Chuck Freadhoff - Free Booze Tonight Read online

  Irving, though, was a different story. He’d been a journalist at one time – almost won a Pulitzer for a six-part series about pygmy hitmen imported by the mob to knock off their competition. He’d titled the series Darts of Death and described the pygmies skulking around Dumpsters outside Italian restaurants, blow guns in hand. He made the whole thing up while eating peyote buttons and watching reruns on the SciFi Channel. After he got fired, he went into PR. He said that’s where the real pygmies are.

  He’d come by the bar now and again and buy me a beer. I’d tell him what I’d been up to lately and he’d shake his head and say ‘You can’t be making this shit up.’ Compared to pygmy hitmen, I wasn’t sure how to take that.

  Ken, though, really did owe me a favor. He figured he was a shoe in for a cross-discipline scholarship to a small Midwestern Christian college – Ecclesiastes and lacrosse. But our senior year he was looking at an F in history because he hadn’t written the requisite term paper for his teacher, Mrs. Lynching. The F would blow his scholarship. And, with all the away games he’d been playing, he didn’t have the time. Desperate, he turned to me. I hadn’t written a paper in … well, ever. Still, a friend in need was a friend who would owe me a favor.

  Besides I knew Mrs. Lynching. She wanted to be the head of the teachers’ union. I had Ethel write the paper – Jimmy Hoffa, The Man, The Myth, The Missing. Sometimes life isn’t really all that complicated. I’ve found that a combination of bullshit, flattery, and blatantly appealing to the other guy’s prejudices usually works just fine.

  In the end, everyone was happy. Ethel got to expound on worker solidarity, the teacher congratulated herself on how much her students had learned, and Ken headed out to the Indiana Institute of Bible Study and Everlasting Evangelism. It had a specialized curriculum.

  Irving and Ken both arrived late in the afternoon. They took adjoining barstools and waited. I pulled a couple of drafts, filled a little plastic bowl with stale peanuts, set it front of them, and thanked them for stopping by.

  “Can’t wait to hear all about it,” Irving said. He liked to do me favors for, as he put it, “the entertainment value.” That and he and Ken were, as they to put it, ‘an item’ and where Ken went, Irving followed.

  Ken and his wife, Molly, were each ‘an item’ with someone of the same gender. Ken had knocked up Molly in the library stacks his freshman year when they each decided to just once try pinch hitting for the other team. They were equally unimpressed. Like finding out a hot fudge Sunday is really made with cottage cheese. It just doesn’t quite hit the spot.

  She liked girls, as much as he liked boys, and both one of them hated her father, Orvis. But Orvis was rich, so whenever he was around they pretended to be like any other happily married couple – they argued about money. To shut them up, Orvis had bought a Kinkos so Ken would have a job. Which, importantly for me, meant Ken had access to an industrial sized copy machine.

  “I’m trying my hand at managing a band,” I said.

  Ken rolled his eyes. Irving snorted and turned slowly on the stool to take in the empty bar. “Well, managing a band is probably a better career move than interior decorating.”

  “It’s a good band. Going to do great things.” By great things, I meant keeping me alive, but I didn’t see the need to share.

  Irving looked at me. I could see the skepticism in his eyes. “What’s it called?”

  “Delilah and the Samsons,” I said. “It’s a biblical thing.”

  That got Ken’s attention. “Hey, I can spread the word at church.”

  I had a vision of Vincent the Hammer and the Roo brothers swapping tequila shooters and limes with the Christian Ladies auxiliary while Biggie Bruce took a banjo solo and Delilah sang. I almost told Ken not to mention it, but then I figured, what the hell, Saturday would probably be my last night alive, why not go out with my own, home grown Barnum and Bailey? Besides, what could possibly go wrong?

  I probably should have known. For me, asking questions is always easier than answering them and, in truth, I usually get the answers wrong anyway.

  “Okay,” I said to Ken, “but no kids. This isn’t Sunday School.”

  Irving took a sip of beer. “So, why are we here?”

  “Well, I figure you can handle the PR end of things. Maybe get some advance publicity or something, help Delilah and the Samsons break out.”

  “Where’s the gig?”

  “Here.” I gestured to the empty room. “Look at all you’ve got to work with.”

  Irving twisted on the stool again. His eyes swept the bar before settling on Ken who shook his head and shrugged. Irving turned back to me.

  “Joey, it reeks of cigarettes and stale beer in here, the murals would scare Frankenstein, and the place has the acoustics of a subway stop.”

  “Yeah, it’s just about perfect, right?”

  When your life depends on a bunch of marginally talented musicians, fronted by a mob boss’s daughter with the talent of a Chia Pet, you get creative. I figured the odor and ambiance were in my favor. Next to the surroundings, the band might look pretty good. I’m a glass half-full kind of guy.

  I could see Irving wasn’t convinced. I have a sixth sense about these things his eyes were bulging and he was swallowing hard either that or he was choking on a peanut. I had to try something else. I appealed to his professional pride.

  “Hey, someone sold the world Paris Hilton, didn’t they? How hard can Delilah and the Samsons be?”

  It worked. He agreed to contact a friend at the local paper and the 2 a.m. to 5 a.m. disc jockey at a nearby university radio station for some advance publicity. He’d try to come up with a catchy slogan for the band, too.

  He started scribbling on a napkin. I read, “Giving a whole new meaning to big hair band … .” I turned to Ken.

  We’d call it even, I told him, if he’d print up a few thousand flyers and get them stuck on windshields at a nearby mall. Ken quickly agreed – probably relieved that I’d only asked him to do something annoying, not illegal.

  We chatted a little longer, and then I waved goodbye as Irving and Ken sailed across the floor and out the door. I wiped down the bar and smiled suddenly confident that this might just work, that I might not be in the fast lane to Angeles Crest and a reunion with Mickey.

  I felt like a man who’d just run full tilt down the dock, sprinted up the gangway of the last luxury liner out of port. Only later did I realize I’d landed with a splat on the deck of the Titanic.

  Chapter 23

  My first clue that something was amiss came the next day when Ken walked in about an hour before the band was scheduled to rehearse and waved a flyer.

  “Already put a few hundred of them on windshields at the mall,” he said. “Going to stuff mailboxes in the neighborhoods tomorrow. I designed it myself. You’ll love it.” He slapped one on the bar and beamed while I studied it.

  I read somewhere that a couple of centuries ago the treatment for syphilis was to give the guy malaria. The idea, I guess, was to raise his body temperature high enough to kill the VD. And, in the meantime, he’d be so sick he’d forget about the syph.

  Me? One glance at that flyer and I took a handful of pretzels and stuck ‘em in my mouth. It worked for a few seconds. My eyes watered so fiercely I couldn’t see the flyer. Eventually, though, my eyes cleared and the flyer was still there.

  “Samsons, you idiot, not Simpsons. Delilah and the Samsons,” I wheezed.

  A hand drawn sketch of Marge Simpson, wailing away in front of a microphone – Homer and Bart playing backup – dominated the flyer. Great. I was portraying Vincent the Hammer’s beloved only daughter as a cartoon figure with a blue beehive.

  “How many of these have you handed out?” I asked.

  “Maybe five hundred.” He glanced at his watch. “By now, could be a thousand.”

  I had a vision of Vincent the Hammer cutting me into cube steak while humming along to that song from Oklahoma on his iPod. Not the one with the wind and rain and
corn, but that other one. Pore Jud is Daid.

  The big black phone under the bar rang. I glanced at it and back to Ken. “How many?”

  He checked his watch again. “Probably fifteen hundred by now.”

  “Jesus, who did you hire, Speedy Gonzales?”

  He started to answer but I waved him away. He crossed the bar and plopped down next to Davey. I picked up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Joey, it’s Grassman. Listen, I’ve got a problem here.”

  I know my friend Dutch, the narcoleptic gambler, said never bet against worse, but I looked at the flyer and decided to double down. “Problem? What kind of problem?”

  “Alphonse has the measles.” I picked up a pretzel. “You’ve had the measles, right?” Grassman said. “If you get ‘em it could make you sterile.”

  No, I’d never had the measles, so yes there was a chance I’d end up sterile. Not that it was going to make much difference. Once you’ve been turned into ground chuck your ability to reproduce is pretty limited anyway. I’ve learned over the years that, when things get really bad, it’s best to stay in the moment. Focus on what’s important, like breathing.

  “I need a drummer, Grassman.”

  “Sure, let me see what I can do. But no guarantees, okay?” He was gone a second later.

  I hung my head, stared at the floor, and fought the urge to have another handful of pretzels. They say that when you’re about to die you see a bright white light and you feel a welcoming presence. They’re wrong.

  The front door opened, the neon faded for a second, and there the Roo brothers were across the bar.

  “We came to watch the rehearsal,” Jimmy said.

  “Make sure everything goes well,” James said.

  I swept Ken’s flyer off the bar and stuffed it under a wet rag. “Where’s Delilah?”

  “She’ll be here any minute,” Jimmy said.

  The door opened and Delilah walked in. She was wearing the outfit Vincent the Hammer had picked out Abba meets Elvis. Bell bottoms, rhinestones, about fifty yards of polyester, and a gold chain necklace heavy enough to wrap around tires if it snowed.

  I glanced at the phone and prayed that those telltale red dots would pop out on my face and neck. I figured that if I had the measles, Vincent the Hammer wouldn’t want me anywhere near his daughter.

  I felt my forehead. Nothing there. That’s what my life had come to. Disappointed that I didn’t have a disease that could leave me pockmarked and sterile.

  Chapter 24

  One look and I knew not to mention Delilah’s outfit. The thing was polyester with streaks of lime green and orange. She looked like a creamsicle on steroids. Sure, it was clingy and showed off her figure, but I didn’t think mentioning that would help. Somehow ‘nice rack’ didn’t fit the moment. Still, the thought crossed my mind. Hard not to. I tried to smile as she crossed to the bar.

  “Say anything and I’ll have him kill you,” she said. Only eight words but they packed a punch. Yup, I’d been right not to comment.

  “We can make it work.”

  “How we gonna make this work, Joey? I look like Barry Manilow dressed for the Love Boat.”

  She had a point. But before I could say anything, Ralph came in from the back pushing a dolly loaded with equipment.

  “You’re a roadie now?” I asked.

  “Jake needed a van.” He beamed. “Don’t worry. I got rid of the shovels and pick.”

  I looked at Delilah. “Don’t ask.”

  “Joey, Vincent the Hammer is my father. I’m better at not listening than most married couples.”

  I nodded and turned back to Ralph. “Hey, did you bring that drum machine?”

  Delilah straightened up and leaned toward me. “Drum machine?”

  “It’s just for tonight. The drummer’s sick.”

  “Sick?”

  “He’s got the sniffles.” Measles, sniffles, whatever. The way I figure it, you’re sick no matter what. Like psychosis and psoriasis, either way there’s something wrong with your head.

  “Where you want to set up?” Ralph asked.

  I turned from Delilah and pointed. I’d already picked out a spot between the end of the bar and the back room. My reasoning was simple. The speakers would be pointing away from me. Why get hit with the business end of a spear if you can choose the blunt end?

  Jake came in a second later, stepped past the dolly, and hustled forward, his eyes a little wild. He leaned against the bar and wiggled two fingers at me, telling me to move closer.

  “I think I’m being followed,” he whispered. “I saw a couple of guys on Harleys on the way over here. I’m not sure my disguise is working.”

  I could understand his concern. Sure, he was dressed like a rabbi in a dark suit and a yarmulke, but it just wasn’t all that convincing. Like putting fake antlers on your dog at Christmas. Even after a few eggnogs no one’s really going to mistake Missy the Cockapoo for Donner or Blitzen.

  “No worries, the bar’s closed tonight for rehearsal.”

  “How about the guys from Easter Island?” He pointed to the Roo brothers standing at the end of the bar.

  “Security.”

  “And what about them?” Jake gestured to Ken from Kinkos and Davey the semi-illiterate music critic. They were yucking it up at a table near the door.

  Shit. Davey, I’d forgotten about him again. If he saw the rehearsal, he’d want to cover the show. And if he covered the show, he’d write a terrible review.

  “They’re the advance team, nothing to worry about,” I said and slipped past the end of the bar and tapped Ralph on the shoulder. When he turned, I gestured to Davey and explained what I needed. Ralph nodded.

  “Happy to help but I ain’t got no more rugs.”

  “No, nothing permanent, Ralph. Just make sure he doesn’t watch the rehearsal tonight, okay? And, ah, keep it as legal as you can?”

  His brow knitted in concentration, but a second later his face lit up, he smiled and nodded.

  “Sure, I’ve got just the thing. Hey, red and black,” Ralph said and held up a couple of cords he was using to set up the equipment, “they, like, go together, right?”

  “Right, black to black, red to red but not always in that order.”

  “So which come first?”

  “Depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “How it’s set up.”

  “That’s what I’m asking. How ‘em I supposed to set it up?”

  “I just told you black to black and red to red unless it’s the other way around. Usually they alternate. You know, black, red or red, black and if there’s a yellow in there, just ignore it. We’re not doing video.”

  “Video?”

  “No, like I said, no video. Okay, got it?”

  Ralph blinked twice, nodded, and looked at the two cords. “Yeah, sure. Got any duct tape?”

  This is one of my major problems in life, lack of focus. My mind could wander in a car wreck. I really needed to work on that.

  “Sorry, no duct tape,” I said.

  Biggie Bruce and Hakim came in together a couple of minutes later. I was watching them unpack when, from the corner of my eye, I caught Ralph heading toward Davey and Ken from Kinkos. Ralph stopped at the table, blocking my view. I held my breath, but a moment later Ralph turned and gave me a thumbs up. He was smiling, a proud gleam in his eyes like he’d just figured out the secret of nuclear physics. I decided not to ask.

  A thumping base line rumbled through the bar and I turned. Hakim was tuning up. He was bent slightly, concentrating hard, his fingers flying up and down the neck. I think my mouth dropped open.

  Delilah touched my arm. “Damn, he’s good.”

  “Of course.” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.

  “I’ve got a little secret for you,” she said and leaned a little closer. “I’m good too. I really can sing.”

  “I know that.”

  “No, you don’t know that and you’re a really bad liar,” she s
aid and smiled. “Here I’ll show you.” She broke into a version of Proud Mary. It was halfway between Bette Midler and Janice Joplin. I reached for the radio just to make sure I wasn’t getting some random FM feed, then remembered the bar didn’t have a radio. The music was pure Delilah.

  “Let’s get you in front of a mike,” I said.

  Wow, I thought. Maybe there really is a God and she’s finally taken me off her shit list, sprung me from house of detention, released my spirit to soar like an eagle. Yes, I was so happy that I was actually thinking that.

  Instead I should have been thinking about Uncle Ike. My uncle Ike used to say two things to me. First, he always told me to make my leisure count, by which I assumed he meant that I should constantly be working. I pretty much tuned him out after that so I never paid a lot of attention when he’d recite the old rhyme about ‘For want of a nail … .’

  If I remember right, it was about a horse throwing a shoe because a nail came loose and the next thing you know, the rider with some important message doesn’t get through and a battle and whole damned war are lost. I always figured his point was that the downfall of civilization as we know it could be started by some yahoo farrier using a short nail.

  His real point, I decided later, was that small stuff matters. Small stuff, like double checking that the front door is locked, or asking exactly how Ralph planned to make sure Davey missed the rehearsal. But like I said, I’m not a detail guy.

  A couple of minutes later, Ralph had all the equipment set up and Jake from Jericho was ready to run the drum machine. Biggie Bruce had brought his banjo and guitar and had ‘em both sort of tuned up.

  I went into the back room, and fetched some beers that didn’t have a sell-by date that started with 19. I gave Jake, Biggie, Hakim, and Delilah each a long neck and kept one for myself. I checked out the setup. Delilah’s mike was a couple of feet in front of the others. Biggie would be just behind to her right and Hakim a little to her left. Jake was on a stool at the drum machine directly behind her mike.

  Cables wound over the bare cement floor like a convention of lazy, confused snakes and I knew the place had acoustics closer to a cereal bowl than the Hollywood Bowl, but I was still feeling pretty confident. After all I had a band together and Delilah was going to sing. What could go wrong?