The Night Dahlia Read online

  The number of homeless in L.A. fluctuates, but it’s been going up the last few years. Between the city and the county, there are over fifty thousand people living on the streets. Dwayne was one of them. If you get off the freeways, like the 110 that’s a major artery through downtown, you’ll find makeshift communities of people living close to the highways, along the overpasses, in the islands between the lanes as you leave the exits. I started looking in these cities and towns that don’t appear on any maps. I had wandered so much since leaving L.A. that, despite all the years I’d spent here, maybe some tourist had crept back in, but I felt an odd sense of juxtaposition between the gleaming towers of light and the clusters of shacks made of wood and plastic tarp in their shadow, the tattered Walmart tents reflected in the tinted glass windows of the stretch limos that glided by. L.A. is bipolar and on all the wrong meds.

  An old black guy, skinny, wearing a clean denim work shirt that said TERRY over its pocket nodded when I asked if he knew Dwayne. I held a hundred dollar bill between my fingers just out of his reach but well within his sight.

  “’Pends on the Du-Wayne you lookin’ for,” he said, puffing on a stub of a Swisher Sweets cigarillo. His eyes were clear and wise with old pain. “You lookin’ for tranny Du-Wayne, the crack dealer? You lookin’ for three sweaters Du-Wayne? You lookin’ for crazy Du-Wayne with the dog?”

  “Crazy,” I said, “with the dog.” The old man man’s face slid, just a notch. Most wouldn’t notice. I did. He nodded again and tossed away the stub of his smoke. He looked at the money and then looked kinda sad.

  “Oh,” he said. “You not no cop, I can see that, but you ain’t gonna hurt him, are you? He’s a good man. I had a woman, she was real sick with the AIDS; she’s passed now, no more pain, praise the Lord, Jesus, but Du-Wayne, he helped her, put her pain in an old mayonnaise jar for a time. He brought her some herb to help when his hoodoo couldn’t hold it no more. Made her passin’ easier for her and for me.” He moved his body a few inches away from the lure of the money. He looked away from me and out to the river of car lights below us. “I like crazy Du-Wayne.”

  “I swear, I ain’t intending him no harm,” I said. I almost called him sir, but that would have lost me points, I just knew it. “I just need his help, and he knows me. He helped me way back. I need his help again.” The old man looked me over like he was weighing my sin against the weight of a feather. He sighed and took the money.

  “He’s flopping these days over in Skid Row,” he said. “Near where he and his mamma lived when he was growin’ up, God rest her soul. You might try that bar where they play all that hoochie-coochie music, the Satellite, I think it is. He likes that hoochie-coochie music.”

  “I’m a fan myself,” I said, digging my American Spirits out of my pocket.

  “The last place I can think for you to check is over at Dogtown. He likes to surf over there with the kids.”

  Dogtown was a nickname for a neighborhood near Venice Beach, and the “kids” Terry was talking about Dwayne surfing with were numerous gangs, Latino, Mexican, Crips, Skinheads, and whatever localist surfing crew assholes were claiming the rights to the water these days. The gang turf in this city extended to the waves on the beaches. You didn’t just wander down to the water, slide into the lineup, and enjoy the tasty waves. You’d get your ass kicked. I’m pretty sure if Frankie Avalon and Gidget had a beach blanket party today, they’d get a train pulled on them.

  All these gangs, all these certified badasses were afraid of Dwayne. He gave them respect and they all stayed the fuck out of his way. “Du-Wayne” walked and surfed wherever the fuck he wanted in this town. That was one of the reasons I needed him.

  “Thanks,” I said. I handed old Terry the hundred and the rest of my pack of smokes. He had set my foot on the path, and I was grateful. I started looking for a cab to take me to the House of Hoochie-Coochie.

  * * *

  Satellite was on Silverlake Boulevard, a squat gray-and-white building, with very little parking, except what was on the street. People didn’t come here to admire the architecture, or for valet parking, they came for the sound. Satellite was one of the places in this town to listen to music you hadn’t heard a million fucking times on the radio, to be surprised.

  It was almost two when the cab slowed and dropped me off. The cabbie had put me together with some cocaine. It had been a long day: hurt ex-lovers, a cold case—no, the cold case fucking with me—and it was still far the hell away from being done. My head was full of humming warm brass after the coke, and a hammer made of light pounded in 4/4 time on my heart. I felt good and it was kind of weird to feel that way again. I knew I’d get over it.

  Inside, it was wall-to-wall people, hot, noisy, your organs shaking from the walls of speakers beside the stage. A band called Nympho Punch was on stage, and I could see random body parts thrashing about near the edge of the stage while the sea of flesh near the back, closer to the bar, swayed or headbanged to the thunderous beat and the unrelenting advance of the guitars. They were good. They had a female lead singer with hair dyed Joy Division black and a septum ring. Her voice was a dove frantically trying to stay aloft above an ocean of musical pain. They were good enough for me to stay and listen for a spell. Maybe it was the drugs. I ordered a shot of tequila and a Budweiser for last call. I asked the bartender if he knew Dwayne, and he said of course. I asked if he had been in tonight and he said no. Hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. Then the bartender got an odd look on his face and seemed to really look at me for the first time.

  “Hey, man,” he said as he slid my empty shot glass toward him, “are you Laytham Ballard by any chance?”

  “Yeah,” I said. Now I knew it was definitely the drugs working on me.

  “Holy fuck,” he said. “Wow, hey man, I loved you guys. I had all your albums.” I started laughing and shook my head. Jesus Christ, this city. “Hey, you doing anything now, you know, solo projects, producing?”

  “Solo stuff, mostly,” I said, nodding to the empty shot glass. What good is celebrity if you don’t use it, right? The barkeep refilled my shot and slid a second next to it. “I’m not much into groups anymore.”

  “Well you guys thrashed, man,” he said. “I listened to you back in high school; a buddy got me bootleg tapes of your shows. I wasn’t old enough to go.”

  “High school,” I said, “damn,” and drained the shots fast, chased them with the rest of the beer, offering the empty bottle to him with raised eyebrows. He replaced it with a fresh cold one.

  The band was finishing up, and I saw some folks drifting out the doors, guided by the bouncers. Nobody was in a big hurry to leave just yet, and that was fine by me. I loved places like this; I loved the ebb and flow of people, the energy, being part of it, and at a distance. I sensed a blossom of energy, like someone had just kicked on a floodlight in the middle of the crowd. I couldn’t see who it was; I thought perhaps it was Dwayne, but whoever it was they were more powerful than I recall him being; of course it was a while back and people change, wizards grow.

  The lead singer of Nympho Punch was back at the mike. “Hey everybody,” she began and a bunch of folks clapped and hooted, figuring the band was going to do an encore. “Hey everybody, we got a surprise tonight. There’s somebody in here that you might know. He was the lead singer and guitarist of a band you might have heard of … Leaving Season!” The crowd erupted with cheers, hoots, a few shrieks as memory kicked in, and more than a few calls of “who?” The singer smiled and nodded at the bar’s reaction.

  For a second I felt coiled power, disciplined, trained, close to me, then it was gone. Probably someone in the Life headed out the door. I dismissed it, still wanting to get a look at who was throwing off all that juice in the crowd. The tequila was warm in my chest and I felt loose and relaxed. Most of the folks around me now were clapping and cheering. A random hand offered me an unlit joint and I took it and tucked it in my pocket. I felt the bartender patting me on the back.

  “I bet if we
give him a little encouragement, we can get him up here to do a little something,” the lead singer said. The place went apeshit, and I have to admit I missed all this. It was as powerful as any drug you care to name, and it burned you out faster than any of them. But what a fucking way to go. I stood up and the cheering grew, people made way for me through the crowd, and I found my way to the stage stairs. At least from up here, I could see where all that mystic power was coming from.

  The members of Nympho Punch shook my hand and hugged me. The lead guitarist had a threadbare Leaving Season concert shirt. When I saw it, he grinned and we fist-bumped. I huddled with them for a moment, and then one of their roadies handed me a guitar. I slipped the strap over my neck and shoulder and walked to the microphone at the edge of the stage. I was picking at the strings, making sure it was tuned, adjusting the fret pegs on the neck. People were pouring back inside the club, and the crowd was primed. I could feel their energy, their almost sexual excitement roaring through my sacral chakra as it built.

  “How y’all doing tonight?” I asked, my West Virginia drawl falling out. The crowd surged, whooped, cheered, whistled. I saw a bunch of Bic lighters come out in salute. I couldn’t help but notice the white ones. I suddenly remembered the energy again. I was tripping right now, between the drugs, and the booze, and most of all the ego-stroking. Svadhisthana energy always got me kinda high, especially when it comes at me fast and in large doses. “Y’all not ready to go home yet?” The crowd howled.

  I looked toward that section of the crowd where the torrent of energy was centered and saw the source. Magdalena was sitting there at a small table, a look of amusement on her face. She wore a black tank top, black jeans, and boots. Her hair was jet, long and straight, with thick bangs falling just above her warm brown eyes. She was small, about half a foot shorter than me, but when she carried herself like a queen, she always seemed much taller. Almost every inch of her olive-complected skin showed ink. She had a phrase in Italian tattooed in thin, elegant cursive running along her left shoulder and collarbone, partly obscured by the straps of her top. She had more tattoos hidden from view and she had gotten more during our time together. Some of the tats on my body matched the ones on hers, now. If it was possible, she had gotten more beautiful. It was hard to guess where she was from, maybe Greek, maybe the Middle East, maybe Italian. She spoke with a lilting accent that also hinted at many places but always sounded French to me. I had met her years ago and had broken every single promise I ever made to her since then. I winked at her, and she shook her head, a smile tugging at her full lips. She raised her plastic cup in salute.

  I looked over to the lead singer; she had told me her name was Effy when she hugged me.

  “You guys know any Pat DiNizio?” I asked the kid.

  She nodded eagerly. “Hell, yeah,” she said.

  “Fuckin’ A,” the bassist agreed, “old school. I saw ’em in Chicago.”

  “All right,” I said to the crowd and the band, but my eyes were on Magdalena. “In the immortal words of Joey Ramone, one, two, three, four!”

  I kicked into “Behind the Wall of Sleep” by the Smithereens like busting down a door, and the band followed me in. It was beautiful, like kissing an old love again after too, too, too fucking long and thinking, why did you ever stop? My fingers found their way over the neck of the beat-to-shit Fender Telecaster, and my body dropped back into that practiced, arrogant stance. I made out with the crowd, teasing them, pulling them close only to push them away again, make them ache for a little more, a little further. It was like I never left.

  We followed it up with “Burnin’ for You” by Blue Oyster Cult. They gave me everything they had and I took it. Back in the old days, I would have stroked more than just my ego. I used to skim the power, the energy the crowds gave us when we were a band. Emotion, adoration, desire, they are all power, and I took it in to work some seriously fucked-up ritual. Most times I just took enough of them to make them feel high and tired in a good way after the show. Some nights, I took every drop they begged me to take, and I left them exhausted and me humming with divinity. And back then, some nights I gave them every last drop of me I had. I emptied myself on the canvas of their desire. Some nights they were the sacrifice, other nights I was. Most nights, it was them.

  Tonight, I dealt in surfaces, no workings, no coaxing out mystical energy, only the natural emotional storm of the crowd and the band, ebbing and flowing like tides. Even this was a magic of a sort, and I loved it, and so did they. I gave some back tonight, but I didn’t give them everything. I didn’t do that shit anymore for anyone. They were screaming for me to do “War Engine,” one of Leaving Season’s songs that did pretty well on the charts, but it wouldn’t have been the same without the band, so we did a twenty-minute jam of Tool’s “Forty Six & 2” and called it a night.

  It was after three, and I ended up signing cocktail napkins and the guitarist from Nympho Punch’s shirt. I also got lots of phone numbers on scraps of paper, a few demo tapes, and some questionable drugs. At a quarter to four, the band and most of the bar’s patrons and staff were out the door, on to the next party. I got invites for more places to go, and I was politely vague about my arrival. Magdalena remained at her table as the crowd thinned and dispersed. I sat down across from her with a cold Budweiser, given to me by my new best friend, the bartender.

  “You should have kept making music,” she said. “You love it. It makes you happy. I saw it in your eyes. It was nice to see. You make music like you build a working or make love. Passion, but there is technique behind it, barely hanging on.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “In L.A.?”

  “Working,” she said. She slipped a cigarette between her lips and I lit it. She hadn’t smoked when we met; she used to make fun of me and my “hipster smokes.” The Surgeon General has determined that knowing me is hazardous to your health.

  “You have a shoot? Didgeri with you?”

  “No,” she said, sounding irritated as she blew the smoke out her nostrils, “not that kind of work, your kind of work. Messy, ugly, probably violent. And I don’t need Didgeri Doo running after me to make sure I don’t fall down and bust my ass. I can handle this myself, Laytham. She’s not my mother, and you sure as hell are not.”

  “Okay,” I said, “just making conversation.” I sipped my beer. “You want to tell me what this caper is about?”

  “No,” she said. “I can deal with it.” She paused for a second. “That’s exactly how that feels, by the way, for all the times you ran off on your own. Enjoy it. What are you doing out here, other than rekindling your rock and roll career?”

  “Skip trace,” I said. “A Fae noble lost his daughter, so I’m out here looking for her.”

  “Fae,” Magdalena said, “so, Torri’s involved in this. You’re doing it for her?”

  “No,” I lied. Magdalena shook her head.

  “You know how I can always tell when you’re lying, Laytham?” I made a low groaning sound and rubbed my face. “Your lips are moving. Of course it has to do with her; most things that get you motivated in your life have to do with your ego or your kinda dead girlfriend.”

  “Hey,” I said, “I was with you. I tried, I really fucking tried. I stopped drinking, I cut back on the smoking. I even kept you as far away from the fucking Satan thing as I could. I tried, okay?”

  “I know you did,” she said. “I did too. It was just … bad, we were just bad. I tried to give you what I thought you wanted and needed but were too stubborn to let yourself have. I tried to love you, and you kept pushing me away. Banging your head against that wall, Laytham, it wears you out.”

  I heard an echo of Anna’s words earlier. “I know,” I said. “I’m a selfish son of a bitch. It wasn’t you. You gave me every scrap of you, freely, with love, with really good fucking love. I just … fucked it up.”

  Magdalena watched her cigarette burn toward entropy. “I finally figured out why you’re still mooning over Torri,” she said.
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  “Don’t,” I said.

  “No, Laytham, you need to hear it,” she said. “Because she’s the perfect woman for you, she’s unobtainable, unreachable; you can stay faithful to her because any trespass is forgiven. You have memory and grief instead of messy living, clumsy, uncertain love. A dead woman is the perfect partner for a man who doesn’t want life to touch him.” I stayed silent. There was nothing I could say to any of that. Magdalena reached out and touched my hand. “I was angry and hurt when we parted. I thought you had presented a lie to me about who you are. But you did tell me the truth, you did warn me. I just lied to myself.”

  “What are you working on?” I asked. “It sounds dangerous.”

  “And now we run as fast as we can away from the real danger,” she said, smiling, “the ugly truth.” She crushed out the cigarette in the glass tray on the table and then stole a sip of my beer. She made a face, and for a second, she was the old Magdalena again. “It’s about … her,” she said. Magdalena never said her name if she could help it, as if the act alone might summon her, and it actually might.

  “The domme witch that messed with you before we met,” I said. “You said she was in the Life and she tried to make you her slave, not just her sub. Why the hell would you poke into anything dealing with her?”

  “I had met a girl on Fetlife, Jeannie,” she said. “It was a tantric group. She was starting to develop some abilities, it sounded like she might be like you, and Didgeri, and me. Then this woman, this domme was suddenly in her life. This bitch sounded a lot like … my old bitch. I tried to warn her and get some more information, and then Jeannie stopped answering me. Grinner tracked her for me, and here I am. I’m going to find her, and I’m going to help her, the way I wish someone had helped me when she had her claws in me.”