“Why? Because I take care of my records?”
“They’re only records. They’re not gold.” She laughs. “And besides that, you wear underwear. You must be the only guy in the Village who wears underwear.”
I pull Sally back to the bed. We do it again and finally she falls asleep in my arms. But I can’t sleep. I’m too shaken even to close my eyes.
I like her. I really like her. But that was too close. I’ve got to be real careful about who I bring back to the apartment. I can’t let anything screw up the plan, especially my own carelessness. My life is at stake.
No ripples, that’s the key. I’ve got to sink into the timeline without making any ripples. Bob Dylan will go electric on his next album, just like he did before, but it will be my influence that nudged him to try it. “Mr. Tambourine Man” will be a big hit next summer, just as it’s destined to be, but if things go according to plan, my band’s name will be on the label instead of the Byrds. No ripples. Everything will remain much the same except that over the next few years, Troy Jonson will insinuate himself into the music scene and become a major force there. He will make millions, he will be considered a genius, the toast of both the public and his fellow artists.
Riding that thought, I drift off to sleep.
Dylan shows up at the Eighth Wonder the very next night in the middle of my note-perfect imitation of Duane Allman on “Statesboro Blues,” perfect even down to the Coricidin bottle on my slide finger. There’s already a good crowd in, the biggest crowd since we started playing. Word must be getting around that we’re something worth listening to. Dylan has about half a dozen scruffy types along with him. I recognize Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso in the entourage. Which gives me an idea.
“This one’s for the poets in the audience,” I say into the mike; then we jump into Paul Simon’s “Richard Corey,” only I use Van Morrison’s phrasing, you know, with the snicker after the bullet-through-his-head line. I spend the rest of the set being political, interspersing Dylan numbers with “originals” such as “American Tune,” “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” “Life During Wartime,” and so on.
I can tell they’re impressed. More than impressed. Their jaws are hanging open.
I figure now’s the time to play cool. At the break, instead of heading for the bar, I slip backstage to the doorless, cinder-block-walled cubicle euphemistically known as the dressing room.
Eventually someone knocks on the doorjamb. It’s a bearded guy I recognize as one of Dylan’s entourage tonight.
“Great set, man,” he says. “Where’d you get some of those songs?”
“Stole them,” I say, hardly glancing at him.
He laughs. “No, seriously, man. They were great. I really like that ‘Southern Man’ number. I mean, like I’ve been makin’ the marches and that says it all, man. You write them?”
I nod. “Most of them. Not the Dylan numbers.”
He laughs again. From the glitter in his eyes and his extraordinarily receptive sense of humor, I gather that he’s been smoking a little weed at that rear table.
“Right! And speaking of Dylan, Bobby wants to talk to you.”
I decide to act a little paranoid.
“He’s not pissed, is he? I mean, I know they’re his songs and all, but I thought I’d try to do them a little different, you know. I don’t want him takin’ me to court or—”
“Hey, it’s cool,” he says. “Bobby digs the way you’re doing his stuff. He just wants to buy you a drink and talk to you about it, that’s all.”
I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air.
“Okay,” I say. “I can handle that.”
“Sure, man. And he wants to talk to you about some rare records he hears you’ve got.”
Suddenly I’m ice cold.
“Records?”
“Yeah, says he heard about some foreign platters you’ve got with some of his songs on ‘em.”
I force a laugh and say, “Oh, he must’ve been talking to Sally! You know how Sally gets. The Speed Queen was really flying when she was going through my records. That wasn’t music she saw, that was a record from Ireland of Dylan Thomas reading his stuff. I think ol’ Sally’s brains are getting scrambled.”
He nods. “Yeah, it was Sally, all right. She says you treat them things like gold, man. They must be some kinda valuable. But the thing that got to Dylan was, she mentioned a song with ‘tambourine’ in the title, and he says he’s been doodling with something like that.”
“No kidding?” My voice sounds like a croak.
“Yeah. So he really wants to talk to you.”
I’m sure he does. But what am I going to say?
And then I remember that I left Sally back at my apartment. She was going to hang out there for a while, then come over for the late sets.
I’m ready to panic. Even though I know I locked the music room before I left, I’ve got this urge to run back to my place.
“Hey, I really want to talk to him, too. But I got some business to attend to here. My manager’s stopping by in a minute and it’s the only chance we’ll have to talk before he heads for the West Coast, so tell Mr. Dylan I’ll be over right after the next set. Tell him to make the next set—it’ll be worth the wait.”
The guy shrugs. “Okay. I’ll tell him, but I don’t know how happy he’s gonna be.”
“Sorry, man. I’ve got no choice.”
As soon as he’s gone, I dash out the back door and run for Perry Street. I’ve got to get Sally out of the apartment and never let her back in. Maybe I can even make it back to the Eighth Wonder in time to have that drink with Dylan. I can easily convince him that the so-called Dylan song on my foreign record is a product of amphetamine craziness—everybody in the Village knows how out of control Sally is with the stuff.
As I ram the key into my apartment door, I hear something I don’t want to hear, something I can’t be hearing. But when I open up . . .
“Mr. Tambourine Man” is playing on the hi-fi.
I charge into the second bedroom, the music room. The door is open and Sally is dancing around the floor. She’s startled to see me and goes into her little girl speedster act.
“Hiya, Troy, I found the key and I couldn’t resist because I like really wanted to hear these weird records of yours and I love ‘em, I really do, but I’ve never heard of these Byrds cats although one of them’s named Crosby and he looks kinda like a singer I caught at a club last year only his hair was shorter then, and I never heard this ‘Tambourine’ song before, but it’s definitely Dylan, although he’s never sung it that I know of so I’ll have to ask him about it. And I noticed something even weirder, I mean really weird, because I spotted some of these copyright dates on the records—you know, that little circle with the littler letter c inside them?—and like, man, some of them are in the future, man, isn’t that wild? I mean, like there’s circle-C 1965 on this one and a circle-C 1970 on that one over there, and it’s like someone had a time machine and I went into the future and brought ‘em back or something. I mean, is this wild or what?”
Fury like I’ve never known blasts through me. It steals my voice. I want to throttle her. If she were in reach I’d do it, but lucky for her she’s bouncing around the room. I stay put. I clench my fists at my sides and let my mind race over my options.
How do I get out of this? Sally had one look at a couple of my albums last night and then spent all day blabbing to the whole goddamn Village about them and how rare and unique they are. And after tonight I know exactly what she’ll be talking about tomorrow: Dylan songs that haven’t been written yet, groups that don’t exist yet, and, worst of all, albums with copyright dates in the future!
Ripples . . . I was worried about ripples in the time stream giving me away. Sally’s mouth is going to cause waves! Tsunamis!
The whole scenario plays out inside my head: Talk spreads, Dylan gets more curious, Columbia Records gets worried about possible bootlegs, lawyers get involved, an article appears in the Voice,
and then the inevitable—reclamation squad knocks on my door in the middle of the night, I’m tranqued, brought back to my own time, and then it’s bye-bye musical career. Bye-bye Troy Jonson. Sally’s got to go.
The cold-bloodedness of the thought shocks me. But it’s Sally or me. That’s what it comes down to. Sally or me. What else can I do? I choose me. “Are you mad?” she says.
I shake my head. “A little annoyed, maybe, but I guess it’s okay.” I smile. “It’s hard to say no to you.”
She jumps into my arms and gives me a hug. My hands slide up to her throat, encircle it, then slip away. Can’t do it.
“Hey, like what are you doing back, man? Aren’t you playing?”
“I got . . . distracted.”
“Well, Troy, honey, if you’re flat, you’ve come to the right place. I know how to fix that.”
In that instant, I know how I’ll do it. No blood, no pain, no mess. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I could use a little boost.” Her eyes light. “Groovy! I had my gear all set up in the bathroom but I couldn’t find a vein. Let’s go.”
“But I want you to have some, too. It’s no fun being up alone.”
“Hey, I’m flyin’ already. I popped a bunch of black beauties before you came.”
“Yeah, but you’re coming down. I can tell.”
“You think so?” Her brow wrinkles with concern, then she smiles. “Okay. A little more’ll be cool—especially if it’s a direct hit.”
“Never too much of a good thing, right?”
“Right. You’ll shoot me up like last night?” Just the words I want to hear. “You bet.”
While Sally’s adjusting her tourniquet and humming along with “Mr. Tambourine Man,” I take her biggest syringe and fill it all the way with the methedrine solution. I find the vein first try. She’s too whacked-out to notice the size of the syringe until I’ve got most of it into her. She tries to pull her arm away. “Hey, that’s ten fucking cc’s!” I’m cool. I’m more than cool. I’m stone-cold dead inside. “Yeah, but it wasn’t full. I only put one cc in it.” I pull her off the toilet seat. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“How about you, Troy? I thought you wanted—”
“Later. I’ll do it at the club. I’ve got to get back.”
As I pack up her paraphernalia, carefully wiping my prints off the syringe and bottles, she sags against the bathroom door.
“I don’t feel so good, Troy. How much did you give me?”
“Not much. Come on, let’s go.”
Something’s going to happen—twenty thousand milligrams of methamphetamine in a single dose has to have a catastrophic effect—and whatever it is, I don’t want it happening in my apartment.
I hurry her out to the street. I’m glad my place is on the first floor; I’d hate to see her try a few flights of steps right now. We go half a block and she clutches her chest.
“Shit, that hurts! Troy, I think I’m having a heart attack!”
As she starts retching and shuddering, I pull her into an alley. A cat bolts from the shadows; the alley reeks of garbage. Sally shudders and sinks to her knees.
“Get me to a hospital, Troy,” she says in a weak, raspy voice. “I think I overdid it this time.”
I sink down beside her and fight the urge to carry her the few blocks to St. Vincent’s emergency room. Instead, I hold her in my arms. She’s trembling.
“I can’t breathe!”
The shudders become more violent. She convulses, almost throwing me off her; then she lies still, barely breathing. Another convulsion, more violent than the last, choking sounds tearing from her throat. She’s still again, but this time she’s not breathing. A final shudder, and Sally the Speed Queen comes to a final, screeching halt.
As I crouch there beside her, still holding her, I begin to sob. This isn’t the way I planned it, not at all the way it was supposed to be. It was all going to be peace and love and harmony, all Woodstock and no Altamont. Music, laughs, money. This isn’t in the plan.
I lurch to my feet and vomit into the garbage can. I start walking. I don’t look back at her. I can’t. I stumble into the street and head for the Eighth Wonder, crying all the way.
The owner, the guys in the band, they all hassle me for delaying the next set. I look out into the audience and see Dylan’s gone, but I don’t care. Just as well. The next three sets are a mess, the worst of my life. The rest of the night is a blur. As soon as I’m done, I’m out of there, running.
I find Perry Street full of cops and flashing red lights. I don’t have to ask why. The self-loathing wells up in me until I want to be sick again. I promise myself to get those records into a safety-deposit box first thing tomorrow so that something like this can never happen again.
I don’t look at anybody as I pass the alley, afraid they’ll see the guilt screaming in my eyes, but I’m surprised to find my landlord, Charlie, standing on the front steps to the apartment house.
“Hey, Jonson!” he says. “Where da hell ya been? Da cops is lookin’ all ova for ya!”
I freeze on the bottom step.
“I’ve been working—all night.”
“Sheesh, whatta night. First dat broad overdoses an’ dies right downa street, and now dis! Anyway, da cops is in your place. Better go talk to ‘em.
As much as I want to run, I don’t. I can get out of this. Somebody probably saw us together, that’s all. I can get out of this.
“I don’t know anything about an overdose,” I say. It’s a form of practice. I figure I’m going to have to say it a lot of times before the cops leave.
“Not dat!” Charlie says. “About your apartment. You was broken into a few hours ago. I t’ought I heard glass break so’s I come downstairs to check. Dey got in trough your back window, but I scared ‘em off afore dey got much.” He grins and slaps me on the shoulder. “You owe me one, kid. How many landlords is security guards, too?”
I’m starting to relax. I force a smile as I walk up the steps past him.
“You’re the best, Charlie.”
“Don’t I know it. Dey did manage to make off wit your hi-fi an’ your records but, hey, you can replace dose wit’out too much trouble.”
I turn toward Charlie. I feel the whole world, all the weight of time itself crashing down on me. I can’t help it. It comes unbidden, without warning. Charlie’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head as I scream a laugh in his face.
1
Jack saw the whole thing. Another minute’s delay in leaving for home and he’d have been a block away when it went down. And then a different man would have died on the pavement.
But Julio had held him up, detailing his current bitch about all the yuppies chasing out his tavern’s regular customers. He was especially irate about one who’d offered to buy the place.
“You believe that?” Julio was saying. “He wanna turn it into a bistro, meng. A bistro!”
An incomprehensible stream of Puerto Rican followed. Which meant Julio was royally pissed. He was proud of his command of English and only under extreme provocation did he revert to his native tongue.
“He was only asking. What’s wrong with that?”
“Because he offer me a lot of money, meng. I mean a lot of money.”
“How much?”
Julio whispered it in Jack’s ear.
Right: A lot of money.
“I repeat: What’s wrong with that? You should be proud.”
“I don’ know ‘bout proud, but I was tempted to take it.”
“No!” Jack said, genuinely shaken. “Don’t say that, Julio. Don’t even think it.”
“I couldn’t help it. But I tol’ him to get lost. I mean, I like money much as the next guy, meng, but I only risk so much for it.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the motley collection of scruffy locals leaning on the bar behind him. “You know what those guys do to me if I sol’ out to a yuppie? Have to run for my life.”
“You may still have to if Maria finds out how much you turned down.”
/> “Don’ tell her. Don’ breathe a word, Jack.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
Jack left with his cold six-pack of Rolling Rock long necks and turned the corner onto Amsterdam Avenue, heading downtown. Quiet on the Upper West Side tonight. A lot of the restaurants were closed on Mondays and it was too cold for a casual stroll. Jack had the street pretty much to himself.
Gentrification had slowed in these parts—mainly because everything had been pretty well gentrified—and was seeping into Harlem and even Morningside Heights. This neighborhood, once ethnically and socioeconomically mixed, had homogenized into an all-white, upper-income enclave; neighborhood taverns had metamorphosed into brasseries and bistros, mom-and-pop grocery stores and bodegas into gourmet delis, sidewalk cafés, overpriced boutiques and shoppes—always spelled with the extra “-pe.” Rents had taken up residency in Mir’s old orbit.
At the next corner Jack spotted a blue-and-white parked by the fire hydrant in front of Costin’s. His first instinct was to turn and walk the other way, but that might draw attention.
He checked himself out in his mental mirror: average-length brown hair, NY Jets warm up Jacket over a flannel shirt, worn jeans over dirty white sneakers. Just an average Joe. Virtually invisible.
So he stayed on course.
Waiting on the curb for a car to pass, he did a quick scan of the scene. Quiet. Only one cop in the unit, in the passenger seat, looking relaxed. His partner was stepping into Costin’s. The light filtering through the open door revealed a very young-looking cop. Baby-faced. Probably picking up some donut-shaped teething biscuits.
Costin’s had been there forever—a Paleolithic prototype of the convenience store. Now it was one of the last mom-and-pops in the area. Old Costin had to stay open all hours just to meet the rent. The locals left over from the old days remained loyal, and most of the cops from the Two-oh stopped in regularly to help keep them going.
Jack was halfway across the street when he heard a boom. He knew that sound. Shotgun. Instinctively he ducked behind the nearest parked car on the far side. The sound had been muffled. An indoor shot.