All The Young Punks Pt. 35

--- FEBRUARY 1981 ---

Joe sat on the sofa in 3C strumming lightly, humming a melody that was stuck in his head all day. Weeks ago, his best 20th birthday gift was a Martin acoustic guitar, a dreadnought. He would have preferred a cutaway body, but he would never tell Tina this. He loved that she gifted him a very nice guitar. The specs didn't matter. She explained that he had written so much music over the past several months that he needed an acoustic.

He was in NYC for his first significant break in months. After two longer-than-usual tours at the end of 1980, the band began 1981 with another. Aside from a shorter-than-usual holiday break, he hadn't taken any significant time off since the record release. Even when home he was working, in meetings with his partners, pushing his vinyl on any record shop willing to listen, or writing new music. He and Simon were writing for the next album. He had just arrived in town to find the apartment empty.

He heard the key in the lock and looked up. When the door swung open, Tina came in hot, expecting he would be there. She threw her books on the side table as she passed and went to him, leaving the door open.

"Oh, my God." Her arms went around his neck. "I missed you so much." She kissed him and pushed the guitar aside, then landed in his lap in a long, passionate lip lock. When she came up for air, her forehead rested against his.

"What's this?" Joe took a handful of her hair.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes, I do. When did you..."

"I wanted to start the new year off with something fresh but didn't get around to it. In the middle of your stupidly long tour, I was sad. Coloring my hair cheered me up for a few days. I wanted to surprise you." She stared intently into his eyes. "Be honest, do you like it?"

"I love it." Joe ran his fingers through her new pink hair color. "It's like cotton candy."

She kissed him. "Please, no more of these long tours. I can't do this. I haven't slept for days."

"What does that have to do with me? I'm not keeping you up."

"I'm just... I don't know, sad, distracted. I have trouble focusing when I miss you. I start thinking about what we'll do when you get home, my mind gets going and I can't sleep." She kissed him sweetly. "You relax me when you're here. When you're gone so long I get restless and antsy. I hate sleeping alone."

"You're gonna have to manage this, T. My job takes me away. If the band makes it, even just a little, it's not gonna get better."

"I know, and I'm afraid of that. What if we have kids?"

"That's a bridge we'll cross when we get to it."

"You do want to have kids someday, right?"

"You know I do."

"Good. I want three."

Joe exhaled, "And two dogs, so they have a furry friend."

"Yes," she smiled and kissed him again.

The topic of future children first came up during their camping trip last summer when T was having so much fun she said she wanted to take their kids camping. That raised Joe's eyebrow, but he was okay with it. It came up again right after he met her parents. Joe realized he was now part of her future family planning.

The long road trips were taking a toll on her. Like always, she was fine the first week. Joe called from the road most days. She was in good spirits. Cracks start showing in week two. She'd get whiny on his calls. Days later she was weepy. There could be tears. Normally, week three was the home stretch and she'd perk up knowing Joe was getting closer each day. These longer road trips added at least a week to the old plan. Tina hated it.

"Oh," she said. "Tommy called yesterday. He wants you to phone the bar."

"Did he say why?"

"No, just for you to call as soon as you get in."

"Okay."

"Not until we have a proper welcome home," she reached down for his package.

"Tommy can wait."

Tina kissed him. "I cannot wait. I have a surprise for you. Give me a head start, like seven minutes. Okay?"

"Okay. I'll keep strumming."

She kissed him and ran off to the bedroom. Joe continued his light strumming. Seven minutes later, he walked in on Tina slipping on new lingerie, white, lacy, sheer, and not a lot of fabric. She stood, smiled, and posed.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it." He stepped closer and took her in his arms. "And I love your pink. You're so beautiful."

Tina had a strong lingerie game; a few sexy numbers in shades of purple, two in pink, a red teddy, and some black lacy outfits. This was her first white ensemble. Joe definitely liked it. Tina wasted no time in pulling Joe's tee shirt over his head and began unbuckling his belt with her lips on his.

"I missed you so much," she whispered as her hands slipped inside his Calvin Klien boxer briefs. "I need this, baby."

Joe needed it as much as Tina did. This long road trip was also rough on him. There were several occasions of cute, flirty punk chicks getting handsy and Joe having to thwart their advances. He was a good boy, but that female attention left him frustrated.

When Lana returned home hours later to find no dinner on the table and a closed bedroom door, she didn't have to do the math. The couple only left their purple and pink sanctuary to use the bathroom and get drinks. The following morning, Joe made bacon, eggs, home fries, and toast for his roommates. Once the girls were off to class, he phoned Tommy.

"Listen," Tommy said. "We got a lead on Simon's leather."

"Really? It's been almost a year and a half."

"Seventeen months. You know Patrick, the punk from Soho?"

"Yeah, good kid."

"He saw it on the subway, up close, near Battery Park. He's a hundred percent certain it's Simon's RAF leather."

"What did he do?"

"He followed the jacket to an apartment in Tribeca. Joe, he's just a kid, a teenager."

"That's probably not the guy who fucked up Simon," Joe said.

"I agree, but maybe he knows who did."

"Okay, let's keep this quiet. I'd like to talk to Patrick. I'll be over later today. I have a meeting with my Jew Crew."

--- TAXMAN ---

Sitting in Marty's office, Joe handed Stan a check for $1045. "That makes me square with the taxman."

Marty reached into his desk, "You need to fill out these forms. You're no longer in a cash business, even if they pay you in cash." Marty stared at him for a long time.

"Is that like a wink, wink look you're giving me?" Joe asked. "Are you trying to say something without saying it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Every job you do must be accounted for," Stan said. "If you have a date on your schedule we want funds coming in, cash included."

"All of it?"

"The gig money is yours," Stan said. "We have no say in how you guys handle that. I'm just saying every gig must have a dollar amount coming in."

"Okay, so we'll keep records on the cash and checks I report to you."

"Yes," Stan nodded. "I thought you grew up in a mob neighborhood. You should know about this stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Never mind."

Marty leaned back in his chair. "I'm glad that's behind us."

"Not until Sal and Nate pay up," Stan reminded him.

"What's this shit you guys were saying about Sheila?"

Marty exhaled, "Maybe it's nothing, and it's not our business, but she leased office space."

"I thought she was all about low overhead?"

"And she hired an assistant," Stan added.

"For what, to schedule my band? I did it myself for two and a half years and went on the road to play the gigs. She needs an assistant for that?"

"It's not our business," Marty repeated.

"I think it is, she's under contract with my band. This could affect us."

Stan glanced at Marty, "He's not wrong."

"Okay," Joe said. "I'm just trying to figure this out. First, she declined the offer to be our partner. Then she accepted our job offer to be our manager, demanding a contract in writing. Now she's hiring help to do the part-time job of setting up my tours. Does any of that make sense? She could have joined Guerilla, managed the band with Marty's office at her disposal, and maybe hired staff down the road." Joe looked at each man. "Right?"

"That would have been a smart move," Marty admitted. "She would still have no overhead."

"But she wouldn't be her own boss," Stan noted. "She'd be one of seven partners."

"Is that it," Joe put his hands up. "She's not a team player?"

The older men shrugged.

As the meeting closed, Stan pointed at Joe. "Your buddies need to get me their checks. If they don't, I'll let them deal with the taxman on their own."

"I'll remind them."

---- COLD SHOULDER ---

Walking through midtown on a Friday evening, Tina held Joe's arm. She was happy he was home so he could escort her to a gallery event. Joe had been to enough art events to know how this was going to play out.

"Thank you for doing this for me," she said as they neared the building. "I know you don't like these things."

"It's not that I don't like them, it's the fact you'll ditch me three minutes after we walk in. I'm a fish out of water here. These aren't my people."

"I'm not ditching you. I have people I must speak to. You said you had fun with Gail Mortensen."

"She was cool to hang with for fifteen minutes, after that, I was flying solo."

Joe reached for the door and opened it for Tina. She stopped to kiss him, "I'll try to stay close."

Eight minutes later, after being introduced to a few elderly patrons of the arts, Joe was on his own. When Tina was pulled away they were standing with two couples. One gentleman tried to make conversation.

"Did Tina say you were a musician?"

"Yes."

"What instrument do you play?"

"Guitar."

"Did you attend music school?"

"No, I'm self-taught. I started at fourteen, and I've learned a lot from my bandmates."

"So you're in a band. What kind of music do you play?

"Punk rock, sixties rock, the stuff your grandchildren might listen to."

That line didn't land well. Joe noticed the expressions on three of four faces. The man talking held a fake smile. "Very nice." He then turned to his wife. Without a word, they walked away. The other couple turned their shoulders and slowly wandered off, trying to not look obvious. This happened at the Claude & Claudia event, the cocktail parties, and the Art Ball. Joe was now accustomed to these brief interactions. It seemed cold shoulder was on the menu at every art event.

His best chance to salvage the evening was to hang by the bar. Fortunately, the organizers were keen to hire cute waitstaff and bartenders. Joe stopped a blonde carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. She smiled as he reached for a canape'.

"Thank you," Joe smiled back and then popped some seafood thing in his mouth. It was not hot, but it should have been.

"You seem out of place here," she said.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yes." she gestured at his leather.

"Well, I'm not gonna pretend I'm one of them by wearing a monkey suit."

"I respect that." She smiled and moved on as another patron had motioned to her.

Joe made his way to the bar where another attractive young lady served drinks. When she finished with the gentleman in front of him he smiled, "Can you make a martini?"

"What kind of question is that? I'm a professional. Of course, I can make a martini."

"I mean do you have what it takes to make a martini, the ingredients."

"Yes."

"I'll have one with a twist. Swirl and toss the vermouth and shake my gin hard. I like tiny shards of ice floating on top."

"You're very specific."

"I know what I like. I'm Joe."

She reached for a glass and the gin. "Pleased to meet you, Joe. I'm Clarice."

He leaned on the bar. "So, do you smack down these old fogies if they ask a dumb question?"

"I didn't smack you down."

"You kinda did."

Clarice shrugged as she chilled his glass with crushed ice. She then poured his gin over ice, capped it, and shook hard, her round breasts jiggled as he raised the shaker above her shoulder. She noticed where his eyes were and smiled. "You're an oddball here."

"And everyone knows it," Joe observed her martini process closely.

After she set the shaker down, she dumped the ice from his martini glass and poured a small amount of vermouth into the chilled glass. "I assume that's your date over there with the pink hair." She swirled the vermouth, coating the glass, and dumped the excess.

"Yes, that's my girl."

"I see her at these things from time to time. I love her hair." Clarice poured gin from the shaker into the glass and gave the shaker a jiggle. Tiny pieces of ice fell into the gin. She placed a lemon twist on the edge and slid the glass to Joe.

"Thanks," he smiled, pointing at the ice shards. "Perfect. You made this precisely as I do at home." Joe put cash in the tip jar and took his drink. He felt the presence of a patron behind him. "I'll be back, Clarice. The first always goes down fast."

He killed time walking the gallery alone, taking in the art. These spaces were usually small and there were close to a hundred guests, so it was crowded. Every few steps he was moving around people in conversation. After he completed the lap, he found an open stairwell, went up six steps, and sat down with the remnants of his cocktail. The cute blonde offered him another canape'. He accepted.

"So your date abandoned you?" She made a sad face.

"It happens every time at these things. She wants me to escort her to the door, after that..." he shrugged.

"If I wasn't working I'd keep you company." She smiled. "I'm Jenny."

"Nice to meet you, Jenny. I'm Joe. I appreciate the thought."

"I'll come back after I resupply." She walked off with an empty tray. Joe admired her cute little ass in a black cocktail skirt. Jenny looked back and saw him looking.

"Hello, young man." Joe turned to see an elderly gentleman he had met at the Art Ball. "You're Tina's fellow, correct?"

"Yes, I am."

"John Harmon. We met at NYU."

"I remember. How are you?"

"I'm well, considering the years. I see she dragged you to another dreadfully boring affair."

"Yes. I'm trying to be supportive, doing what she loves."

"That's good of you. My wife hated these things. I pick and choose which to attend based on the people running the circus."

Joe and Mr. Harmon talked for several minutes before John was pulled away by another art supporter, leaving Joe alone again. He went back to the bar where Clarice and Jenny were talking. He ordered another martini. Tina saw him from across the room and made her way over.

"Are you flirting again?" She took her man by the arm, looking at the catering staff.

"Yes." He smiled. "I am. These young ladies are working but somehow seem more available to chat." He smiled at Jenny and Clarice.

"Come with me," she took him by the arm. "I must introduce you to someone."

Joe met an artist Tina admired, and an art dealer. That conversation lasted three minutes and he was alone again. After a couple more servings of cold shoulder, Joe went back to the bar to chat with Clarice. Gail Mortensen arrived late, giving Joe another ten minutes of companionship before she was diverted. As Mr. Harmon said, it was a dreadfully dull affair. Walking back to the subway, Tina apologized.

"I'm sorry." She leaned against him. "I know you had a crappy night."

"I made the most of it." He pulled a napkin from his pocket.

"What's that?"

"I got the bartender's number. Clarice." He smiled. "She's very nice."

Tina snatched the napkin and opened it. It was clean. "You jerk."

"Hey, if you leave me alone at these things I'm gonna have to make new friends, and the geriatrics won't give me the time of day. To be honest, they're pretty fucking rude."

"Oh please. They're not rude. They're nice, polite people."

"I didn't say they were talking shit, I mean they turned their backs on me rudely. I have nothing in common with them and they have nothing to say to me."

"Maybe you could wear a different jacket, not leather, and they'd see you differently."

"I did that once. I'm not changing who I am for some ancient fucking art snobs."

"I think you're being overly sensitive."

"You weren't there, T. You were at a different party than me."

"Is this gonna be a problem, you hating these gallery events?"

"I don't know. I come to support but I don't feel necessary or useful in any way."

"I'm sorry. I'll do better next time."

"Next time?" Joe dreaded the thought.

"How about I make it up to you when we get home?" Tina kissed him.

"I think I deserve a little attention from you after getting none all night."

"Poor baby. I'll take care of you. I'll let you pick my lingerie."

"I'd like that."

---- LOOK OVER YOUR SHOULDER ----

Three days after hearing of Simon's leather, Joe, Nate, and Sal met Patrick at Tribeca Station in the mid-morning. He led them a few blocks on foot.

Patrick pointed at a building. "I followed him into that building and saw him walk into apartment C, the first floor. What are you gonna do?"

"We're gonna knock on that door and show them these photos and the flier. I'll reward the kid if I have to."

"You shouldn't give that fucker a nickel for a stolen jacket," Sal said.

"I doubt he stole it," Joe said. "It's been a year and a half. This is about getting Si's jacket, then we'll see if he knows anything."

Nate and Patrick waited on the stoop. Sal and Joe went in. Joe looked at the name on apartment C's mailbox, Morrison. Sal stood back while Joe knocked on the door to unit C. A lady answered. She was Joe's mother's age, more or less.

"Can I help you? Are you Robbie's friends?"

"No ma'am, I've never met Robbie. You're Mrs Morrison, his mom?"

"Yes, what's this about?"

Joe put the flier in her face. "It's about this."

She had to lean back to focus her eyes. Then she took the flier and read the entire story, man beaten, jacket stolen, with pictures of her son's leather on Simon's back.

"You see those studs? Simon did those himself. They're unique. That jacket was given to him by his uncle who fought in the war as a pilot."

Mrs Morrison said nothing until she turned away and shouted. "Robbie! Get in here!"

Robbie was less impressed with their claim. He said he bought the jacket fair and square from a pawn shop near Times Square. He had an attitude.

"I'm here to negotiate," Joe said. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way."

"Bullshit," Robbie said. "I'm not selling the jacket. It's cool, one of a kind."

Sal moved up, just behind Joe. Mrs. Morrison was about to close the door on them. Joe's work boot became a doorstop.

"One of a kind?" Joe said. "So you agree this is my friend's jacket because there it is on his back." Joe pointed at the flier. "If it's one of a kind, it's his leather."

Robbie stared at Joe with dead eyes, unmoved.

Joe shook his head, "So, I guess we have to do this the hard way. Simon's assaulters were never found. NYPD would love to talk to those in possession of his stolen jacket."

Sal jumped in. "If we leave without that jacket, we're going straight to the cops."

"This is going to be a shitty day for you Robbie," Joe pointed at him. "I'm gonna make that happen."

Mrs. Morrrison stiffened up. "Frank! Frank! Frank!", looking at the door diagonally across the hall near a stairwell. Out came a big man from behind door D. He appeared to have been awakened by the hallway drama, and not happy about it.

"There's no trouble here," Joe said, "but just in case." He turned back and shouted. "Nate! Patrick!"

Two more punks filled the hallway. Frank in unit D was big and hairy, maybe fifty, but not in good shape. He stared down four fit young men in their twenties. It was a bad kung fu movie scene, eyes shifting back and forth, meeting other eyes, except Frank wasn't Bruce Lee. Joe's adrenalin was high. He was ready to fight for Simon's jacket.

Frank stepped back into his doorway but kept an eye on things. Joe looked back at the mom, his boot toe still on the door.