Laughing Boy Read Free Page A

back at him, reflected light from the spots glinting off her tooth brace. He fell out of love just as quickly as Tim went into the last verse:
    Man, you sure look groovy in those pee-jays,
    I guess you didn’t have the time to change.
    Is black the only colour that they come in?
    And have you any others in my range?
    The applause came like the surf down at Redondo Beach, crashing and tumbling as each new wave filled the trough left by its predecessor. Tim lifted the strap of his guitar over his head, took a step forward and bowed. It was his sign thatthe concert was over. Oscar looked at Carlo and they both looked across at Eddie. Eddie shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. The applause from the audience settled into a rhythm, the calls for more growing until it was a battle of wills between the audience and the band. Tim turned and took his place in the line again, absorbing the adulation but determined not to play any more.
    “I thought we were doing ‘Storm’,” Carlo shouted at him.
    “We did it.”
    “A reprise.”
    “We did it once.”
    “We can’t leave them like this.”
    “Wanna bet?”
    The applause had settled into a chant. Then somebody near the front shouted: “Do ‘Theo’s Tune’!”
    “Yeah! ‘Theo’s Tune’!” came like an echo from the back of the hall. Soon everybody took up the call: “Theo! Theo! Theo!”
    “Let’s do it,” Zeke shouted from behind the drums.
    “No!” Tim screamed back. “That’s it! We’re through.”
    “Theo! Theo! Theo!” they chanted.
    The club owner, his face etched with panic, strode onto the stage trailing a microphone lead. He attempted to speak into it but didn’t make a sound and only encouraged the crowd to double their efforts. He was wearing a business suit that immediately marked him as part of the enemy, one of the fat cats living off his warmonger shares. He tapped the mike then abandoned it. “You can’t leave ’em like this,” he appealed to Tim. “They’ll tear the fuckin’ place down. Play something slow, for Chrissake.”
    “We don’t do slow,” Tim replied, stepping away from him to take what he intended to be his final bow.
    “Theo! Theo! Theo!” they chanted.
    Eddie took over. He slid the controls on his keyboard over to maximum, turned to do the same with the volume on the amplifier, and played the opening riff of ‘Theo’s Tune’. Itcut through the hall like a jet plane and the chants turned to cheers of approval.
    Dum dum, di-dum dum dum , he played again, and the crowd fell almost silent.
    Dum dum, di-dum dum dum .
    The others looked across at him, Zeke grinning, Oscar and Carlo confused and Tim’s face hollow with disappointment .
    Dum dum, di-dum dum dum .
    Zeke took it up, adding his tum ta-ta, tum ta-ta, tum behind Eddie’s keyboard, and Oscar thought, What the hell! and laid on his bass line.
    Tim stood for a moment, his back to the audience, guitar held by the neck in his right hand. When Carlo started to pick out the melody he hurled the three hundred-dollar Fender at Eddie, catching him a glancing blow on the shoulder . The instrument, mute without its power lead, hit a speaker and fell to the floor. Tim stormed off the stage.
    “You take it,” Eddie shouted at Carlo, who duetted with Tim on several numbers and had the better voice. Carlo stepped forward and the band fell into time for the first public performance of ‘Theo’s Tune’.
    One two, buckle my shoe , Carlo sang, and the bemused audience stopped laughing at Tim’s antics and sang along with The LHO’s new front-man:
    Uncle Joe is stuck in the glue.
    Two three, he’ll never get free,
    As long as he sits there in that tree.
    Call the fireman, call the vet,
    Call the doctor but don’t call me.
    Tim was in the waiting car and heading back towards Sherman Oaks before the song was finished. He picked up his own Corvette and drove aimlessly across the Valley, through Pasadena until he found himself on I-210, headingout of town. It was a