they went upstairs.
3
THE LARGE gymnasium-sized room was filled with cigarette smoke, unpleasant odors and grubbily dressed kids. Nolan stood with Vicki at the entrance and looked around, over the bobbing heads.
The black concrete walls were covered with psychedelic designs, vari-colored, abstract, formless but somehow sensual, done in fluorescent paints. The lighting consisted of rows of tubular black-light hanging from the ceiling; a strobe the size of a garbage can lid was suspended from the ceiling’s center, but it was turned off at the moment. At one end of the room, to the left of the double doors, was a shabby-looking bar with an over-head sign that read “Beer Garden.” It was open for business but serving soft drinks only. The other end of the room was engulfed by a huge, high-ceilinged stage piled with rock group equipment.
“Let’s take a look,” Nolan said.
Vicki nodded agreement and pushed through the crowd with Nolan till they reached the foot of the stage.
On stage were three massive amplifiers that looked to Nolan like black refrigerators. A double set of drums was perched on a tall platform, and various guitars were lying about as if discarded. An organ, red and black with chrome legs, faced out to the audience showing its reverse color black and white keyboard. Boom stands extended microphones over the organ and drums, and upright stands held three other mikes for the guitarists and lead singer. The voice amplification was evidently hooked up to two large horns the size of those found in football stadiums.
Vicki said, “You look at that stuff as though you know something about it.”
“I do,” Nolan told her. “Been everything from bouncer to manager in all kinds of clubs. You get to know musicians and their equipment.”
“What does that equipment tell you?”
“They have money,” he said, “and they’re going to be too goddamn loud.”
She laughed and a voice from behind them said, “That, my friend, is a matter of opinion.”
They turned and faced a six-foot figure resembling a coat-rack hung with garish clothes. The coat-rack spoke again, in a thick, unconvincing British accent. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the gent, Miss Trask?”
She began to answer, but Nolan shushed her. “I can guess,” he said, looking the coat-rack up and down.
The boy was emaciated, the sunken-cheeked Rolling Stone type that shouted drug use. His hair was kinky-curly and ratted, making him look like a freaked-out Little Orphan Annie. His face was a collection of acne past and present, and the sunkenness of his cheeks was accented by a pointed nose and deep-socketed eyes that were a glazed sky-blue. He wore a grimy scarlet turtleneck with an orange fluorescent vest and a tarnished gold peace sign hung around his neck on a sweat-stained leather thong. His pants were black-and-white checked and hung loose, bell-bottomed, coming in skin-tight at the crotch.
“You’re Broome.”
A yellow smile flashed amiably. “Right you are, man.”
“Who picks out your threads,” Nolan asked, gesturing at Broome’s outfit, “Stevie Wonder?”
Broome’s laugh was as phony as his English accent. “You can’t bum me out, dad. I groove out at everything, everybody, everywhere. Bum me out? No way—I’m too happy, man.”
Nolan looked into Broome’s filmy, dilated eyes and silently agreed. “When you play your next set?”
Broome pulled a sleeve back, searched his wrist frantically for his watch, which turned out to be vintage Mickey Mouse on a loose strap. “In five, man, in five.”
Vicki pointed Nolan to the stage where the rest of Broome’s band was onstage already, four boys just as freakishly attired as Broome but apparently less wigged-out—they were tuning up, generally preparing to begin their next set. Teeny-boppers crowded in around the stage, shoving to get as close to the band as possible, and consequently pushing Nolan, Vicki and Broome into a corner to the
3
THE LARGE gymnasium-sized room was filled with cigarette smoke, unpleasant odors and grubbily dressed kids. Nolan stood with Vicki at the entrance and looked around, over the bobbing heads.
The black concrete walls were covered with psychedelic designs, vari-colored, abstract, formless but somehow sensual, done in fluorescent paints. The lighting consisted of rows of tubular black-light hanging from the ceiling; a strobe the size of a garbage can lid was suspended from the ceiling’s center, but it was turned off at the moment. At one end of the room, to the left of the double doors, was a shabby-looking bar with an over-head sign that read “Beer Garden.” It was open for business but serving soft drinks only. The other end of the room was engulfed by a huge, high-ceilinged stage piled with rock group equipment.
“Let’s take a look,” Nolan said.
Vicki nodded agreement and pushed through the crowd with Nolan till they reached the foot of the stage.
On stage were three massive amplifiers that looked to Nolan like black refrigerators. A double set of drums was perched on a tall platform, and various guitars were lying about as if discarded. An organ, red and black with chrome legs, faced out to the audience showing its reverse color black and white keyboard. Boom stands extended microphones over the organ and drums, and upright stands held three other mikes for the guitarists and lead singer. The voice amplification was evidently hooked up to two large horns the size of those found in football stadiums.
Vicki said, “You look at that stuff as though you know something about it.”
“I do,” Nolan told her. “Been everything from bouncer to manager in all kinds of clubs. You get to know musicians and their equipment.”
“What does that equipment tell you?”
“They have money,” he said, “and they’re going to be too goddamn loud.”
She laughed and a voice from behind them said, “That, my friend, is a matter of opinion.”
They turned and faced a six-foot figure resembling a coat-rack hung with garish clothes. The coat-rack spoke again, in a thick, unconvincing British accent. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to the gent, Miss Trask?”
She began to answer, but Nolan shushed her. “I can guess,” he said, looking the coat-rack up and down.
The boy was emaciated, the sunken-cheeked Rolling Stone type that shouted drug use. His hair was kinky-curly and ratted, making him look like a freaked-out Little Orphan Annie. His face was a collection of acne past and present, and the sunkenness of his cheeks was accented by a pointed nose and deep-socketed eyes that were a glazed sky-blue. He wore a grimy scarlet turtleneck with an orange fluorescent vest and a tarnished gold peace sign hung around his neck on a sweat-stained leather thong. His pants were black-and-white checked and hung loose, bell-bottomed, coming in skin-tight at the crotch.
“You’re Broome.”
A yellow smile flashed amiably. “Right you are, man.”
“Who picks out your threads,” Nolan asked, gesturing at Broome’s outfit, “Stevie Wonder?”
Broome’s laugh was as phony as his English accent. “You can’t bum me out, dad. I groove out at everything, everybody, everywhere. Bum me out? No way—I’m too happy, man.”
Nolan looked into Broome’s filmy, dilated eyes and silently agreed. “When you play your next set?”
Broome pulled a sleeve back, searched his wrist frantically for his watch, which turned out to be vintage Mickey Mouse on a loose strap. “In five, man, in five.”
Vicki pointed Nolan to the stage where the rest of Broome’s band was onstage already, four boys just as freakishly attired as Broome but apparently less wigged-out—they were tuning up, generally preparing to begin their next set. Teeny-boppers crowded in around the stage, shoving to get as close to the band as possible, and consequently pushing Nolan, Vicki and Broome into a corner to the
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