started getting stinky or when she ran out of clean ones. That appalled her old man, not that it was any of his business.
The buzzer sounded. There was Hagop, waiting for her to pass him through the building’s security system. She did. A few seconds later, she heard his shoes on the stairway up to the second floor. She had to remind herself she was supposed to be glad to see him.
Spokane wasn’t a big city. With Washington State there, though, it had plenty of little clubs. This one had been around a long time. The joint’s name-Harvey Wallbanger-proved as much. Lots of things had come back into style over the years, but not drinks with Galliano in them. As far as Rob Ferguson was concerned, a Wallbanger was a nasty thing to do to a perfectly good screwdriver.
But Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles had played here the year before. Rob and his bandmates were glad to be back. The sound and light guys-the guy on lights was a girl, actually-knew what they were doing. The management didn’t try to stiff acts as a matter of principle, the way so many clowns who ran clubs did. And the crowd was lively and enjoyed the show. They had last year, anyhow.
Which meant… they were the same kind of weirdos as the ones who played in the band. And if that wasn’t a judgment on them, then it was a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. Or something.
Rob turned to Justin Nachman, who would have been Squirt Frog if the band were set up like that. Justin played lead guitar, did most of the singing, and had as much fame as anyone in a resolutely unfamous band could claim. “What would you call the kind of stuff we play?” Rob asked.
“Beats me,” Justin answered cheerfully. “I don’t put labels on it. I just play it. Long as you don’t call me late for supper, you can call it anything you want.” He meant it, or near enough. Nobody in the band was on the wrong side of thirty, but Justin had a good set of love handles.
They’d gone round that barn before, of course. They’d been going round it since the band formed- congealed was the word Justin used-in Santa Barbara. Rob and Charlie Storer, the drummer, were the analytical ones. Justin and Biff Thorvald, who played rhythm guitar, didn’t sweat it. They did what they didand hoped they did it well enough to keep them from needing to look for honest work.
Charlie said, “We’re probably somewhere between Frank Zappa and Al Stewart.”
He’d said that before. Arguments came and went like tides, and almost as regularly. Rob sighed. “What’s wrong with this picture?” he asked, a rhetorical question if ever there was one. He answered it, too: “For one thing, most of the people who listen to us have never heard of Zappa or Al Stewart.”
“I think you’d be surprised,” Charlie said. “Al Stewart still gigs at places like this. Zappa would, I bet, only being dead makes it harder.”
“Maybe a little,” Rob agreed in tones he’d picked up from his father. In some ways, they were like water and sodium, and caught fire whenever they touched. In others-most of them ways Rob never thought about-they were very much alike.
“That’s what I said.” Charlie’s brown hair frizzed out in a perm that looked as if he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket. It bounced when he nodded, which he did now.
“Yeah, yeah.” Rob wasn’t about to be sidetracked, in which he also took after Colin the cop without noticing it. “The other thing I was going to say is, I don’t think there is any place between Al Stewart and Zappa.”
“Sure there is,” Charlie said. “They both write interesting, off-the-wall lyrics. Only Zappa stopped caring about whether he sounded like a rock-and-roller after a while, but Al Stewart still does. Well, as much like a rock-and-roller as you can sound with just a couple of acoustic guitars.”
Rob pondered that. It wasn’t one of Charlie’s usual comebacks. Biff bailed him out before he had to respond to it, saying, “C’mon, you guys. Give it a rest, okay? Let’s do the sound check and hit the greasy spoon next door. We dick around much longer, my belly’ll growl louder’n my axe.” He brandished his guitar.
The so-called greasy spoon next door was an outstanding Vietnamese place. Rob remembered it fondly from the last time they were in Spokane. You couldn’t get better pho in Santa Ana’s Little Saigon. And the only place you could get better Vietnamese food than you could in Santa Ana was Ho Chi Minh City (which had been Saigon, and was likely to be Saigon again one of these years).
An idea tickled the back of his mind. “Maybe we could do something with places that’ve had more than one name. Tsaritsyn, Stalingrad, Volgograd. St. Petersburg, Petrograd, Leningrad, back to St. Petersburg.”
“We’ve done songs about Russia,” Justin said.
“Not just Russia. Saigon’s Ho Chi Minh City-I was just thinking about that-and Constantinople is Istanbul nowadays. And is it Strassburg or Strasbourg?” Rob tried to make one of those last two Germanic and guttural, the other nasally French.
Justin’s frown warned him he wasn’t the most cunning linguist running around loose. But the lead guitarist said, “Well, write it and we’ll see what it looks like.” Most bands came up with tunes and found lyrics that went with them. Not Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles. With them, words usually came first. That had to be one more reason they wouldn’t hit the jackpot any time soon.
“Al Stewart already did a song about Constantinople,” Charlie pointed out. “And They Might Be Giants did ‘Istanbul (Not Constantinople).’ Does the world really need three?”
“It wouldn’t be the same kind of song as those,” Rob said. “Give me a break, man. Doctor Seuss used Constantinople, too.”
“See? Everybody does.” Charlie could be relentless.
“Enough, you guys.” Biff sounded more forceful this time. He struck a ringing chord to emphasize the suggestion.
They tuned up. They’d played in Pasco two nights before, and in Portland two nights before that. They’d been on the road together since forever-it sure seemed that way, anyhow. They didn’t need long to get ready for what they would be doing later that night. Then it was off to the place next door. “Fee, fie, pho, fum,” Rob said happily. Not even Charlie called him on that one.
Pho had to be the best comfort food in the world, even better than chicken soup. You could put almost anything into it. Rob’s favorite was beef tendon. Before he started eating pho, he wouldn’t have imagined you could boil beef tendon long enough to make it meltingly tender. He wouldn’t have imagined it turned so delicious when you did, either.
The waiter and the cook and the proprietor were all the same little guy. He had a wispy mustache and iron-gray hair. His English was good, but no one would ever mistake it for his native tongue. Had he got out of Saigon just before it turned into Ho Chi Minh City? Rob wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Not many Americans like that one,” he said. “Round-eyed Americans, I mean. They see it on the menu, they make a face.” When he made a face, he showed more wrinkles than he did with his features in repose.
“They’ve never tasted it, then,” Rob said. He left a big tip, although the place was so cheap it was a big tip on a small bill.
They went back to the dressing room and passed joints around. Rob couldn’t prove using weed made him play better, but he sure thought so. Time slowed down when he was loaded. There seemed to be more of it between the notes, so he had as much as he needed to nail them one by one. And he could hear-he could almost see-how they fit together ever so much better than he could straight. Everything sounded better stoned, too.
Justin stepped into the corridor and checked the house. A few shouts out there said people spotted him doing it. He came back with a grin on his round face. “We’ll make enough to go on to the next gig,” he reported. They’d been doing that for a few years now. As far as Rob was concerned, it beat the hell out of a day job.
A local band played a short set before they went on. The locals got the kind of hand an opening act could expect. Rob remembered getting that kind of hand himself, and remembered being pumped about it. Now… A guy with a booming baritone shouted, “Here they are-the band you’ve been waiting for! Let’s give a big Spokane hello to… Squirt Frog and the Evolving Tadpoles!”
And damned if they didn’t. Applause was a drug, too. Anybody who didn’t think so had never tasted that particular high. It was one of the reasons Rob came out here and waved to the people beyond the house lights. The other two were oldies but goodies: to piss off his old man (he’d sure done that) and to get laid till he couldn’t even stand up (not so easy when you were on the withdrawn side, but Rob had no complaints).
They started out with “Pleasures,” not least to bring along people who were hearing them for the first time. Always a few newbies in the crowd. Why not let ’em think they were listening to regular rock ’n’ roll, at least for a little while? “I would bed you,
