CHAPTER 2: FREEWAY AND FRIDAY
Vincent
I jumped into my old Ford F-150 and tried to come up with a game plan as I rumbled through the pothole-riddled streets of Providence. Strangely enough, I decided that I better go see the last person in the world I should be meeting with right now — my bookie, Buck. After my Uncle Al’s stern warning, I was 99 percent sure I could resist the urge to place a wager and focus on the task at hand. Buck was the one guy I knew who seemed to know everybody. He might be able to help me create a new band out of the ashes of my old one. The Losers had gone from a trio down to a duo, with me on vocals and bass, and my mullet-headed pal Craig Hurley on guitar. Drummer Ben Sellers quit to stalk his college-bound girlfriend to Massachusetts to make sure she didn’t cheat on him. He was too fragile to handle a long-distance relationship.
When I pulled into the narrow driveway of Buck’s working-class home, he was sitting on the front steps drinking a beer. A short, stocky guy with a shaved head, black T-shirt, jean shorts and construction boots, Buck covered almost all of his skin with tattoos and smiled with the confidence that he could kick just about anyone’s ass, including guys much larger than himself. But thanks to the success of his underground betting operation, he no longer had to do much of the dirty work. His most notorious goon was a 300-plus-pound Dominican named Pepe, who, according to the latest grapevine reports, had left at least two welchers in a coma. This is why I stole from my grandmother when I got in over my head after two straight horrible weekends of football betting to kick off the season.
“Didn’t expect to see you here today,” Buck shouted with a grin as I got out of the truck and approached the steps. “Back for another round?”
“Hell no,” I said. “I didn’t have enough to cover the last two knockouts.”
“Well, I didn’t send Pepe over to your house with a dozen roses so you must’ve robbed a bank somewhere,” Buck said, pulling a beer out of the cooler next to him. “Reeb?”
“Sure,” I said, taking the beer and cracking it open for a swig. “Let’s just say I had to borrow from a family member and now another, more violent family member is not very happy with me.”
“That’s what you get when you bet on Miami in the cold weather,” Buck said.
“Against Cleveland? In September?” I protested.
“It was a night game, Vin,” the bookie pointed out. “That’s a cold wind coming off the lake.”
“Whatever, the bottom line is I gotta pay this certain violent family member back, so he basically ordered me to form a band, make it big in the music industry and pay him back plus 25 percent interest.”
“Good luck,” Buck said with a laugh. “You’re better off robbing a bank — several banks while you’re at it.”
“No shit,” I said. “The problem is he’s going to be checking up on me and everything.”
“Wow,” Buck said.
“Yeah,” I said. “And get this. He’s like a big rock and roll fan. He said all the bands today suck so he wants me to bring rock back from the dead.”
“He’s fucking right about that,” Buck said. “There’s nothing good on the radio these days. Classic rock is about it.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t even really have a band right now,” I said. “My friend Craig plays guitar. He’s OK, but not that great. I sing and play bass. I’m decent. Our drummer quit. And that’s it.”
Buck pounded the rest of his beer, seemed to think my situation over for a couple of seconds, let out a huge belch and grinned.
“Well Vin, I just may be able to help you,” Buck said.
“Seriously?” I begged.
“I was a pretty good drummer back in the day,” he said.
“Really? How long ago?” I asked.
“In my 20s,” Buck said.
“How old are you now?” I asked.
“Never ask your bookie his age,” he said with a laugh. “But I wouldn’t mind banging the skins again. I could relive my youth.”
“That would be awesome, Buck,” I said, sipping my beer and pondering the strange dynamic of forming a musical bond with my bookie.
Buck grinned again, which seemed to indicate another thought had just popped into his brain. Indeed it had.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I just remembered Pepe telling me about this black kid down in South Providence who plays guitar by the highway,” Buck said excitedly. “Totally bizarre. In between gang shootings down there, this one kid is like the second coming of Jimi Hendrix.”
“Really?” I said.
“He might not be all there, upstairs, you know what I mean?” Buck continued, pointing to his buzzed head. “But apparently he lives in one of those three-story tenements right by I-95. His front yard is the highway basically. Pepe says he dances and waves to the cars during the day and then he jams at night. I think he does a little dealing on the side, too, but he’s kind of like a legend down there. I could have Pepe arrange a little sit-down for us with the kid and see if he’s as good as people say.”
“Buck, that would be totally cool,” I said. “Let’s do it.”