Chapter 8
I felt pretty good about the meeting. I liked Bill O’Mara and my instincts told me I could trust him. I kind of half expected to hear from him within the next few days. I was at a crossroads. Would I just go through the motions to satisfy Sunny or get serious about trying to help Pam and her husband? If I did, what would it cost? And if I didn’t, would Sunny figure it out and would it cause damage to our relationship? Hell, I’d just traveled 1000 miles to be with a lady that made my life whole. I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her. I was in. I needed a place to start so I made a list.
1.Meet with Pam and Shorty to go over the background info again. Was there anything they or I had missed?
2.Find out if there were any contacts who might know something about Paul. Try to meet with him.
3.Get more information on Leonardo Panko and Talent Pro.
4.Find out more about the Norfolk Mob. How extensive? Who was in charge? Just how dangerous were they?
I didn’t know whether any of it would lead to something useful, but at least it got me off my ass and maybe into the fray. The sooner I got some answers, the sooner I could go back to being an educated boat bum. I had Pam’s cell number. What the hell? Might as well get on with it.
I could barely hear her voice over the phone. I turned up the volume and pressed the black unit hard against my ear. She and Shorty were hanging wallpaper at a condo near the beach, but they expected to be finished by 4:00. We agreed to meet for a beer at the HOTEL AUSTIN. They had to pick up a pay check, anyway.
I caught a cab and was sitting at the bar when they came in. The old place looked worse in the daylight than it had a few nights ago. There was gum stuck to the undersides of the tables and I doubted that the carpet had seen a vacuum in months. The residue of ashes and ancient dust coated everything that didn’t move and the smell attacked the senses with a flush of decay and neglect.
The bartender was a tall, leggy, bleached-blond, in cut-off jeans. Plenty of cellulite was clumped in the backs of her thighs. Too many layers of makeup tried to disguise a face that was much older than it wanted to be. Hard miles were etched under her eyes. Still, she smiled and spoke with a voice that had a tough, but musical, quality. She definitely wanted you to like her and prove it with cash on the counter. She waved when Pam and Shorty entered, then handed him a white envelope. We got our beers and sat at a sticky brown table against the wall.
She was dressed in a faded jumpsuit two sizes too large for her. No makeup, the hair pulled back like dried out straw, and hands still covered in wallpaper paste and tiny red cuts. Shorty was short, but powerfully built. His grungy gray-flecked goatee hung from his chin like a body on the gallows. The skin had a drinker’s red glow to it, pock-marked around the cheeks and chin. Nevertheless, his eyes sparkled and shone like a bushel of stars on a clear winter night. His hands should have been on a much larger man. They were scarred, but the fingers were long and nimble, in constant motion. He seemed to drum out a subtle beat on the table to a tune that only played in his head.
“So you were the lead guitar player in The Howling Brigade? I told Pam I bought your album.”
“Yeah,” he said, “a lotta people did. Nice gig. Number one on the charts. We thought it would last forever. But we didn’t count on the dope, the women, and the sharks in the business. We couldn’t produce a follow up that was worth the vinyl it was pressed on. When the big boys figured it out, we were poison. Toured for a year or so after that, but we were done. Nothing creative or exciting left. The guys in the band started drifting, more dope, more women. It was a deadly spiral. Shit, I was broke in two years. About to go over. Then I met Pam.”
He looked at her and patted her leg. She smiled delicately and cooed a bit. Then she eyed Shorty like he was Eric Clapton.
“But it seems like you’ve got a break. Two offers to record. A new tour?”
“Well . . . it’s Pam they want. Nobody gives a shit about a has-been guitar player. A dime a dozen. But she’s the real thing. They know it . . . and it’s all about money. She’s the ticket. She damned sure doesn’t need me.”
Pam grabbed his arm and spoke quietly. “You’re wrong, Shorty. Without you, it doesn’t happen. We’ll play this hotel ‘til hell freezes over. And as long as I’ve got you, I don’t care.”
It sounds corny, but I understood that kind of devotion. It was exactly why I was here.
“So tell me a little more about Paul,” I said.
“I already told you pretty much how it was. Did you talk to him?” she asked. I shook my head. “You probably ought to talk to Glen, too.”
I knew Glen was their bass player, but I didn’t know much else. Pam looked at me and hesitated. I wasn’t sure why.
“They are close . . . very close. Just talk to him.” She handed me a business card with his name and telephone number. I guessed he was a hired gun, played his instrument for any band that paid him. Blues, jazz, rock’n’roll, country. I’d seen these guys before. They were in high demand among the groups whose members drifted in and out like the daily change of the tides. I told them I’d give Glen a call and moved to the next name on my list.
“So what about this Leonardo Panko, Talent Pro?”
Pam squirmed a little in her seat. Shorty took a slug of the cold draft, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and spoke.
“He’s not a very nice man. He . . .”
Pam was quick to interrupt, her voice much louder than usual, “Go ahead and tell him, Shorty. No . . . I will. Panko tried to feel me up. I barely even knew him. Told me, ‘sometimes you got to give a little to get a little’. Well I got all I want. Nobody puts their hands on me except Shorty.”
He nodded and put his hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t like that shit. I grabbed the sonovabitch by the collar. Next thing I know his two creeps got me by the arms . . . and none too gently. The big one says, ‘Leo had a little too much to drink, didn’t mean anything by it. The healthy thing to do is forget it’. That’s what he said, emphasis on the word ‘healthy’. Well . . . I didn’t forget it. I’m not going to. Like I told you, he’s not a nice man.”
Even though I’d only seen Panko once, the scene played in my mind like something out of Scorcese’s “Goodfellas.”
“So when did you last see Leo?”
“Yesterday,” Pam said. “He came by a job we were working on. Had his two watch dogs with him, lapping up his ass. He even brought the contract. I told him we couldn’t sign. We had a new agent. They should contact him.”
“Probably a good idea. An agent can negotiate or dodge him, maybe get a contract that is legitimate. Nice move. Who’s the agent?”
Pam and Shorty looked at each other, both waiting for the other one to take the lead. Finally, it was her.
“It’s you, T.K. We told him you were our new agent. He’s gonna call, probably want to pay you a visit. I guess I’m sorry. It just sort of came out before I thought about it.”
“Sort of came out?” To say I was stunned wouldn’t cover it. Agent? I wasn’t even close. I was here to help, but this kind of charade was crazy. I didn’t think I could fake it for even five minutes and the middle of this shit was a place I didn’t want to be. I was breathing heavily and trying to keep my mouth shut. It was barely working.
Pan stared at her hands in her lap. Shorty shrugged and held up three long fingers. In an instant our blond bartender had set three more mugs on the table. Pam looked at me sheepishly and promised to call Paul to set up a meeting. For the time being, I just decided to shut up.