Nowhe just had to get a divorce and life would be perfect. For the first time indecades, Old Han was truly happy.
Chapter 25: Ace is Number 1
Ace Fever, real name Shinji Tsukamoto, sat in acinder-blocked jail cell wondering what was going to happen next. He rubbed atthe bruise on his chest where the hillbilly had tried to bite him. His trustyleather jacket had proved to be stronger than the man's bite. The brawl in theclub had been brutal, and at the end, the cops had pulled them all out of theclub and sat them down on the curb. People were covered in bite wounds,bruises, and blood, and he saw the hillbilly, blood caking his face, beingushered to his own personal ride in the back of a squad car, gnashing his teethand trying to attack the police officers.
Withhis bandmates by his side, Ace sat on his rear end on the sidewalk, smoking acigarette and trying to plead with the cop standing over him. The police hadspent a lot of time asking people their side of the story. In the end, theentire band had all been rounded up, along with some of the more violentrioters, and thrown into the back of a paddy wagon.
Theyhad booked him, taken his fingerprints, and then ushered him down to a cell.Ace was glad that they hadn't bothered going back and searching their musicequipment, or else they would have found the pile of cocaine that they hadbought when they first hit stateside. Ace's high had long since dissipated, andhe wondered where his tour manager was. How long was it going to be before hewas bailed out?
Theclanging of skull against bars shocked him out of his musings. The man acrossthe way appeared to be trying to shove his way through the metal bars. Histeeth were locked in a grimace, and his arms poked through the bars, reachingfor him. Ace flipped the man off, but it did no good.
"Goto sleep, you bastard." The man merely snarled at him, reared back andsmashed his head into the bars again. Blood dribbled down his sweaty forehead.Ace laid down on the hard metal cot that passed for a bed in his cell. Hefolded his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignorethe man across the way.
Heloved America and hated it at the same time. How could this be the land of thefree if you couldn't even brawl in a bar? He wondered how his bandmates weredoing. Hey Fever, or Tak as he had known him on the mean streets of Tokyo, wasnursing a bloody lip in the back of the paddy wagon. Jungle Fever, whose nameseemed to change every week, was examining a bite on his arm when they had comeinto the station. They had laughed and joked in Japanese as the cops took theirfingerprints, but then they had all been ushered to separate cells.
Atfirst, they had yelled and been in good spirits, but if they were feelinganything like him at the moment, they were coming down pretty hard from a nightfull of booze and coke. They hadn't even had a chance to get to the ladies yet.That was the best thing about America. You could throw a guitar over yourshoulder, do a bunch of drugs, and at the end of the night you could head homewith some random chick, do your thing, and head off to a different city, and doit all again. There was always a different city in America, and the women weredifferent every time. Different features, different skin colors, different haircolors, even the vaginas were different. Ace closed his eyes, and dreamed ofthe future.
Itwasn't long until the door to his cell clanged open, and the cops shovedanother man into the cell. Ace sat up on his bed and looked warily at the man.He was sweating profusely, and he had a bandage over his neck.
Thefat guard with the red goatee laughed and mockingly said, "Have fun, youtwo."
Theman with the wound crawled to the other cot in the cell and groaned as he laiddown. Ace examined him from the corner of his eye. He was long; he filled hiscot to a greater extent than Ace did. He was thick too. This was not the typeof man that Ace would want to tangle with. Ace was lanky and could throw a goodpunch, but his bony body was not made to take the kind of physical impact thatthis thick-boned man could most likely deliver. He wore dirty black work boots,a blue flannel sweatshirt and some well-worn jeans. His hair was short andbrown, and he could see sweat on the top of the man's head where he wasbalding. He couldn't tell if the man was in his thirties or late forties.
Theman coughed, and rolled over on his side. He spoke with the air of fever,"Hey, where am I?"
Acedidn't answer at first, hoping the man would just give up.
"Wheream I?"
Acetried to make his words as clear as possible; he hated having to repeat himselfbecause of his accent. "You are in prison."
Theman groaned and rolled over on his back. He moaned loudly, and said, "Whythe hell am I out here? They attacked me! Goddamn, ignorant sumsabitches. Theyattacked me!" He wiped his hand across his brow and then hung his hand offthe side of the cot. Sweat dripped to the ground.
Acesat up on his cot, curious. It was one of his many flaws. "Who attackedyou?"
"Theydid. A bunch of homeless people come up out of the park and began banging on mytrailer. I tried to scare them off with a knife." The man waved hisworker's mitts at the air, as if he were holding an imaginary knife. Then heturned to look at Ace. He was silent for a moment, and then he said,"Where am I?"
Aceignored the repeated question, and instead posed a question of his own,"What did they want?"
Theman swallowed, his
