“Oh,” he said. “You not no cop, I can see that, but you ain’t gonna hurt him, are you? He’s a good man. I had a woman, she was real sick with the AIDS; she’s passed now, no more pain, praise the Lord, Jesus, but Du-Wayne, he helped her, put her pain in an old mayonnaise jar for a time. He brought her some herb to help when his hoodoo couldn’t hold it no more. Made her passin’ easier for her and for me.” He moved his body a few inches away from the lure of the money. He looked away from me and out to the river of car lights below us. “I like crazy Du-Wayne.”
“I swear, I ain’t intending him no harm,” I said. I almost called him sir, but that would have lost me points, I just knew it. “I just need his help, and he knows me. He helped me way back. I need his help again.” The old man looked me over like he was weighing my sin against the weight of a feather. He sighed and took the money.
“He’s flopping these days over in Skid Row,” he said. “Near where he and his mamma lived when he was growin’ up, God rest her soul. You might try that bar where they play all that hoochie-coochie music, the Satellite, I think it is. He likes that hoochie-coochie music.”
“I’m a fan myself,” I said, digging my American Spirits out of my pocket.
“The last place I can think for you to check is over at Dogtown. He likes to surf over there with the kids.”
Dogtown was a nickname for a neighborhood near Venice Beach, and the “kids” Terry was talking about Dwayne surfing with were numerous gangs, Latino, Mexican, Crips, Skinheads, and whatever localist surfing crew assholes were claiming the rights to the water these days. The gang turf in this city extended to the waves on the beaches. You didn’t just wander down to the water, slide into the lineup, and enjoy the tasty waves. You’d get your ass kicked. I’m pretty sure if Frankie Avalon and Gidget had a beach blanket party today, they’d get a train pulled on them.
All these gangs, all these certified badasses were afraid of Dwayne. He gave them respect and they all stayed the fuck out of his way. “Du-Wayne” walked and surfed wherever the fuck he wanted in this town. That was one of the reasons I needed him.
“Thanks,” I said. I handed old Terry the hundred and the rest of my pack of smokes. He had set my foot on the path, and I was grateful. I started looking for a cab to take me to the House of Hoochie-Coochie.
* * *
Satellite was on Silverlake Boulevard, a squat gray-and-white building, with very little parking, except what was on the street. People didn’t come here to admire the architecture, or for valet parking, they came for the sound. Satellite was one of the places in this town to listen to music you hadn’t heard a million fucking times on the radio, to be surprised.
It was almost two when the cab slowed and dropped me off. The cabbie had put me together with some cocaine. It had been a long day: hurt ex-lovers, a cold case—no, the cold case fucking with me—and it was still far the hell away from being done. My head was full of humming warm brass after the coke, and a hammer made of light pounded in 4/4 time on my heart. I felt good and it was kind of weird to feel that way again. I knew I’d get over it.
Inside, it was wall-to-wall people, hot, noisy, your organs shaking from the walls of speakers beside the stage. A band called Nympho Punch was on stage, and I could see random body parts thrashing about near the edge of the stage while the sea of flesh near the back, closer to the bar, swayed or headbanged to the thunderous beat and the unrelenting advance of the guitars. They were good. They had a female lead singer with hair dyed Joy Division black and a septum ring. Her voice was a dove frantically trying to stay aloft above an ocean of musical pain. They were good enough for me to stay and listen for a spell. Maybe it was the drugs. I ordered a shot of tequila and a Budweiser for last call. I asked the bartender if he knew Dwayne, and he said of course. I asked if he had been in tonight and he said no. Hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. Then the bartender got an odd look on his face and seemed to really look at me for the first time.
“Hey, man,” he said as he slid my empty shot glass toward him, “are you Laytham Ballard by any chance?”
“Yeah,” I said. Now I knew it was definitely the drugs working on me.
“Holy fuck,” he said. “Wow, hey man, I loved you guys. I had all your albums.” I started laughing and shook my head. Jesus Christ, this city. “Hey, you doing anything now, you know, solo projects, producing?”
“Solo stuff, mostly,” I said, nodding to the empty shot glass. What good is celebrity if you don’t use it, right? The barkeep refilled my shot and slid a second next to it. “I’m not much into groups anymore.”
“Well you guys thrashed, man,” he said. “I listened to you back in high school; a buddy got me bootleg tapes of your shows. I wasn’t old enough to go.”
“High school,” I said, “damn,” and drained the shots fast, chased them with the rest of the beer, offering the empty bottle to him with raised eyebrows. He replaced it with a fresh cold one.
The band was finishing up, and I saw some folks drifting out the doors, guided by the bouncers.
