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February 9, 2008

Jammin’ on the One

Written by Girth McDürchstein on February 9, 2008 11:57 PM
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The shadowy maw of the semi-defunct Lunaria Jazz Bar stretched what felt like a mile high. I gazed at the foreboding doors before taking tentative steps forward, pulling the old-fashioned wrought-iron door handles, and stepping inside.

I was greeted by the siren sound of piano-led smooth jazz and the pungent but delectable scent of tobacco smoke. Since Santa Monica’s smoking ban, the faux-managers of the Lunaria have found a way to spice dry-ice fog with a rich tobacco scent. It gives the Lunaria an old-timey feel. Also, as a former heavy smoker (who quit because of a pregnancy scare with Margo, which itself turned out to be a ploy to get me to stop smoking), the ability to harmlessly take in that odor in a shabby, poorly ventilated jazz bar makes me happier than I can put into words.

While it’s true that the Lunaria closed in 2006, a certain sect of the clientele has seen to taking it over, keeping it open 24 hours a day (so they can squat), and ensuring everybody has as good a time as possible.

I wasn’t here to have a good time, and it was written all over my face. Smiles faded when patrons caught a glimpse of me. Even with the amplified music, I could hear people whispering about me. Did they know me? Had they kept up with the blog? Did they know what happened to Margo?

I finally got through the heavy crowd to a red-paneled corner booth in the back of the bar. Sitting next to each other, looking overly chummy, were two of my many nemeses: Jam Malone and Tommy Janofsky.

Tommy was the drummer who left the band with the incomplete recordings of You Can Touch It for a Quarter, which he later edited into a horrific “final product” that he sold out of the back of his mom’s Aerostar. He had gained about 150 pounds since then and looked like the kind of old barfly who mutters about getting a catheter so he never has to leave the stool again.

Jam, my closest creative collaborator, betrayed me when he quit the band and refused to return. He’s attempting a solo career, but by all accounts that means sitting around the lounges and restaurants where he used to play and hoping somebody will beg him to take the stage. Bulky as ever, tough as balls, his curly hair was pulled back into an awful ponytail. He wore his trademark black mesh half-shirt and some $500 sunglasses.

“Sit down, Girth,” Jam said without looking at me. He stirred his dry whiskey without meaning.

“No, I’m standing up,” I said.

Jam looked up at me. The dead black circles where he eyes should be looked accusing, somehow.

“You got information I need,” I said. “I don’t want to have a fucking conversation. Spill it.”

“Why the fuck should we?” Tommy snarled.

I lunged across the table and yanked him by the elastic neck of his t-shirt. “He almost killed my wife!” I roared, unconcerned about spitting all over his face. “He’s gotta pay!”

“All right,” Tommy said, “but let me tell you, this Madera guy is tough shit.”

“So’s your mom,” I said, “but that didn’t stop me from doing things to her best left unmentioned in mixed company.”

I glanced in Jam’s direction. His lips curled, and after a moment he indignantly exclaimed, “Hey!”

“You know where he is, or where he’s going,” I said. “I need to find them.”

“Them?” Tommy raised an eyebrow.

“La Madera Verde has my daughter!” I shouted.

Jam and Tommy both laughed at this.

“You’re kidding, right?” Jam said when the laughter tapered off.

“No…” I suddenly felt discouraged.

“She was obviously a plant,” Tommy said. “Someone within the organization looking to scam you guys, for one reason or another. This is what happens when you announce publicly that you have a shitload of unspent cash.”

“And also when you work with people who fucked over Madera before,” Jam added.

“And, of course, when you become actively involved with their chief pharmacologist,” Tommy finished.

I took a moment to organize my thoughts and articulate the best possible response:

“Huh?”

“Goes like this,” Tommy said. “People in Central America and North Africa grow drugs for the Madera cartel. Somebody’s gotta take that stuff and turn it into the shit. Madera’s old-school—he’s not going to have some corner boy or lieutenant mix that shit up. He’s got…”

“Clement Okon,” I sighed. “So he is a real doctor.”

“The realest,” Jam said, “and one of the best at what he does on the planet. So he’s old and bed-ridden and you take every red cent he owns. You think Madera’s gonna let that lie? You think Okon’s gonna let that lie?”

“He seemed so frail…” I muttered.

“Well, he made a speedy goddamn recovery,” Tommy said, “and he’s in L.A. right now. No doubt he’ll lead you right to Madera, though I figure at the end of the day, Okon’s the guy you want, anyway.”

“I want them both,” I snapped. “What do you know?”

“You’re gonna have to be patient, Girth,” Jam said.

Tommy slid a 3x5 index card across the table. “Written on that are two addresses. One of them is a coffee shop Okon frequents. The other is where he shops. You can sit on one or the other. He’ll show eventually.”

I nodded, taking the card.

“But be careful,” Jam said. “You can sit on them if you want, but that won’t stop them from sitting on you.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Look, I know we’ve had our problems, but I… I think I should thank you for this. I mean, you didn’t have to help me, but—”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Tommy said. “I did it for Margo.”

“I knew you were a big revenge fan, ever since you stole those tapes—”

“Not about you getting revenge. We know Margo. We know, soon as she gets out of the hospital, she’ll come at them harder and more reckless. You’re a goddamn retard, Girth, but you got more lives than a fucking cat. So you do your thing while she’s in the hospital, and it’s all over by the time she’s out. She can rest easy.”

“Wow…” I whispered.

“Yeah,” Jam said. “It’s amazing how much you can notice about a person when you think about anyone other than yourself.”

“I resent that!” I snapped.

Jam shrugged.

“All right,” I said. “Well, I’m gonna…I’ll check out these addresses. Thanks again.”

“We’re square now,” Tommy said definitively.

“Not even close,” I said as I turned around.

“It was worth a shot,” Tommy called after me.