagined visiting Ethel with the Roo boys in tow and answered my own question.

  The great thing about L.A. is that the city doesn’t have any architectural shame. None. It’s the only way you could explain some of the buildings you see here. Either that or Mr. Magoo is doing the drafting.

  I was reminded of it every time I visited Ethel. Whoever designed Ethel’s place had an obvious Gone With The Wind fetish. One look at the portico with those huge two story columns and you’re expecting to find forty acres of petticoats and cotton out back. At times, though, L.A.’s laissez-faire attitude to appearances can work to your advantage. It comes in handy if you’re walking into an assisted living facility in the San Fernando Valley accompanied by two overgrown, steroid-riddled tubers in J.C. Penny suits and dark sunglasses.

  No one notices. Ethel didn’t. She was in the arts and crafts room making protest posters. Ethel is still pissed that she was too old to be a hippie any more. She lives in a facility full of old fellow travelers, leftists, and Democrats.