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Creative Content - Chris Nickson

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114 pages

English

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Seattle, May 1988: Why would up and coming musician Craig Adler OD on heroin just days before signing a major record deal? Craig's band was the first of the new Seattle music scene to break out of the Northwest and they were about to hit the big time. With everything to live for, Craig had been clean for months; everybody swore it. Music journalist Laura Benton is determined to find the answer. But as she digs into the story, the pieces don't quite add up - and then the threats begin. Just a phone call at first, then a bullet in the mail... and as the threats escalate, her dreams turn to nightmares in the Emerald City and Laura finds herself desperately fighting for her reputation - and her life.

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Publié par	Creative Content
Date de parution	29 mars 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781908807083
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0400€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Emerald City
CHRIS NICKSON
EMERALD CITY
First published in 2013
By Creative Content Ltd, Roxburghe House, 273-287 Regent Street, London, W1B 2HA.
Copyright © 2013 Creative Content Ltd
The moral right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher nor be otherwise circulated in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published
In view of the possibility of human error by the authors, editors or publishers of the material contained herein, neither Creative Content Ltd. nor any other party involved in the preparation of this material warrants that the information contained herein is in every respect accurate or complete and they are not responsible for any errors or omissions, or for the results obtained from the use of such material.
The views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinion or policy of Creative Content Ltd. or any employing organization unless specifically stated.
Typesetting and cover design by HCT Creative
eISBN 9781908807083
For everyone involved with The Rocket , 1979-2000, one of the great music papers

As Gary Heffern once told me, “Out on the streets junk is still king.”
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Acknowledgments
One
Seattle was like every city. It had those cool areas where people wanted to live. In 1988 it was Capitol Hill, Belltown, or lower Queen Anne – anywhere close enough to stagger home from downtown when the music ended and the bars closed.
But West Seattle definitely wasn’t cool. It was the kind of place where people went when they couldn’t afford anything better.
I was sitting out on the deck, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper and enjoying the morning sun, a rare surprise in May. Down below, Lake Union was sparkling in the light, and the towers of the downtown skyline glittered in the distance.
The building I lived in had been put up quickly for the World’s Fair back in 1962, and it looked like a cheap California motel, ugly pebble stucco and concrete, but the apartments were spacious and clean and it was affordable. It was just up the street from Tower Records, close enough to walk downtown. If I craned hard over the balcony I could even see the tip of the Space Needle.
It was a small item on page three. I’d have missed it if it wasn’t for the name.
“Come and take a look at this,” I called to Steve.
“What is it?” he asked as he came out, fresh from the shower and running a hand through his wet hair. He grabbed my coffee and took a sip.
“Hey,” I said and took the cup back. “Have you seen this? Craig Adler’s dead.”
“What? Are you serious, Laura?” His voice rose in astonishment.
“Here.” I pushed the newspaper at him. He scanned the brief article, eyes widening.
“Jesus.” He looked at me in amazement. “Heroin?”
“That’s what it says. Seems weird to me. But...”
“Yeah, me too.” He settled in the other chair and read it through again, puzzlement on his face. “And West Seattle?” He shook his head. “That’s strange. I figured he had a place on the Hill. I know he used to.”
“I guess he moved. You know what’s really bizarre? I heard his band was about to sign with a major.” That had been the rumor – Snakeblood had a deal with ARP Records and big money was involved. Why would someone overdose on the verge of that?
He frowned, trying to hide a small pang of musician’s jealousy. Steve had his own band, Gideon’s Wound, that was desperately trying to make it. A local label had put out a single of theirs in January, two songs, both under three minutes long. They’d had good reviews all over, even one in Melody Maker in England. But apart from a couple more gigs and brief trips to Portland and Boise, nothing had really happened. No record companies were calling him with a contract offer. He was still washing dishes.
The groundswell that was rising in Seattle music was passing him by, and I knew he resented it, even though he didn’t say anything. For the last few years there had been an underground scene, raucous, unruly groups playing the little clubs that sprang up every few months around the city, and now it was beginning to come of age. Record label scouts were sniffing around, hunting the next big thing and sensing it would be here. Craig had been the first choice. Except now he was dead.
“Had you heard anything about him doing heroin?” he asked. I shook my head. It wasn’t the drug of choice for most of the musicians I knew; they preferred to drink beer and smoke plenty of weed. But I was just a music journalist; how much did I understand anyway?
“Nothing,” Steve glanced at his watched and stood up. “I got to jet,” he said, and a few seconds later I heard the apartment door close loudly and smiled; one thing about Steve, he was like most men I’d known, unable to do anything quietly. Looking down I could see him heading for the bus stop, joining the pack of humanity heading downtown, wearing a faded denim jacket on top of a plaid shirt and t-shirt, old, battered jeans and Doc Martens. Good thrift shop Seattle wear. He’d change into his whites in the restaurant at the Bon Marche, where he worked piling up the dirty plates and cups in the dishwasher then emptying it again, time after time in the steamy heat. It was fair money, not the worst job he’d ever had, but it wasn’t music, and I knew that rankled with him every single day.
Steve had moved in with me six months before when the lease on his old place was up. By then we’d been dating almost a year. He was twenty-four, seven years younger than me, but most of the time there didn’t seem to be an age difference between us. From the moment we met, standing at the bar in the Central both trying to order beers over the music, we’d just clicked. It startled people. I noticed the looks people gave us when we were out and heard a few of the comments. They couldn’t understand why someone young and good looking would be with someone like me. I’m no model, I don’t ooze sex appeal. I’m average and completely happy with who I am. Steve loved me and I loved him. If anyone didn’t like it, fuck them. We were happy.
He was one of those guys who kept so many things inside, working out his feelings and his problems in his head. He could be intense at times, and that made the sex amazing, but often he was happy to just be quiet. That was fine, but I’d learned that if I wanted to know what he was thinking and what was in his heart I had to sit him down and make him talk about it. At first it had been almost impossible. He was still reluctant, but things were slowly improving.
Steve had left the Midwest looking for something new, some hope at the edge of America; I’d lived here my whole life with no desire to go anywhere else. Other places had their charms, but for all its ups and downs, Seattle was the place I loved.
Back when I was in elementary school everyone thought the city was dying on its feet. All around the city billboards went up reading, Will the last person leaving Seattle – Turn out the lights , as if the place might just crumble to nothing. It had made me laugh then, but my dad hated it. And now times had turned upside down. Every month the glossy magazines competed in their superlatives for the place, as if it was Paradise. People were flocking here, real estate prices were going crazy, newcomers pricing natives out of the place. Sometimes, seeing the license plates clogging up the freeway, it seemed as if we were becoming a California suburb. We’d been discovered, the hidden gem tucked away at the top left hand corner of the map of America. Even the earthquake fault line and the Mount St Helens eruption hadn’t put people off.
Two
A little after ten, I called the news editor at Rolling Stone to try to sell him a short item on Craig. I knew it was ghoulish, but it was money, the lifeblood of a freelancer without a regular salary. He turned me down; who cared about a local casualty? If Snakeblood had already signed their deal it would have been different. I sighed, shucked on my jacket and began to walk down the hill and past Seattle Center.
I was old enough to remember all the excitement of the world’s fair there in 1962. Century 21, they called it, a vision of the science fiction future that lay ahead for us all. My folks took me three times over the summer; I was six and I couldn’t get enough of the place. We rode the monorail and wandered around, then went up the Space Needle, looking down on Seattle like we were in heaven. Now it was all memories, and the bright, sleek time it promised hadn’t happened yet. All I had left were three glasses with the logos and illustrations. They were good for soda and laughs.
I crossed Denny Way where downtown began, and followed Fifth Avenue. At the corner of Lenora I pushed open the double doors of the brick building and climbed the stairs to the offices of The Rocket.
The paper was the Northwest music bible and it had earned its reputation. For almost ten years it had covered it all – who was playing where, what record had just come out, interviews, reviews, and it did a good job, out every two weeks and free. The standard of writing was high and the pay was fair; it was my main source of income.
My parents hadn’t really understood me. I hadn’t wanted to go to college or settle down. They hoped I’d end up married with a family or, failing that, have a career that would bring in some money. Instead I was happy working crappy jobs and spe