Emma soon realized she was the only pedestrian in this part of the city. A security cruiser slowed, and the uniformed driver peered out of the window. “Lost, ma’am?”
“No.” She smiled quizzically at the young officer. “Just walking.”
“Okay. It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone walk in Beverly Hills before. It’s not illegal or anything.” She shrugged and waited until he put the cruiser back in gear. “You take care now. Sure I can’t give you a lift somewhere?”
She shook her head and carried on down a series of winding streets lined with palm trees, musing about the city planner, who must have been a closet ornithologist. Blue Jay Way led to Warbler, Mockingbird, and Skylark, before she approached the throb of Sunset Boulevard down Doheny. A couple of emaciated guys in leather pants and sunglasses emerged from the liquor store on the corner and stared at her until she felt slimed.
It was everything she’d expected, which wasn’t much, and different somehow. The strip hadn’t aged well, she imagined. Sure, a few new layers of neon were in evidence, based on the old photos she’d seen. But it was sleazier than she had anticipated, even more so than Hollywood Boulevard in some hard-to-pin-down ways. There were the clubs she knew her dad had played when he was starting his career, and that made her smile. She pictured his name on the marquee above the Roxy, or maybe the Rainbow Room. Scantily clad girls clustered outside now, smoking, trying to look cool rather than just cold. Guys in Italian clothes sauntered by, checking them out, trying to look sophisticated rather than just old. Every car played a different tune, like an ad for its inhabitants. Everyone was on the make.
Across the street she excitedly spotted the sign for the Viper Room, Johnny Depp’s place, where well-known bands would show up under assumed names, where River Phoenix had died. Her thoughts drifted again to her dad, and she realized that it was probably some early sign of grief that had led her to claim that he was still alive as she left Uncle the other night. Or just a desire to mess with Karl’s oiliness. She’d read the accounts and knew that the coast guard was calling it a probable death by drowning after interviewing the helicopter pilot and searching up and down the Malibu coast. Sure, something in that footage was weird, and she couldn’t put her finger on it, but it was beyond wishful thinking to assume he was anything but gone. She realized she’d been standing on the corner of Larrabee and Sunset for too long and decided she might as well check out the Viper Room. She didn’t recognize any of the bands on the marquee, but a cold drink in a loud room was definitely the best idea of the moment.
Once inside, she instantly regretted her decision when she saw that the room was wall to wall with the same types she’d tried to avoid making eye contact with on Sunset. Determined to get something for her eight dollar cover charge — “a buck a band” the sign had said — Emma sat on a stool with her back to the wall and ordered a glass of wine. No doubt the only patron in a sweater and sneakers, she calculated she might be the only girl with her real hair colour and god-given flat chest. The latest band was just taking the stage, and a monotone voice introduced them to the indifferent crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Viper Room welcome to Maureen’s Ankle.”
A table of, she guessed, band friends cheered too loudly, and the rest of the room barely glanced toward the stage. Maureen’s Ankle started with a couple of droning minor chords and proceeded dirge-like through a repertoire of almost identical songs that elicited a feeble response from the cooler-than-thou crowd. There was a dreamy quality about the music that Emma kind of liked, and she ordered another drink, nodding along until their short set ended with applause that suggested relief rather than appreciation.
A couple of small buildings with tattooed arms began to clear the stage immediately, and the crowd carried on as before. She noticed a cute guy she hadn’t seen earlier noticing her, and they both looked away before looking back at the same time and laughing at being caught. She realized that he was the drummer in the band she had just seen. He had a torn denim vest over a scrawny chest and hair with a mind of its own. She stopped noticing the earring collection once he smiled awkwardly and asked if he could sit down.
“Sure. Hey, I like your band. Have you guys been together long?”
“Kind of on and off over about six months, but the singer’s in two other bands, so, you know …” He trailed off and smiled again, shrugging.
“Cool. I’m Emma. Want a drink?”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m Stick Neff.” He pronounced it “Steek” and noticing her suppressed grin, added, “It’s a band name thing. My real name’s Richard.”
“There must be a story to go along with that,” she said teasingly and waved at the waitress.
“Well, okay, you see, Christopher Guest played this character called El Supremo, right? I know this is obscure, but he wore a fez and a neck brace and said in this weird accent how he always had a ‘steek neff.’” Hearing Emma giggle, he continued, embarrassed. “I had this accident on my bike and … you asked.”
“What is it with the pseudonym thing here? I feel incomplete without one. What do you think I should change my name to?”
Stick paused before answering, “I wouldn’t change anything about you.” Realizing that the sincerity of his tone sounded out of tune with the room, he tried to keep the conversation going. “You don’t look like the usual Viper Room type. Where are you from?”
“New York via Boston. Can’t you tell by the crease in my pants?” She smiled. “I’m staying at an old friend’s place near here, and I just wandered in. This place is sort of famous, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I suppose so. We’re just hoping some of the lustre rubs off on us, but they didn’t seem to be too into our set.” He took a long slug of beer while Emma sipped her wine.
“Well, I really liked it. Have you guys recorded anything yet?”
“Nothing for public consumption. We did some demos in my dad’s studio. He’s a recording engineer. Our sort of manager says we should post them on the Internet, but I’m not sure we’re really ready yet.”
The lights were going down as guitars were being placed on stage for the next band, called the Love Cats, judging by the sign on the bass drum. Emma looked back at Stick, thinking how vulnerable he seemed when talking about his music, and she blurted out, “I’d like to hear your demos.”
“Really? Well, I’d like to play them for you sometime,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on his stool. “I mean, anytime you want, really.”
“How about now?” Emma realized that the third glass of wine was emboldening her. She also had a strong feeling about the person she’d just met and trusted her instincts completely.
“Yeah, okay.” He hesitated visibly.
“Not if you don’t want to,” she added quickly.
“Oh no, I do. You see, the tapes are at my dad’s place, and it’s under repair and the studio is down for a while, and he’s all weird about anyone being in there now … I think it’s some insurance thing.”
Emma tried to read through his hesitation as the next band took the stage to a chorus of cheers from the room. Love Cats was an all-girl outfit that looked like they needed chaperones, but the crowd was primed for whatever they had to offer.
“Oh, hell, let’s go. I’ve got a key. We’ll just have to make sure my dad’s not around. He’s paranoid, really bent out of shape lately, too much weed in his youth, probably.” Emma grinned. “The studio’s in the valley. I’ve got an extra helmet for my bike.”
He said a few goodbyes to the other band members and friends who were opting to stay for the Love Cats. In the alley behind the club, he handed Emma the helmet, and they climbed onto his bike. “The studio’s small, nothing upscale or Hollywood or anything, but it’s cool. My dad recorded all the early stuff by that guy Roc Molotov and his band, The Cocktails. Heard of them? He’s the guy that just died. He was a good friend of my dad’s.”
Emma wondered if the flush she felt rising up her neck to her face registered in the dim light of the alley behind the Viper Room.
Sensing her discomfort, he paused. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Definitely,” she replied seriously and managed a smile as she pulled on her helmet. “As long as I can call you Richard.”