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  “So?” I said, mouth full of chicken.

  Say it, Ron, you chickenshit.

  “So,” he said, finally, “I would like to know a bit more about your friend — and Earl Turner’s right-hand man — Danny O’Heran.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Danny sat in the campaign Jeep. Waiting, watching.

  The Jeep had the Turner campaign’s RIGHT logo affixed to the sides. But now, below that, it also said: AMERICA FOR AMERICANS. Nobody needed to ask Danny what the new slogan meant. They all knew. Everyone knew.

  Danny had parked the Jeep on Commercial Street on Portland’s waterfront, at Earl Turner’s direction. Turner was going to meet some rich donor at the Hilton, which overlooked Casco Bay. As always, Turner told Danny to position the Jeep in a prominent spot beside the hotel, so it would be seen. “I want everyone to know we’re here.”

  It’s unlikely anyone would have missed him, anyway. With his quarterback’s physique and his telegenic looks, Earl Turner was a bona fide local celebrity. And he was always pretty easy to spot in and around Portland.

  For those few who weren’t sure who he was, however, a recent addition to his entourage resolved any doubt: now that he was edging toward front-runner status in the Republican primary race, Earl Turner had been provided with his very own Secret Service detail. Secret Service agents read the polls, too, Danny figured. So, now, two burly dark-suited guys wearing sunglasses followed Earl Turner as he strolled near the hotel.

  It was sunny, and nice out, so Turner and his rich friend had decided to take a walk. Danny was instructed to wait in the Jeep. Occasionally, Turner would stop to shake the extended hand of a well-wisher or give a friendly wave to gawkers driving by. But, mostly, his focus was on the diminutive man walking beside him. The man looked to be in his sixties, maybe his seventies. He was wearing a black suit, black tie, and black wingtips. His hair was short and slicked back on top. On his nondescript face, the only thing that distinguished him was a small, neatly-trimmed mustache.

  As they walked, Secret Service in tow, Earl Turner was smiling and gesturing. The anonymous little man had his hands clasped behind his back. He was nodding at whatever Earl Turner was saying.

  When Danny had pulled up to the Portland Waterfront Hilton, Turner said. “My friend Ben is up from the Blue Ridge Mountains, visiting. He’s an important man. He’s going to help us out with the new ad campaign.” Turner paused. “Ever been to the Blue Ridge Mountains, Danny?”

  Danny said no. He’d never even heard of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “Beautiful part of America,” Turner said, opening the door of the Jeep. “And not a nigger or a kike to be seen anywhere. Back shortly.”

  Danny O’Heran had winced at Earl Turner’s ra­cist language, but he said nothing. Since the campaign’s pollster had laid out the radical new strategy, Earl Turner had embraced it with a vengeance. Any pretense of moderation had been abandoned.

  To Danny’s surprise, very few of the Republican faithful objected to the now openly racist tone of the campaign. At rallies and debates and meet-and-greets around New England, Republicans would nod whenever Turner denigrated blacks or homosexuals or other minorities. Occasionally, they’d let out a whoop of support.

  Sometimes, when he figured his audience knew what he was talking about, Earl Turner would go on about how America’s youth were drifting away from “traditional values,” and getting into drugs and radicalism and awful stuff like punk rock. “Punk rockers, calling themselves the Antichrist and celebrating hard drugs in their disgusting lyrics!” Turner would say, referring to the Sex Pistols. And then Turner would steal a glance at Danny, and Danny would always give him an encouraging nod or a thumbs-up. “These punks deserve a beating!” Turner would say, and everyone would cheer.

  A few times, protestors got into the rallies and started yelling at Turner. They’d shout that he was a racist and a bigot, or say his race-baiting was un-American. But they’d always be quickly hustled out by volunteers or local cops or the Secret Service. Once the protestors were gone, Turner would say something like: “You see that? See that? That’s what we are up against, my friends. I support free speech so those nobodies can use their speech to say whatever they want. Let them holler.” Then he’d pause. “But let them do their hollering when they’re repatriated back to their own countries!”

  And the crowd would cheer some more.

  Sometimes, Danny would sit at the door when Turner was meeting with a reporter or a newspaper editorial board. Every single time, the reporters or editorial writers would challenge Turner about what they called his “racist rhetoric.” Every single time, Turner would give them his local football hero smile and spread his big arms wide. “If I’m wrong to say what I’m saying, then why are so many people coming out to support me?” he’d ask. “Are they all wrong, too?” And then he’d recite some distorted statistics about the percentage of minorities and immigrants who commit crimes. He’d quote George Washington, who had said that the Indians were “beasts.” Or Woodrow Wilson, who had backed what he called “the great Ku Klux Klan.” Or he’d quote Thomas Jefferson, who had said Indian tribes needed to be “exterminated” — and that “blacks are inferior to the whites.”

  Or he’d just point out that his new slogan was actually borrowed from one successfully used by President Calvin Coolidge a half-century before: “America must be kept American.”

  If the reporter said something like “That was then, this is now” — and that Earl Turner now had a responsibility to reject the racism of the past and represent all Americans, not just the white ones — well, Turner would always have a quick answer for that, too. “Let the other Republican candidates say what the media and the special interest groups and minorities want to hear,” he’d say. “I’m saying what normal Americans think.”

  That was another of Earl Turner’s favorite language tricks, Danny knew. He’d call his campaign, and the growing number of people who supported it, “normal.” That way, he didn’t even have to say that anyone who opposed him was “abnormal.” They already knew it. They felt it, too — Danny observed that the Turner campaign rallies had started to acquire a Klansmen’s night-rally feel to them. All that was missing were torches, pitchforks, and nooses.

  Danny slouched in his seat in the Jeep, watching Turner and his mysterious friend Ben stroll along the sidewalk, the two Secret Service agents not far behind. Turner looked to be in full flight now, gesturing energetically. His dark-suited friend was nodding away. Danny wondered how much this Ben was worth. If the shiny new limo parked in front of the Hilton was his, Danny figured Ben was rich as hell.

  The two stopped on the sidewalk. They had apparently reached an agreement, judging by the nodding and gesturing. Then they shook hands and Earl Turner happily patted Ben on the shoulder with his other hand. Turner looked ecstatic.

  After a bit more talk, they shook hands again and parted ways. Earl Turner started walking to the Jeep while the Secret Service guys moved toward their black Chevrolet Suburban with the tinted windows. They didn’t like Earl Turner wheeling about in a Jeep, Danny knew, with just a kid behind the wheel. But Turner refused their requests to change his ways.

  “I’m the people’s candidate,” he had said to Danny. “I need to be seen by the people. I need to be accessible to the people. They don’t want to see me cowering behind bulletproof glass.”

  Turner opened the door to the Jeep and jumped in. He was clearly very happy. “Danny, my boy, let’s go get some lobster rolls at the Old Port Tavern!” he said, pulling the door shut. “We need to celebrate! The big buy for the America for Americans campaign is a go!”

  Danny nodded and pointed the Jeep toward Moulton Street in the Old Port.

  CHAPTER 12

  They had been talking for a while.

  “Fuck, man, it’s bad. It’s so bad.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just … fuck, they are so fucking evil.”

  “That bad? They’re not f
aking it?”

  “Some of them, maybe. But not all of them. Not the ones at the top.”

  “I’m sorry, man. You know …”

  “I know, I know. Gotta go.”

  Click.

  There’s this view, among the uninitiated, that it is cool or hip to spit on the bands at punk rock shows. The rich Burlington doctor’s son, for instance, thought that.

  But I’m in a punk band, and I’m telling you: if you fucking spit on me, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.

  The historical origins of the gobbing-at-punk-shows phenomenon are unclear. I read somewhere that the Damned’s drummer, Rat Scabies, started it. He claimed that the Sex Pistols’ guitarist, Steve Jones, spat on him at a show, so he spat back. Floods of phlegm ensued. Another article said that the Pistols’ Johnny Rotten was the first — he had sinus issues, he claimed, and he needed to spit onstage a lot. His fans copied him, goes the tale.

  Anyway, soon enough, gobbing at punk shows was all the rage. In no time at all, bands like the Pistols and the Damned were on the receiving end of steaming geysers of warm spit at punk shows all over the U.K., all the time.

  None of the bands liked it, however. Someone spat right into the open mouth of Clash front man Joe Strummer one night, for example, and he got hepa­titis. Another punk, Adam Ant, started wearing an eye patch — which actually became part of his ridiculous pirate-punk look — because someone horked a loogie in his eye and he got a nasty case of conjunctivitis. The Banshees’ Siouxsie Sioux got both: conjunctivitis and hepatitis.

  Anyway, here’s a pro tip, punk rockers: It’s fucking disgusting.

  But still, some people — usually people who aren’t punks but who think it’s a punk thing to do — spit at the bands and each other.

  So there we were, on the first night of the tour. We were playing a close-to-sold-out show at Higher Ground, the best place in Burlington, Vermont, to see a real band. It was near the end of the set, and we were ripping through one of the Hot Nasties’ noisier, faster numbers, “I Am a Confused Teenager.” That’s when the rich doctor’s son crawled up onto the stage. We’d been warned about him. He’d sneak into the venue and try and start trouble.

  I was singing at that moment and playing my guitar, but I could see he was getting ready to spit on me, point-blank. Before he could, I kicked him in the face.

  Naturally.

  I didn’t do it hard, but hard enough, I guess. The doctor’s son flew back into the slam-dancing crowd at the foot of the stage, then he crashed into the concert floor at Burlington’s premier rock ’n’ roll venue. The security guys, in yellow shirts, looked down at the inert form of the doctor’s son — clad in black leather, from head to foot — and then up at me. And then things got really crazy.

  Cops, punks, yellow-shirted security guys, a dozen straight edge types, a couple skinheads — along with one huge Rasta guy (Bembe), one huge ex-biker (Mike), and one sort-of huge punk rocker (X) — started to mix it up in the middle of Higher Ground’s ballroom bar. Never being one to miss out on some good-natured fun, and feeling some speed-induced super-duper powers, I stripped off my Fender Strat and jumped into the melee. The Nasties kept playing, except they switched to an impromptu version of “Gloria,” with Sam Shiller adopting the lyrics to suit the occasion:

  Lemme tell ya about Kurt a bit

  He don’t take no shit

  He don’t like your spit

  He’s six feet and a bit

  Burlington had been the first stop on the Nasties/Virgins tour and — until the rich doctor’s son decided to gob on Yours Truly — everything had been going unusually well. We’d left Portland without incident, we’d done the four-hour drive to Burlington without incident, we’d checked into the Holiday Inn without incident, and the sound check at Higher Ground had gone off without incident, too. For the Hot Nasties and the Punk Rock Virgins, the first day of the tour — which had been dubbed the “Better Off Stiff Tour” by Bembe Smith — had started remarkably well. It was unprecedented, for us.

  Higher Ground was this cool venue inside a former movie theater on Williston Road in South Burlington, close to I-89. When we’d pulled in off the Interstate, the club manager had been effusively cheerful and helpful. He got a couple of his staff to help us load in, introduced us to his sound guy, and was about to leave when he stopped.

  “Oh, one thing,” he said. “There’s one guy you need to watch out for. He sometimes sneaks in and gets past the guys at the door and causes some trouble. He’s a rich doctor’s son.”

  Right.

  At the moment, however, the rich doctor’s son was out cold in the middle of the dance floor while a massive brawl raged above and around him. It was hard to tell who was on whose side, or who was winning. I was near X, Bembe, and Mike, naturally, trying to keep troublemakers — the straight edge crew, mostly — from getting near any of the Punk Rock Virgins or the remaining Hot Nasties, still playing their epic-length version of “Gloria.” Some of the security guys were battling with some drunk punks, and some drunk punks were fighting with the skinheads. And the cops, about four of them, were standing at the doors to Higher Ground, unsure who was a good guy and who was a bad guy.

  Eventually, the Nasties stopped playing “Gloria,” and the various combatants stopped fighting. The security guards hauled a couple skinheads toward the cops, who then hauled the skinheads outside.

  As all this was going on, the rich doctor’s son stirred and got onto his feet. Unsteadily, he made his way ­toward me. Sensing more trouble, X stepped closer, as did Mike.

  The rich doctor’s son, blood still flowing from his nose, looked at me, bleary-eyed, then twisted his mouth into what might have been a smile.

  “That was fucking awesome, man,” he said. “You guys kick ass. Thanks.”

  And then he turned and walked away.

  I slouched on a chair in the lobby, watching X at the pay phone in the parking lot outside the Holiday Inn in Burlington. Everyone else was still up in their rooms, asleep.

  Speed, however, conspired against getting much shut-eye. So I was up. I sniffed. I scratched.

  I wondered why he wasn’t using one of the pay phones in the hotel. Weird. Maybe he didn’t want to wake up Patti.

  Last night, after we loaded up our equipment at Higher Ground, I had taken X aside and asked if we could talk about what had happened at the show. We agreed to meet in the lobby in the morning, before every­one else came downstairs.

  His call finished, I watched X lope across the parking lot and into the lobby. He saw me and walked over.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.”

  “So, what happened to the solemn promise that there would be no violence at any of the shows?” I asked him, as he sat down across from me. “I thought you said you and Mike and Bembe had it handled?”

  X frowned, looking away. I knew I was sounding a bit like a rock ’n’ roll diva, but I knew I was also right. Stiff would not hesitate to end the tour if it turned into a circus. And last night was a fucking circus.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Although it probably didn’t help that the Hot Nasties’ lead singer stripped off his guitar and jumped into the crowd when the fight started.”

  I couldn’t help myself and laughed out loud. Point made. “Okay, okay,” I said, hands raised in protest. “Guilty as charged. I shouldn’t have done that. And I probably shouldn’t have kicked that douchebag in the face. But I don’t like to get spit on.”

  X nodded. “Anyway, you’re right. We lost control. I apologize.”

  I had heard X apologize for stuff before, but it was a pretty rare fucking occurrence, believe me. So I let his words hang in the lobby air for a minute, savoring them. That done, I suggested we go get some of the “food” that was found at the free continental breakfast.

  We lined up for Raisin Bran while various suburban moms and dads and kids stared up at the big, scary-looking punk rock guys. They looked at us like we were escaped convicts. As we waited, I made sm
all talk: “So, brother, what was the mystery call you were making out in the parking lot? Didn’t want to get overheard, hmmm?”

  I was joking, but X looked at me with a flash of … something on his face. It disappeared as quickly as it came. “Patti was asleep, and I didn’t want to wake her up,” he said after a moment. “Figured I’d take a walk and make some calls.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, vaguely aware that he seemed to be fibbing. “You like taking walks along the Interstate?”

  He didn’t answer.

  After we finished our cereal and several thimble-sized glasses of orange juice, I looked down at my Mickey Mouse watch. “Shit! Now I’m the one who has to make a call. Be right back, brother.”

  I headed out to the pay phone X had used and dialed the toll-free, long-distance number I’d memorized. They patched me through to Special Agent Laverty. “Good morning, Kurt,” Laverty said. “Quite the night last night. I hope no one got hurt.”

  “How do you know about that?” I asked, frankly amazed that she was aware of the brawl at Higher Ground. “Were you there?”

  “Yes, I was,” she said, “but I kept out of sight.” She paused. “I had bureau business here, so I decided to come by.”

  Wow.

  “So, are you still here in Burlington?”

  “Yes, but I’m leaving soon,” she said. “I’m nearby. Do you and your friend have time to meet me?” She meant X.

  We agreed to meet at a Denny’s just down from the Holiday Inn. Fifteen minutes later, X and I slid into a booth where Special Agent Laverty was already sitting, stirring a cup of coffee. She didn’t have a hair out of place. She looked amazing, as usual.

  “Good morning,” she said, indicating to a Denny’s menu. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  We declined, saying that we had already eaten. I ordered a coffee, X got a tea. We waited for the waitress to move away.

  “What’s up?” I asked Laverty, half-expecting to hear that another gay kid or punk kid was murdered for wanting to see the Hot Nasties. “Any … trouble?”