Power Ride
POWER RIDE
Table of Contents
Title Page
J. L. O'Rourke
Millwheel Press Ltd
Kester (Kit) Simmons, drummer with the rock band ‘Charlotte Jane’, was out of beat. He was stressed out, starving and he thought he was going crazy. Then, with less than two weeks to go before a national tour, Kit's precious drums and one of the band members are found slashed to pieces. The keyboard player, Avi Livingstone, is missing, Kit has no alibi and, to make matters worse, the police suspect him of dealing drugs.
Acknowledgements
J. L. O’Rourke has worked as a journalist, sub-editor, free-lance writer and office administrator. When not writing, she enjoys being in a theatre, either onstage as a singer or backstage where she has been everything from floor crew to stage-manager. | She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand.
www.millwheelpress.co.nz
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
J. L. O'Rourke
Millwheel Press Ltd
ISBN 978-0-473-25102-4
Kester (Kit) Simmons, drummer with the rock band ‘Charlotte Jane’, was out of beat. He was stressed out, starving and he thought he was going crazy. Then, with less than two weeks to go before a national tour, Kit's precious drums and one of the band members are found slashed to pieces. The keyboard player, Avi Livingstone, is missing, Kit has no alibi and, to make matters worse, the police suspect him of dealing drugs.
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge the help received from the following people. Firstly, Tama Drum Company of Japan for their kind permission to use their company name. Also Detective Inspector Dave Haslett of the New Zealand Police for his information on New Zealand police procedures and Dr Martyn Buick for prescribing Kit's medication.
All the characters in this book are fictitious. No relationship is intended to anyone living or dead. The bread shop and Kit's house are likewise fictitious.
Cover picture by Bethany Nehoff
The author exerts their ownership of this work under the NZ Copyright Act 1994.
No part of this work may be copied, published or sold without the author’s permission.
First edition 1992, Current edition published 2013 by Millwheel Press Ltd
J. L. O’Rourke has worked as a journalist, sub-editor, free-lance writer and office administrator. When not writing, she enjoys being in a theatre, either onstage as a singer or backstage where she has been everything from floor crew to stage-manager.
She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand.
www.millwheelpress.co.nz
CHAPTER ONE
The weary-looking blond was not amused.
“Stop!” His shouted command cut through the sound pumping from the Marshall amplifiers, stopping his five fellow musicians in mid bar.
“Hold it!” The blond spun round to face the drummer.
“Kit, it's no bloody good, man. It's not bloody working. And it's not bloody good enough. What's with you, man? This is old hat! We've done it a million times, a dozen already today. You're always telling me you can do this number in your sleep; so sleep then, because today you sure as hell can't do it when you're awake!”
The man half-hidden behind the rack of shining black Tama drums moved both his sticks to his right hand, freeing his left to push a lock of long, sweat-dampened black hair back into place.
“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “It's just... I'm a bit... um... I'm just not very together.”
“We noticed.”
“Look, can we take a break? I don't feel so good.”
The blond shrugged and, as an answer, unstrapped his ageing Gibson guitar and propped it up onto a conveniently placed support stand.
“Why not? It certainly can't make this damned rehearsal go any worse.”
Kester Simmons pushed the unruly lock of hair back into place again then unthreaded his long, lean body from behind his drums.
“I really am sorry, Danny,” he sighed.
The blond replied with a savage glare.
“I don't want apologies, Kit, I want a drum beat. Damn it all, Kit, it just isn't good enough. We are hitting the road on tour in just over a week - ten days to be precise - and this rehearsal has been a complete bloody disaster!” Daniel Gordon was working himself into a mild frenzy.
Kester turned to walk away but Danny had wound himself up and continued his harangue.
“And another thing, Mr Simmons! If your ‘not feeling too good’ means what it usually does, you'd better get your act together and you had better do it damned fast. It's a long tour and we're not babysitting you through it this time. You had better be on deck all the bloody way!” His voice dropped to a malicious hiss. “Don't you forget for one minute, Kit, that we are running real close to not making this tour at all, and it's all your fault.”
“Hey, come on now!”
“That's below the belt!” The keyboard player and the rhythm guitarist leapt simultaneously to Kit's defence.
“That was below the belt and decidedly uncalled for,” the rhythm guitarist, Mike Kiesanowski, repeated himself. “We are slightly behind schedule because our bass player quit. That was not Kit's fault and we are getting mighty sick of you hassling him about it.”
“Huh!” Danny snorted in fury and stormed off towards the coffee-making facilities at the other end of the old converted carpenter's workshop the band used as a permanent rehearsal venue.
Without acknowledging Mike's spirited defence of him, Kit dropped his drumsticks into his gear bag and headed out the door into the garden which formed the surroundings for both the rehearsal room and Kit's own quaint little settler's cottage. Once outside he leaned his back against the wall, took a couple of deep breaths, ran both hands through his hair in a sign of despair then began a methodical but unsuccessful search of his pockets for a packet of cigarettes. Finding none, he muttered an unintelligible curse and slid down the wall into a sitting position. A few seconds later another figure flung itself down beside him and placed an arm around Kit's shoulders.
“You okay?”
Kit looked at the concerned expression behind the gold-rimmed glasses that framed the keyboard player's face and gave a wan smile.
“I'm not great, but I'll live.” His smile opened into the hopeful, innocent expression normally seen on spaniel pups. “Hey, you wouldn't have a spare cigarette by any chance?”
Avi Livingstone pulled a squashed packet of Rothmans from the hip pocket of his ancient, faded Levis. He flicked it open but it revealed only the tattered remains of a cigarette which Avi threw away.
“Sorry, Kit, that's it. How come you're scavenging again anyway? Can't you afford your own?”
“Um... no,” Kit replied apologetically. “I'm broke.”
Avi sat back and his soulful brown eyes subjected Kit to a long, searching appraisal.
“Look, Kit,” he said eventually, “I know it's none of my business but was Danny's comment on the mark? I mean, you're broke already, and it's still early in the week, you say you're not feeling very well and, let's face it, your drumming's been half a beat off all morning.”
Avi let the comment hang in the air but Kit declined to answer, content to scuff the ground in front of him with the toe of his boot. Avi patted Kit gently on the shoulder.
“Come on, Kit, this is Avi. An honest answer, okay?”
“An honest answer? Oh yeah? And you're all going to believe me, just like that? I know what you all think. It doesn't matter what I say, you'll all believe whatever you damned well want to. And I suppose you'll be checking up on me with Gabriel behind my back.”
“Hey, come on, calm down.” Avi gently restrained Kit from getting up and leaving. “Calm down. I repeat, this is Avi you're talking to, not Danny, not Gabriel. I believe you. I always believe you. When have I ever not believed you? Come on, now, talk to me, what's wrong?”
“Sorry.” Kit slumped back against the wall. “Honest answer? I'm broke because my money's been cut back again and I can't manage, not that I ever could. Mum and Gabriel said I got behind on the power and phone bills, even though I was sure that I'd been keeping up, so they've taken power of attorney over my money again. Gabriel pays everything for me and gives me a pathetically small amount of pocket money, which leads me back to my original statement - I'm broke!”
“Power of attorney? Can they do that at your age?”
“Oh yeah, you'd better believe they can! All my money is handled by them through a trust anyway, since I was in hospital last time, so I can't do anything about it - except grovel desperately.”
“And you've been a naughty boy and spent your allowance already,” Avi teased.
“Don't rub it in, it's humiliating enough.”
“Sorry”
“Yeah, so I've got no cigarettes and Mum's out of town today so I couldn't phone her and hit her up for a loan - not that she'd give me money for cigarettes anyway. I'd just get yet another moralising lecture on the virtues of quitting. In answer to your other accusations, I know I'm drumming like an epileptic praying mantis but I'm not feeling very well and I don't feel well because I'm pretty stressed out. But it's just that, Avi, stress. I am not - repeat not - underlined, in capital letters not - stoned. Okay? Get that? Not stoned! Out of all of them, Avi, you should know I've been clean for over a year. You guys are as bad as Mum and Gabriel. They don't trust me either.”
“Of course I trust you. I was just worried. Hey, if you're stressed out it's because something's bothering you. Can I help in any way? I'm here any time you need me, you know that. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I'll be okay. I just need a cigarette.”
Eighteen years of friendship had taught Avi when not to push Kit, so he backed off, lightening the tone.
“Tell you what then, why don't we leave Danny to cool off and sneak down to the dairy. I'll buy us a packet of cigarettes and we can share them.”
“Um... I don't know when I can pay you back.”
“So, who's counting? Leave it to me in your will,” Avi grinned as he hauled Kit's lanky body to its feet. “Come on, before the pocket battleship launches another offensive.”
By the time the two men had returned to the workshop Daniel Gordon had left. The band's replacement bass player, Kelly Reynolds, their temporary backing vocalist, Joanna Greenwood, and Mike Kiesanowski were ensconced comfortably in three of the dilapidated arm chairs which formed a casual semi-circle around the primitive coffee-making facilities at the far end of the large room. Avi and Kit slumped into two of the other chairs, Kit completing the act by stretching his long legs out to rest silver decorated, black leather boots on the badly stained coffee table. Joanna lifted her tiny trainer-clad foot and kicked Kit's off the table.
“Get your feet off the table, you lanky slob!”
“It's my table,” Kit argued petulantly, although he obliged, but only because Joanna had pushed his feet off and he couldn’t find the energy to put them back on.
“So where's our beloved leader?” asked Avi, craning his neck to scan the room.
“He gave up on you lot, called you by all sorts of interesting descriptive phrases - especially you, Kit, then ordered a lunch break,” Mike replied. “We have two hours of carefree liberty after which he expects us to perform - or else!”
“That wasn't how he phrased it,” Joanna smiled.
“No, that's the edited version fit for human consumption.”
“Great,” said Avi. “So why are you lot still hanging around here?”
“We were awaiting your return to ascertain whether or not you wished to accompany us to luncheon.”
Avi grinned at the young man who had given the pompous-sounding reply. Kelly Reynolds was a recent arrival to the group and was still somewhat of an enigma. Mike, Avi and Kit were founding members of the group, ‘Charlotte Jane’, and were old friends from way back. Mike had met Avi and Kit when the band was first formed; Avi and Kit went back even further, to their first days at Beckenham Primary School eighteen years before. Joanna, although new to the group, was a long-standing acquaintance. She was Avi's cousin and in the tight-knit world of their parent's religious community the two had grown up closely together. Danny Gordon wasn't a local by birth, but he had been around long enough to be considered part of the Christchurch musical establishment. He came originally from Geraldine, a small rural community south of Christchurch, but generally chose not to broadcast that fact too widely. Daniel Gordon had a serious self-image problem.
Kelly Reynolds, on the other hand, seemed eminently self-assured. He had a different style to the others. His short, trendy haircut and snappy fashion clothing contrasted markedly with the more traditional 'long-haired scruffy rock musician' image of Kit and Avi, and his way of speaking matched his style. It wasn't as if he was being consciously pompous either. Kelly came from an upper-crust Wellington family and had all the benefits of an expensive private school education. The accent came naturally, along with an eclectic knowledge of world affairs, an innate sense of style and, as Joanna had often noted, an elegant, almost balletic, way of moving. To Joanna's eyes, at least, Kelly was a very tasty package.
Kelly acknowledged Avi's grin at his accent with a slight bow of his head. He grinned back and continued, “Then the telephone rang for Kester.”
Kit looked up, flicking the hair out of his eyes with a gesture that was so habitual it had been become almost subconscious.
“Who was it?” he asked.
“I'm afraid I don't know,” Kelly shrugged. “He didn't say. He merely inquired if Kester Simmons, and he did use Kester, not Kit, was there. I said you had disappeared temporarily with Avrahim and that we had placed bets on the probable destination being the corner dairy. Fair guess? Anyway, I inquired if I could take a message but he declined and hung up. I'm afraid he failed to leave a name or a contact number.”
He shrugged his shoulders expressively and stared at Kit whose face now registered a broad grin.
“Yes!” Kit shouted, punching the air with a fist. “Awesome!”
Joanna turned to Avi. “That makes sense to you, does it?”
Avi grinned and shook his head.
“No, but that's normal with Kit, he never makes any sense.”
“Well, I have no intentions of playing guessing games, especially when I haven't been fed. To hell with you guys, I'm going to find some lunch. There is no way I am going to put up with any more of Daniel Gordon's little hissy fits on an empty stomach.” So saying, Jo pulled an orange nylon parka from the back of the chair in which Kelly was languidly sprawled, thrust her arms into the jacket's sleeves and headed purposely towards the door.
“You know something?” Kelly said to no-one in particular, “The lovely lady has made an infinitely practical suggestion. Shall we join her?”
There was a general mumbling of agreement as the men rose to their feet and trooped out to follow Jo. As the party wended its way around Oxford Terrace, Joanna dropped back to fall into step with Avi.
“Cousin, tell me something. Kit's a bit out of it, isn't he? Do tours always have this effect on him?”
“Tours? No, they don't affect him at all, strangely enough,” Avi replied thoughtfully. “Something is obviously bugging him, though. Mind you, that doesn't mean to say that
it'll be anything horrendous. Kit doesn't have the most stable personality and he is apt to make monstrous mountains out of the most minute of molehills. Whatever it is, he doesn't want to talk about it. This, with Kit, means that it is probably something reasonably serious, but I can't force him to talk to me. I'll have another go later. I can usually convince him to talk, it's just a matter of easing him along gently. I can be very persuasive.” He ignored Jo's expression of sarcasm. “I wouldn't worry about it too much, though. In the meantime, I would think the best thing we can do is keep Danny from ripping Kit's face off this afternoon.”
“Danny doesn't like Kit much, does he?”
“Huh!” Avi's laugh was more a scoff of derision. “Rest assured, cousin dearest, it's nothing personal. This close to a tour, Danny hates everyone, including and especially himself. Tours might not affect Kit, but they blow Danny away. He'll get worse yet.”
“Super.” Jo did not sound as if she actually meant the superlative. “You mean we're likely to see some fireworks?”
“Better than Old Man Carson's bonfires. I guarantee it.”
Joanna laughed and rubbed her hands gleefully. Then she stopped and looked serious.
“But Danny's such a little guy. He wouldn't be stupid enough to upset the whole band would he? Surely?”
“He would, he has and he will, no doubt, do so again. In case you hadn't noticed, Daniel Gordon is somewhat akin to your neighbour's crazed Jack Russell terrier. Wind him up enough and he'll tackle anything, even if it is three times his size. Mind you, we could have some real problems this tour. I don't think it's going to be a very smooth ride. Danny is still very angry about losing our last bass player and, even though we've got Kelly, Danny is determined to hold Kit responsible and to rub it in as much as possible.”
“Why?”
Avi shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide in a gesture of genuine incomprehension.