The names were superimposed in blue over a black and white photograph of the three women standing in an open boxcar door framed against very bright speed-blurred grain fields beyond; the Cox sisters tall, thin and dark, their straight black hair cut short. Car on bass, her back to the other two, Jo on drums. The very blonde Celia was leaning over her keyboards, her arms and legs spread wide, dark inverted V’s against the landscape. All three women’s mouths were open in identical o’s, dark lips circling white teeth. They were wearing thigh-high patent leather lace-up boots and electrical tape.
At the bottom of the bill it said:

With Special Guest
The King of Duct Tape
$50 cover

And a small inset, a picture of him, husky, wearing a silver vest and a pair of sailors pants edged with the same silver tape, his bare feet spread wide apart, his guitar held flat out in front of him, his eyes closed, his mouth open in a way that made the Professor think of a snarling dog. “detestable,” the Professor thought to himself. On the kitchen table that morning Memo had left a torn corner from a downtown paper with an ad (identical to the poster) circled, ‘9:00 tonight -m” written below it. So here they were standing in the gutter in godforsaken Queens. This was the very limit.

Finally the fat pimpled oaf wearing overalls cut for a hippopotamus unchained the wrought iron gate, took the Professors money, and let them go into the darkness of the club, Memo leading them to a table at the front, off to one side, away from the bar. He sat in a seat with his back to the stage and folded his arms. Memo pulled her chair close to the table, then put her bag on the table and began to scan through the crowd for the bartender.

Black Dog Alley is an L-shaped, space, with a long bar running the full length of the alley, with seventy or eighty stools in a single row. Both side walls were brick, either painted black, or filthy with years of smoke, grease and soot. The ceiling was low, with rough black timbers regularly spaced, spanning from side to side between the walls. Here and there black garbage bags were taped to the ceiling, a thin hose leading down behind the bar, accommodating the leaking roof.

In the rear there is an area large enough for four pool tables, dollar-a-game pool tables ­ or, as tonight, set up with tables and chairs and a small platform stage set up next to the rear exit. The platform tonight could barely fit the gear that was on it tonight; a gleaming black drum kit, three guitar stands an oversize twin Korg keyboard rig; and there were speakers stacked on every available square inch of the platform, humming, their red lights burning with malevolent promise in the darkness.

Memo smiled, watching people: here a girl, her arms entirely covered with green and red tattoos smoked a long thin black cigarette, the bored droop of her eyelids betrayed by the glittering of her darting eyes; there two greaseballs were hitting each others shoulders and laughing; across the room a group of overfed office workers drank their coronas, their eyes flicking back and forth across the room. Memo smiled to herself. There were a lot of different people here, but still the Professor was definitely a category of one. She knew he was uncomfortable, and with the thought she made of her eyes what he would think was a smile and raised her bottle to him. She was here to see Dietz, she had brought the Professor to be her witness. She squirmed slightly in her chair, pressing herself down and forward on it, savoring the thought, glad she had worn her sweater. She licked her lips again and focused her eyes on the door, willing it to open, willing the show to begin.

Black Dog Alley is a simple place, a beer and a shot place. The lights go out and the door opens; the musicians come out on stage and they play. There is no emcee. There is no warm up act. And if the musicians are prudent, there is no banter, no introductions, no funny stories. People who come to a show at the Alley want to hear music. It doesn’t need to be explained.

The Twisted Pears and their special guest understood the rules, understood the appetites, understood their role. When the stage lights came up and they slammed the first chord of the first song full-on, the Professor twitched sideways out of his seat and fell, dropping his drink and shattering the glass. Struggling to get up from the sticky footworn floor, he put his right hand squarely on a curved shard of glass, cutting himself deeply in the meat of his palm, which began to ooze thick blood. He got up and righted his chair, and sat down reaching for his handkerchief wrong-handed to prevent getting blood on his pants. He finally got it out and wrapped it around the heel of his palm. He looked up to Memo for help tying the bandage in place, but her eyes never left the stage, never left the face of the guitar player in the silver vest. The Professor gestured with his two hands together to Memo, “I’m cut,” he said, and louder, “I need to get this cleaned.” In the rush of sound coming from the black speakers, his voice was a whisper in a hurricane, and Memo pretended not to notice, leaning forward in her seat, her eyes wide, intent, unmoving.

The Professor stood up, “We have to go now,” he said, leaning toward her, “I’m hurt.” She looked up at him then slowly turned her eyes back to the stage. She made no other movement. “Come on,” his voice was rising as he reached for her arm. The music swelled and Memo did not move.

“Hey asshole, sit down and get the fuck out of my way,” a thick-necked longhair wearing a California Choppers muscle shirt started towards the him, a muscular guy with no sense of humor, a guy who had a clear understanding how to get people to sit down and get the fuck out of his way.

Memo turned to look just as the Professor sidled away between the chairs, holding his two hands together up high, scurrying as best he could through the crowd. California Choppers sat down again, resting his talent and leering at the goof next to him, tossing his hair like a mane. When the Professor reached the back wall of the room he stopped and turned, still expecting Memo to stand up and follow him, but she kept her narrow back to him, leaning towards the stage, now and then shifting her weight from side to side in her seat. The Professor stood there a while, adjusting the bandage, the throbbing bass vibrating his ribcage. Now he watched the players, now studied Memo’s back. What does she find so fascinating about the guitar player? he wondered. He studied the man on stage and his eyes narrowed suddenly remembering the night in George’s ­ it’s the same man, he thought, as his hand moved to his face as if to once again clean off the spit.

The Professor turned and maneuvered through the back door, swinging his hips into the warm still night air. Memo didn't see him leave.



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