Crime Plus Music by Jim Fusilli Read Free Book Online Page B

and head for Tara’s. When her couch gets old, I move into the back room at Johnny O’s.
    F OR A GUY WHO LOOKS tubercular, he is a real babe magnet. Most of the women are blowsy, with big teased hair and way-too-tight tube tops constricting their massive chests. At first, I’m polite but honestly. What’s the point, it’s like Union Station in there. I stuff my ears with Kleenex at night. And yeah, there are plenty of times when I wonder what I’m doing. I even call home, but my mom just breaks down sobbing and my dad gets all tough love with me, so I give up on that. Then one night I’m resting on the mattress on the floor and listening to the sirens and the whir of the helicopters and I realize I’m doing just fine. Not just fine, better than that. I feel a rush of elation. “I’m free,” I say aloud.
    I N J ULY , J OHNNY ANNOUNCES HE ’ S booked us our first gig. He doesn’t believe in starting small either; we’re playing the Roxy. “If you don’t think you can manage ladies, then you’ve been wasting my time.” We all know a warning when we hear one.
    To celebrate what will either be a huge mistake or the first day of the rest of our lives we go to this funky tattoo parlor on Sunset and have the word “Misfit” tattooed on our left upper arms in Gothic script.
    We’re the opening act, as in the background noise for everyone getting buzzed. The three of us step out on stage to complete our sound check, and I look out at all the people in the room and I just panic. I stand there, frozen. But then Eileen does this snappy little drum roll and calls out, “Hey, Julie?” and that brings me back. You can do this, I tell myself.
    It may be bluster but it helps.
    By the time we’re playing our third song, I can feel the difference in the room. The sound of talking has died down and there are a lot of people close to the stage, watching. The drumming is savage, the guitar solo stinging, and is that really me? It is, I’m screaming, then purring, hitting the notes or purposely swerving around them. The stories we’re telling are true; girls want just what boys want.
    When we step off, Johnny O is grinning. “Fabulous,” he tells us. We get to watch from back there and the headliners surprise everyone when they call to us, “Come on out here,” and reintroduce us. We sing along with their big hit.
    A FTER THE SHOW , THERE ’ S A party and we’re invited. Johnny O drives us up into the hills. It’s like someone sprinkled pixie dust on us, I think as the gate opens and we ride up a curving driveway and come to a huge mansion. When I step out, it smells like jasmine and evening primrose.
    This is absolutely the best night of my entire life.
    Which is even better after Johnny O breaks the news to us. Two different A&R people were there in the audience and he’s cooking up a deal. “As promised. Rock-and-roll royalty!”
    We walk past the house and there’s a kidney-shaped pool. Music blasts. Tons of people are drinking or smoking or snorting coke. We toast each other with Champagne.
    â€œA RE YOU OKAY ?” J OHNNY O asks. I think I should have eaten something because I’m feeling kind of sick. “Let me help you,” he says. “Let’s get you some fresh air,” and he walks me away from the pool, toward a guesthouse at the end of the path. “You just need a good lie down,” he tells me.
    I WAKE UP AND IT ’ S morning. The sun is blazing. My head feels like it’s about to split apart. It takes me a while to realize that my jeans and underwear are missing. I find them in the corner of the room on the floor.
    â€œJohnny?” I call out.
    But there’s no one there but me.
    I stumble out and into the day. The maid is there cleaning up the mess; she lets me use the phone to call a cab. “Where to?”
    Why, to Johnny’s. I walk past his room