We picked up a fish sandwich and some fries from one of the local joints on the way back to the boat. I had to have a little taste of Evan Williams on the rocks while Sunny stuck with the Cabernet. I dozed on the settee for forty minutes or so. At about nine, Sunny rousted me. We drove over to Virginia Beach and parked in front of the HOTEL AUSTIN right across from the beach. I hoped the building wouldn’t cave in while we were inside. Rumor had it that the place had been built as a joke and an insult to one of the Hilton clan who had ridiculed Virginia Beach as a venue for a classy resort. In any event, it had been rode hard and put up wet. The ancient red carpet at the entrance smelled of stale smoke and squished beneath your feet. Inside wasn’t much better.
The tables were chipped brown Formica and your forearm stuck to them if you were brave enough to put it down. But there was good news, too. The draft beer was generously served in frosty mugs and the joint was already full with what I guessed were mostly locals, sprinkled with a few adventuresome tourists. There was an air of expectancy, like the Duke and the Duchess were arriving any minute. The recorded music was loud, and knees, hands, toes were already tapping to the beat of Bob Seeger’s “Rock’n’Roll Never Forgets”. I saw a man, small, but built like a miniature tree trunk, lift a bass guitar out of a stand. He cuddled and caressed the instrument like a father holds a child. Then the drummer adjusted a stool behind the snares, cymbals and a bass drum emblazoned with HIGH FLYER. Another munchkin candidate with a scraggly goatee fondled a burgundy Fender Stratocaster, and finally a Stevie Nicks clone waltzed up to a double stack of keyboards.
Her wispy yellow hair draped over her shoulders and down her neck in a shimmering wave. Black stilettoes accented a pair of legs that can only be described as dead-on luscious. The dress was just barely that; short, diaphanous, sheer enough to catch the backlights highlighting her sexy shape. The curve of her breasts beckoned with every breath, probably a push-up bra. But the best was definitely yet to come.
The little man with the Fender plowed into a sweet funky riff. The drummer hammered the beat and the bass thumped. Then there was the voice. A Queen of Soul classic, “R E S P E C T”, and Aretha, herself, would have been proud, if maybe even a little jealous. A couple stood at the corner of the dance floor tentatively trying out some moves. The girl, in white shorts that must have been sprayed on, and a pink top that plunged to her navel, slid onto the floor, her shoulders and ass in perfect rhythm to the pounding beat. Soon her man had joined her with his own brand of groove. The multi-colored strobes flashed, and suddenly writhing bodies appeared everywhere. Some holding hands, some holding hips, and some grasping sweaty bottles. We sat in awe while the band ran through a cascade of soul and blues, spiced with dashes of rockabilly and pure country. The Fender screamed when it should and the drummer never missed a beat. The bass solos were incredible. Every note, every bump, every tone just as it should be. It didn’t take me long to figure it out. We were in the presence of a rock goddess and her faithful courtiers. She just plain had it. At the break she came over and sat down.
“T.K., I’m glad you could make it. I hope you like it.”
“My God, Pam. Now I know why Sunny told me I had met an American Treasure.”
She grinned and I could see a glimpse of the shy, plain girl I had spoken with earlier in the day.
“I want you to meet Shorty and the rest of the band on the next break. Shorty was lead guitar on a record a few years back that peaked at number one. ‘Kisses Everywhere’. Do you remember it?”
“I damned sure do. The Howling Brigade. I bought the album.”
“Yeah, a lotta people did. They got the tune, I kind of got the guitar player. Well, I need to get back. The owner doesn’t like long breaks, just enough time for the crowd to order another round. That’s what he tells us. And we need the work.”
Most of the dancers sat during the break, catching their breaths, wiping the sweat, cooling off with the golden elixir that ran from the taps behind the bar. But at the corner of the dance floor three men stood and waited. The middle one wore a black silk shirt and cowboy boots with sterling silver toes. His hair matched the shirt and shone in the light, slicked back off the forehead with some kind of thick grease. A thin dark mustache added the final touch. He reminded me of one of the bad guys from old Hopalong Cassidy and Buck Rogers serials. A
Ming the Merciless sort of character. The shorts were always sandwiched around the matinees I used to suck up on Saturday afternoons for the princely sum of 25 cents. Sometimes it even included a small bag of popcorn. Butter was a nickel extra.
The two goons on either side of Mr. Slick were right out of central casting. The one on the right was short, but built like a fireplug. His face was plump, but at the same time fraught with a total lack of expression. He might have been a life-size version of Michelin Man, but without the smile. The other one was a cross between Lurch from the old “Addams Family” and Jaws of James Bond fame. Maybe 6’6”, thick and sculpted, about to bust out of a Washington Redskins jersey with the number 00 stretched across the chest. He had a permanent glare tattooed on his face.
Pam got up and glided back to the stage. She whispered something to Shorty. He looked over at our table and nodded. Then Mr. Black Silk strode casually over to the low stage and placed a shiny boot up on the edge. He towered over Pam and Shorty. He slipped them each a serpentine smile and said something I couldn’t hear. Pam grimaced. Her lips moved and she turned away. He grabbed her arm and Shorty stepped between them. His mouth hurled two words. I couldn’t hear them, but I was betting on “Fuck you”. Slick’s motioned to Lurch and the giant’s hand snatched Shorty’s shirt with a force that pushed the little man back into a stack of amplifiers. The short goon watched from a few feet away, waiting for a cue. The club’s bouncer and one of the bartenders were hustling through the crowd toward the scene. Suddenly the three bad guys melted back into the audience. It had all happened so quickly, I doubt anyone much noticed. I looked over at Sunny. Her eyes were hard and focused on the American Treasure. I tapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you later,” she said through clenched teeth.
The brief commotion was over. Shorty gathered himself and shouldered the Strat. HIGH FLYER was ready to leave the ground.
The treble moved into the stratosphere and I picked up the opening immediately. Big Brother and the Holding Company featuring none other than a budding Janis Joplin. Most people didn’t know that it had been recorded a couple of years earlier by Aretha Franklin’s older sister Irma. She blew the doors off of it, but the psychedelic treatment by Janis and the band took it into the blues cosmos. “Come on and take it . . . Take another little piece of my heart.”
By the time the Treasure growled that last line, I was semi-comatose. Sunny just looked at me and smiled with that “I told you so” look plastered all over her beautiful smug face. She had an eight o’clock class the next morning. So we said reluctant goodbyes between songs and I dropped a twenty in the tip jar. Best twenty bucks I’ve spent in a long time.
We went back to KAMALA. I couldn’t get Sunny to stay, and I didn’t get the story on Pam’s and Shorty’s ominous buddies. But cocktails and steaks on the grill were planned for the next evening. I figured a “tell all” session was in the offing. What I didn’t know was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.