Chapter 20

Mick returned home alone. He left Michelle and Emily at Sabra's in the Valley and Anna decided to hang out with Dwight Cooney of Blue Rembrandt for a while. He expected they'd be back in a couple of weeks or so. Karen and Junior were going to have a Jewish Wedding in three weeks and the rest of The Curse had promised to attend.

As soon as he could he called on his daughter to acquaint her and her husband about what went on in Los Angeles. He thought it vital they were aware The Curse was likely going to break up, although nothing had been decided for sure.

The Curse's output of songs had fallen off, in any case. Neither Anna nor Michelle had been writing much in six months and Mick, alone, was trying to compose stuff he really didn't have a feel for. He was drifting away from the thrash and back to his roots. Karen suggested he was just a reheated folkie and Mick didn't disagree.

Mick Johnson was first and foremost a classically trained guitarist. Rock music had been overlayed on that foundation and he'd taught himself the blues style - a natural extension of seventies rock. He could do folk, flamenco and, at a pinch, Country and Western, and could make a living from session work - if that work was available in quantity.

Mick needed to work at something. For the past two years he'd thrown himself into shaping and guiding The Curse, playing the music and touring, and enforced idleness was unnatural. He'd been living fast and hard and the sudden stop was frightening.

He'd wanted to call Donna the minute he touched down, but was worried that his expectation was going to be crushed. Nothing had been said, nothing promised, and his desire was based solely on a look she gave him as he said goodbye. Mick had barely spent 10 hours in her company and that seemed a ludicrously short amount of time upon which to plan a future.

He spent a couple of days rumbling around in the Cutlass and hanging out with Karen and Junior before biting the bullet. Not knowing what her shift hours were, he left a text.

An hour later, a confusing jumble of phonetic spelling arrived on his mobile suggesting a pub and a time. He knew the place - a boutique bar in the old wharf district with parking out back where he could leave the Cutlass without it being keyed.

Donna was sitting all alone on a stool nursing a vodka and lemon in a tall flute. She flashed him a brief smile before tapping the seat beside her. Mick squeezed in and said 'hi.'

"Wondered if you'd call," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper, low and reflective. There appeared something resigned about her - as if there was a duty to perform she didn't like. "How was the States?"

"Crazy!" he shrugged.

"Yeah," she nodded slowly, "I'll bet! I liked the bit about the bus company, very funny!"

"You saw?"

"Watched after the late shift. They had it on satelite."

"You don't have satelite."

"Watched it here," she told him, "on the big widescreen over wine and nachos."

"Hey! Probably had more fun than me."

"Bullshit!" she grinned, "you looked stoned and Anna was all over you like a rash." Her tone had a hint of accusation.

"She does that," he shrugged. "Hooked up with the lead singer of Blue Rembrandt now, I think."

"Dump you?"

"Ah?"

"One of the guys at work," she explained, "left me this gossip magazine..."

"Ah!"

"Don't really read that shit, but, like a dumb bitch, I said I'd met you."

"Right!" Mick shuffled uncomfortably.

"Had this really long bit on The Curse," she said, "I guess with you guys going to the Grammys, it's really big news, y'know? Such a small country and..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Mick replied, "they write all kinds of shit. Don't get many facts right, of course."

"So, what's really going on, Mick?" she asked, her face hard, her voice even. "Why are you here? What do you want from me?"

Mick signalled the barman for a beer - took the glass and turned it around on the countertop, concentrating on the amber liquid.

"I guess I thought we'd got something going back there," he told her.

"You did? Why?"

"A look, a feeling? I feel really comfortable around you."

"Do you?" she replied, "I don't. Honestly... I get a vibe from you. It says, 'watch out, this man is trouble!' I sense you're a thief, Mick, you take from the women around you..."

"That's not true," Mick told her.

"I knew you were too good to be true," she continued. "You're a musician - never stay, always on the move, breaking hearts and moving on. I think that's your life, y'know, Mick? Glamour, stage lights, all that shit? You need it, I don't."

"So what did this article say, exactly? Why the attitude?"

"Let's see, um, 'long time relationship with The Curse's bass player?' I think it said something about how your manager and you were old lovers? A 'friend of the band' said that you slept with the whole band? A lot of smoke, Mick, and I wonder where the fire is?"

"My daughter's our drummer. It say that?"

"No. So, what, strike out the drums? That leaves the bass, the singer and the manager. You get around, Mick!"

"Show business!" he shrugged. "I'm not sure where we go from here," Mick said. "I've got a track record, sure, and I imagine you've had relationships..."

"Hey, I understand, y'know? Neither of us are vestal virgins. But, I don't like crowds, Mick, and I'm not joining the cue."

"No cue, Donna. Look, I don't know what would serve me going through every tumble with a groupie, every relationship and fling with a beautiful woman. I don't think anyone can explain show business to someone who hasn't been there. Everything gets sped up and it ain't healthy. I want out - want a family life, BBQs on Sundays, all that shit."

"Shit, Mick, you don't fucking expect much?" Donna told him, sarcastically, "And I'm what, Mick? You got plans for me? Tell me about them?"

"Fuck, Donna! I'm just sharing my plans and desires. You do what you fucking like. I hoped we could hang out a little, that's all."

"Alright, look, I'm sorry if I seem shitty with you. Frankly, Mick, you freak me right out. Y'had me glued to the fucking telly... hoping for a glimpse. Y'know, I thought you'd call from America? What a stupid, stupid bitch I was. Hanging by the phone in case you called? That's what you did to me, you fucker, and I'm not a dumb blond. You gotta believe me when I say I don't let men suck my brains out. Y'know, I used to scorn those useless bitches mooning around after some arrogant fuckwit of a male. Then, here's me... aw, shit, guess the rest." She subsided and took a long sip of her drink.

"You think I'm an arrogant fuckwit?"

"No," she said, "just a male."

"You wanna split?" Mick asked, "go for a drive. I got a new car?"

"Yeah? What is it, a fucking poncey BMW?"

"Nah... ah, that one... there," he pointed through the window, "that red thing with the top down."

"Holy shit!" she exclaimed, "that's fucking beautiful! A ragtop? What is it?"

"Oldsmobile Cutlass."

"Sheeit, Mick! Maybe the once, y'know? Around the block, maybe?"

"Around the block it is," he smiled.

"Don't do that," she batted at his arm.

"What?"

"'Around the block'? I know what you're getting at."

"You do?"

"Yeah! We've both been around the block, 'cept, you've been around a few times more than me."

"I suppose," he shrugged, as she followed him out to the car park.

Donna sat in the passenger's seat beside Mick, her head thrown back and feeling the breeze on her face. Mick popped a BB King cassette in the deck and turned up the volume.

"I so like this guy," Donna sighed, "that voice, that guitar?"

"Yeah," Mick agreed.

"What does she do? The car? What have you had it up to?" she asked.

"I haven't done much with it at all," he explained, "brought it back after the US tour. I've been too damn busy with the CD, then the Grammys..."

"So?" she grinned mischievously. "Y'know that road just out of town where they have the drags? It'll be quiet, now, a weekday and too early for the boy racers."

"You're just a kid, aren't you?" he grinned back.

"Yep," she agreed, "just a kid with no sisters and three brothers."

"That explains a lot," he laughed, as he took the road out of town.

Much later, Mick had parked the Cutlass in his drive and Donna was scrutinising under the hood. "You really need a stronger sway bar on this thing, Mick," she said, "it may cure the wobbles?"

"You think?" he asked, as he brought them both out beers.

"Yeah. That's one lovely mill! Edelbrocks... those Stinson cams you got there?"

"No idea. I never did the mods. Some guy in Chicago tried to do it up to Hurst specs."

"Ah! Thought it looked like a few modifications in there!"

"How come you know so much?"

"Dad," she replied. "Classic American Car Club! Practically runs it. Y'know he's doing up a Mercury Cougar right now? Only a small block 351, but still! You ought to call 'round and have a look. He'll want to see this - boy, will he ever!"

"Maybe I'll become a member?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said, turning towards him, "he'd like that. I think you'd get on well with my dad. He's like you... old rocker, never grown up. Denims, Chevy T-shirt... Oh, I can see the two of you together now! Play a little blues for him, Mick, over a Miller's and pretzels? Mum died a year ago, he's never been the same."

"Shit, I'm sorry!"

"Big 'C'. Like two peas in a pod, mum and dad. Weekends, riding around in the 'stang together? Sold it after... couldn't bear to drive it without mum."

"Shit, Donna, that's just so sad."

"Love my dad," she told him. Her eyes were moistening and she wiped her face on her sleeve. "Can we go see him now?"

"Sure, Donna. Drop the hood, let's roll?"

Donna's father was short, greying, with long hair tied in a pony tail. When Mick drove up he emerged from a garage out back, dressed in greasy overalls, wiping his hands with an oily rag. When he saw the Cutlass he whistled through his teeth. His daughter gave him a hug and introduced him to Mick.

"Big block 455, dad," Donna told him proudly, "Edelbrocks, probably Stinson cams."

"Where'd you get it?" he asked Mick.

"Chicago. Donna said you might like a drive?"

"A minute," he said hurriedly, "I'll get out of my overalls."

He emerged again in two minutes flat dressed in jeans and wearing a Ford T-shirt. Mick tossed him the keys and he jumped in the Cutlass, looking excitedly about him as he gripped the steering wheel. He then started her up and revved the engine. Donna's father then threw his head back with a look of ecstasy. With a short screech of tyres, he backed out the drive and roared down the street.

"Hey!" Donna came and put her arms around Mick. Looking into his face she said, "you're an alright guy, Mick Johnson!"

"So, what ya think, huh? Y'like to hang out with me a little?"

"We'll see," she said, "I'm still not sure about you. I want to see you when you're not on your best behaviour. I can't believe you're this sweet all the time."

"Yes I am," he laughed.

"Fuckwit male," she grinned, slapping him on the arse.

Donna's father returned around twenty minutes later. He squealed to a halt in the drive and immediately pulled the hood release. "Let's see," he told Mick. "Beautiful," he said, "classic motor, classic car. Look at that grill, will you, Donna? The 'international flags' badge? Everything original!"

"Mick would like a Millers, dad," Donna said.

"Huh? Yeah, sure, go ahead. I'll have one too. Y'know where the fridge is, Donna," he said.

It was well after dark when they left Donna's father's place. Mick asked her where she'd liked to go and she agreed to head back to his place. They bought a pizza for dinner on the way and took it to bed.

As Mick made coffees the next morning he noticed the clock on the microwave showed 9.47am. Obviously his body clock had not fully readjusted back to local time, he thought, because it was early for him to be up and around.

The day clung to an unusual period of clear weather for this time of the year and it was antipodean bright outside. Even California with its almost endless summers couldn't compete with this glare as the sun's rays had little to impede their passage through the atmosphere.