Free Speed Metal Blues: A Dan Reno Novel by Dave Stanton

lacked even the common decency to flush the toilet. The trail of food wrappers, soiled laundry, and dirty dishes they left in their wake reminded John of pictures he’d seen of a capsized garbage barge. Within two days, the tidy residential home became a filthy, chaotic flophouse. John talked to Vic Servino and Joe Norton, and when he got nowhere, he hired a full-time maid and spent his waking hours in his office at Pistol Pete’s.
    When he finally found suitable rental properties and Norton and his boys split, John learned three of the gang members had left their guitars and amps behind, in the detached cinder block building where Robert played the drums. Switton wasn’t thrilled when his son told him they had formed a band and would be rehearsing three times a week. But John decided not to meddle, as Robert’s social life was limited, and he seemed excited about the prospect of his first metal band. At least the freaking room was mostly soundproof.
    The previous night, when John came home from the casino and saw Robert wasn’t on the couch watching television, he went out to the back building. The blast of sound that greeted him when he opened the door was startling. The guitars howled over Robert’s driving beat, the bass drum propelling the rhythm at a speed John had never heard in any form of music. The singer, if that’s what he was to be called, was growling in a thick, horrible tone, as if Satan himself was speaking through his vocal chords.
    The room’s walls and ceiling were carpeted, and sections were covered with yellow foam mattress pads. A coffee table was shoved in a corner and looked ready to collapse under the weight of empty beer cans and bottles and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. John stood with his fingers in his ears until the onslaught finally ended.
    “What do you think, Dad?” Robert said, wiping the sweat from his face.
    “It ain’t exactly the Bee Gees.”
    “Who?”
    John turned to the singer. “Do people actually listen to this?”
    The lead guitar player put his beer down after a long swig. “No one your age, pops,” he said.
    “No one my age would wear a ring in their nose, either.”
    “It’s called fashion. You don’t know what it means? Try a dictionary.”
    “Hey, Tom,” Robert said.
    “Look, you can wear a ring through your scrotum if you want,” John said. “And I don’t really care what kind of noise you make, as long as I don’t have to listen to it. All I ask is you treat my property with respect. That means clean up after yourselves when you’re done playing.” John pointed at the coffee table.
    The second guitarist, wearing a billy goat beard to hide his weak chin, began tuning his instrument. John reached over and yanked the power chord from the man’s guitar. “You need to clean the place before you leave tonight. Or you can find someplace else to play.” John flung the chord at the man and walked out.
    An hour later Robert’s bandmates were talking loudly in front of the house. John waited for them to drive off, then went out to his back patio and stood in the shadows. After a minute Robert appeared from the structure, his deformed physique and unnatural gait silhouetted as he walked across the dark yard, carrying a small box clinking with beer bottles. He dumped the bottles into a garbage can on the far side of the house, then returned to the room, and a minute later began the trek again. After the third time, John wheeled the garbage can over to the cinder block building and helped Robert clear the trash from the interior. Then he led his son inside the main house, made him a snack, and they watched television together before going to bed.
    • • •
    By the time John left for the casino the next morning, the frost had given way to a spring sun that bathed the meadows along Highway 50 in light. Clumps of purple wildflowers spotted the glistening, dew-covered fields. Between stands of pine, John could see two white plumes reflected on