American tabloid

100

The dope hit home. Heshie unclenched and eked out a smile.

Pete wiped off the needle. “It’s happening about six blocks from here. Wheel yourself to the window about 12:15. You’ll be able to see the cars go by.”

Heshie coughed into a Kleenex. Blood dripped down his chin.

Pete dropped the TV gizmo in his lap. “Turn it on then. They’ll interrupt whatever they’re showing for a news bulletin.”

Heshie tried to talk. Pete fed him some water.

“Don’t nod out, Hesh. You don’t get a show like this every day.”

o o o

Crowds packed Commerce Street from curb to storefront. Homemade signs bobbed ten feet high.

Pete walked down to the club. He had to buck entrenched spectators every inch of the way.

Jack’s fans held their ground. Cops kept herding avid types out of the street and back onto the sidewalk.

Little kids rode their dads’ shoulders. A million tiny flags on sticks fluttered.

He made the club. Barb saved him a table near the bandstand. A lackluster crowd was watching the show-maybe a dozen lunchtime juicers total.

The combo mauled an uptempo number. Barb blew him a kiss. Pete sat down and smiled his “Sing me a soft one” smile.

A roar ripped through the place-HE’S COMING HE’S COMING HE’S COMING!

The combo ripped an off-key crescendo. Joey and the boys looked half-blitzed.

Barb went straight into “Unchained Melody.” Every patron and barmaid and kitchen geek ran for the door.

The roar grew. Engine noise built off of it-limousines and full-dress Harley-Davidsons.

They left the door open. He had Barb to himself and couldn’t hear a word she was singing.

He watched her. He made up his own words. She held him with her eyes and her mouth.

The roar did a long slow fade. He braced himself for this big fucking scream.