Recipe for Hate Page 4

  X and I said nothing, but X’s dad was obviously unimpressed. “Why do you think the music is connected to this, Detective Savoie? Isn’t it possible there is some other motive? I can tell you, Detective, my wife and I have been listening to these kids and their music for a couple years now — and, if anything, it’s more peaceful than the hippie movement. They may talk tough, but they’re good kids.”

  Savoie looked at X and me — his piggish bloodshot eyes taking in our size, our expressions, our biker jackets — and his squinty eyes lingered a bit on X’s notched ear lobe. “Fine,” he said sarcastically. “They may be peace-loving hippies. But the person or persons who killed Jimmy Cleary sure aren’t. And I think his involvement in this stuff played a role.”

  Nobody said anything for a bit. Eventually, Detective Murphy stood, looking weary, and handed X a pink phone message slip. “This is the Rolling Stone writer who wants to talk to you,” he said. “We didn’t have anything we could tell him.”

  “Okay,” X said, as we all stood to go. “What should we tell him?”

  Detective Murphy shrugged. “We’d prefer you not talk about what you saw last night,” he said, quietly. “But about the music, tell him whatever you want. You guys clearly understand that better than we do.”

  No shit.

  C H A P T E R 7

  The members of the Nasties, Blemishes, and Virgins flopped in our shared practice space in the basement at Sound Swap, a used record store on Free Street, a few blocks from Gary’s. The owner, Pierre, was an older guy, but he came out to some of the punk shows and liked us. So he offered us the space for free.

  Upstairs, racks and racks of LPs and posters for old rock ’n’ roll shows lined the walls. At the back was a counter for the cash register, the entrance to the alleyway, and a tiny washroom. The basement space, meanwhile, had an actual dirt floor. That wasn’t so good for our amps, so we’d scavenged some old rugs from dumpsters and laid those down over the dirt. On the walls, we tacked up posters for some of our past gigs. On the rare occasion when a New York or Boston punk band came into town, they’d get top billing, of course, because those shows were a pretty big deal. Most of the posters were for the more unforgettable community hall performances of the Punk Rock Virgins, the Hot Nasties, and my band, the Social Blemishes. We generally felt a gig was “unforgettable” if the cops raided it.

  Since mid-1977 or so, the Virgins, Nasties, and Blemishes had been the only bona fide punk outfits in town; many of the others in Portland were either new wave poseurs or metal bands who cut their hair to attract some media attention. Since the start, we had been at the center of the real punk thing in Portland. Other groups were pretty competitive, and a lot of them were jealous of each other. Those of us in the PAHS and PHS bands were different, I think. We defended each other, we hung out together, and we even swapped members if we needed to. At gigs, we usually traveled in a pack that some other bands in town called, sometimes mockingly, the X Gang.

  X Gang: they meant it as an insult, but whatever. I liked it. It fit.

  The basement walls at Sound Swap were lined with a crappy old drum kit, two antique guitar amps, a bass amp, and three microphones that were wired to an ancient PA system X and I had scored at a garage sale. Occasionally, the PA would deliver an electric shock to whoever got their lips too close to one of the ungrounded mics. You’d actually see a blue arc coming off the tip of the microphone, and you’d feel the resulting voltage bouncing around inside your head. We called that the blue spark.

  We used the practice space after hours, when the store was closed and no one was around. Gary hid a key for us in a rusty tin can by the alley door. The building had a pawnshop on one side and a small engine repair on the other. No one ever complained about the racket emanating from the basement. It wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where anyone complained about noise.

  When we all met up there a couple of nights after Jimmy’s death, some of us started crying again. For most, it was the first time we had experienced a death of someone who wasn’t a grandparent. The mood was bleak as shit. Already, some parents — like my mother — were telling us to quit the punk scene, right away.

  “It’s too violent,” my mother had hollered at me that morning as I ate my corn flakes. “And now that boy is dead.”

  No fucking kidding, Mom. He was my friend.

  Sam Shiller strummed his battered Fender Telecaster copy, the amp off. X was silent, as usual. The Virgins were whispering amongst themselves. It was pretty depressing.

  “Is there any more beer?” I asked, peering into an empty case of Bud.

  Patti Upchuck pulled a Sam Adams out of a backpack and handed it to me. “It’s not cold,” she said. “Sorry.”

  Patti Upchuck’s Virgins were Portland’s only all-female punk band. They were a trio, and one of the most popular bands in town, with some amazing super-fast punk-pop tunes about the uselessness of hanging out at the Maine Mall or watching TV or whatever. They were all pretty, so, to compensate, they dyed their hair black or various shades of pink and green, purposely applied too much eye makeup, and always wore ill-fitting army jackets. All three members of the Virgins attended PAHS — lead singer and guitarist Patti Kowalchuk, her bassist sister Beth (Betty), and drummer Leah Yeomanson, who was an off-reserve member of the Mi’Kmaq First Nation and who wore a biker jacket with “American Indian Movement” inscribed across the back.

  On stage, the Kowalchuk sisters called themselves Patti and Betty Upchuck. Offstage, Patti had an unrequited affection for X. She never did anything about it, though.

  Me and X often hung out with the Upchuck sisters, at school in Room 531 and at shows, but he had never “dated” either of them. Nobody really dated in the local punk scene. It wasn’t really done — it was too normal.

  The Social Blemishes, my crew, were more of a punk rock collective than an actual band. Like some of the lesser-known arty groups in London and New York and other places —Wire, X-Ray Spex, Ohio’s Pere Ubu — we liked performance art over musical structure. The band’s membership changed about every two weeks, with the only regulars being me, as lead singer, and the drummer, a big football player from PHS named Dan O’Heran, who went by the name Danny Hate.

  The Blems were well known for shows where I’d invite Maine College of Art students on stage to paint a mural while we played a twenty-minute, three-chord dirge — or the various gigs where my friend Leeanimal would strip off a leopard-skin halter top and pogo. At one community hall show in North East Portland that had been broken up by the police, one of the cops threatened to arrest me for obscenity. At the time, I was wearing a shirt that had been hand-painted for me by Leeanimal. It featured an oversized penis; below it, the words THIS IS A MAN’S BRAIN. It was my favorite gig shirt.

  The Hot Nasties, meanwhile, had been the first real punk band in town, and they had built up a loyal audience that showed up at almost every show, no matter how poorly publicized. The band sounded like the Beach Boys with distorted guitars, I liked to say, and they did. Their hummable songs, all written by Jimmy and Sam, had been about how it generally sucks to be a teenager. They were tight, and they had the right look: skinny, pale, hungry looking. They were destined for great things, and we all knew it.

  Their EP was the first punk recording in Maine, and it had gotten some media interest — even in the pages of the Sun and the Herald. The Herald didn’t bash them nearly as much as we had expected. “Ham-fisted pop in a leather jacket,” the reviewer had sniffed.

  “Better than what the Sun had to say,” X said. (“The lead singer can’t sing, the guitarist can’t play guitar, and the drummer can’t keep a beat. Other than that, they have a promising future ahead of them pumping gas.”)

  All of that seemed like a long time ago. Now, with Jimmy gone and Gary’s shut down while the police continued their investigation, the remaining Nasties were uncertain about whether to go on. On the same night they had found th
emselves getting a positive review in the New Musical Express, their lead singer and driving force had been murdered. They were a wreck, all of them.

  All of us, pretty much, were exhausted from being up the past two nights and from answering questions from police and our parents.

  Sam Shiller said he’d spoken by phone, earlier in the day, to that freelance writer who said he was with Rolling Stone — the one who X and I hadn’t bothered to call back. The reporter had finished the interview by telling Sam their EP would quickly sell out.

  “Why?” Sam had asked.

  “Because death sells in rock ’n’ roll” was the reply.

  “Fuck you, bastard. He was my best friend,” Sam had screamed before slamming down the phone.

  “Good for you, man,” I said. “Good for you.”

  The others nodded their heads in agreement. There’d be no further chats with the Rolling Stone douchebag. More silence followed.

  I cleared my throat. “Anyone else being told no more punk by their parents?”

  Just about everyone present nodded or held their hand up.

  X, sitting on an amp, shrugged. “Mine wouldn’t bother,” he said. “They know I won’t listen.”

  I laughed.

  “Mine are fucking freaking,” Sam said, still picking at his guitar.

  “Mine, too,” said Danny. “They say they’re gonna ground me for the rest of my life.”

  Leah, who had been crying off and on since arriving, finally spoke. “I just can’t fuckin’ believe this,” she said. “Who could possibly want to hurt Jimmy? He’s the biggest sweetheart. He’s such a great guy.”

  “Was …” Danny whispered. Then, a few second later, “Uh … sorry.”

  X looked at Danny, whose freckled face had gone crimson. “It’s okay, man. You’re right. He’s gone. No use pretending otherwise.”

  “And nobody knows anything?” said Patti. “Nobody saw anything?”

  “I do,” Betty said, “… or, at least I know someone who says they saw something …”

  Everyone turned to look at her.

  C H A P T E R 8

  Betty Upchuck brought home the lost and the lonely, Patti liked to say, so their Sandy Road home was often a safe haven for lost dogs, lost cats, and — at least once that I know of — a lost kid. Motorists who had gotten trapped in the maze of South Portland’s streets were also welcome at the Kowalchuk home. Betty and Patti’s mother would then work the phones and connect the lost dog, kid, or tourist with the right destination.

  In high school, Betty kept on providing shelter, but mostly for punk kids who needed it. If they’d run away from home — if they’d been knocked around by a parent for a bad mark or for leaving a joint around or whatever — Betty would offer refuge for a day or two until the heat had dissipated. I called her Sister Betty.

  Punk rock kids, at PAHS or PHS or wherever, were in need of sanctuary a lot. At the start of the scene, nobody above the age of twenty understood punk rock, and not many adults appreciated the look. Most everyone under the age of twenty — the lemmings, as I called them — didn’t like punk. Thus the need for a safe place. Sister Betty’s place.

  There was often a kid or two crashing on the smelly old couch in the Upchuck sisters’ unfinished basement. Occasionally, one of them was Mark Upton.

  Marky Upton was a first-year PAHS student, with glasses, acne, and a frame so tiny he looked like a strong wind off Casco Bay would blow him away. He was incredibly insecure and shy. Marky didn’t just read poetry, he actually wrote it, and he was not bad either, sometimes contributing to The NCNA under a pseudonym.

  Marky adored me and X, the Upchucks said, and so he could usually be found at the Social Blemishes’ rare, chaotic gigs, smiling up at me from the front row. Marky was gay, too, I knew, but he hadn’t done anything about it yet. He was an only child and lived with his single mother in a townhouse complex down on Congress. His life was heaving with anxiety and confusion and fear until punk came along and saved him.

  That’s how it was for most of us.

  Saved by punk! Praise Lord Ramone!

  Although he was totally underage, Marky had been at Gary’s on the night Jimmy was murdered. Sitting by the rear door, waiting for the Virgins to start playing again, he had been the one who had closed the alleyway door after Sam Shiller and Luke Macdonald went out looking for Jimmy.

  Marky was always willing to watch the door at our gigs; it gave him an official role, sort of. He’d take tickets or cover charges or whatever, and truthfully report the results to us. We’d make sure to sneak him a beer, which he’d hold onto all night, under the folds of his oversized army jacket.

  He was doing that now, listening closely as me and X and the Upchuck sisters sat around him, debating. Sitting there, perched on the couch in the Upchuck sisters’ basement with his can of beer, he also looked nervous.

  “Well, I had some poppers with me,” he said, looking at X, who obviously disapproved of snorting alkyl nitrate, but who said nothing. “So I went out in the alley while the Virgins were playing to do some. I propped the door open a bit.”

  “Was Jimmy out there yet?” X asked.

  “No, but the van was there,” Marky said. “The doors were closed and nobody was in it. I looked in the windows but didn’t see anybody.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know,” Marky said. “Maybe just past nine or so. I didn’t check. I was just looking to see if anyone was around. No one was, but …” He trailed off.

  “But what, Marky?”

  “Well, I don’t know if it was anything important. But farther down the alley there was this car parked. It was right up against the building on the other side of the parking lot, maybe a bit closer to the Congress Street side. The lights were off, but then I saw this little red light inside the car,” he said. “It looked like somebody was smoking in there. I couldn’t see them, though.”

  X asked him if he knew what kind of car it was. Marky shook his head. “I don’t know anything about cars, sorry,” he said. “It looked like a regular American car, I guess. Nothing fancy or foreign about it. It was dark — black or brown, I think. Not new.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, I figured I wasn’t alone anymore, so I went back inside and went to watch the band,” he said. “And that was it.”

  We asked Marky a few more questions, but it was obvious he didn’t know anything else super-significant. Seeing a car parked in the alleyway, however, right before Jimmy was killed, a car with someone in it? That was probably important.

  As Marky looked on, sipping his Bud Light, the rest of us argued about what to do. I wanted to call Detective Murphy right away; X wanted to call his father first, in case Marky needed a lawyer. Sister Betty wanted Marky to stay at the Kowalchuk home and sleep on the couch.

  “I can’t,” Marky said. “My mom’s out. I told her I’d look after the dogs. Walk them and stuff.”

  X looked uncertain. “Okay,” he said. “Kurt and I will take you back to your place, all right? I’ll talk to my dad tonight and we’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.”

  “Sure, X, sure,” Marky said, clearly thrilled to be the focus of his attention. “Sounds good.”

  Twenty minutes later, X and I watched as Marky waved at us and disappeared inside his mother’s dark townhouse.

  “You believe him?” I asked, pulling away and pointing my battered AMC Gremlin toward South Portland. “I think he’d say anything to get your attention, man.”

  “I know,” X said, rubbing his eyes, looking exhausted, “but I don’t think he’d lie about something like this. That wouldn’t be cool.”

  “Agree,” I said, speeding over the Casco Bay Bridge. “You call your dad?”

  “Yeah,” X said, looking at the bay as we passed, heading toward our nighttime ritual of Coke Slurpees at our favo
rite 7-Eleven. “I called from the Kowalchuks before we left. Bridget said he and my mom were still out. So I’ll talk to him later.”

  C H A P T E R 9

  When Marky’s mother found him, she fainted and dropped to the floor. When she came to, much later, and again saw the body of her only son, she fainted again. It would be a while before the police were called.

  Marky Upton lay on the living room carpet, white and tiny, like a piece of broken china. He had been placed between the couch and the coffee table. His pants and underwear had been pulled down to his bony knees, and there was a clump of what looked like half-frozen bacon balanced on his testicles. His arms were sort of sticking out from his little body, pointing at the townhouse walls.

  On his left side, between two ribs, was the gaping wound that had killed him. It was much bigger than a regular knife wound, we were told later. On Marky’s head, the killer or killers had hooked a jumble of rusty wire into his hair. The wire had scratched the skin across his birdlike skull, and some blood could be seen there, too. His eyes were open, wide.

  The police found his mother’s two Shih Tzus jammed in the microwave oven in the kitchen, cooked to death.

  There was no note left behind, no clues scrawled on the walls in blood, no nothing. The townhouse was in exactly the condition Marky and his mom had left it. Nothing had been moved or taken. We were later told the front door was still locked when Marky’s mother returned from her movie.

  Problems.

  Marky Upton’s murder, coming about forty-eight hours after Jimmy’s, created a lot of problems for a lot of people. For the detectives Murphy and Savoie, it apparently made the Chief of Police super pissed. As a result, Savoie was in a spitting fury that we hadn’t called them the second we heard what Marky had to say. “Why the hell didn’t you call us right away?” he yelled at us. This time X’s dad didn’t intervene.