cracking his knuckles and looking very uptight. All I wanted to do was play music. I didnât want any of this.
The driverâs door to the truck flew open and Richie Gregg hopped out in a cloud of smoke. I took a whiff and decided it wasnât tobacco.
On the side of the truck was painted The Mongrel Dogs. Now it was beginning to click. The two other Dogs, Louie and Ike, rolled out the other side and stood coughing on the sidewalk. Everything they were wearing was black and shredded. The Mongrel Dogs had had a regular gig at the club until their attitude and tendency to fight pushed the owner too far. He decided to hold a Battle of the Bands to find a more reliable act. Richie had heard about us, and I think he thought we were the most likely to beat him out.
âSweetheart,â Richie said, looking at me, âyou parked in my space.â
âOh, sorry,â I said. I sounded like a total wimp. The Mongrel Dogs began to laugh, as if they had just heard the funniest joke.
Al stepped in. âWe were here first.â
âOh,â Richie said, âexcuse me.â He faded back to his truck, reached under the seat and grabbed something. Before we could get a handle on what he was up to,he had a spray can of paint in his hand. He shook it, and then he sprayed something in quick, sloppy strokes on the side of Alâs van.
Thunderbowl eats â¦
Only he didnât have time to finish. Al grabbed the spray can and heaved it like it was a live hand grenade halfway down the block.
Something bad was about to happen. I wanted to run for cover. But just then the side door to The Dungeon flew open. Stewy Lyons walked out. Stewy is a big, burly guy who looks like a bear with tattoos up and down his arms. He runs the club.
âWho owns this truck?â he asked Richie.
Richie pointed a thumb at himself.
âPark it somewhere else, dinghead.â
âSure,â Richie agreed. Too much was at stake for him to do otherwise.
âWhat about this pile of scrap?â He was looking at the van.
âItâs mine,â Al answered, deeply insulted.
âThen drive it to a junkyard. Just donâtleave an eyesore like this parked by my place.â
âSure,â Al said, defeated. Stewy had stopped the fightâbut not for long.
Richie hopped in his truck, gunned the engine and began to back out. He had plenty of room to get by, but he cut the wheel too sharply. The back bumper connected with one of the vanâs tail lights.
âYou idiot!â Al screamed.
âOh, excuse me,â Richie said in a phony voice. He revved the engine again and drove backward halfway up the street, tires squealing the whole way.
Chapter Three
Inside The Dungeon, I felt dizzy. The air in the smoky, crowded room behind the stage smelled like dead skunk.
I was thinking that if I could only get my damn guitar in tune, I might be able to play three chords. I still couldnât breathe right. The band on stage sounded good. But when they finished, nobody clapped. It was a tough crowd. It was going to be a tough night.
The Dogs went on stage before us. It took them forever to get set up and finish their sound check. Richie broke a string and Louie couldnât seem to find the beat on the drums. Ike sounded smooth on bass, but you canât carry an alternative band with just a bass guitar. No wonder Stewy was looking for new talent.
But I had the feeling that tonight was just a matter of luck. The Dogs were having a bad night. I think they smoked too much before going on. Still, Richie had a sort of Mick Jagger bad-boy style that the crowd loved. I kept wondering how they would like me. I had no stage presence at all. All I could do was play a few chords, noodle a few riffs.
When the noise of The Mongrel Dogs finally faded, people stood up and cheered. I thought I heard glass breaking. Even when they were lousy, the Dogs knew how to stir up a place.
Then it was our turn. We had twelve