The Last JoyRide

Part 34

Saturday 8:08 PM

After checking out the Eddie VanHalen in earnest, I fetched some clean clothes out of my camper, took another quick, hot shower, and rested on the bed under the air conditioning, waiting for Joy to return. I must have dozed off, and I'm not even sure what woke me, but when I checked the phone, I had missed three calls, all of which were Joy.

I snatched up the phone and called her back. She was mad all right, but not with me, not yet anyway.

"Where are you?" She demanded.

"Home. In the trailer, why?"

"I need you to meet me here, in Buckhead. I'll be at a shithole called "Something" Bar; you can't miss it."

I could tell she was standing outside but could hear thumping music in the background. She sounded a little frantic, all business.

"What bar?" I said.

"I couldn't hear you. You faded out for a second there."

"I need you to stop by the bank and see if Sasha's car is still there; I pray that it is. If it is, I need you to wait there and call me until you get me. Okay?"

"Got it, no problem. You want me to call you from the bank. Is everything okay?"

I could hear her shuffling around, and the music and background noise faded slightly.

"I don't know, keeping fingers crossed, but I'll need you down here either way. Call me when you get to the bank. I need to know asap."

She was shouting. I had to hold the phone away from my ear because the tiny speaker kept clipping. Then, before I could say anything else, she was gone—no telling what if anything had happened. I quickly put smaller bandages over my still festering wounds and got dressed. I was out the door in under twenty minutes.

Saturday 9:21 PM

It took just a little while to get to the bank, and sure enough, the little Maserati was gone. I parked and phoned Joy as she asked. It took a few minutes to reach her. When she picked up, all I could hear was the din of the loud bar until she walked outside.

"It's gone," I said.

"Shit!" She hissed, then a long pause.

The background noise was still terrible. Most of what she said was unintelligible.

"Okay. Something Bar is on Peachtree and Gigglebottom. It's a little way down. You can't miss it. I'll be watching for you. Thanks, Nick," she said as she hung up.

Gigglebottom is not what she said, but that's what it sounded like. I had no idea where she was. She was concerned about something. Something hadn't gone right, and of course, she would never tell me upfront what it was. It was like I had seen her make some mathematical error on a chalkboard full of astronomical calculations. She took every misstep personally. It was a distressing trait.

Saturday 10:08 PM

I parked in an alley a few blocks from the Roxy, an old Spanish baroque-style movie house built in the 1930s. Like most original buildings in Buckhead, it had been repurposed as a small concert venue. In fact, most of the noisy bars along these streets in the Buckhead had been all manner of business at one time. I walked the crowded sidewalks to meet Joy. She answered and I told her I was near, but I couldn't understand what she said. I tried again but could not reach her.

I found "Something" BAR, well, the first bar I saw with a patio, but Joy wasn't on the patio like she said, so I got a beer and sat down outside watching the Saturday night crowds walk the sidewalk in front. It was a great place to people watch; who am I kidding, a great place to girl watch. It was on the corner so it may have been the spot. Still, I couldn't reach Joy, and until I did, I wouldn't feel easy.

She was always just so self-determined. Like someone else I knew, Joy was that way to a fault. Maybe it was from spending too much time in her head. She always thought her moves out so far in advance I wondered if she ever saw what was right in front of her. I sat there and sipped my beer and waited and, in my mind, made plans to take her away somewhere, hiking, get out away from everything and try to disconnect from all her past just for a short while. I bet she would like it.

Finally, my phone rang. It was Joy, all right, but I couldn't hear anything she said again. It was broken up pretty bad. I heard 'the bar down the street' before she was disconnected again. She called two more times, but the result was the same. I decided to finish my beer and take a walk. It was only a matter of time before I found her. She stood out very well.

Buckhead had ten to twelve blocks of nighttime activity, so it wouldn't take forever to find her, even on foot. I decided to walk south on Peachtree as far as I could, then double back and hit some of the back streets. It wasn't uncommon for hip-hop artists to hold release parties in the area. It seemed like every talentless idiot with enough money to afford an auto-tune and a mixing machine had made a recording and was hell-bent on getting it out to the public. Nothing wrong with that either, except the market saturation of mediocrity had made it very difficult for the talented, mind you, if there were any, to stand out.

I kept my eyes peeled. I ducked into every restaurant and bar along the front of Peachtree. No sign of Joy, no sign of that damned green Jeep either.

The area was growing. It had changed a good bit since I was a drinking kid. There were many more bars and restaurants and a few more high rises. It wouldn't be too long before that's all there would be, all these smaller places would be plowed under in the name of progress, and most of the people in these bars and clubs would have to find new digs in which to socialize. It was just a matter of time.

The streets were crowded, near bumper-to-bumper traffic. A few bars had bulky, tight tee-shirt-wearing pretty boys at the door taking cover charges. I avoided those spots. No way in hell Joy would pay a cover charge to stake out someone. She kept saying she was at the corner of something.

My phone rang again as I turned down Pharr road to look at a couple more spots off the main street. Again, it was Joy, but all I heard were sounds, movement, someone, or maybe more than one person talking, but it was muffled, and I couldn't make out the words. In just a few moments, the call disconnected again.

It was then that I started to get worried. I moved a little faster, keeping the quicker pace, scanning the parking lots and side streets where I could for the Jeep. There was a large club ahead on the left, Tu Tu Tango, searchlights going, the whole bit. I slowed my pace as I walked in front of the club, and sure as shit, there it was to my left. I saw it. It was plain as day on the end of the small, dimly lit VIP-only parking lot, a 1964 Chevrolet Impala Convertible, the Dr. Dre.