Tough Baby (Martin Fender Novel) Read online

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  TOUGH BABY

  A Martin Fender Novel

  by Jesse Sublett

  ALSO BY JESSE SUBLETT

  Rock Critic Murders

  Boiled in Concrete

  Never the Same Again

  Une Vie En Noir

  History of the Texas Turnpike Authority

  JESSE SUBLETT

  First published in 1990 by Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

  13579 10 8642

  Copyright © Jesse Sublett, 1990 All rights reserved

  “Who Put the Sting on the Honey Bee,” by Jesse Sublett.

  © 1988 Big Striped Cat Music, BMI. By permission of Big Striped Cat Music.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Sublett, Jesse.

  Tough baby / Jesse Sublett. p. cm.

  ISBN 0-670-83325-8 I. Title.

  PS3569.U218T68 1990 813'54—dc20 89-40690

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Cover design by Jesse Sublett.

  Photo by Mona Pitts of Neon Beige Photography. Model: Jana.

  Big thanks to Mona, a great photographer and amazing model. See more of her work here:

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Neon-Beige-Photography/136768616356344

  This book is dedicated to Lois.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

  Jesse Sublett, photo by Todd Wolfson.

  Jesse Sublett is an author, musician and artist currently based in Austin, Texas, where he lives with his wife, Lois Richwine, a son, Dashiell, and three cats. He writes fiction and nonfiction, poetry, music, journalism.

  Jesse has also ghost written several books.

  Tough Baby, his second novel, was originally published by Viking Penguin in 1990, the second in the Martin Fender series. These novels received rave reviews from James Ellroy (LA Confidential), Michael Connelly (The Lincoln Lawyer), Gerald Petievich (To Live and Die in LA), LA Times, Kirkus and others. The novels have been optioned for films and television projects many times; however, as of this writing, no project has been consummated.

  Jesse’s artistic career began to blossom in the late 1970s. He formed the seminal punk rock band the Skunks in Austin in 1978 with cohorts Bill Blackmon and Eddie Munoz. The Skunks were the first band of their type in Austin and were hugely influential in the development and growth of the Austin music scene and the Austin sound. Jon Dee Graham replaced Eddie Munoz on guitar in 1979 and the trio still performs several times a year to their intensely loyal fan base. Jesse still plays in various ensembles, often as a solo troubadour performing original and traditional blues, murder ballads and whatever.

  Jesse is a prolific author, freelance writer, blogger, and musician. Visit http://jessesublett.com for updates and links to his new music and new books and other works. Digital versions of his work are available on Amazon and the iBookstore or iTunes. Some of his works, including Rock Critic Murders, is available as an enhanced iBook for the iPad, with music, video and tons of visual images, which add new dimensions to his hard-rocking, high intensity mysteries.

  For more information on Jesse's work, plus blogs, art, politics and more, including information on other ebook titles and music, visit jessesublett.com

  Jesse’s memoir, NEVER THE SAME AGAIN, chronicles his first two decades as a musician in Austin and Los Angeles in the blues, rock and punk scene, and the traumatic ordeal of his girlfriend being murdered by a serial killer in Austin in 1976. In 1997, when he was diagnosed with Stage 4 throat cancer and given a four percent chance of survival, Jesse decided to reinvestigate the case and write about it. He also rededicated himself to writing and playing music, and beat the odds. The story is riveting, sad, funny, tragic, life-affirming. Bestselling authors James Ellroy and Michael Connelly agree, hailing it as “harrowing, essential writing.”

  TOUGH BABY was written under the influence of Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, Robert Johnson, Lou Ann Barton, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble, the Fabulous Thunderbirds, and Bryan Ferry.

  INTRO

  There were four people in the room. One was a doctor, one was a comatose girl, one was a homicide detective, and one was a rhythm and blues bass player being held for suspicion of attempted murder. The room was cold. My knees shook. I was the bass player.

  The girl’s chocolate brown skin made the doctor’s hand appear sickly white as he felt her cheek. Machines were hooked up to her, bandages were wrapped around her head. Her eyelids were as black and swollen as plums.

  The doctor gave us a nod and Detective Sergeant Jim Lasko took me out into the hall. A nurse walked by, doing a double take when she saw the Austin police department badge clipped to the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. The shirt accentuated rather than disguised his beer gut and just barely hid the leather holster on his hip. Lasko shook his head slowly as he tugged on the short hairs of his beard with the callused fingertips of his right hand. He played bass guitar, too. I’d even given him some lessons.

  “Well, Martin,” he drawled, “you aren’t the only one of your combo who got himself in trouble last night. One of the other dicks said your guitar player was almost cited for disturbing the peace early this morning.”

  I just shrugged.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “Lasko, I just spent eighteen weeks on the road with Leo Daly, and no, I’m not surprised at anything he does anymore. He can play the hell out of a guitar, but he’s definitely a couple of bricks shy a load. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  “Well, you know what they say about people who live in glass houses. We’d better talk some more about what happened last night.”

  We walked down the hall together, two men from very different lines of work with a couple of things in common: a love for rhythm and blues and an attempted-murder case. We found a place to drink coffee and sit down. What I really wanted was a dark, quiet comer to lie down in.

  CHAPTER ONE

  For the most part, it had been a good gig. It was nice to be back in our hometown again, and the Continental Club was packed, especially for a Sunday night. Maybe they’d missed us. I was wearing my black vintage suit, playing my candy-apple Fender Precision bass, as usual. The four of us played loud and tight, showing off our road muscles while keeping the arrangements lean and tough.

  The first set went smoothly. We liked to warm up with a song list built mostly around Al Green and Wilson Pickett classics—ones that the saxophonist, Ray Whitfield, really shined on. Our second set was generally more hard-boiled and raunchy, consisting of some of our originals and whatever vintage material struck our fancy that particular night. Lately that meant a raft of rocked-up Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters. And that was Leo’s chance to really cut loose on guitar and vocals.

  During the last song before our break, I happened to glance back at the drum riser just a split second before a splintered missile flew past my right eye. Billy had broken a drumstick. He whipped a spare out of his quiver without missing a beat, not even losing the ash off the end of the Kool cigarette screwed into the comer of his scowl. I looked over at Leo, who was bent over his Stratocaster, coaxing a high wail out of his treble strings, lost in solo land. Ray hadn’t noticed the near miss either. He was standing coolly on his corner of the stage, his black hair so severely slicked back that it looked painted on.

  No need to get surly just because
I nearly lost an eye and no one noticed. I thumped my bass a little harder, tilted my head back, and took a deep breath. My bags were still in the van, packed. My girlfriend and her eight-year-old boy were in the audience, and I hadn’t had a chance to tell them hello. We’d rolled in from Baton Rouge at a quarter to ten, just enough time to wolf down some chips and salsa while the two roadies set up the gear. Then we took the stage for the first set and they stepped out. At first I assumed that they’d gone to the sandwich shop next door to get us something to eat during our break, but a dozen songs later, there was still no sign of them.

  The crowd cheered Leo on as he executed a sizzling pick- slide down the fret board and started chugging out the final refrain like a true R & B road warrior. The tempo picked up, Ray kicked in, and the crowd whooped and whistled louder. They didn’t care that our nervous systems were jangled, that we were tired and hungry, or that our guitar player had set fire to a dressing room in Baltimore, trashed motel rooms in three states, and disappeared with the van for almost twenty-four hours in New Orleans and never told us where he went.

  At the moment, I didn’t much care, either. After the song ended, I put down my bass and stepped off the stage. Ladonna was making her way back.

  &&&

  I gave her a great big hug, drinking in the smell of her hair and the feel of her body pressed close to mine. She made a sound in my ear, and then we kissed.

  “Hi, Martin,” said a young boy’s voice. Ladonna and I broke apart enough for Michael to give me five. I stood back and looked them up and down, up close for the first time in eighteen weeks. Ladonna DiMascio, a broad-shouldered platinum blonde Italian, stood a head shorter than my six feet. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, and she smiled a smile that tingled my road weary muscles. Michael stood with his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his Levi’s, the sleeves of his black T-shirt rolled up, the laces of his Converse All Stars undone, the way all the kids were wearing them.

  “Sounds great, Martin,” said Michael.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said. The usual gold hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes, and her porcelain white face bore the usual knowing expression. She wore a short emerald green vintage jacket with padded shoulders, and a tight-fitting miniskirt. “You look great. In fact, you look extra great.”

  “You look like you lost some weight,” she said, “but you look good.” I could tell she was looking at the dark circles under my eyes. But she wouldn’t say anything about that. Not right now.

  “Look,” I said, “I think we’re playing till a little after two, then I have to get paid and we might have to load the van up ourselves because the roadies disappeared after sound check.”

  “It’s OK,” she interrupted. “We have to go. Tomorrow is Monday, and I have to be at work early and Michael has school.”

  “I still have a key.”

  She shook her head and squeezed my hand. “Not tonight, Martin. I’ll see you tomorrow, after work.”

  I was disappointed and I let it show.

  “I’m sorry, Martin. I tried to take tomorrow off but there’s a big deal going on at the office. They even tried to get me to work tonight.”

  “Well, I hope my cat is glad to see me.”

  She smirked and ran her fingers over the stubble on my chin. “Martin, you know you won’t be out of here before three or four. People will want to buy you drinks, or somebody will try to sell you a guitar. Or something. I know how it is.”

  I reluctantly agreed that she was right and walked them back to her car, kissed her good night, and came back inside to check the tuning on my bass. Still no sign of Nick and Steve, our AWOL roadies. But Ray was in the dressing room with his girlfriend, Kate. In a Chanel-esque suit and leopard print pillbox hat, she was perched atop a road case giving Ray a list of phone calls that needed to be returned. When we were off the road Ray had paying gigs almost every night, sometimes with several different bands. I asked him if he knew where Leo was.

  He ran a finger across his pencil-thin mustache and shook his head. “He and Nadine came back here a couple of minutes ago. He bit her on the neck and stuck his hand up her skirt and she slapped him. Leo went out to the bar. I think she left.”

  Leo had lived with Nadine ever since he’d sauntered into a diner at three in the morning with no shoes on and couldn’t remember where he’d left them. Kate padded up to him in her cute little waitress uniform and greeted him with the “no shoes, no shirt, no service” line, and he answered with, “No shit, huh, how about a date, then?”

  He was a lanky, tawny-haired guy who wore white T-shirts and jeans and tennis shoes. Religiously. Some people said he looked a lot like James Dean, and he had the kind of goofy charm that made you either forget or forgive most of his shenanigans with a roll of his big blue eyes and shrug of his bony shoulders. And most of the time he was either charming or harmless.

  I had worried about him and a couple of times had tried talking to him about his antics on the road. But the road is not a great place to put things in perspective. Living on a vampire’s schedule, eating at truck stops, and making a living by making noise that made people move funny and ingest large amounts of alcohol, tobacco, and other things that weren’t necessarily good for them, it was easy for him to shrug his shoulders and say, What do you mean, crazy?

  Suddenly the dressing room door swung open and there he was. He slapped me on the back and spit a guitar pick out into his palm. “Hey, Martin,” he drawled, “how ’bout a couple shots of Jack Daniel’s before we fire up again?”

  The last set had five Howlin’ Wolf tunes in it that really smoked. Leo growled out the lyrics with edgy authenticity and Ray honked out the harmonica phrases on his saxophone. It was only May, but the air in the club was so hot and close that my suit had become a soggy mess pasted to my body. Nearly every face in the club was bleary-eyed and goofy. Neon glinted in their eyes like the last live coals in an old fire. An elderly black man jelly-walked his way up front, tipped his beret at me, and mouthed, “Not bad for a bunch a short-haired white boys.” Some couples snuggled in the back, ready to go home. Other pairs looked surly with mischief, ready to get it on in a stall in the restroom, if they hadn’t already. After-hours businessmen checked their pagers one last time before heading out the door or up to the bar for that last cocktail. Billy pounded out a drum roll to signal the end, and we blistered out the last twelve bars of the last song, a rumbling assault of sound that brought the house down and the lights up.

  But the crowd on the dance floor wanted more. They stomped and clapped and whistled, even after we were back in the tiny dressing room, toweling off. Rings clanged against longnecks, boot heels clomped, glass broke. Texas crowds are the best. Leo abruptly slung his Gretsch semi-hollow body guitar over his shoulder and headed back out. We followed him up on stage and watched as he rolled his volume knobs up to ten. Billy and Ray looked at me for a sign, and I looked at Leo for one. He rested one of his size twelve sneakers on a monitor and let the guitar squeal feedback for a painful fifteen seconds, then launched into a psychedelic blues version of “The Eyes of Texas.” We couldn’t play along with it, the crowd couldn’t dance to it, and only the hardiest could stand it.

  It emptied the club quicker than a DEA raid. I wished I’d tried a little harder to talk to him on the road.

  After we loaded up the van, Wayne, the club manager, came backstage and handed me a stack of money. “One thousand nine hundred ninety-five dollars and seventeen cents,” he said, grinning widely. “Broke your guarantee by almost a grand. Welcome back home.”

  “Thanks.” I moved over to where the light was better and sorted out the cash into various denominations on top of a beer crate.

  “Your bar tab was on the house. You guys were really hot tonight. Playing all those one-nighters sure punched up your sound.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “But that Leo, I don’t think his parachute
is packed right. You better keep an eye on him.”

  “I will. Leo’s just been acting up. I don’t know why.”

  He nodded and scratched his head, reaching around to check the short ponytail in back. I went back to counting.

  “One more thing you might wanna know,” he said. “The manager of Raven’s down on Sixth Street? He said your roadies, Nick and Steve, come high-tailing it through his club behind two Mexican girls just before midnight. He said the girls were all decked out in biker gear, but your roadies were naked.” He bellowed out a laugh and then shrugged. “Think it’s true?”

  I just gave him a blank look. It could be. From out in the club, someone was yelling, “Leo, get your ass down from there!”

  “Made you lose count, didn’t I?” said Wayne. “Count it tomorrow and let me know if I shorted you. You know I’m good for it. Come on out to the bar when you’re ready. It’s a friend of mine’s birthday and I got the doors locked. Drinks are on me.”

  &&&

  There were fifty-one twenties, three tens. That left a lot of fives and ones. I was looking for the calculator in my bass case when I felt a draft. Along with the draft came scents of perfume and leather. I looked up and saw a chocolate-skinned beauty with her hands on her hips, smiling a one-sided smile.