Thunderbowl - Lesley Choyce [2]
Now I was the one who had the shakes. Drek and Al were calming down. “All we gotta do is stay cool,” Drek said.
“Like ice,” Al added.
We opened the rusty doors to the van and started to unload. Al dropped his amplifier on his foot and howled like a wounded wolf.
Just then a jacked-up 4x4 pick up truck pulled up behind us. It sounded like the muffler was off. Whoever was driving hopped the curb and drove in tight to the side door of the bar. We were blocked. No way could we get past them to haul our stuff inside.
Already Al was making ugly threats with his fist. Drek was cracking his knuckles and looking very uptight. All I wanted to do was play music. I didn’t want any of this.
The driver’s door to the truck flew open and Richie Gregg hopped out in a cloud of smoke. I took a whiff and decided it wasn’t tobacco.
On the side of the truck was painted The Mongrel Dogs. Now it was beginning to click. The two other Dogs, Louie and Ike, rolled out the other side and stood coughing on the sidewalk. Everything they were wearing was black and shredded. The Mongrel Dogs had had a regular gig at the club until their attitude and tendency to fight pushed the owner too far. He decided to hold a Battle of the Bands to find a more reliable act. Richie had heard about us, and I think he thought we were the most likely to beat him out.
“Sweetheart,” Richie said, looking at me, “you parked in my space.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. I sounded like a total wimp. The Mongrel Dogs began to laugh, as if they had just heard the funniest joke.
Al stepped in. “We were here first.”
“Oh,” Richie said, “excuse me.” He faded back to his truck, reached under the seat and grabbed something. Before we could get a handle on what he was up to, he had a spray can of paint in his hand. He shook it, and then he sprayed something in quick, sloppy strokes on the side of Al’s van. Thunderbowl eats … Only he didn’t have time to finish. Al grabbed the spray can and heaved it like it was a live hand grenade halfway down the block.
Something bad was about to happen. I wanted to run for cover. But just then the side door to The Dungeon flew open. Stewy Lyons walked out. Stewy is a big, burly guy who looks like a bear with tattoos up and down his arms. He runs the club.
“Who owns this truck?” he asked Richie.
Richie pointed a thumb at himself.
“Park it somewhere else, dinghead.”
“Sure,” Richie agreed. Too much was at stake for him to do otherwise.
“What about this pile of scrap?” He was looking at the van.
“It’s mine,” Al answered, deeply insulted.
“Then drive it to a junkyard. Just don’t leave an eyesore like this parked by my place.”
“Sure,” Al said, defeated. Stewy had stopped the fight—but not for long.
Richie hopped in his truck, gunned the engine and began to back out. He had plenty of room to get by, but he cut the wheel too sharply. The back bumper connected with one of the van’s tail lights.
“You idiot!” Al screamed.
“Oh, excuse me,” Richie said in a phony voice. He revved the engine again and drove backward halfway up the street, tires squealing the whole way.
Chapter Three
Inside The Dungeon, I felt dizzy. The air in the smoky, crowded room behind the stage smelled like dead skunk.
I was thinking that if I could only get my damn guitar in tune, I might be able to play three chords. I still couldn’t breathe right. The band on stage sounded good. But when they finished, nobody clapped. It was a tough crowd. It was going to be a tough night.
The Dogs went on stage before us. It took them forever to get set up and finish their sound check. Richie broke a string and Louie couldn’t seem to find the beat on the drums. Ike sounded smooth on bass, but you can’t carry an alternative band with just a bass guitar. No wonder Stewy was looking for new talent.
But I had the feeling that tonight was