Life had been simple and innocent. All that had changed and I missed its simplicity, a time when everything was black and white, the good guys and the bad, not the shades of gray that filled adulthood.
But for all the years Iâd spent in it, the house didnât have a hold on me any longer. Seeing it made me smile inside, but it was the same pleasure I got from looking at a photograph from happier times, the old colors and memories blurred.
The rain grew a little heavier, the patterns of drops on the windshield coming together to form wide runnels down the glass. I switched on the engine, started the wipers and drove back to the apartment.
Eleven
Tom Hardy was one of those good souls who gladly put his savings where his heart told him and kept preaching the gospel of local music. He ran a small record label and released the Seattle music he loved; heâd put out the Snakeblood LP and singles. Tom lived in a cramped studio apartment on Capitol Hill, the walls lined with cardboard boxes full of stock, hoping heâd break even some day. His younger brother Andy helped him out, a strange, troubled kid who always looked angry and never seemed to speak. People said Andy had problems, that heâd spent time in a psych ward, and I was willing to believe it; he was a sullen presence who did what his brother told him.
I saw Tom at most of the gigs I attended, hunched deep into his beat-up leather jacket, chain-smoking Marlboros, usually with a glass of Michelob in his hand. I knew heâd love to be on the stage himself, but like me, heâd been born with the joy of the music and not the ability to make it. He was large, belly bulging even though he was only in his middle twenties, getting by on a small trust fund his parents had left him. But no one resented him; he was a genuine fan trying to help out those he believed in. About three months before, someone had believed in him enough to put serious moneyinto the label, stopping him from going bust. Twenty-five thousand dollars was the figure people had mentioned. I doubted thereâd ever be a return on that investment. When I called he answered on the second ring.
âHey Tom,â I said, âitâs Laura Benton.â
âHi, Laura,â he said. I heard his voice move up a gear into sales mode. âHave you gotten that new single I sent you yet?â
âYeah,â I parried, âbut I havenât had a chance to listen to it yet. Listen, I wanted to ask you about Snakeblood.â
âOh, man, that was so bad,â he said, and I could hear the emotion. âCraig was a really good guy.â
âDo you know who was handling things for the band at ARP?â
âLet me see. Hold on.â He put the phone down and I heard the soft rustling sounds of paper being moved around on his desk and Tom muttering to himself.
âOkay, I got it. Greg West was the guy who was handling them. Heâs in A&R and he was really hot to sign them.â
âYou have his number?â
I wrote it down, beginning with the Los Angeles area code I knew so well.
âHow was Craig feeling about it all?â I asked. âHe must have been pretty stoked.â
âOh man, he thought every day was sunshine,â Tom said. âHe couldnât wait. You know I saw him last week?â
âNo,â I replied, suddenly alert. âWhen?â
âTuesday? Yeah, Tuesday.â
âHow was he then?â
âGood. Happy. He had all these plans for the album. Thatâs why I canât believe he did that to himself. He seemed in good shape and everything.â He paused. âYou know the really weird thing? Since he died everyoneâs been wanting the Snakeblood record. I mean, Iâve had so many requests I canât even keep up with them, I might have to have it re-pressed. Itâs just not the way I wanted to sell it, you know?â
âYeah,â I said sadly.
âListen to that new record I
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