Читать книгу Last Song Sung - David A. Poulsen - Страница 5

February 28, 1965

The cigarette smoke stung her eyes. She threw the cig­arette down, regretted it right away — hated to do that to a Lucky Strike, damn good smokes — and looked around.

Looking for Joni. Joni Anderson, who said she’d be there for the last set before taking the stage herself. But Joni wasn’t there. Not yet. Or at least not here in the alley, smoking, laughing, tuning her guitar in one of those crazy, brilliant, completely open-string, Joni-esque ways that few could follow, let alone play.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to drive the sting away, and squinted at the back of the building. Not old, not new, just one more building in a row of structures that offered no more or less than this one.

The Depression. She’d always felt it was a weird name for a folk club. First of all, people often mistakenly thought the name referred to the mood, not the social and economic shock that had devastated so many of the world’s economies in the 1930s. This Depression was that Depression; it had nothing to do with the state of mind. The old newspaper clippings that dotted the walls, virtually the only decorations to be found in the place, provided the proof as to which Depression was being referred to.

Instead of Joni, the only other people in the alley were her two band guys: Jerry Farkash, who’d been with her from the beginning twenty-one months ago, and Duke whatever-the-fuck his name was, surely to God the worst bass player to ever stride on stage with an Airline electric around his neck.

She glanced at her watch. 10:50. She’d begin her last set at 11:00. Joni would take the stage just after 11:30, play for an hour and a half with barely a break, and everyone would love her. Like they did every night.

She really wanted Joni to catch her last set. Especially the new song, the one she’d co-written with the shitty bass player. The guy could write lyrics. That was the only reason she’d kept him around this long. But even with his ability as a lyricist, she knew he’d have to go. He was killing them on stage.

And the guy was weird. What kind of name was Duke? And his last name was just as crazy. Prego, that was it. Prego. You’re welcome in Italian, for Christ’s sake. Not his real name, obviously. Who calls himself Duke You’re Welcome? The guy had to go, and before her Vancouver date at The Bunkhouse. She’d pay him something for the lyrics and then send him on his way. She’d rather play The Bunkhouse without a bass player than have Duke fucking Prego on that stage.

She looked at her watch again. Just time for one more Lucky Strike. She turned away from the biting wind to light it and didn’t see the car come up the alley. She heard it, though, and once her cigarette was lit, she turned to see if it was Joni. Maybe she’d caught a ride with some guy, or —

As she turned, she heard the screeching of brakes. The car doors were flung open. Then pop, pop, pop — not loud like you’d expect gunshots to be, but they were gunshots. She realized that when first Jerry, then Duke went down clutching his chest, groaning, then gasping like he was trying to get air. Then two men — one of them holding a gun — were racing toward her.

She tried to run, but it all happened so fast. There was one fleeting moment of recognition. A scream … a curse. Then the first man, not breaking stride, hit her with his fist, and it was all over.