David Gates - Preston Falls

"Want to do a little before you go?" Calvin says. "Little bit never hurt nobody."

But he's crashing even before he gets to Brandon: nothing left of his high but baseline irritability. He picks up 7, follows it north toward Middle-bury for a couple of miles, and spots the Log Cabin on the left-hand side: a flat-roofed cinderblock building that might once have been a drive-in restaurant. Carhops and shit. Overhanging roof in front, with iron pipes for pillars, and a portable electric sign out by the road.

PRESTON FALLS

lady's get in free tonite! air bag

He puts his turn signal on, then sees, parked across the road in a dirt turnout, a state police cruiser with his lights off. Not good. What now, boogie on by? Shit. Can't. Begging to be pulled over.

Willis shifts down and pulls into the cratered parking lot. That clutch is definitely slipping, unless he's letting up funny because he's trying not to let up funny with the cop watching him. He checks his mirror, expecting the cruiser's lights to go on. But no. The lot's already filling up with cars and pickups; out front, a matched pair of Sportsters — stock except for Fat Bob tanks — lean at the same angle next to a Plymouth Duster with whirlwind emblem, next to a chopper whose long chrome forks gleam from the blue neon outline of the Budweiser dog. Okay, there's Reed's car. And the Econoline, by the side door.

He parks where the old blacktop ends and new traprock begins, between a Subaru and some big American shitbomb with a peeling vinyl roof and Fifth Avenue in chrome script on its ass end. Chrysler, right? Let's all give a fuck. He cuts his lights, turns the key, and sits there: leave the amp in the back of the truck for now and check out the lay of the land? No, uh-uh. And have some son of a bitch steal it? Just have to bring it in; if you're fucked, you're fucked.

He carries the Twin and the Tele to the side door, picking his way around potholes, listing to the right as if the amp were still a heavy mother. He glances over (turning his head as little as possible) but the cruiser hasn't moved. He puts down the Twin and tries the doorknob. Locked. Inside, he can hear Little Richard. He raps knuckles on the glass. Raps again, and here comes a fat guy with salt-and-pepper beard, breasts joggling under a black Jack Daniel's t-shirt. Guy opens the door and the music's louder: now Willis can hear that it's fucking Bob Seger.

"You must be the dude we been waitin' on," says Jack Daniel's. "Need a hand there?"

"I guess I got it under control," Willis says. "Thanks." Bad cigarette smoke in here. So this character knows? Or is he just a genial asshole?

"Hey, you made it." It's the little Strat guy.

"Hey," says Willis.

"Everything cool?"

"Mitch, why'n't you go find Reed, tell him his buddy got here?" says

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Jack Daniel's. As Mitch trots off, he shakes his head. "Christ, just what we need." Guy knows, absolutely.

Willis sets his stuff down and looks around. Low ceiling of stained, sagging tiles, strings of chili-pepper lights drooping between posts, clusters of locals standing at the bar, sitting at the tables, yakking, smoking, laughing, tipping back brown beer bottles. Heavy-metal longhairs, buzz-cut storm troopers, an older guy with a deep-creased face and an every-hair-in-place duck's ass, a pair of dumpy women in skintight jeans.

"I get you anything?" Jack Daniel's says. "You want a beer?"

"No. No, thanks."

The music has changed to "Your Lying Eyes," as if you needed one more reason to want to get the fuck out of here.

"Hey, my man.'' Reed's hand on Willis's shoulder. He's loosed his hair from its ponytail, and it's hanging down to the shoulders of his black Levi's shirt. That nose of his pointing. "Way to go. See you got that badass Fender Twin with you. And everything's hunky-dory, I trust?"

"I hope," says Willis.

"Hey, you ain't worried about the law out there?" Jack Daniel's says.

"Fuck, I should've told you," says Reed. "Fuckin' sieve.'' Slaps his own cheek. "He's out there every Saturday. You must've shit a brick."

"Yeah, I've had better moments," Willis says.

"Aw, he's just doin' his job, like everybody else," says Jack Daniel's. "I always go out and shoot the shit with him. That makes him happy. Then he goes away. And Til tell you something— what's your name?"

"Jesus, forgetting my manners too," says Reed. "Griff? Doug Willis."

"Doug, nice to know you, man." His handshake is creepily soft and warm. "Anyway, the thing is, I never known him to hassle a vehicle comin' in or out of here. He's just real sympathetic." The drummer and the bass player have drifted over.

"Griff gives him a fruitcake at Christmas," Reed says.

This gets a laugh from Griff.

"Hey, Reed — listen, man," says the bass player. "Can we cut the fuckin' bullshit a minute? What's going on? Is it cool?"

Reed stares at him. "Are you cool?" He turns to the Jack Daniel's guy. "Griff. Here's the deal. Our swingin' gmt-tar man here's got some kind of problem with his amplifier, you know what I'm saying? So maybe we could bring it in your office and try to work on it in there?"

PRESTON FALLS

"Best idea I heard all night," Griff says. "Course, the night is young."

"And I thought we better get some input from El Exigente here." Reed puts a hand on the drummer's shoulder. "You remember those ads? But will it win the approval of El Exigente? And they had that guy? " He raises a finger. "Honly thee fines' beans."

"Why don't you be cool?" the bass player says. "I got money in this too, man."

"Dan," says Reed. Hand on the bass player's shoulder. "Dan, my man. I feel your pain. All I can tell you — so far so good, and we'll know more in a minute." He reaches down and picks up the Twin, not bothering to pretend it's heavy. "Gentlemen, you'll excuse us? We'll just be a few. Meanwhile, why don't you guys make sure you're in tune, right? Oh yeah, so Doug: you're welcome to plug into that badass Mesa/ Boogie with me. Since you're, ah, incapacitated. Fact, why don't you take channel one. That's got all the fuckin' bells and whistles."

"Actually, I should come in too," Willis says. "I need to get, you know, the thing I have to take back."

"Hey, not to worry," Reed says.

"I'm not worried. I just—"

"Good man. So let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? Soon as we know what's what, we'll fix you right up. Okay, tiger?" Hand on Willis's shoulder again.

"I think I should come," Willis says.

Reed removes the hand, puts the Twin down and looks at him. "Wait a minute. You think? Excuse me?"

"Hey, he ain't gonna screw you," says Griff.

Willis looks at the two of them. Hopeless. "Yeah, okay, fine." Fuckers.

"And now it's fine}'' says Reed. "I don't get it. What is this shit?"

"Ah, Doug's cool." Griff gives Willis's upper arm a squeeze. For some time now, Marty Robbins has been singing "El Paso"; Willis catches the line about the black puff of smoke from the rifle. "Let's just do this, right? Shit, you guys got to go on in a couple minutes. Doug, what do you say? You need a beer?"

Willis wants to jerk his arm away but just shakes his head no: this character's now his defender. Or is it good cop bad cop? Yeah, probably. Jesus, if he ever gets out of this. Reed is still staring at him.

"Hey, you change your mind, just tell one of the gals," Griff says.

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One more squeeze, then lets him go. "Come on, amigo," he says to Reed. "Let me take this thing for you." He picks up the Twin and leads Reed and the drummer across the room.

"Fuckin' fries my ass," says the bass player, once Reed's out of earshot. Willis watches the Jack Daniel's guy unlock a door with OFFICE in gold-and-black stick-on italics; the three of them go inside and the door closes.

Mitch reappears, his Strat slung around him, its coiled cord in his hand. "You know it's fuckin' five of?"