Friday 1:52 PM
Maybe it was jealousy, just perhaps. I honestly didn't like seeing Joy with another fellow, but I knew she was in character. I guess the problem was that I was always infatuated with her characters too. Damnit, this was getting complicated. I quit the pretend call and walked to them just before the salesman closed her in the booth.
"I'm sorry, Joy, I couldn't reach them. There's a chance they've already come and gone."
She looked at me wide-eyed, disappointed like. Salesman Adam didn't budge. Then she turned to him.
"Hey, you didn't see two guys come in here earlier? They would have been dressed a little flashy, you know what I mean?"
"Joy," he said, leaning against the door.
"We see all kinds in here. Flashy to me is nothing to someone else."
"They would have been driving a red Ferrari."
Adam still shook his head negatively, and he never took his eyes off her. I couldn't blame him for that. She had him, and she knew it.
"Adam," she said softly, taking his hand.
"Do you think you could ask anyone else that works here? This could mean a good gig for me. I've been trying to get their attention for a while."
He looked at her hand holding his, then back to her sweet face and smiled.
"Sure, I can do that. Give me a minute. You can go ahead and hook up if you want. I'll be right back."
He dashed off around the corner out of sight, and Joy hit the bass with one resounding thud and scrunched her freshly made-up face at me.
"When the hell did you learn to play bass?"
"Oh, I picked it up in Highschool. The GoGo's were my idols. My friends and I were all nerdy ugly girls, but we loved music and thought we'd be cool if we learned to play instruments like they did. It didn't last. I kept my bass, though, and played for years. Under my bed at home, that's where it is now. Haven't played in a while, but it's relaxing."
She thumped the bass again.
"Still makes me feel cool too!"
I shook my head, unreal the stuff I was hearing.
She continued to thump away, making some really cool sounds, and just like that, Adam, the salesman, popped back in with a giant grin on his long pallid face.
"Dear Joy, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you missed your pals. They were here, bought some strings, a couple of midi controllers, and a bunch of sound mods. They hung around a while but left about half an hour ago."
Joy looked right past me, then at her boots and sighed, and hung her head, deflated. She unplugged the bass, let the cord drop to the floor, and then handed it back to Adam, still nursing his informative grin.
"And as luck would have it," he continued, "the midi controller they needed wasn't in but would be in today. So they paid for it, and we're sending it over to them today when it arrives."
He held the bass Joy handed him, letting it rest on his sneaker.
"Where are they recording?" She wasted no time asking.
"Metro Sound," he responded matter of factly.
Joy lept off the stool and threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance. Then I couldn't believe it, planted a kiss right on his right cheek, then headed for the door, leaving me flat-footed again.
"Thank you, Adam. I'm coming back for the bass!"
Adam was pleased with himself, and I was just getting myself moving, nodding to him as I hustled away. Goddamnit! She had run the whole thing. She didn't need me at all. Joy had slowed down outside, away from the store windows. I caught up to her.
"Do you know where Metro Sound is?"
"No, but we can find it," she assured.
"Yeah, well, I know where it is."
She patted me on the back and leaned in for a slight hug as we walked up the sidewalk.
"See, Nick, I knew you would come in handy! That's outstanding! Is it far?"
"No, it's near The Fox, on one of those old side streets in a squatty little building. Near the old Sans Souci property."
She looked at me blankly.
"Anyway, I know where it is."
Then, I just came out and spoke my mind.
"Why did you kiss that guy?" I asked softly, like it really wasn't a big deal.
Joy didn't even look at me when she answered. It was no big deal to her at all.
"I didn't kiss him, kiss him, I just kissed him, you know? I had to look excited. Hell, I was excited. The plan worked, and now we're heading over there to snag that damn car which is number four, I might add. Halfway there."
She turned to give me a high five, and I guess I still looked pissed or stunned or disappointed, which gave her pause.
"Did it piss you off, Nick? I was just acting, Okay?"
"You did kiss him," I finished.
I felt like a jackass school kid. She should be studying acting instead of astronomy; she had a talent for it. What was I going to do? Make a criminal case of it right there on the sidewalk? No way. I just nodded it off, and we walked on to the Jeep. This time I drove. It wasn't too terribly far. I went through town on Peachtree Rd and finally arrived at 10th street, where I hung a right and crossed over the interstate, then took a quick left down West Peachtree St.
"Half the roads in the city are named Peachtree in one form or another," I mumbled.
"Yeah, I noticed that a while back. It's a pain in the ass when you're not from here."
"Joy, where are you from anyway?"
"A Shitty little town on the coast called Brunswick. I hate the ocean."
I knew where; a small backwater town; certainly didn't suit her.
"The studio is in a slightly sketchy area down here between 16th and 17th. It's going to be on my side. It's got a pretty big sign, but it's a squat little two-story building. It used to be painted dark gray."
"Holy Shit," she said in disbelief.
I looked at her, then quickly to my left. We were on a one-way street and were definitely coming up on Metro Sound. The sign gave them away, but the red Ferrari parked out front was what Joy had seen.
I pulled into the lot and parked in front of the little Italian work of art, blocking it from leaving.
"Just for shit's Joy, give me the VIN, and I'll check it. Some of these assholes have money; you never know."
She passed me the VIN, and I got out and walked around to make the check. Sure enough, it was a match. I didn't know the model of Ferrari as 365GTB/4. In fact, I had no idea what that was outside of a Ferrari.
"It's a Daytona," I said to her through her open window.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the car, it's called a Ferrari Daytona. It's like the one Crocket and Tubs drove around Miami, Miami Vice?"
Joy rolled her eyes and handed me a single key.
"Get it," she said nonchalantly. Meet me back at the shop. Terri's calling could be good news!"
Joy put her phone up to her ear, and I watched as she switched seats. I opened the door, didn't even need the key, and settled into the firm leather seat. It took a second or two to figure out how to fix the seating position. The driver before me had it practically reclined flat. What idiots, why would you not want to be seen in this car?
Friday 2:40PM
Finally, I stuck the key into the ignition. Nothing. In fact, the key wouldn't even go into the ignition. I reached for my phone to get Joy before she got too far away, but I was stymied again. I left my phone in her Jeep. She hadn't noticed it yet.
"Goddamnit!" I yelled in frustration.
I got back out of the car and gently closed the door; then, I tried the lock just for kicks. Yep, it worked. The key only worked the door, not the ignition. These assholes could come out at any moment and drive off, and the only thing to stop them was me. This damn day. I turned to look at the windowless building and damn near put my nose into a pistol barrel.
I froze, obviously. Suddenly the Beretta down the back of my pants felt heavy as I became aware of its presence.
"Bitch, what you doing finger fuckin' my ride?"
The man holding the pistol on me was an average, ridiculously dressed black man. He was young, wearing the obligatory backward turned ball cap, oversized jacket, even though it was in the ninety's outside, and pants that were three sizes too large.
"You sure it's your car? I've got a key for it," I said calmly.
"Well, I got a key too motherfucker, and I drove it over here, so that makes it my damn ride," he almost shouted, shaking the pistol for punctuation of the last three words.
It made me nervous. I knew it didn't take much to fire a pistol, even accidentally. I kept my hands by my sides and made no sudden moves. He just stood there holding his gun on me in the parking lot. I was aware of nothing but the barrel of that gun. I couldn't hear the traffic, the sirens, horns, busses, construction, air conditioners, nothing. The funny thing was, the more I concentrated on the pistol, the less frightening it became.
It should have dawned on me sooner, but the shock and surprise of being caught trying to take the Elton Ferrari distracted me from what was plainly obvious. This asshole was holding a fake gun on me! Not that I wish it upon anyone, but if you have ever looked down the barrel of a firearm from the business end, you will be able to spot a fake.
As the realization sunk in, he ordered me to walk toward the studio's door. I studied the pistol more carefully, yeah, molded plastic. Good job too, but nothing natural about it. That barrel too. It must have been a pellet gun. I should have noticed it sooner.
"Look, man, you want my wallet or something? I'll give it to you right now," I said, reaching behind my back and quickly gripping the Beretta.
"Fuck no motherfucker. I want you to get your ass in that door and quick!" He demanded, clearly becoming more agitated.
I looked him straight in the eyes, nodded agreement, then brought the Beretta around to bear on him.
He was shocked by my sudden movement, and the maggot fired his pistol about ten times, several of them hitting me, two in the face. I don't know if it was empty or not, but he retreated quickly at the sight of my gun. I felt like I had been attacked by hornets. I managed to catch him before he got to the door and kicked his feet from under him. He sailed through the air with a final stride which sent him crashing into the studio entrance and crumpling onto the ground in a protective ball.
I took a few more steps to him and held my pistol out straight so he would definitely see down the barrel and see that it was no pop gun. I kicked the bottom of his sneakered foot.
"Get up, asshole, and get in there," I said calmly.
The guy held his hands above his head, and I motioned for the door with a swing of the pistol. Slowly he rose and gently opened the door and slinked inside. I was right behind him. There was a lovely bright reception room complete with an art deco-looking curved glass wall in front of the receptionist desk. It had the studio's name, Metro Sound, etched into the glass and tinted alternation colors of silver and black.
"Look, man, it ain't really my car. It's Love's car; he and Sug are mixing. I don't even have the keys, man. Trust me, you better get the hell out of here before anyone else sees you."
"Yeah, you've got me quakin' in me bloody boots, matey. I tell you what, we're going to go get those keys, you and me. Lead on."
He looked scared, real scared. I could tell he was ultimately out of his element. No big deal. I was too. I couldn't believe I was holding a gun on this want to be thug and standing in a recording studio and about to repeat the whole process with more people. I was a damn thief, an armed thief. I was trying to keep the thoughts at bay; no time for self-doubt.
I followed the scared kid past the vacant reception area and down a long hallway to the back of the building. He paused just ahead of me at the studio door and studied his feet. He looked back at me, and I nodded for him to go in. He did, quickly too, and tried to slam the door on me. I was caught off guard by that but managed to get my foot in, preventing it from closing.
The kid ran past the two guys sitting just inside the entrance; I was nearly overcome by the smell of marijuana. Moved in past them trying to keep an eye on the kid I saw inside the main studio through the control booth, which was also nearly completely filled with smoke. I lost the kid. I looked around, and I was standing in a lounge behind the control room, maybe a place for recording artists to hang out in between takes. The two stoners in the room finally shifted their bloodshot gazes to me; both nodded as if they didn't even see the pistol. I put the safety on and shoved it down the front of my pants.
"Either one of you assholes owns that Ferrari outside?" I barked.
Apparently, it was funny, too, because they both broke out into laughter. My face and neck were searing with pain, and then I looked down at my shoes and saw the blood on my Chuck's. I looked at my shirt, and the collar was covered in blood too. Wiping my forehead brought back a blood-soaked hand. My cheeks and neck would yield the same result. And there, these two baked assholes lounging on a couch were laughing.
I drew the pistol again and stepped quickly in their direction, eyes full of frustration, blood, and fury.
"Okay, which one of you assholes wants to die first!"
The laughter ended, and hands shot into the air. Both guys were white; one sported dreadlocks, the other bright orange-colored hair that stood straight up nearly. They were wearing loud tracksuits and ubiquitous jewelry on their arms and necks. They could have been twins save for the hair. The orange coiffed guy pissed his pants immediately. I rolled my eyes in disgust.
"Who owns the fucking Ferrari?" I shouted.
They looked panicked, stricken at each other, then back to me. One pointed into the studio on the other side of the control room. Several fellows were scrambling around for cover or weapons or who knows what. The men in the smoke-filled control booth were still clueless. I had had enough. I turned to the door of the studio and burst through. The two tracksuited imbeciles scrambled out of the room. Damn, this was going south and fast.
The studio had a high ceiling shaped into a continuous W pattern covered in some sort of gray foam material, as were the walls.
"Hey man, we don't need any trouble. This is a closed session," A couple of voices came from around the corner.
I rounded the corner past the control booth and saw what I counted as five guys huddled together against the back of a piano. There were six, though. The initial punk who shot me was cowering behind the same piano. I recognized his bright red sneakers.
"Who the fuck is driving the Daytona?" I demanded, holding the gun at my side.
The men looked at each other, saying nothing. Blood was dripping into my right eye, and it stung.
"Look, I'll kill every damn one of you pricks in here, and no one outside will ever know. I need the keys to the Daytona."
I couldn't believe the words as they came out of my mouth. They were so calm and cold. I had no idea where they had come from. I wouldn't shoot anyone, not over a stupid car anyway. This had gone off the rails, and how! Hopefully, these guys were too scared to see through my bullshit.
The blood kept dripping down my neck and had just soaked the top of my shirt. I looked like a killer. Hell, I looked like I had just eaten something alive. I was getting nervous about the pain, too, and more than a little frightened to look in a mirror. I reached up and touched my left cheek, and the sharp stinging pain caused me to wince. Then I began to lose all patience.
"The fucking keys, assholes!" I said as I raised the gun to the group in general, safety still on, and the handgun actually uncocked.
Everyone took a step back then a knocking to my right caught my attention. It was one of the stoners in the smoke-filled control room. One of the men was a clean-cut frat-boy type, only he was wearing a bright electric blue-purple ghost paisley. His short-cut hair was slicked back in a clip on top of his head. He pressed a key ring against the glass with the palm of his hand. Apparently, he could hear everything going on in the studio.
I glanced once more at the small group of panic-stricken "musicians," then walked back to the door to the control booth, turned the knob, and kicked the shit out of the door. It flew open and smashed into a wastebasket, sending it flying and dramatically pushing a stool against the glass window. The frat boy stood facing me. He was too baked to be afraid. The other guy, not so much. He scooted his chair all the way to the other end of the booth and was in the midst of ducking behind the corner of the control board.
Frat boy held the keys out in front of him on a single finger. I had to hand it to him; he was braver than any of those other dipshits. He looked near me but not at me like he was afraid of eye contact. I reached out and snatched the keys, and blood splattered across the corner of the control console and onto the glass wall itself.
I said nothing but backed out of the room. And hustled to get out of there, but not at a dead run. I didn't want those assholes following me with any suddenly bold ideas. There was no sign of the two stoners who fled earlier, but still, I moved with caution down the long hall to the and past the front desk dripping blood the whole way. I pushed the front door open with my right foot just as Joy's green Jeep came screaming into the parking lot, tires smoking.
I thought I might feel relief, but I was too sore and frustrated and honestly a little frightened at how out of control the situation had become. Still, seeing Joy jump out of the Jeep and run toward me was a welcome sight.
"On my God! What happened?" She gasped as she came to me, taking the pistol from my hand. She wiped the blood from my cheek, then led me to the Jeep.
I heard her yelling profanities as she fumbled around for tissues or anything, then she just stripped off her shirt, turned to me, and wiped my brow and cheek.
"I got shot," I answered.
"It's still in there; I can see it. Oh my God, your forehead too," she bleated and dabbed blood from my face.
"Come here," she said, directing me to the back of her Jeep.
"Joy, we really need to get the hell out of here. We can do this triage later."
"No, we can't now sit down!"
She flung open the rear hatch, and I sat on the fold-down door. She half climbed in and removed a white plastic medical kit from a cubby. She dabbed my face with her right hand as she dug through the box with her left. Then she stopped, pulling a bottle of something I knew would hurt from the pack.
"Okay, babe, I'm going to squirt this in these places, and it's probably going to sting. Close your eyes," she said calmly as she shielded them herself and began squirting the liquid fire onto my wounds.
It did hurt; it stung like hell. She wiped away the excess with her bloodied shirt and then studied the wounds.
"Pellets," I said.
"The asshole shot me with a pellet gun, right in the face."
She pursed her lips and focused on me, tearing tape and putting heavy gauze coated with something over each wound. She piled the rest back into the box and closed it, pushing it back inside. She picked my gun back up, tucked it into the front of her pants, and then helped me unnecessarily by my left arm.
"I'm okay to walk," I insisted though having her close sure was comforting.
"Are you okay to drive?" She asked flatly.
"Yeah, Joy, now that you got the bleeding stopped, I'll be fine."
"Well, I didn't get it stopped, but that clotter in the bandages sure as hell will slow it way down, and maybe it will stop. You're not dizzy?"
She looked into my eyes and pulled me close, holding my eyelids open for a close inspection. Then satisfied, she smiled and kissed me.
"Give me the keys. You take the Jeep."
I handed them over and looked her up and down for the first time since coming outside. Blue jeans, ponytail, and a black bra, hell, it looked great on her. She reached for the right side of my face, pulled me in close, and then kissed me softly, finishing with a peck on the tip of my nose. Then, with her eyelashes fluttering, she released me and walked toward the Daytona.
I stood by the open Jeep, watching her scoot across the parking lot. A noise to my left gained my attention, and her's too, as I saw her turn around. The group of men inside had gathered in and around the open door. Joy slid out of sight, and I heard the Daytona come to life. I hopped in the Jeep and shut the door, but she had climbed back out and had raised the gun. The men scrambled to the ground, trampling each other in their retreat to get back inside. Joy fired a volley of three shots blowing the frosted glass panels above the door out completely. Then in a split second, she burned out of the parking lot past me. I did the same. She was gone by the time I got the Jeep to the end of West Peachtree.