Rock Angel (Rock Angel Series Book 1) (12 page)

“Talking about me again?” Quinn inquired. “You’re
way
too interested in my sex life, Denise. Does Danny maybe need a little instruction?” He smirked at her, but his grin evaporated when he saw the traces of her tears. “Hey, are you all right?”

“None of your business,” Denise snapped. “Fuck off, Quinn.”

He drew back, startled. “I’m just trying to…I mean, you look upset.”

“Since when have you cared?” He frowned and opened his mouth to respond. “Just shut up and stay out of my face.” She turned her back on him, climbing into the van and slamming the door behind her.

He looked at Shan. “What’d I do this time?” he asked, clearly mystified.

Shan shook her head.
What was up with this?
she wondered, then reached for the cymbal case that topped the pile of equipment in his arms. “Here, let me help with that.”

By the time they got to the club, Denise seemed to have recovered. When they arrived, Quinn jumped out of the van and glanced around doubtfully. “What a crummy neighborhood.”

Shan slowly climbed out behind him. Crummy was an understatement. The Fuego Club was on 111th Street, right in the heart of Spanish Harlem. Jorge lived just a couple of blocks away. She hadn’t seen any sign of him since that night, but to be this close made her uneasy.

The entrance to the club was between a dilapidated liquor store and a market with the word
Jódete!
spray-painted across its pull-down metal door. There was a sandwich board on the sidewalk.
tonight,
it proclaimed in blue chalk,
quingentésimo
.

Shan pointed at the sign. “Doesn’t that mean ‘fiftieth’?”

“I think it means ‘five hundredth,’” Ty replied, and looked to Quinn for confirmation.

Quinn was glaring at Dan. “It’s a happening spot,” Dan said as he started extracting the drum kit from the back of the van.

There was a group of seedy-looking characters milling in front, waiting for the doors to open. Shan recognized a couple of them from Jorge’s place. She knew them only by their street names, White Julio and T-Bone. White Julio had a distinctly Native American cast to his features, so she had no idea how he’d earned his name. T-Bone at least was tall and skeletal, with limp hair and watery eyes. She remembered seeing him the last time she’d been at Desperado’s.

She took the guitars then lingered, waiting for Quinn and Dan. “Yo, Shan,” T-Bone said. He stretched his lips in a gap-toothed junkie smile.

Shan nodded briefly, running her tongue over her own teeth, and hurried down the steps into the club behind Quinn and Dan. “Friend of yours?” Quinn asked.

“Acquaintance,” she said, the color rising in her cheeks. He looked dubious, but made no further comment. He proceeded down the stairs, which led to a corridor. Dan disappeared into a room marked
oficio
and Shan followed Quinn through the set of doors that led into the club. They went to the stage where Quinn deposited the pile of equipment before surveying the interior.

It was startlingly bright, a cavernous space lit by stark fluorescents that Shan hoped would be dimmed when they went onstage. The place had the look of a warehouse, with a cement floor and concrete walls coated with layer upon layer of sprayed-on graffiti. It smelled like an old basement, musty and damp, laced with the fumes of ammonia, cigarettes, and stale beer.

When Dan appeared, Quinn lit into him. “This place,” he declared, “is a dump. You are
never
to book us again unless you check with me first.”

“You wait. It’ll be packed by ten,” Dan said. “We’ll make a bundle.”

“That’s not the point. When you book a gig, you have to consider the quality of the venue.”

“Oh, sorry,” Dan shot back. “I thought this was about making money.” Denise nodded vigorously, slipping her hand through Dan’s arm and glaring at Quinn.

“It’s not
only
about money,” Quinn said, ignoring Denise. “It’s about image, too.”

“Salsa clubs are hot these days,” Ty said, but Dan looked crestfallen.

“Great,” Quinn said. “We’ll play the one Santana tune that we know over and over, all night long.”

Ty tried again. “Look, we’re here. Can we just play the gig?”

Quinn grumbled under his breath, but pulled out a handful of microphone cables.

By the time they finished setting up, the club had begun to fill. To Shan’s relief, the fluorescents were shut off once they took the stage, replaced by softer illumination augmented by a strobe show. The flashing lights made the spray-painted walls shimmer, which Shan thought looked pretty cool. She had to admit the place wasn’t all that bad, even with the stink.

Quinn turned out to be right about the crowd, though. They danced, but with a lack of enthusiasm that indicated a clear dissatisfaction with the music. They wanted Latin sound and the Quinntessence brand of hard rock did little to get them fired up. They liked the Santana cover that the band managed to jam on for a full twenty minutes and Shan got them grooving during a sprightly rendition of “Iko Iko
,
” but, aside from those moments, it was a thoroughly uninspired night.

They finished to spotty applause and the whole band was despondent as they broke down their equipment. “I told you,” Quinn said to Dan.

“We made a bunch of money,” Dan said, “just like
I
told
you
.”

“But the crowd hated us. None of these people will ever come hear us again,” Quinn said. “If they talk about us at all, it’ll be ‘Quinntessence? Oh yeah, they were that band that sucked at Fuego.’”

“Don’t cha mean ‘Quingentésimo’?” Ty snickered.

Shan stayed out of it. She finished packing her guitars, then busied herself putting the mics away. She closed and latched the lid, then turned to the audio cables.

When she was done, she had a neat pile of items to be carried out to the van. She glanced around for Quinn and saw him at the bar hitting on some fake-blond Latina. Ty and Denise were outside and Dan was puffing up the stairs with the snare drum. Shan slid her purse over her arm, took up the mic box, and went out to the corridor that led to the exit.

Just as she reached the stairs, someone grabbed her, hard. Before she could react, she’d been dragged into a room marked
hombres
. She blinked in the brighter light, then froze. The mic box slipped out of her hand, dropping to the floor with a
thunk.

Jorge had her by the arm, his lips twisted in an ugly sneer. “I been on the lookout for you.”

Shan didn’t respond. She felt herself shaking and knew he could feel it, too.

“Nobody’s seen you in so long I thought maybe you took off,” he said, “but then my man T-Bone told me he seen you playing here tonight.”

She found her voice. “Jorge, I know I owe you money.”

“You bet your sweet ass you do,
querida.
” He gave her arm a painful squeeze.

“I can give you some of it now. Here.” She fumbled at her purse with her free hand, pulling out the wad of bills that was her cut from tonight. “It’s almost four hundred. I know it’s not enough, but—”

“No, it ain’t.” He pocketed it anyway. “You owe me another two grand.” His fingers were like a vice around her wrist. She could feel her bones grinding together.

“I…I can give you more in a couple of days. I’m making good money now.” She stopped talking when she heard Quinn’s voice out in the corridor.

Jorge was watching her. “Don’t want them hearing, do ya?” His mouth spread in a sly grin. “I’m guessing they wouldn’t be so thrilled if they knew you was a junk whore.”

Shan could hear Quinn and Dan arguing and waited until their voices faded before she spoke again. “That’s all I have. Take it or leave it.”

“Maybe I’ll take it and a little more.” He gave her a sudden shove and she stumbled back against the wall. “I’m still willing to negotiate. How ’bout you work some of it off?”

When she smelled his fetid breath in her face, she raised both hands and shoved him, hard. Then there was a metallic
click
and she felt the sharp point of a blade against her stomach.

She didn’t stop to think, just lashed out with her spike heel. She caught him in the shin and he faltered, just enough that she could pull away. She bolted for the door, kicking off her shoes.

Barefoot, she darted into the corridor and up the stairs. She could hear Jorge crashing out of the restroom behind her and she burst out onto the street just as Quinn was coming back inside. “Where’ve you been?” he said. “We’re about finished.”

“Good.” She pushed past him and climbed into the van, taking the seat behind Denise.

“Nice timing,” he grumbled, turning away to help Ty stow the last of the gear.

The street was very dark. Several lamps were broken and a slight mist had settled, but Shan could still see Jorge when he emerged from the club. She hunched down in the seat, but he spotted her right away. His eyes shot from her to Quinn and Ty, then to Dan who was just coming around from the side of the van as they finished the last of the loading.

Jorge, still lingering outside, grinned balefully at her. “See ya soon,
querida,
” he mouthed.

Then he disappeared, melting into the shadows outside Fuego.

“Has anyone seen the mic box?” Quinn asked.

There was a crash as Shan dropped a crate of hand percussion instruments. Dan and Ty jumped as their collection of tambourines and shakers hit the ground with a dissonant clatter. A single maraca made a swishing sound as it rolled across the floor, coming to a stop in front of Quinn.

He was staring at Shan. “Anything wrong?”

“N-no.” She bent to retrieve the scattered instruments. “I’m just clumsy.”

“Are you sure?” he said. “You’ve been acting weird lately.”

She shrugged without answering. Quinn looked doubtful, but went back to rooting among the various boxes and crates that comprised the band’s equipment. It was spread all over the loft’s living room, like it always was right before a gig. “I don’t see it.”

Ty fingered his goatee. “The last time I remember seeing it,” he said, “was Saturday night at Fuego.”

“Me, too.” Quinn frowned. “Who loaded it out that night?”

Everyone looked at Shan. Because the mic box was one of the lighter pieces of equipment, it was something she usually moved. She shook her head. “I haven’t seen it.” She went back to picking up the percussion instruments, avoiding Quinn’s eyes.

“We must have left it at the club,” Dan said. “They probably have it. I’ll call.”

“Do it now,” Quinn said. “In that dive it’s likely to disappear, then we’re out two grand.”

Dan headed for the phone and the rest of them went back to loading. Shan continued to collect the shakers and maracas. They clinked and rattled as she repacked them, but all she could hear was the
thunk
that the mic box had made when it hit the floor of the men’s room at Fuego.

The mics hadn’t been found. The manager at Fuego promised to keep an eye out for them and, when they played that night, they had to use the Shures. Quinn was in a foul mood as they left for the gig. Shan figured he blamed her and could only hope that he would never discover just how culpable she was.

She had no doubt about the fate of the expensive microphones. In the three days since the gig at Fuego, Shan had seen Jorge everywhere. Amid the crowd in the Spring Street subway station. Loitering in front of the bakery next to her building when she went for a morning croissant. Lurking in the back of the Laundromat where she did her wash. Each time, she only glimpsed him. When she turned for a better look, he’d vanished.

It wasn’t until the night she saw him on the ledge outside her bedroom window that she realized she was imagining things. She had leapt from bed in terror, only to find that the face she’d seen was a reflection of the Dylan poster on her wall. Jorge didn’t know where she lived, she reassured herself, but she’d upped her dose a tad, just for the tranquilizing effect, then spent two hours playing on the roof to calm herself down.

In the van on the way to the gig, Shan hugged her arms and wished she’d worn a sweater. Quinn had instructed her to wear something witchy and she’d found a filmy black sheath at a vintage clothing shop on Lafayette Street. It was low necked and sleeveless, and the material was of the lightest gauze overlaid with beaded black netting. The effect was good, very Charles Addamsy, but it was a cool night and she was freezing.

Quinn noticed her shivering. “Here,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. The leather was worn soft and smooth, and she caught a whiff of the citrusy, limey aftershave that he wore. She liked it.

It didn’t take long to reach the club, which was near the Woolworth building in Tribeca. After he parked, Dan twisted in his seat to look at Quinn. “Dude, this place looks like a shithole.”

Shan thought so too, sort of. The club, Prometheus, was housed in an ornate Neo-Romanesque building that must have been spectacular at one time, although it was now in a state of advanced decay. The marble facing was discolored and cracked, and in some places had crumbled away entirely to expose the plain brick underneath the façade. Two life-sized goddesses flanked the tarnished bronze entryway. They were in the same condition as the rest of the building. Juno’s face was cracked and she was missing a goodly bit of her torso. Venus was mostly intact, but she’d been adorned with a spray-painted garter belt and stockings.

“I guess the venue isn’t so important after all, hey?” Dan remarked. Denise smirked.

Quinn ignored them. As soon as the van stopped he jumped out, threw open the back doors, and began pulling out equipment. Shan took the crate of cables and lingered, waiting for him. After he’d filled his arms, she followed him into the building. Ty and Dan were close behind.

When they went inside, Shan gasped. It was an old theater, with an enormous stage curtained in red velvet and surrounded by magnificent arches with red glass insets. The illumination was provided by red lights fashioned to look like torches and the light caused the glass in the arches to wink and sparkle like flames. The shiny hardwood walls were inlaid with murals depicting bloody scenes from Roman mythology and the tables looked like executioner’s blocks. Each one held a flickering candle in a red glass globe. “Cool!” Ty exclaimed.