WE’RE NO RADIOHEAD

OR

IT'S A LONG, LONG WAY TO THE TOP OF THE WORLD (BUT ONLY A SHORT FALL BACK DOWN)
(part 4 of 6)

Shane hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months and there’d been no sex in a week. Maybe he’d picked the wrong time to quit drugs.

But on second thought, the time had been ripe. When your guitar player overdoses on heroin and your drummer suffers a cocaine-induced heart attack, you’d have to be a world-class clod not to take note. However, the lack of drugs and his bandmates’ health issues were not the only reasons for Shane’s insomnia.

Another problem was his house. It cost $10 million, was located yards from the beach in Venice and he couldn’t live in it. The thing was — and he really hated to admit this — Shane hadn’t counted on the waves. More specifically, he hadn’t counted on the fact that ocean waves were noisy and you couldn’t turn them off. The utter lack of silence drove him berserk. So he abandoned ship.

Even the relative silence of the Hills couldn’t keep her from infesting his dreams. She was back with a vengeance too. That Somali bitch, an A-K in one hand and a fucking baby in the other. She was trying to kill him and his buddies, firing wildly into the crystal blue Mogadishu sky. He saw her explode again and again. He saw her baby explode again and again. He saw his buddies cut down by clean head-shots out of nowhere. He saw ravenous crowds of natives shrieking for vengeance. He smelled blood in the air.

She — they — were the main reason he couldn’t sleep.

Shane found himself wandering the huge house. He’d ended up in John’s recording studio in the basement. Pictures of Keith Richards graced every wall, including a black velvet tribute that was so grotesque Shane was sure children would flee with terror in its wake.

The set-up was expensive — 24-track recorder, reel-to-reel, separate booth for vocals, an entire drum set miked and ready to go, scores of electric and acoustic guitars, even a Hammond B-3. As Shane started picking around, he noticed that John had not only been on a major heroin binge before he OD’d, he’d also been on a major recording binge. The CDs stacked neatly next to the recording board had dates all the way up to the day John was taken to the hospital on the verge of death. Shane listened to them all night long and for the next several nights running. They contained a lot of bilge, it was true, but there was also brilliance; guitar playing unlike any Shane had heard from John in years.

Now, on this night, Shane thought about going back down to the basement and working, but couldn’t summon an ounce of creative muster. Besides, being creative didn’t help him sleep anyway. He needed to blow off some steam.

____________

Officer Omar Rodriguez of the Santa Monica Police Department sensed something wrong immediately.

He had pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot on a whim. The sergeants kept urging patrol officers — especially the overnight, swing-shift guys — to try and keep an eye on the city’s fast food restaurants, and McDonald’s specifically. Four Golden Arches franchises had been burned to the ground in the past six weeks in the greater Los Angeles area and LAPD detectives were worried they had a serial bomber with a Big Mac beef on their hands.

Through the windows of the darkened restaurant, Omar sensed movement on the other side of the parking lot. He drove around and stopped the car. Nothing. Omar got out of the cruiser and shone the heavy Mag-Lite. No sign of anyone. He left the car door open and began walking toward the front of the building. A strong, acrid smell singed his nostrils.

Omar rounded the corner on the opposite side of the building. The man’s face was painted black and he was dressed in all black. Their eyes met for half a second and the man took off in a full sprint across the parking lot on the other side of the restaurant. Omar, who played full back at Crenshaw High School not many years before, started after him. He might have yelled “Freeze” or “Stop” or something like that, but couldn’t recall for certain later in a debriefing with not only LAPD detectives, but agents from the FBI and the ATF.

Omar hit the sidewalk in front of the restaurant hot on the man’s heels, less than half a block behind, but that was as far as he got. Behind him, the restaurant exploded into a booming fireball. Omar was blasted off his feet and thrown into the street. Bricks and flames and grease rained down.

____________

Shane threw the '83 Porsche 911 into gear and rocketed out onto Santa Monica Boulevard. He crashed through flaming debris in the road and heard it slam into the sports car’s low-lying suspension. Shane didn’t care about the car. He’d stolen it two hours ago from the parking lot of the Chateau Marmont. As he blew by the flaming Golden Arches, Shane saw the cop lying in the street.

He kept going for half a block, then hit the brakes, downshifted and whipped the steering wheel around. He hit the accelerator and careened through the debris field again, flipped another U-turn and stopped just short of the cop’s crumpled mass. Shane got out and ran around the car and grabbed the cop by his armpits. The man was bleeding from somewhere but Shane didn’t have time for triage. Damn, if he wasn’t heavy as hell. Sirens echoed in the distance. Shane dragged the man to the sidewalk and set him down gently. He was about to run back to the Porsche when he noticed the man’s eyes open. Shane nodded and winked at the cop. But when he turned to leave, the man’s arm shot out and grabbed his foot. Shane tried to shake him off but the cop’s grip was steely. The sirens were coming closer. Shane looked down at the cop again then kicked him square in his already-bloody face with the foot the man was holding. Shane heard a crunch as the cop’s nose broke. The cop’s grip loosened and Shane lurched toward the idling Porsche.

He jumped into the driver’s seat, threw the beast into gear and tore off down the street. He glanced into the mirror and saw flashing red lights several blocks behind. This was gonna be close.

____________

"I'm all right," said Officer Omar Rodriguez as the first two officers on the scene rushed up. "He's in a yellow Porsche 911. He went that way." Omar pointed. "I'd bet my ass he's heading for the freeway. Go!"

The two officers looked at each other.

"Go!," said Omar. "It's the fucking bomber!"

The two officers ran back to their cruiser and blazed off down the street as the first fire trucks pulled up. Omar saw the officer riding shotgun pick up the radio and, just like that, Shane became the latest freeway chase to lead the morning news.

____________

Shane hit the bottom of the Ten onramp doing 90. He hit the 405 interchange 30 seconds later and zoomed onto the take-off ramp-like entrance to the 405 North. He checked the mirror again as he jacked the car into high gear. The red lights were faint, but they were coming. And if red lights were coming, then so were the cops.

The spotlight from above caught him at the Sunset exit, along with several more blazing red cop cars. Cars were one thing. Helicopters were another. He needed some cover. Shane put the pedal down and hoped. Mulholland was a minute up the road. If he could make it, he’d have a chance.

Forty-five seconds later, Shane was in luck. He waited until the last possible second, then broke for the exit. At the stop sign, he nearly spun the powerful car into the hillside attempting a right turn, but recovered neatly and shot into the hills. The helicopter spotlight followed.

Shane knew this stretch of Mulholland well; he drove it at least twice a day. He blasted up the winding road. He had a good lead on the police cars now, but smart money said they’d be coming from the other direction sooner or later. No matter, Shane thought as he unstrapped his seatbelt and made sure his driver door was unlocked. Up ahead, the road dropped to one side of the ridgeline, wound around a granite cliff and climbed back up. Shane threw the car into a broad powerslide around the turn, then straightened it out, punched the gas, opened the door and tumbled out hard onto the small dirt pullout and down the side of the steep slope, coming to rest in the dense, sharp Southern California underbrush, which swallowed him.

He looked up. The Porsche flew out a few feet away from the cliff, as if the beautiful machine really could fly. But it couldn’t. It made a spectacular rainbow arc, then it disappeared from sight, dropping like a macaw hit by a shotgun blast. The heinous crunching of metal and glass echoed down the canyon.

The helicopter spotlight followed the car into the abyss. Oblivious to what would obviously be a painful morning, Shane crawled deeper into the prickly brush, away from the cliff’s edge. The vegetation tore his clothes and gouged deep ruts into his skin. The noise of police cars screeching to a halt above froze him under a thornbush. He held his breath and buried his face in the dirt. He heard the cops above him guffawing like cops do and peering over the side. Shane hoped they were lemmings.

____________

Shane stepped through the front door of John’s French Chateau-style mansion in the Hollywood Hills and thanked his lucky stars. His right arm throbbed and he was creased with scratches from head to toe.

Shane walked to the kitchen and poured himself a tall glass of brandy (he needed something for the pain) and finished it in several gulps. He poured several fingers more and headed for the back patio, where the pool and hot tub beckoned. He pushed open the French doors and nearly dropped his glass. Sitting at the table, reading a paperback by candlelight was The Particle Board For World Recovery’s long lost bass player, Renner Tylo. Shane leaned against the doorjamb, lingering.

"Well, well, he returns," said Shane.

"Yeah," said Renner.

"The fuck you been?" Shane said, staring at the ground.

"I missed you too, Shane."

Renner got up and walked over to Shane. Shane can't meet his eyes but Renner stares at him.

"Jesus, dude, what the hell happened to you?" Renner said.

"Yardwork." Shane finally looked up. "Where were you? I called yer mom even."

"I know. Been sitting on a beach. Thinking."

"By yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks for calling. How'd you know I was here?"

"John told me."

"You saw him?"

"This afternoon. I saw Wams this morning."

"How are they?"

"John seemed better than I've seen him in months, maybe years. Wams, I don't know. Sounds like he damaged his heart pretty bad."

"Docs told him no more blow - ever."

"Yeah, he doesn't seem to be taking that well. Seriously, what happened to you? You look like you've been through the wars."

"Yardwork, I swear."

"You're still doing it aren't you?"

"Dude - I was planting rose bushes."

Renner looked at him a moment, then burst out laughing. Soon, Shane was laughing too.

"Yer an idiot," Renner said.

"I know," said Shane, and they both fell into an even deeper bout of hysterics during which Shane collapsed to the ground. Still giggling, Renner helped him into one of the patio lounge chairs, then fell into the one next to it. Dawn's rosy fingers began to show in the eastern sky.

"Shane, I..."

"Renner, I'm sorry for what I said. I was angry and I didn't mean it."

"Just don't call me a faggot again."

"All right. But you don't ever play Barbara Streisand in my presence - ever! I hate that bitch."

"Don't worry."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"What about the band?" Renner said.

"Let's just enjoy the morning."

A minute later, Shane was fast asleep.