Rio Flaco, California
Friday, January 11, 1991
Smoke, sweat, and Aqua Net assaulted seventeen-year-old Dani Grassigli as she opened the garage's side door. Doing her best to ignore the Mötley Crüe knockoff providing the noise, she stood tiptoe, scanning gaps in the jungle of teased hair for a glimpse of her best friend, Shelly. Shouldn't be here. Vic finds out, I'm dead. And if Daddy finds out…
Some guy from last year's chemistry class backed into her, laughed, and offered a joint.
Dani shook her head, trying to ignore him as he traced her figure with his eyes. She knew her floral jeans and button up blouse weren't racy. What do I have to do to get them to stop? Dress like a nun?
She kept her head down and elbowed her way to the corner where the band—Inferno, according to the double bass drumheads—struck up a sappy power ballad heavy on the oohs, aahs, and babies. Bobby Van Zie, Shelly's new boyfriend, kicked into the obligatory guitar solo, shaking his bleached mane and snarling for the crowd.
Oh wow, sweeping arpeggios. Dani rolled her eyes. Cliché much? But is that a Les Paul he's playing? "No time to drool," Dani reminded herself. Looks like a '68. Sunburst.
Shelly perched on the edge of a tattered couch across the stage, eyes glued to Bobby as she swayed in time. A paunchy guy with a bald spot at the crown of his mullet slouched on the other end of the couch. He inched closer, eyes alternating between the hem of Shelly's miniskirt and his watch.
I told her not to wear that. Dani stepped between them, yelling over the music. "She's with the guitar player!"
"What guitar player?" Paunchy reclined, giving Dani the once-over.
"C'mon, Shel, we gotta go." Dani tugged her by the elbow.
"But this is our song. Just till it's over?"
"We get caught here, we're dead!" Dani said, turning her back to Paunchy and sniffing the collar of her shirt. "You have any idea what Vic will do if I show up smelling like pot?"
Shelly rolled her eyes. "Not like he's your dad."
"Don't go there," Dani bit her lip to keep from tearing up. "Besides, he's my boss."
"He's your brother," Shelly mouthed, smirking.
"What if someone from church sees us? I'll get kicked off the praise team!" And we'd never hear the end of it in youth group.
Shelly laughed. "Here?"
Paunchy scooched closer, leaning in. The song's crescendo drowned his words, but his meaning was clear. He drummed his fingers and jingled his Cadillac keychain, flashing his Rolex.
Dani pulled Shelly off the couch, turning to face the man as the last notes faded. "Don't know what you're selling, but we're not buying. Hey Shelly, let's—"
Shelly had already jumped up onto the stage, giggling and whispering into Bobby's ear. The two heads melded into one mass of bleach blond hair until Bobby pulled away and winked at the rest of the band.
"You can be replaced," the singer said into the microphone, drawing laughter from the crowd as Shelly led Bobby out by the hand.
Dani took a second look at the singer. Vince Neil hair. Bon Jovi smile. Looked like he stepped off the pages of Hit Parader. No time to dwell on that, of all things. "I ought to just leave you here!"
Shelly turned in the doorway. "Five minutes?" The door slammed, and the couple was gone before Dani could answer.
The partiers groaned their unanimous sentiment at the interruption.
Wonder if they've seen that trick before?
"Jump!" The singer hollered, looking desperate to stem the flow heading for the door.
The bass player stepped behind a keyboard rig and started plunking out the opening riff to the Van Halen song as what was left of the band fell in.
The '68 Gibson lay on the stage floor next to the amp, calling Dani's name.
Guy has no idea what he's got. Dani looked at a wall clock. Four-thirty. And he's bad for Shelly. Betcha he won't like it if— She stretched out over the stage, snagging the guitar and strapping it on as the singer belted:
"I ain't the worst that you've seen…"
"Sure ain't," Dani said, trying to catch his eye as she pulled the pick from between the strings, cranked the volume knob to make sure Bobby could hear from outside and hit the fill leading into the chorus. The fretboard fit her hand like a buttered glove, and the amplifiers growled a warning. This is going to get dangerous. Dani locked in with the bass player through the chorus as if she'd been rehearsing with the band for months. The singer dropped his jaw as his mike hit the floor with a dull thud. By the time she nailed the finger-tap solo, he retrieved it and stumbled through the rest of the song.
* * *
In another garage across town, Vic Grassigli paced between a '67 Mustang fastback that looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line and a '70 Superbird that looked like it had rolled over a land mine.
Greg, the shop's chief mechanic, worked under the Plymouth, greasy boots protruding. "Not my turn to watch your sister."
"Like that's ever stopped you before," Vic said.
The Marine Corps anchor and shield on the wall clock's face made it hard to read from across the room, but Vic knew five o'clock approached. Opportunities like this don't come every day.
Greg emerged, wiping his wrenches with a shop cloth until they gleamed. His coveralls shared a logo with Vic's: "Fidelis Classic Restoration" superimposed over a Firebird image just distinct enough from Pontiac's to avoid a lawsuit. Not that you could read it, covered in every automotive fluid known to man plus mustard.
Greg knew why Vic was staring. Greg always knew. "You want the reporter to think nobody works around here?" Greg said.
"Not paying you to argue with me." Vic forced a smile. "Just finish and clean up a little, will you?"
"Which?" Greg called after him as Vic retreated into the glassed-in office.
Sitting at the steel desk his father had picked up at a military surplus store, Vic took a deep breath and sent up a prayer, doing his best not to get worked up over Dani being late. Again.
This whole thing's tougher on her than it is on me, with Dad halfway around the world.
He fingered a Polaroid taped to the window. The family on the chapel steps at Quantico, right around the time they had started attending church regularly. Seven years ago. Seemed like longer. He was sixteen then. Dani was all elbows, curls, and teeth. Mom wouldn't have her hair much longer, but she had it then. It was almost impossible to tell from the picture that she was already sick. Dad wore his dress blues, twenty years' worth of ribbons and medals pinned to his chest. It wasn't long after that he'd switched to the Reserves and moved the family here.
"Dani wouldn't push her limits like this if you were home," Vic said, trying to come up with reasons to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Maybe she just forgot."
He called home. Mom's voice on the answering machine. No one in the family could bring themselves to change it. He dialed another number. Kari, the church's youth and worship leader, hadn't seen her. He tried Shelly's house.
* * *
The crowd roared as the guitar screamed the final lick. Dani gave it a shake, squeezing every drop from the fading note. Electricity mingled with guilt coursed through her. Images of her father halfway around the world flashed through her brain, his smile fading to a tight-lipped stare that came as close to a frown as she'd ever seen on his face.
She shook her head as the singer flourished his hand. "All right! That's…?"
Bluest eyes I've ever seen.
The singer shrugged, gesturing toward an open mike.
Ooh, dimples. Dani shrugged back, drawing a laugh. Any other time, any other place.
The bass player leaned over and whispered something into the singer's ear.
Don't I know him? He looked about her age, a little younger than the singer.
"That's Dani Grass!" the singer said with a flourish toward her.
Dimples ignored Don't-I-Know-Him's attempt to correct him.
Just as well. Last thing I need is my name getting around in a place like this.
Turning to Dani, Dimples mouthed, "One more?"
Dani looked over at the clock. It looked like the hands had barely moved. Not every day I get my hands on a '68 Les Paul. Shelly wasn't back yet, anyway. Shrugging, she said, "What can it hurt?" and laid into the opening licks of "Sweet Child O' Mine."
Guy sounds almost as good as Axl, and he's a lot better looking. The crowd faded as their eyes met. He's smiling. At me. Dani looked at the floor, felt herself biting her lip. Man-that-looks-stupid-don't-do-that.
A minute and a half in, almost done with the first solo, she looked back at the drummer. He had to be at least five years older than the singer, who she figured was in his early twenties. This song's like five minutes long. Bad pick, Dani.
Paunchy Mullet caught the corner of her eye as he pulled himself off the couch and slunk to the stage. Staring. Gross. She turned away from him and glanced to make sure her blouse was buttoned as she kicked into the second solo. About two minutes left. Time for overdrive. That clock still hasn't moved. At all.
She stole a glimpse at her Swatch. I'm so dead. Minute and change left in the song and then I gotta hit the door running, even if I have to drag Shelly.