Behind me, people scream on the big dipper, the arcade machines ring and the crowd on the boardwalk chatter and whoop. The wind has got up, blowing gusts of grit into my eyes, scraps of rubbish from the boardwalk. As I head for home, a piece of paper slaps against my ankle, sticking there. I bend down to peel it off. It’s a flyer for a club: Ally’s on Pacific Avenue. Free entry. A live band. I go to screw it up to throw in the trash. Then blink at the words again.
Go on, urges Frank’s voice. This is a sign, right? Take a little risk. Who cares if you go to a bar alone? This is the eighties, kid. You might meet someone, make a friend.
I crumple the paper.
I dare you, his voice insists.
I don’t remember when I first invented my brother’s voice; I must have been pretty small, I guess. Now he’s a character all of his own. He’s been with me for years, giving me strength each time I crouched in some dark place, listening to Mom sobbing in another room, with Dad promising her he was gonna stop, that this was absolutely the very last time, hand on heart, that he was gonna see the inside of any goddam casino. Dad’s lies taught me not to trust, but Frank has never let me down. He was with me on every midnight flit we made from rental places, whispering comforting words as I struggled to keep up with Mom and Dad, hurrying through the night, Dad loaded down with cases. I worked out early that I couldn’t hang on to anything precious; even my old plushie, a torn dog with one ear called Titch, got left behind in one of those houses we abandoned, in a city we never revisited. Anything of financial value could disappear into Dad’s pockets, and anything I loved could be lost at any moment. Nothing was safe. But Frank couldn’t disappear, because his voice was inside my head.
I look down at the crumpled paper in my hands. Frank knows I’m not going to wimp out of a dare. All right, I tell him. You win. You’re a goddam bully. But I’ll go to this club.
FOUR
Sam, March 1983
The hostel bed proves too tempting to resist. After his shower, and a hot dog eaten too fast, he rolls into the bunk and closes his eyes. Just a couple of hours, he thinks.
When he wakes, bleary-eyed, with a taste of onions in his mouth, mustard dried to a crust on his cheek, it’s early evening. He fumbles for his trainers and finds a piece of paper tucked into one of them: See you at Ally’s tonight! Levi.
He calculates that he’s got a little time to explore, find somewhere to eat, see what this place has to offer before he meets Levi and his friends. He puts his guidebook in his pocket.
He walks the boardwalk for a while, checking out the arcades, craning his neck to stare up at towering casinos, and then, with a jolt of something that feels like electricity, he sees her. She stands up from a bench. She’s hard to miss: tall and slim, dressed entirely in black, and with such a sad expression he wonders if she’s just been to a funeral. His fingers fall still and his shoulders straighten as she walks by, so close that he catches the slant of her cheek in profile, the shine of bare skin. Sunlight picks out golden glints in her light brown hair, pulled off her forehead, tied at the nape of her long neck. Nobody else appears to notice her. It’s as if she’s a ghost, he thinks. He watches as she goes down the steps onto the beach, big workman boots clumping un-ghost-like against the wood, and his gaze follows her across the sand towards the ocean. He feels an urgent need to go after her, and his body flickers into involuntary movement, but she looks as though she needs to be alone. He turns away.
It’s getting chilly, the last dregs of sunlight seeping away. He settles himself at a corner table of a café called the Beach Shack, where he buys a plate of chips and ekes out a flat white, watching the deserted sand. He’s hoping to see the girl again. He imagines that he’ll spot her easily in her black clothes. But she doesn’t make another appearance. Disappointed, he reads through his guidebook again. He loves facts and stories about the places he’s visiting. He orders another coffee and reads about the Mob shooting each other on the streets of Atlantic City in the twenties.
After the waitress has asked for the fourth time if he wants anything else, he closes the book with a snap and stands up, stretching stiff muscles. When he finds Ally’s on Pacific Avenue, he asks the bouncer what the band is. The roar of chatter from inside is already deafening. The hulking man in black pea coat and dark glasses frowns, cupping his hand to his ear.
‘Who’s playing tonight?’ Sam shouts again.
‘The Magic Men,’ the bouncer says. ‘Cover act.’
‘Cover act?’ Sam’s heart plummets. He hesitates. Maybe there’s another band, something authentic and interesting, playing somewhere nearby? On the other hand, it’s cold, and entry is free. He dithers, trying to make up his mind.
‘Sam! Sam Sage!’
Levi looms over the shoulder of the bouncer. He steps forward, flanked by two ruddy-faced young men, his companions so exactly as Sam imagined, it makes him laugh.
‘Hey, buddy.’ Levi gives him a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘You came. You won’t regret it. It’s a cool place.’
And Sam is corralled into the club by three blonde giants, all of them clapping him on the back, offering to buy the lagers.
FIVE
Cat, March 1983
The security guy waves me through; no cover charge. Inside, it’s small and loud.
I am bumped and jostled by shoulders and elbows as I make my way towards the bar, where I buy a Miller Lite. The crowd are clapping and whooping. I turn towards the stage and see four guys arranging themselves at drum kit and keyboard, grinning over their guitars. One of them grabs the microphone and shouts, ‘Atlantic City! We’re the Magic Men. And we’re here with all your favourite songs tonight.’
They begin to play a version of Aerosmith’s ‘Walk This Way’, and the room goes wild. I take a gulp of my beer. At first, I’d thought the slurring lead vocals was down to faulty equipment, but when the singer stumbles over his guitar flex, I realise he’s drunk. There’s laughter and catcalls as he gives the audience a thumbs-up before launching into another song. Halfway through, he staggers forward, appears to attempt an Elvis-like hip gyration, catches his foot on a speaker cable and, with a surprised squawk, pitches head first over the side of the stage. The music screeches to a halt, a guitar twanging tunelessly, a last clash of the hi-hat, as the rest of the band members peer over the edge at their fallen singer.
Burly security men move purposefully forward. There is an eerie silence, and then the buzz and mutter of conversations starts up.
‘Shit,’ someone is saying. ‘Maybe he’s unconscious.’
‘Nah, the dude’s wasted,’ another voice says. ‘Won’t have felt a thing.’
There is laughter and booing as the singer is half dragged, half carried between the flanking shoulders of the stony-faced bouncers. A man in a suit climbs onto the stage and waves his arms for silence. ‘Management,’ someone says. But the noisy crowd refuses to shut up. The band members are conferring in a huddle, worried faces in the strobe lights. Another man has appeared on the stage, and I’m guessing he’s a roadie, as he’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. He says something to the nervous man in a suit, who scratches his head. Now the new guy is talking earnestly to the band. They discuss, gesticulate. The new guy comes to the front and picks up the microphone.