Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 THE CURSE

   By KATZMAREK(C)

   Chapter Twenty

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   Mick returned home alone.  He left Michelle and Emily at Sabra's in the
Valley and Anna decided to hang out with Dwight Cooney of Blue Rembrandt
for a while.  He expected they'd be back in a couple of weeks or so.  Karen
and Junior were going to have a Jewish Wedding in three weeks and the rest
of The Curse had promised to attend.

   As soon as he could he called on his daughter to acquaint her and her
husband about what went on in Los Angeles.  He thought it vital they were
aware The Curse was likely going to break up, although nothing had been
decided for sure.

   The Curse's output of songs had fallen off, in any case.  Neither Anna
nor Michelle had been writing much in six months and Mick, alone, was
trying to compose stuff he really didn't have a feel for.  He was drifting
away from the thrash and back to his roots.  Karen suggested he was just a
reheated folkie and Mick didn't disagree.

   Mick Johnson was first and foremost a classically trained guitarist. 
Rock music had been overlayed on that foundation and he'd taught himself
the blues style - a natural extension of seventies rock.  He could do folk,
flamenco and, at a pinch, Country and Western, and could make a living from
session work - if that work was available in quantity.

   Mick needed to work at something.  For the past two years he'd thrown
himself into shaping and guiding The Curse, playing the music and touring,
and enforced idleness was unnatural.  He'd been living fast and hard and
the sudden stop was frightening.

   He'd wanted to call Donna the minute he touched down, but was worried
that his expectation was going to be crushed.  Nothing had been said,
nothing promised, and his desire was based solely on a look she gave him as
he said goodbye.  Mick had barely spent 10 hours in her company and that
seemed a ludicrously short amount of time upon which to plan a future.

   He spent a couple of days rumbling around in the Cutlass and hanging out
with Karen and Junior before biting the bullet.  Not knowing what her shift
hours were, he left a text.

   An hour later, a confusing jumble of phonetic spelling arrived on his
mobile suggesting a pub and a time.  He knew the place - a boutique bar in
the old wharf district with parking out back where he could leave the
Cutlass without it being keyed.

   Donna was sitting all alone on a stool nursing a vodka and lemon in a
tall flute.  She flashed him a brief smile before tapping the seat beside
her.  Mick squeezed in and said 'hi.'

   "Wondered if you'd call," she said.  Her voice was barely a whisper, low
and reflective.  There appeared something resigned about her - as if there
was a duty to perform she didn't like.  "How was the States?"

   "Crazy!" he shrugged.

   "Yeah," she nodded slowly, "I'll bet!  I liked the bit about the bus
company, very funny!"

   "You saw?"

   "Watched after the late shift.  They had it on satelite."

   "You don't have satelite."

   "Watched it here," she told him, "on the big widescreen over wine and
nachos."

   "Hey!  Probably had more fun than me."

   "Bullshit!" she grinned.  "You looked stoned and Anna was all over you
like a rash." Her tone had a hint of accusation.

   "She does that," he shrugged.  "Hooked up with the lead singer of Blue
Rembrandt now, I think."

   "Dump you?"

   "Ah?"

   "One of the guys at work," she explained, "left me this gossip
magazine..."

   "Ah!"

   "Don't really read that shit, but, like a dumb bitch, I said I'd met
you."

   "Right!" Mick shuffled uncomfortably.

   "Had this really long bit on The Curse," she said.  "I guess with you
guys going to the Grammys, it's really big news, y'know?  Such a small
country and..."

   "Yeah, yeah, I know," Mick replied.  "They write all kinds of shit. 
Don't get many facts right, of course."

   "So, what's really going on, Mick?" she asked, her face hard, her voice
even.  "Why are you here?  What do you want from me?"

   Mick signalled the barman for a beer - took the glass and turned it
around on the countertop, concentrating on the amber liquid.

   "I guess I thought we'd got something going back there," he told her.

   "You did?  Why?"

   "A look, a feeling?  I feel really comfortable around you."

   "Do you?" she replied.  "I don't.  Honestly - I get a vibe from you.  It
says, 'watch out, this man is trouble!' I sense you're a thief, Mick, you
take from the women around you..."

   "That's not true," Mick told her.

   "I knew you were too good to be true," she continued.  "You're a
musician - never stay, always on the move, breaking hearts and moving on. I
think that's your life, y'know, Mick?  Glamour, stage lights, all that
shit? You need it, I don't."

   "So what did this article say, exactly?  Why the attitude?"

   "Let's see, um, 'long time relationship with The Curse's bass player?' I
think it said something about how your manager and you were old lovers?  A
'friend of the band' said that you slept with the whole band?  A lot of
smoke, Mick, and I wonder where the fire is?"

   "My daughter's our drummer.  It say that?"

   "No.  So, what, strike out the drums?  That leaves the bass, the singer
and the manager.  You get around, Mick!"

   "Show business!" he shrugged.  "I'm not sure where we go from here,"
Mick said.  "I've got a track record, sure, and I imagine you've had
relationships..."

   "Hey, I understand, y'know?  Neither of us are vestal virgins.  But, I
don't like crowds, Mick, and I'm not joining the cue."

   "No cue, Donna.  Look, I don't know what would serve me going through
every tumble with a groupie, every relationship and fling with a beautiful
woman.  I don't think anyone can explain show business to someone who
hasn't been there.  Everything gets sped up and it ain't healthy.  I want
out - want a family life, BBQs on Sundays, all that shit."

   "Shit, Mick, you don't fucking expect much?" Donna told him,
sarcastically, "And I'm what, Mick?  You got plans for me?  Tell me about
them?"

   "Fuck, Donna!  I'm just sharing my plans and desires.  You do what you
fucking like.  I hoped we could hang out a little, that's all."

   "Alright, look, I'm sorry if I seem shitty with you.  Frankly, Mick, you
freak me right out.  Y'had me glued to the fucking telly - hoping for a
glimpse.  Y'know, I thought you'd call from America?  What a stupid, stupid
bitch I was.  Hanging by the phone in case you called?  That's what you did
to me, you fucker, and I'm not a dumb blond.  You gotta believe me when I
say I don't let men suck my brains out.  Y'know, I used to scorn those
useless bitches mooning around after some arrogant fuckwit of a male. 
Then, here's me - aw, shit, guess the rest." She subsided and took a long
sip of her drink.

   "You think I'm an arrogant fuckwit?"

   "No," she said.  "Just a male."

   "You wanna split?" Mick asked.  "Go for a drive.  I got a new car?"

   "Yeah?  What is it, a fucking poncey BMW?"

   "Nah - ah, that one - there." he pointed through the window.  "That red
thing with the top down."

   "Holy shit!" she exclaimed.  "That's fucking beautiful!  A ragtop?  What
is it?"

   "Oldsmobile Cutlass."

   "Sheeit, Mick!  Maybe the once, y'know?  Around the block, maybe?"

   "Around the block it is," he smiled.

   "Don't do that," she batted at his arm.

   "What?"

   "'Around the block'?  I know what you're getting at."

   "You do?"

   "Yeah!  We've both been around the block, 'cept, you've been around a
few times more than me."

   "I suppose," he shrugged, as she followed him out to the car park.

   Donna sat in the passenger's seat beside Mick, her head thrown back and
feeling the breeze on her face.  Mick popped a BB King cassette in the deck
and turned up the volume.

   "I *so* like this guy," Donna sighed.  "That voice, that guitar?"

   "Yeah," Mick agreed.

   "What does she do?  The car?  What have you had it up to?" she asked.

   "I haven't done much with it at all," he explained.  "Brought it back
after the US tour.  I've been too damn busy with the CD, then the
Grammys..."

   "So?" she grinned mischievously.  "Y'know that road just out of town
where they have the drags?  It'll be quiet, now, a weekday and too early
for the boy racers."

   "You're just a kid, aren't you?" he grinned back.

   "Yep," she agreed.  "Just a kid with no sisters and three brothers."

   "That explains a lot," he laughed, as he took the road out of town.

   Much later, Mick had parked the Cutlass in his drive and Donna was
scrutinising under the hood.  "You really need a stronger sway bar on this
thing, Mick," she said.  "It may cure the wobbles?"

   "You think?" he asked, as he brought them both out beers.

   "Yeah.  That's one lovely mill!  Edelbrocks - those Stinson cams you got
there?"

   "No idea.  I never did the mods.  Some guy in Chicago tried to do it up
to Hurst specs."

   "Ah!  Thought it looked like a few modifications in there!"

   "How come you know so much?"

   "Dad," she replied.  "Classic American Car Club!  Practically runs it.
Y'know he's doing up a Mercury Cougar right now?  Only a small block 351,
but still!  You ought to call 'round and have a look.  He'll want to see
this - boy, will he ever!"

   "Maybe I'll become a member?"

   "Yeah, yeah," she said, turning towards him, "he'd like that.  I think
you'd get on well with my dad.  He's like you - old rocker, never grown up.
Denims, Chevy T-shirt - oh, I can see the two of you together now!  Play a
little blues for him, Mick, over a Miller's and pretzels?  Mum died a year
ago, he's never been the same."

   "Shit, I'm sorry!"

   "Big 'C'.  Like two peas in a pod, mum and dad.  Weekends, riding around
in the 'stang together?  Sold it after - couldn't bear to drive it without
mum."

   "Shit, Donna, that's just so sad."

   "Love my dad," she told him.  Her eyes were moistening and she wiped her
face on her sleeve.  "Can we go see him now?"

   "Sure, Donna.  Drop the hood, let's roll?"

   Donna's father was short, greying, with long hair tied in a pony tail.
When Mick drove up he emerged from a garage out back, dressed in greasy
overalls, wiping his hands with an oily rag.  When he saw the Cutlass he
whistled through his teeth.  His daughter gave him a hug and introduced him
to Mick.

   "Big block 455, dad," Donna told him proudly.  "Edelbrocks, probably
Stinson cams."

   "Where'd you get it?" he asked Mick.

   "Chicago.  Donna said you might like a drive?"

   "A minute," he said hurriedly.  "I'll get out of my overalls."

   He emerged again in two minutes flat dressed in jeans and wearing a Ford
T-shirt.  Mick tossed him the keys and he jumped in the Cutlass, looking
excitedly about him as he gripped the steering wheel.  He then started her
up and revved the engine.  Donna's father then threw his head back with a
look of ecstasy.  With a short screech of tyres, he backed out the drive
and roared down the street.

   "Hey!" Donna came and put her arms around Mick.  Looking into his face
she said, "you're an alright guy, Mick Johnson!"

   "So, what ya think, huh?  Y'like to hang out with me a little?"

   "We'll see," she said.  "I'm still not sure about you.  I want to see
you when you're not on your best behaviour.  I can't believe you're this
sweet all the time."

   "Yes I am," he laughed.

   "Fuckwit male," she grinned, slapping him on the arse.

   Donna's father returned around twenty minutes later.  He squealed to a
halt in the drive and immediately pulled the hood release.  "Let's see," he
told Mick.  "Beautiful," he said.  "Classic motor, classic car.  Look at
that grill, will you, Donna?  The 'international flags' badge?  Everything
original!"

   "Mick would like a Millers, dad," Donna said.

   "Huh?  Yeah, sure, go ahead.  I'll have one too.  Y'know where the
fridge is, Donna," he said.

   It was well after dark when they left Donna's father's place.  Mick
asked her where she'd liked to go and she agreed to head back to his place.
They bought a pizza for dinner on the way and took it to bed.

   As Mick made coffees the next morning he noticed the clock on the
microwave showed 9.47am.  Obviously his body clock had not fully readjusted
back to local time, he thought, because it was early for him to be up and
around.

   The day clung to an unusual period of clear weather for this time of the
year and it was antipodean bright outside.  Even California with its almost
endless summers couldn't compete with this glare as the sun's rays had
little to impede their passage through the atmosphere.

   "Fucking ozone hole!" he muttered to himself.

   His window glass was supposed to contain a UV filter but he saw little
evidence of it.  He grabbed the mugs and padded back on through into the
bedroom.

   Donna was sitting cross legged on the bed without a stitch of clothing.
Behind her, the curtains were drawn back giving a panoramic view of the
harbour clear out to the heads.  There was no-one to see in unless some
passenger on a passing ferry happened to be scanning the distant houses
with a very powerful telescope.

   Not that Mick particularly gave a shit.  Part of the attraction that
drew him to buy the house was its privacy and he could wear whatever he
damn well pleased in his own home - or nothing at all.

   Donna had a magazine spread on the bed and she idly flicked through the
pages.  Her breasts were a fleshy bundle nestled between her forearms and
they wobbled and flowed as she turned the page.

   "Coffee?" Mick said, then placed the mug on the bedside table.

   "Ta," she replied, without looking up.  "You guys are all over the
place," she clicked her tongue.  "Isn't there any other news?"

   "That?" he said.  "Next week it will be as if we never existed.  That's
just the hype over the Grammys."

   "'Mick Johnson resurrected'?" she said.  "What?  You're Jesus, now?"

   "Mum's name was Shona and she certainly wasn't a virgin," he laughed.

   "How'd you know?" she grinned.

   "Thin walls."

   "Haha, I *so* don't want to go there!" Mick sat next to her on the bed,
drew her head around, and gave her a long kiss.  "Mmm," she hummed, "I like
being in heaven with you, Jesus!"

   "Haha."

   "If I knew you were such a good fuck I woulda gone to Church more
often!"

   "Speaking of which," he grinned.  "When do you start work?"

   "2 - finish at midnight.  You going to pick me up?"

   "Sure."

   "Back here?"

   "If you like.  Don't you have a cat to feed?  Won't your flat begin to
miss you?"

   "No cat and it's nice here.  Why the question?  You need a break from
me?"

   "Nope.  Can't see the point of having a flat if you're not going to be
there.  Why don't you move in here?"

   "Whoah, steady, Mick!  A mite soon, don't you think?  I need somewhere
to flee in case you turn out to be a serial killer."

   "Whatever you like," he shrugged.  "When you're ready?"

   "No pressure, Mick, please?" she looked into his eyes.  "Let me get used
to having a rich boyfriend?" They shared a long kiss before Donna lifted
his cock and gently squeezed.  Watching Mick start to stiffen, she asked,
"where do you get your energy, Viagra?"

   "Clean living and young women," he grinned.

   "Haha," she chuckled.  Her breasts rippled as she shook and Mick gave
them a stroke.  "Ok," she sighed, before stretching on her back, "I guess
we're going again?  Tongue?"

   "If you like," Mick said as he descended between her legs.

   "Mmm!"

   It was almost one year later when the news came that shocked the rather
select group of local old rockers and those that remembered.  The
'dispersed Curse,' as Mick had got into the habit of describing them, took
the news hard and vowed to attend a suitable memorial - Freddie, Karen's
mentor and guiding light of the early Curse, had succumbed to colon cancer.

   Anna was in New York following a modelling stint with a top fashion
designer.  Her and Dwight Cooney had recently broken up after the latter
booked himself into the Betty Ford Clinic.  She'd cut a single and
accompanied that with a video, in which she stripped while rolling in the
sand in the Nevada desert.  It was climbing steadily in the charts and a
tour was planned for next month.

   Michelle was playing in a band in LA called 'Slappers's Revenge.' No-one
had the foggiest idea where the name came from but they were doing okay on
the local scene there.  Finding enough work to feed yourself was considered
successful in that tough scene.

   Karen had returned six months ago with Junior, having filled the odd
drum stool overseas, both to have their baby at home, and to be with
Freddie as he wasted away.

   Mick Johnson had been playing a gig in Nelson when he heard.  'The
Hometown Blue's Band' was a side project he put together with some of his
old friends.  The Dodger had been tempted out of retirement to play rhythm
and sing - his voice snarly and rich - entirely appropriate for the blues.

   The band's centerpiece was a song called 'Who Do You Love,' an old
standard popular in the sixties and covered by just about everybody.  Mick
and the boys could extend it out for half an hour with solos and fooling
around with the crowd.

   He didn't like being away all that often, but, now and then, he liked to
check out the old haunts in the small towns he'd once played.  Donna was
happy enough at home minding the cars until he returned.

   Mick and the boys immediately jumped on a plane and flew home when they
heard the sad news.  They went straight around to hang out with Terry - the
yard there already strewn with Freddie's mates come to pay their respects.

   Terry'd had a few months to prepare for his death and told Mick she'd
had some of the most treasured moments with him.  He'd live long enough to
hold his grandson and even his older boy, whom had been estranged, came
down from the gay scene in Auckland.  There'd been a reconciliation of
sorts and he'd kissed his father goodbye.

   With so many musicians present, there was music, and groups of old
rockers sang Freddie's favourites.  Terry had most of the boys sobbing into
their beers with a heartfelt 'O' Lagan Love,' a Scottish folk song which
she sang with Mick, who accompanied her on acoustic guitar.

   Freddie's funeral proper was to be held a week later giving those
friends overseas time to make arrangements to get back.  The first of The
Curse to arrive was Michelle and Emily.  Michelle had her hair straightened
to a wave and a dread extension down her back.  She now wore snappy little
hip huggers and a new boyfriend on her arm.

   The guy's name was Garcia and he played guitar, had Latino good looks
and a slim body.  Garcia was 'Slappers' lead and singer and he'd no idea a
'slapper' was NZ slang for a 'slut'.  But, he greeted Mick warmly and
Michelle gave him a hug as if to say 'no hard feelings.' Michelle even had
a hug for Donna and a smart remark about Mick's preference for
'orangeheads.'

   But Michelle was based in California and the swirling exchange of lovers
and former lovers was hardly exceptional.  The entertainment business had
an incestuous side to it wherever you were.

   Michelle looked good, seemed relaxed, and was doing what she loved. 
Mick felt a strange relief and, if he had any regrets, it was that he'd
miss out a lot of Emily's growing up.

   The funeral was going to be huge.  There were very few people associated
with the music scene here who hadn't come into contact with Freddie at one
time and he'd played with a lot of musicians over the years.

   Michelle, Mick and Karen worked up a few numbers to play at the
reception afterwards.  The Curse would have a day with Anna for her to
rehearse the vocals but none of them had any doubt she'd nail the numbers
quickly.

   Michelle wanted to play Throwing Muses 'Limbo,' an incessant, soulful
song about death played in a chugging 4/4.  'Darkside' had to be included,
slowed down a fraction, with The Dodger guesting on rhythm.  Lastly, Mick
had a number he wanted to sing with all three of the girl's, a'la'capella,
as a finale.  He'd just written it as a goodbye to his old mate.

   They practiced ihe song a little without Anna and found their voices
harmonised well.  Mick asked why they hadn't done it before and Michelle
told him it would be 'too fucking 'Beach Boys'.'

   Anna didn't just 'arrive' anywhere.  Her entrance was always an occasion
and she sauntered through the airport with an entourage consisting of
Dimitru, Sabra, a huge minder called George, and some guy she called
'Stud.' Photographers appeared from nowhere, no doubt tipped off well in
advance, and motordrives whirled the minute she appeared in the concourse.

   Anna was in her 'mourning mode' and managed a tear for the cameras.  She
was 'too upset to talk to reporters' and Sabra intervened to ask them
tactfully to give her some space.

   Once out of the public eye, she had a kiss and a cuddle for all The
Curse and their friends.  She was ever generous and offered a kind word to
everyone.  From 'mourning mode' to working the audience was a smooth
transition and she was clearly glad to be back and catching up with the
everybody.

   The act didn't surprise Mick at all.  The first step to being a star was
to act like one - be conscious of the way you behave in public, have a
sharp dress sense, and make sure photographers are there when you need
them. Behind closed doors she was the same old Anna - bubbling over with
the excitement of being on the way up.  Making the news was a science and
an art form rolled into one.

   The only person unimpressed was Donna, who took an instant dislike to
her.  Cynical, she found the act, the shallowness and falsehood, hard to
cope with.  Mick kept her away less she speak her mind - something that
Mick admired but found a little disconcerting on certain occasions.

   "It really annoys me, y'know, that women have to dumb down to be
noticed. What's the difference between her and Paris Hilton?"

   "Money, obviously," Mick replied, "and I don't think Hilton spent ten
years of her childhood taking singing lessons.  Anna does what she feels
she has to do to get where she wants to be."

   "And where's that?"

   "Donna?" Mick said, irritated, "in the States there are thousands of
Annas and only a few opportunities to make a career.  You have to push
yourself out into the public if you're going to have any chance at all."

   "Did you really want to sleep with that?" she asked, derisively.

   "Y'know something?" Mick replied.  "This is beginning to sound like good
old fashioned jealousy?"

   "Never!" she declared, but she reddened in embarrassment.  "Perhaps,"
she told him after a pause, "that when I look at the women of The Curse, I
think 'these are beautiful women.  What does Mick Johnson see in plain old
me'?"

   "Ah!  'Plain?' Requires some redefinition, I think," he smiled.

   "Close to patronising me, Mick," she warned.  "I know what I am and I'm
nothing in the beauty stakes compared to Anna and Michelle.  Even your
daughter could outgun me with a belly full of baby."

   "And they're the standard?" replied Mick.  "Exactly what you hate -
folks judging you on your appearance and dress sense."

   "My arse is too big for tights," she grumbled, "and my boobs would spill
over in a halter."

   "Have you heard me complain about the way you dress?"

   "No, but I look dowdy compared..."

   "Oh, shit, Donna!  Wear your hippy dress with the scoop top and a ton of
Balinese jewelry.  Be yourself and you'll blow everyone away."

   "You're just saying that because you want privileges tonight?"

   "Of course," he smiled.  "And grant me the honour of knowing what I
like?"

   "Ooo, nice moves," she laughed.  "I knew there was something I liked
about you?"

   "Were we discussing privileges?" Mick came over and put his arms around
her waist.

   "Were we?" she teased, "and did you ask me before putting your hands on
my butt?"

   "No."

   "Or before you started fiddling with my zipper?"

   "No."

   "Or pulling, uh, my dress up to my waist?"

   "I don't believe so, no."

   "And who said you could - oh - put your hands in there?  Or - uh -
there?"

   "No-one," he conceded, "and I don't remember you asking me to grab that
either?"

   "Well, then," she sank to her knees in front of him, "sounds like we
need a prenuptual."

   "A what?" Mick asked in surprise.

   "A prenupt' Mick.  "The Cutlass needs a mother.  I don't think you can
care for her on your own."

   "Haha!" he laughed.  "Is that a proposal?"

   "Can't blame a woman for trying to make an honest man of you," she said.
"You can answer any time you like," she continued - flicking the underside
of his cock with her tongue.  "But if I don't get the answer I want I may
lose interest."

   "That's blackmail!" Mick exclaimed in mock outrage.

   "Um - yes!" She grinned.

   -----------------------------------------------

   KATZMAREK(c)