Stranger In Town
by Brad Briggs
I
I’ve never seen a person burning before. She’s not crying out, or I can’t hear her. See her moving, but can’t tell if it’s by volition, or automatic.
“Hot enough for you?”
How do you measure it, the distance between places? Is it only a matter of probability? What if places are only phantoms, caused by neurotic desires to confirm abstract notions that are without certainty? What separates Grand Rapids, Michigan from Canyon Country, California? Is it the same as the distance between the breach and the muzzle of this .22 rifle?
The Hi-Lo Club seems at least as far away now, where the Singer and I were the same man. If they wanted to hear it five times in a row, we’d play it. Please the crowd, isn’t that the rule, listen to your audience? That’s what drove me to number one. In all the times I’ve placed in the top forty since, I’ve yet to make it back there. It’s all about timing. If only fourteen-year-old girls could fantasize about a man with a wife and kids, I wouldn’t be so far away from the Hi-Lo Club now.
The Singer sat behind the wheel of a 1961 chromium-grilled automobile, traveling the great American river of gasoline-fueled ambition. Bobby Troup only wrote that one hit ever, now, it’s immortal, and he’s forgotten. The fame of his creation overtook his self. Like the twenty-one year-old Singer girls could fall in love with overtook me. Getting in next to his muse, she’s driving him into the darkness on the other side of dawn, leaving me behind to grow weary of endlessly playing the oldies circuit. It goes from Saint Louie down to Missouri, Oklahoma City looks oh so pretty, you’ll see Amarillo and Gallup New Mexico, Kingman, Arizona – don’t forget your persona…
As much as I wish now that I’d been fooling myself, I knew I’d have to make sacrifices. I’d do as I was told, remake my voice in his image, slightly higher than my own, possibly younger sounding. Take a surname from a wrestler, a fighter, an expression of my unseen form, and a Christian name from a shinny new automobile with space-age fins. The name of a mythic image I’d formed for myself became who I am. Since then, I’ve only seen the Singer out the periphery of my vision, or in the flickering electronic fires of the family hearth, on Shindig, or Crime Story, but only in glimpses. From Kingman, the drive north is only a few hours, but that day, it took five years off the Singer’s life.
She ran the audition so, what would be wrong about singing it with her name? Kelly. Flattering her lead directly to working the lounge that night – a second audition for whom the Singer took to be her sugar-daddy, Nick. If his squeeze likes him, and the kids dance to it, ‘book ’im!’ Whatever Kelly wants, she gets, including the forbidden. In those long ago summer days, the Singer chose to ignore these things, believing instead that Kelly was simply a victim of circumstance. How could he judge her? Like him, she probably came to Vegas looking for a gig, found work as a showgirl, possibly – she had the figure for it… Becoming a blond is so easily done, why not play the chances it can afford a woman.
Among the crowd running with Kelly, were more than a few people from Chicago, all starting their nights at her lounge. Casinos never close, but after the band’s last set, they’d shut the lounge off from the casino floor. That’s when Kelly’s closer friends always found their way back, when she and Nick would hold court. The Singer and Max often spent this time jamming together. Sometimes working out songs one or the other had come up with, while the other guys hit on the gals among Kelly’s bevy. Jody was always a favorite. A dark haired girl with blue eyes and smoky voice who seldom had time for the other guys, but always had Kelly’s ear. It was the only time Kelly’d leave off her bubbly demeanor, lowering her clear piercing voice, matching the low woodwind of Jody’s hushed dark tones, making Kelly seem older than her years.
Nick was some kind of vice president of something or another, and the Singer took these late-night powwows for the opportunity to become more familiar to him, always shaking his hand, thankful for the privilege of performing in his casino. A heavy-set man, Nick was at least 30 years Kelly’s senior, proud to have a sassy young blond at his beckon call, yet they were seldom together during Kelly’s nightly club crawling. Instead, Nick seemed married to the two bouncer-types everyone referred to as his Shadow, Angelo and Devin.
There was a guy on stand-up, an okay drummer, and the piano man, Max. The quartet’s sound really came from that crazy keyboard Max’d made from parts of old TVs. Max on those otherworldly keys, the Singer on his guitar, his voice, sometimes in falsetto, sailing above the incessant din of slot machines… The band attracted a younger crowd to the lounge than who came to see the trio playing the casino’s theater, and Nick gave Kelly free reign to keep that trend going. She knew what was hip with the kids, and it served Nick to let her earn her keep. The uniforms the bartenders and cocktail waitresses wore were Kelly’s own design. The décor, the lighting, even the drink glasses, were all an expression of Kelly’s Style. It was the style of lust, spoken by the open plunging back of a waitresses short-short dress. Of the exotic, moving across the bar in the form of cocktail recipes from Kelly’s Kitchen, and it was the style of the taboo, unseen behind bead-curtains enclosing alcove booths.
It was also Kelly’s style to tease her sugar-daddy. No matter how respectfully the Singer conducted himself while clasping hands with Nick, Kelly would peck the Singer on the cheek, relishing over his good looks.
“Isn’t he to kill for,” while feeling his ass, making sure Nick saw she was doing so, a little game she’d play.
For his part, the Singer always kept his eyes fixed on Nick’s, as if telling him of his quandary. Were Kelly available, there’d be no question the younger prettier man would easily cave to her provocations. In front of Nick, he never did.
Nick’s Shadow rakes across the door to the Singer’s motel room. Won’t tell him where the car is taking him, that isn’t their job. The casino provided Nick everything he needed to entertain high-rollers, including a house on the Sahara golf course. A bright air-conditioned family home, that felt comfortable to the Singer, sitting, looking out toward the immaculate green grass lapping at the concrete patio shore, the desert sun, seeming strangely cool from behind a glass wall running the length of the house.
“Some of those songs, you wrote yourself didn’t you?” Nick asks.
“I like Buck Owens songs – Under Your Spell Again,” the Singer replies. “They’re the love story an older man sings, regretting he’d not told his younger self.”
“You sing them for Kelly? I’ve seen you with her,” Nick looks towards his Shadow. The two lieutenants’ eyes level onto the Singer, pinning him to the sunshine-yellow couch. “I’ve seen you,” Nick repeats. “I’ve heard how you sing to her.” The lieutenants’ gaze will not flinch from their target. “Kelly knows too well how to ditch these two. I need someone she’ll let mind her. Has she ever asked you to take her out?” the Singer hesitates. “Come on, I’m not accusing you, I know her,” Nick sits down in an armchair across from the Singer.
“Sometimes. She’s invited Max and me to go out with her, and her friends – sure.”
“Sure. Why don’t you? Opportunity to roam with the in-crowd – Kelly’s friends are pretty easy on the eyes, what, you and Max queer?”
“I’d like to see Jody a little more, it’s just…”
“You like Jody. You think she’s attractive,” the Singer nods, increasingly unsure what terrain he’s crossing.
“Maybe you’d like me to set you up with her. You could play house together, like you were mommy and daddy. You like her ass?” the true impulse behind the questions is unclear. “She’s cute,” Nick finally prompts.
“Sure,” replies the Singer.
A smile flashes across Nick’s face, opening his arms towards his Shadow.
“He thinks Jody’s cute. Isn’t that charming?” knowing smiles lurk behind the lieutenants’ faces. “Jody works hard. Listen, you put that fucking whore out of your mind!” Nick’s voice turns cruel, loud.
The Singer is suddenly keenly aware of the ‘click’ coming from an unseen thermostat signaling the air conditioning is shutting off. The rushing of air that he’d not noticed until now goes dead. The deliciously cool air, conducts Nick’s vitriolic tone to unseen rooms over looking the desert golf greens, returning rumors of shouted contrasts between his sacred Kelly and the profane Jody.
Nick pushes away a large ashtray on the coffee table between them motioning with his hands as if defining the area of a square.
“From now on, you will arrive here at this time every day. You will drive Kelly to the lounge, and return her here. You are to leave her presence only after one of us has received her.” Nick glances, indicating Angelo and Devin, then, refocuses on the Singer. “You are my eyes and ears,” Nick’s voice is devoid of intonation, as that of a physician’s repeating a regiment of treatment.
“From the time you remove her from this house until your return, Kelly is not to be out of your sight. She can go anywhere she chooses – provided you take her there.”
Nick makes a chopping motion with his hand at each point of emphasis.
“You will be with her at all times. No false modesty here! If she goes to the toilet, you will be with her. Your eyes will not come off her. If you are in a public restroom, the stall door is to remain open. While you are in her presence she will not pop, snort or slam anything. Have I made myself perfectly clear?” the Singer makes eye contact.
“You understand, these extreme measures are because I love my little girl, you realize that?”
The light of understanding moves over the Singer’s face, in part, he does realize, and Nick sees it.
The fleet car explodes, tossing me like I were a rag-doll. The fire, withering me, too hot to let me close enough. What would it matter, she’s already dead from an inferno meant to consume me.
Like he’d done all summer long, the Singer arrives at the golf course at the appointed time, wearing the same three-B suit as the night before.
“You’ve been more successful than any who’ve gone before. You know that?” Nick pours soda water over a jigger of Campari and ice. “Where do you live?”
“This motel on…” Nick won’t let him finish.
“You ever taken Kelly up there?” the Singer is silent. “You’ll take her anywhere she desires?”
“Yeah, I’ve always told you everything that…”
“Look at me! Do I seem to you like someone who doesn’t know what’s going on?” the Singer makes no reply, glances down at the aperitif. Nick takes a swig.
“Does she have any idea where you live?”
“It’s kind of a seedy place, I mean, she’s a classy…”
“You know where she lives.” the Singer’s eyes scan the interior of the open ranch-style home.
“No, I mean her room at the hotel. Has she ever brought you up there?”
“All the time – she brings the band up there with all her friends – Jody…” the Singer trails off, thinking better of telling more about his easy access to Kelly’s suite. Nick holds the Singer in his gaze as if keeping a knife to his throat.
“Jody?” Nick finally asks.
“All the girls. They plan the rest of their evening – gossip about their boyfriends…”
“Their boyfriends?” Nick interrupts.
The Singer hears the quiet ‘click’ of the thermostat, the rushing of air.
“The holidays are coming up. What’ll you be doing? You got family?” Nick asks.
“I…” Nick cuts him off.
“In Michigan. You going back there? ’Cause I want you here,” Nick draws the Singer near with a hug.
“You’ve done good.”
Conversations with Nick always feel like a form of boot camp meant to wash out the timid, dishonest, the disrespectful. It put the Singer on edge. Distracted, to the point that he almost runs a red light a few blocks before the Strip, an oversight Kelly jumps down his throat for. Perhaps, Nick had, had a little talk with her too.
Ten o’ clock. End of the second set. Jody’s in early. The Singer’s habit is to scan the room, looking for Kelly in the hawk-like manner Nick insists on. His eyes cannot find her. Reliving the uneasy feeling of nearly running the red light, he makes a quick round of the places she could be: behind the bar, the kitchen, back out front, the private booths – Kelly’s not in the lounge, neither is Jody. He asks the bartender, ‘Not for the last half hour.’
Upstairs, the Singer uses the key Kelly gave him. Her rooms are not silent. It’s the sound of ill news, worldly troubles, compromised lives. Following the sound down the hallway, he discovers Kelly and Jody in the bathroom, Jody in tears. The kind of scene that only gets worse. It’s against Nick’s dictates, but the Singer lets Kelly out of his sight as she closes the door. Sitting for a while in the living room, listening to muffled sobs and Kelly’s calming voice. There seems little he can do.
The last set is rough. The Singer’s attention, always on the door, looking first for Kelly, second for the valet he’d tipped to tell him if she departs. When last call rings out, the thought occurs to him that Kelly might have simply tipped the valet more not to tell.
The Singer can see himself panicking. The fact that Nick praised him just a few hours before makes the situation worse. This time, Kelly’s suite is empty.
The Singer knows he’s driving recklessly, careening between Kelly’s favorite clubs – no one’s seen her. Without forethought, he drives to the golf course. Pauses before the entrance, asking himself, ‘what is noble?’ He fantasizes about greeting Nick at the front door, seeing Kelly in there, safe and sound. He’d done just what Nick told him not to. How will he explain? Better not to have any excuses. She’s M.I.A.; greater resources are required to find her now. A darker specter of punishment dealt by Angelo and Devin strides in front of his mind’s cone of vision.
The street has a fair amount of activity somewhere near the end. A car passes, ‘is it Jody’s convertible?’ Watching his mirror – ‘hardtop.’
“You here for the party?” asks a valet. Nick’s home is fully engaged in a cocktail party; Devin’s working the door.
“Hey, good see’n ya kid. Have some fun.” the Singer plays wiser than he is, proceeds into the party looking casually for Nick, circulates, ending at the patio bar. Restless, he walks back inside, taking up residence next to the thermostat control.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” it’s Jody.
“Last minute… You OK?”
“No. But, I’ll survive.”
“Anyone I’d know here?”
“You found me,” Jody’s eyes invite the Singer to follow her through the party.
“You get here with Kelly?” he asks.
“You jealous?”
“Why would I be jealous over my Boss’s girlfriend?”
“Honey, she’s your girlfriend. Nick’s her father. You really are a rube.”
“What’s a player like you doing in a dump like this?” Jody looks at him hard, leading their conversation to the bar.
“That’s a fair question. I just can’t work it tonight. Come on.”
Jody takes the Singer’s hand, pulling him through the kitchen past a flurry of caterers and into a half-bathroom, locking the door behind her.
“I’m worried about Kelly,” the Singer volunteers.
“You’re lying. You’re worried Nick’ll have the shit kicked out of you.”
The Singer is transparent, his false wisdom, no match for what Jody must know.
“What if I told you she wanted to be with my clients tonight, instead of me working. What would you do?”
“I’m ‘spposed to watch after her…”
“Kelly’s good that way. Showing pity for me getting knocked-up, I guess,” the Singer’s eyes glide over the image of Jody’s face in the mirror.
“You didn’t see me, I was with someone.”
Paying the bill, I look out the glass walls of the restaurant; recognize a teenage boy walking towards me from across the Bun Boy parking lot.
The setting sun shines fiery orange beams through the glass wall overlooking the golf greens. Nick finally sits down in the armchair, hardly asked any questions at all. The Singer surprises himself by enumerating in a callous monotone, the behavior he’d witnessed the previous evening. Nick doesn’t seem at all shocked when the Singer describes the foursome from which he’d extricated Kelly.
“Just the sort of thing I’d warned you ‘bout!”
Nick goes on about something to do with perception the Singer isn’t focusing on, searching instead for the familiar sound of the air-conditioning.
“Gotta watch her like a hawk!” Nick warns “lest she get into trouble with the first boy to catch her fancy; likely to pull another one of her stunts, if you don’t pay attention,” or words to that effect…
The Singer watches Devin and Angelo outside on the patio, smoking, their conversation, a mute exchange. Then, it’s as though he’s awoken from sleep when he hears Nick praise him for having ‘the right instincts.’
“I have other more important work I need done.”
A curtain of indigo lowers over the mountains to the west. From where he’s standing, the Singer sees the end of the hallway reflected in the glass wall overlooking the darkening greens, the image of Kelly standing in a doorway.
“Clients are arriving at McCarran tonight. High-rollers,” Nick explains.
“I want to know everything they do: who they talk to, what they say, what tables they play, which girls they like. Understood?”
“I’ll show ‘em a good time.”
“I’m not asking you to be a fucking tour guide! You are my eyes and my ears,” Nick motions to his Shadow to come in from the patio.
“What they say, who they say it to,” Nick silently counts out hundred dollar bills, gestures to his eyes, points to his ear, then, to the Singer.
The door at the end of the hall closes as the last afterglow of sunset fades above the ridgeline.
Nick’s Shadow drives the Singer to the airport. Picking up a rental car, they linger only long enough to introduce the high-rollers, Joseph and Mario. Driving towards the Strip, the boys decide the best course of action is to use Nick’s good name to gain access to the casino’s theater dressing rooms and intercept a select number of Kelly’s usual bevy. In this way, no matter where else they go this evening, at least there’ll be beautiful women there. Three of Kelly’s bevy are keen to venture out with the high-rollers on their promise to haunt a club the Singer’s never been to, a small place off Tropicana, at the end of the airport.
As they are seated, the Singer thinks he sees Jody sashay from the bar, a drink in each hand. Watching from their booth, he confirms his suspicion. Idea now, is to prompt the whole situation towards leaving his guests alone with their new girlfriends. If he went to the bar and waited, Jody would see him there and visit, if only for the few moments away from her evening’s client.
He gets up from the table “Hey, how’s ‘bout a round of cognac? It’s on Mr. Banando.”
He orders a scotch for himself. When the bartender returns, and indicating the table, he hands over a couple bills.
“Something in there for you… Five eks-ohs – keep ‘em happy.”
It’s the second round before Jody returns to the bar. Surprisingly cheerful towards him, sits next to him, leans in close to his ear, and in not so many words, asks softly, ‘what the fuck he’s doing there.’
“What do you mean show them around?” her voice is hushed.
“Honey, they brought you, here. What were you told you’re doing?”
The Singer is reticent. Jody looks at him for a long while, then, walks to his booth saying her hellos. A few minutes later, all four women are known to be in the restroom. Following their return to their respective booths, and after another round, Jody quietly invites the Singer to go with her to another room in the club. Questions him as to just who he thinks his guests are. Telling him, they’re a part of whom the bevy works for, that they and Nick work for the same.
“These guys happen to specialize in arranging highbrow sex parties.”
After a long while speaking to him in a stern voice, Jody is quickly bubbly again. Chatting a mile a minute about something, the only part the Singer can focus on is, something to the effect of ‘we’ll all go out together!’ Jody suggests the Singer announce he’ll call ahead to the hotel, get their room ready, ‘they’ll all go over together, continue to party…’
Within half an hour in the top-floor suite of Nick’s hotel, the four women are again, together in the bathroom.
The showgirls spend the rest of their evening working up the high-rollers and Jody’s client equally enough that Jody may leave her duties to the other girls. Asks the Singer to drive her home – he obliges.
Crossing the lobby, Jody asks if the Singer has a car. He’s certain he does. She reminds him the rental car is for “The high-rollers.”
The valet brings Jody’s convertible Ford “Get in, boyscout,” Jody quips, and they drive to her apartment.
The Baker, California, Fire Department, rushes to douse the burning fleet car.
Done right, Halloween garners maximum profitability for professional services like those provided by Kelly’s bevy. An extraordinary occasion, when identity usually occulted is celebrated by exposition. Staff uniforms are assuaged in favor of vampire bartenders, black cat waitresses, and devilish doormen. Kelly makes all necessary arrangements to transform the lounge into a backdrop for the all night costume party certain to extract maximum payment for the bevy’s fetishistic services. She coordinates clients to escorts playing out a pantheon of masculine desires: the naughty nurse, the French maid, the precocious schoolgirl, sexy meter maid, and of course, plenty of wicked witches. Reigning over all of them, the winged fairy princess, Kelly, in a flowing white gown, awaits rescue from the great red dragon by the deeds of a noble troubadour.
“What are you dressed as?” Kelly asks the Singer.
“I’m not wearing a costume.”
“Yes you are.” She corrects, “You’re a Rock n’ Roll star.”
During the break, they go upstairs to Kelly’s suite. Thinking it’s why they’re there, the Singer goes behind the wet bar. Kelly waves her star tipped wand over the glasses as her mixologist fills them with her favorite potions.
“Why do you let him have you?” the Singer’s gaze holds tightly to Kelly’s.
“You’re asking without knowing. Salute.” she says quietly, never letting the Singer’s eyes stray from her own.
Nick is content to allow the Singer to figure out for himself why he’d been summoned to the house. Sits down next to him, leans in close, teases at the Singer’s ear with kisses, singing softly, mockingly, “Broken words – broken promises – cause broken hearts,” Nick’s voice is trembling, hurt, almost sobbing.
Caving to Kelly’s wiles betrayed Nick’s trust. Punishment will be meted out swiftly, for Nick’s vanity has only one way of being satisfied.
Angelo and Devin are exceptionally polite. Invite the Singer into the backseat of Nick’s 1960 white Coupe DeVille. Devin brings the V-8 to life. Bells on the Christmas wreath jangle, jostled by the front door swinging open as Nick calls Angelo back inside. They talk for a while in the entry hall before Nick disappears from view.
The Cadillac leaves the highway at a scenic turnout overlooking the Colorado. The Singer is invited to step to the edge, turn, and face the Shadow.
“You wanna live?” asks Angelo.
The Sahara keeps a suite of rooms for the trio’s pleasures. Ascending in the elevator, the Singer gets the run down for the evening from Mario.
“Important thing is to keep an air of confidence – don’t wanna spook the clients.”
Joseph controls the door. He and Mario have to talk. The trio is balking at the prospect of ‘some new guy.’ The Singer recognizes their unseen voices as Mario smoothes out plans for the evening’s entertainment.
The Singer watches the dawn sky trough the rental car’s windshield. Mario drops him off near his motel.
"This close enough? I gotta get to the airport.”
It'd been a rough night; the walk to the motel might help to think things over. An arriving coroner's van telegraphs the situation before the Singer sees the swarm of Police swirling round the open door to his room. He asks a vagrant he’s seen before.
"Don't know, manager found some girl beaten to death. Hey, don't you live round here?"
Jody isn’t happy about seeing the Singer, shows even less sympathy when he explains the bargain he’d struck with Nick. Just another rube from the peninsula ensnared by what he should never have touched. Reporting a body had been removed from his room is a different matter. It means one of the girls was disciplined – set out as an example to the rest. Dumping her at the motel, simply gives a police force that’s already been bought off a convenient way to explain it.
Jody steps out of the lounge, into a windy Vegas winter day. Hurries back to her Ford.
“The Police have already been round looking for you with a warrant for Kelly's murder.”
Perhaps she simply pulled one too many of her stunts, or what it was she really liked daddy to do was taken just a little too far and she accidentally suffocated. Arresting the Singer will quell any fears the trio might have about last night's party, since, he was clearly in his motel room with Kelly, ‘that faggot's going to prison!’
“Best thing for you to do is, take my car'n just leave town. I'll tell Angelo you came over just like you did – when I woke up, you were gone’n taken my keys,” sounds like a plan.
They return to Jody's apartment, and a lingering kiss good-bye.
It’s twilight again when Jody and the Singer awake. A thunderstorm is moving in over the desert. Packing her suitcase, Jody thinks out loud: before she and the Singer “leave Vegas forever,” she'd like to get in touch with her best friend from Chicago.
“Get the straight story.”
They park off the Strip. The Singer waits in the car. From the south, lightning strikes are coming closer, the wind picks up. Suddenly, the car's hood is opening and three Mormons surround a car that won't start.
"Step out of the car please, Mister Shannon,” the Singer is escorted to a limousine; the robots climb inside with him, two in the back.
"You’re not to speak to me, only to Mister Hughes. He understands the charges brought against you by the District Attorney for Miss Banando’s murder are false.”
The robots drive the limo into a TWA hanger at McCarran airport. Lightning briefly illuminates the cavernous interior framing the figure walking towards the Singer.
“Troubleis, your timing. With enemies like the friends you keep, you'll never get a square deal anywhere as Talent. Kid like you, I could’ve managed like any of your crooner boyfriends,” lighting touches down just south of the tarmac.
“Too busy singing Me and My Shadow, with their little black boy to notice what's all around them. What do they understand about timing?” lightning and thunder are simultaneous.
“An Old Guard passing, unwilling to let go of what they've already lost,” Howard pauses, smelling the ionization in the air.
“Son, you’re likely not to know what you’ve seen that will be valuable to me.”
The Singer is given a nondescript Dodge from the Hughes fleet. Drives to find Jody’s Ford gone from where they’d parked. Not back at Her apartment. He searches parking lots for every club he’d escorted Kelly to, spots Jody's car, parks. Walking in the rain, he watches the door. Finally, Jody emerges. Under a cloudburst, they transfer their suitcases into the Dodge Dart.
Breakfast in Baker, California.
“Other boys had sung for the band,” says Jody. “All disappeared. Kelly always promised never to do it again, liked making it up to daddy. A little game they’d play.”
Agreeing to share the driving, Jody picks-up the keys to go start the Dodge. Standing at the register, I can see the figure of a teenage boy wearing a guitar crossing the parking lot. He pauses, letting a Cadillac pass in front of him, Nick’s Shadow inside.
How do you measure it, the distance between my outstretched hand and the Dodge? Jody turns the key in the ignition.
Thursday, February 8th 1990, the .22 riffle answers my question. Boom! The fleet car explodes.
Perfect timing, the Baker, California, Fire Department finally puts enough water on the fleet car just as the coroner shows up.
“Hot enough for you?” Jody asks, driving up behind me in her convertible Ford, the radio tuned to an oldies station.
"Take my hand, and you’ll live forever.”
The teenage boy watches as I climb in, strums my favorite change, A-minor to G.
The western sky is a vermilion curtain falling onto the horizon.