Santa Monica

Chapter 3

It was one of those nights when West Sunset was practically deserted. No cars in the street, no trash in the gutters, not a taste of smog in the air. Jack, leaning back against the door in his suit and tie, his shades over his eyes, the ear in his ear, hands clasped as if he was praying they might let him in. The way Jack saw it, a bouncer was a creature of the night, like Travis Bickle in that new DeNiro flick.

He’d been on the job for a couple days now, felt less and less like a bouncer. He was a guard dog, Jack, that was his mission. He stood there, hours on end, a shadow, keeping Fats Foley’s club safe from the riffraff, the junkies, the homeless, the hookers, the lowlifes. Jack kept them all out. He didn’t judge them — but the simple act of denying them entry told them what he thought of them. Jack Spark, a soldier at his post, aloof from the street, where violence lay in wait. He stood there, rain or shine, parked beneath the Studio 74 marquis, in the mist, in the fog, in the exhaust spat out by passing cars.

Some nights the gutters ran with blood, with puke, with piss. He had no idea where it all came from, didn’t let it bug him. He just stood there, like Cerberus at the gate to the underworld, while the denizens of the LA night flowed by, fast and furious. He didn’t care who they were or what they looked like, just did his job, separated the wheat from the chaff. He was like a shepherd, bringing his little lambs in from the fields, protecting them from danger.

Things had to get better, now the war was over. What good had the hippies done? Let ‘em do their thing, whatever it was. Jesus, if Fats wasn’t paying him for this gig, he’d do it for free. Give society a helping hand.

It was after midnight when a woman in a tight tank top and cutoff jeans came around the corner. Jack raised his shades to get a better look at her. She reminded him of that chocolate goddess from Star Trek, Uhura. Small, sharp and sexy. There was something cheap about her, though. Probably just another hoe. Except no stiletto heels, so maybe not. A purse snatcher who’d ripped off some lady’s handbag? Nah, she wasn’t carrying a purse.

Star TrekShe came right up to Jack, her steps quick and certain. But he could see she was about to lose it. And she didn’t just happen to be hotfooting it along West Sunset, no. She wanted in. Her feet kept moving in place, like a jogger waiting to cross the street who doesn’t want to lose her rhythm.

“Open up,” she said.

Jack didn’t do nothing. If she was going to use that tone, she could just forget it.

“I said let me in, Chief.”

Jack snorted. “You could be polite about it. Probably wouldn’t hurt you none.”

“Would you open the door for me, please?”

“Why?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Go home, sister,” said Jack.

“Do you understand English, Chief? I said I want in.”

“You think treatin’ me like crap’s gonna work?”

The woman glanced back over her shoulder. She really did look like Uhura.

“I don’t think you belong here,” said Jack. “This is a private club.” He took his half-step forward and got a whiff of her. “You need to go home and freshen up your perfume.”

“I know it’s a private club, you lummox. Now let me in. I just ran five blocks. You think I like standing out here sweating like a pig?”

“Nobody gets in without a pass,” said Jack. If the Army’d taught him anything, it was how to follow orders.

“I got a pass, Holmes, I forgot it at home, that’s all. Let me in. It’s urgent.”

Again she looked behind her, like she was expecting a platoon of cops to come scurrying around the corner. Jack figured she was putting on an act, and he didn’t fall for it. She belonged out here on the street, not in the club.

“You want in, you better go back home and pick up your pass,” he said. “Otherwise, no dice.”

“They’re going to kill me,” she said. “Please, let me in.”

Jack had seen some pretty crazy acts in his brief time as the Studio 74 bouncer. You had your numbskulls who made like they had to take an urgent piss and threatened to whip it out right there on the doorstep. You had your jokers who swore they’d just now come out to get some fresh air and had accidentally left their pass back in the club. The chicks had their own little tricks: they’d skootch right up against Jack, their t**s all soft and promising. Yeah, he’d just about seen it all.

But Jack was made of concrete, he never gave an inch. He had to laugh when he thought back to last night, when some dude in shades and a scarf draped around his neck scurried up and insisted he had to get in to see the boss. Jack did his thing, right, and sent the creep packing. Only it turned out it was Fats Foley himself, checking to make sure Jack was on the ball. How d’ya like them apples?

them“I almost had you, right?” Fats laughed. “But you’re okay, Jackie. I can count on you. Listen, everybody in LA knows I run this place. Some schmuck tells you he knows me, it don’t mean a thing. Everybody knows Fats Foley.”

EverybodyJack nodded. And then, when Fats reached out a hand for the door, he said, “You got a pass, boss?”

Foley grinned at that one — but when he took another step, Jack gently held him back and said, “No, really, boss, where’s your pass?”

Foley blinked at him, until Jack’s concrete face cracked a smile.

“Kidding, boss,” he said.

Had to show the guy who was really in charge out here.

reallyBut now there was this lady, and there was no way she was Fats Foley in drag, not in a hundred years. She looked desperate. She didn’t look like she had a pass.

shedidn’t“Sorry, babe, but them’s the rules. You don’t like it, tell the boss. Except you can’t, because you don’t get in without a pass. That’s a, whaddacallit, a paradox.”

“Cut the s**t, Chief. I’m serious. They’re after me. They’ll kill me if you don’t let me in.”

“What, a pretty girl like you?”

The cool thing about the shades was that Jack could check Uhura out without her knowing. She wasn’t just putting on an act, it was a crappy act. But he didn’t mind standing there shootin’ the breeze with her.

crappy“You can’t come up with a better story than that?” he asked.

“Look, Fats is expecting me. Just let me in. I mean, what’s your problem?” Another look back. “You don’t let me in, I’ll be dead, it’ll be on your conscience. Is that what you want?”

“No,” said Jack.

Uhura stopped running in place, relieved now.

“I want you to hit the bricks,” he said. “You’re blocking my view.”

She was silent for a second, checked the street behind her yet again, then gave it one last try. “They’re going to murder me, man! Are you deaf? Why would I lie about this?”

Okay, that was a little better, but Jack still didn’t buy it. He sure wasn’t going to risk his job on it. He could barely afford the rent on his apartment.

He scoped out the street. Nobody there. Who did she think was out to get her? Problem was Fats Foley had already tried to mess with him once. This chick might be one of his regular punches. I mean, all he really had to do was sit up there in his office, counting the evening’s take and giving the staff a hard time. On top of that, Jack wasn’t in the Army no more, but he still knew how to follow orders. Back in ‘Nam, they told him to guard some pissant hooch, he damn well made sure nobody got in there.

“I don’t see nobody,” said Jack.

Soon as he said it, two black teenagers came strutting around the corner, deep in conversation. Drank in the sight of the Nubian princess with the long eyelashes and the luscious lips, but never stopped chattering for a second. They both wore ratty bell-bottomed jeans and leather jackets over untucked ugly orange shirts with long pointed collars. One had dreadlocks, the other’s hair was short and nappy. From the doorstep, Jack could smell the cloud of reefer.

“Those the guys after you?” asked Jack. “Bob Marley and his homie?”

“I’m serious.”

“What are those little brothers gonna do? Stick a knife in your ribs?”

The two gangbangers were about 10 feet off. One of them, with the dreads, reached around like he was fixing to yank a pistol from behind his back. Maybe something was up, after all. But it was none of Jack’s bidnis, not even if went down right in front of him. What happened in the street had nothing to do with the club. He settled his shades on the bridge of his nose. He was Stevie Wonder.

was“Hurry!” Uhura begged him.

Bob Marley’s hand came back into view, but there was nothing in it. No pistol, no knife, no grenade. Nada. He tucked the front of his shirt into his jeans, and Jack drew a slow breath.

“That was a close one,” he said. “I thought you were history.”

The teenagers moved on past and out of sight.

“I was pretty scared,” he said.

Now she was looking at the door again.

“So who told you Tavares was throwing a party here tonight?” asked Jack.

Foley had let him know that a black stretch limo would be pulling up around midnight, delivering five ultrahip soul brothers — actual brothers, related by blood — who would be playing a live show on Studio 74’s small stage.

“You can hit ‘em up for autographs, Jackie,” Foley had said, “but you don’t need to ask ‘em for a pass.”

Uhura stood there goggling at him. “Tavares?”

“You know, ‘Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel’? You’re a fan, right? I don’t think you’re the angel.”

“You’re playing games with my life, Chief. I’m telling you, Fats and I go — ”

“Second verse, same as the first,” Jack cut her off. “A little bit louder and a whole lot worse.”

All things considered, it was a quiet night, so, when the limo pulled around the corner, Jack would have bet his shades it was the one Foley had told him to expect.

“Here they are,” he said, “right on time. Step aside, please.”

The stretch pulled to a stop before the club, its windows tinted dark so you couldn’t see in, its engine purring. Five slender black men stepped out of the back, decked out in identical vanilla three-piece suits and purple silk shirts, a couple of them carrying instruments in their hands. Jack swung open the door, and Tavares glided past him as if he was St. Peter ushering them through the Pearly Gates. Inside the club, the DJ was spinning the Meters’ “Hand Clapping Song.” Jack’s hand was clapped against Uhura’s shoulder, holding her back, her straining against the pressure, the door open, her goal in sight. Once all five fifths of Tavares were safely deposited, Jack eased the door shut behind them, never taking his eyes off Uhura.

“What d’ya think?” he said. “Are those guys cool, or what?”

Whatever cool Uhura might once have possessed was now completely gone. There was nothing left for her to do but give it up and take off. All that stuff about they’re gonna murder her was just a line. Now Tavares — that was reality.

that“Whyn’t you just go home?” he said. “Take a cold shower, get your act together. Come back another time and try again.”

“You bastard,” she said.

She’d given up. Either that, or she just didn’t even believe it herself, any more. The dreads, the limo, Tavares, it was all too much. And then she raised a hand and slapped Jack’s face. A real slap, sharp, right on the cheek, like you see in the movies. It didn’t faze Jack, though. He barely felt it.

“I’ll get you an autograph, you want one,” he said. “Anything for a pal, that’s me. You hadn’t oughta handed me all that baloney, though. You told me the truth, who knows, I might’ve let you in.”

That brought her back to life. She came up close, grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled his ear down to her lips.

“They are going to kill me,” she whispered, pausing after each word for effect. “You have to help me. Fats is expecting me.”

kill“He didn’t say a word to me.”

“Ask him,” she whispered. “I know you got a walkie-talkie. Buzz him and tell him I’m out here, I forgot to bring the stupid pass he gave me. You can do that, can’t you?”

Was this another bluff? Could be. But Jack didn’t mind playing out the hand. What else did he have to do?

He thumbed a button on the walkie-talkie and said, “Boss, I got somebody out here says you’re expecting her.”

And then two things happened at once.

From behind the closed door to the club, Tavares kicked their first number into gear with the clash of a cymbal.

And a second limo swung around the corner, pulled up to the curb. This one disgorged no quintet of funksters. All that happened was the tinted back window slid noiselessly open.

For the second time that evening, Jack raised his shades. The black window went down, and the mirrored Ray-Bans went up.

“She got a name?” Fats’ voice growled in his ear.

Jack turned to ask her who she was, but he never got the chance.