The Alchemy of Noise Read online

  THE

  ALCHEMY

  OF

  NOISE

  ALSO BY LORRAINE DEVON WILKE

  After the Sucker Punch

  Hysterical Love

  Copyright © 2019, Lorraine Devon Wilke

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-559-9

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-560-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018956760

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Lyrics of “Rockin’ Robin” by Leon René (under the pseudonym Jimmie Thomas) are in the public domain.

  For Pete and Dillon, always

  ONE

  IT WAS NOT AN ORDINARY DAY.

  It could pretend to be. It tried. The sun rose in the east. Blue jays squawked their usual morning greetings. Lyft drivers shuffled down below, and the coffee pot dinged at the exact prescribed moment. Still, it took only seconds to realize this was not, in fact, an ordinary day.

  Maybe it was the drawn curtains—midnight blue and so rarely closed she’d forgotten their shade. Maybe it was the rumpled sheets, tossed in cologne and the scent of warm skin. Maybe it was his head on the pillow next to hers, sweet and breathing, eyes closed and lips parted.

  Everything near and tangible gave evidence of something Sidonie Frame did not do. She did not wake up in darkened rooms, next to men, in her home, in her bed; not anymore, not these days. Too much danger in the exercise, too little benefit to the risk. She’d accrued at least that much wisdom in her bracingly instructive life.

  Yet there he was. A sleeping man with strong arms and dark brown skin, tucked in a bed made the previous morning with no hint of its erotic disruption in the night to come. She smiled, pleased that life could still surprise her.

  As she slipped from the covers and padded quietly toward the bathroom, Chris Hawkins, the unexpected man, stirred, waking just enough to alert him to the parameters of the day. His first assembled thought as he viewed the back of her pale naked form was “This did happen,” which struck him as both strange and delightful.

  Sidonie turned as he fell back into a dream and, gazing upon his peaceful face, felt the flush of something familiar warm her cheeks and quicken her pulse. Could it be happiness? Some form of happiness? Was that possible? She decided it was. Happiness, rare and wonderful, inspiring tenderness for this man she’d known only briefly but whose presence promised better days ahead.

  This might be an adventure worth having, she thought before heading to the shower.

  In the months to come, she’d reflect often upon that fleeting moment of optimism.

  TWO

  Four months earlier. . .

  “NO BUSINESS EXISTS WITHOUT CHAOS,” FRANK LEHMAN, club owner and Sidonie Frame’s longtime boss, once proclaimed. “No ideas are implemented, no plans put to action, no partners assuaged or employees managed without the grit of bedlam. Gird yourself, kiddo.”

  Embrace of his nihilistic maxim may have been pragmatic, but it did not make her job—head manager of The Church, one of Chicago’s buzziest small concert and event venues—any easier to contain. In fact, today, with its gaggle of nonprofit micromanagers bordering on hysteria in her office, she found herself, once again, chafing at the demands of her accidentally chosen profession.

  She’d come to The Church the summer between her junior and senior years as a business major at Northwestern University. Confident to the point of arrogance, she’d been certain her foray into nighttime cocktail waitressing, required to keep bills paid and yogurt on the table, would be a brief thing of good money and flexible hours. It was. The tips were surprisingly lucrative, and she worked as often or as little as she liked; it sustained her through graduation, even financed her master’s at the Kellogg School of Management. What it was not, however, was brief.

  Working at The Church ceased being a job over six years ago, when Frank, quick to recognize talent, offered Sidonie the position— and impressive salary bump—of head manager. Given its resemblance to her dream of running a top-notch club of her own, the promotion seemed a wise step, one that, by now, had evolved into a full-blown career. But at thirty-five—divorced, overworked, and currently bereft of any previously held joie de vivre—she found the luster of wrangling celebrated performers and whipping up events for high-maintenance clients to be wearing thin. She was itching to break out, but until her own project sprang to life, she was there. At The Church. Night after long night.

  It was when Jasper Zabrinsky, her all-around guy who ran everything stage- and music-oriented, announced the latest kerfuffle that she sensed this night might tip the scales. “He’s not here.” Wire thin, scruffy in a perpetual two-day beard, Jasper panted as if years of prodigious smoking had left a mark.

  “Who’s not here?” Sidonie, tucked in a bar booth checking invoices and sipping a lemonade sparkler, barely looked up from her tablet.

  “Troy! He took his monitors out last night, had a gig this morning, now he’s not answering his phone.”

  Troy Cleveland was The Church’s somewhat-past-his-prime sound manager. In an ill-advised operational quirk, his stage monitors and dedicated mixing board were used to supplement the state-of-the-art sound system Frank built into the room years ago, a cozy arrangement that allowed Troy additional compensation and made both his presence and equipment essential. Sidonie had alerted Frank to the potential conflict of interest, but loyalty issues prevailed: he and Troy had been bandmates in the ’80s and those ties never failed to trump logic.

  And despite Sidonie’s concerns, Troy had been, for the most part, reliable, managing The Church’s eclectic lineups and sound demands without a hitch. At least until the last twelve months. Suddenly there were snafus and unpredictabilities of every kind. Drug rumors floated and there was ample evidence of a serious drinking problem, but he’d had a rough patch after a messy divorce, so leeway was given. Now he was unreachable on a day when Susan Brayman, point person for the Chicago Empathy Initiative Gala, a capable woman who could nonetheless snap with the force of a hurricane, was veering perilously close to combustion.

  Sidonie finally looked up, the gravity of the situation dawning. “Wait, the monitor system isn’t here?”

  “No! He took his stuff out last night. Said he had some big thing in Joliet this morning. He was supposed to be here over an hour ago and so far I’m gettin’ nothing with either texts or calls.” Jasper’s eyes had a comical way of bugging when he was particularly stressed, a sort of Steve Buscemi effect that typically inspired mirth; even now, with trouble a brew, Sidonie had to stifle a reflexive grin.

  “How worried should I be?”

  “We’ve got two bands coming in for sound checks, and fi
ve different speakers on the rehearsal schedule. It’s all supposed to start in twenty minutes.”

  She looked at her watch. “That is bad.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’!” Jasper plunked to a chair as if the weight of the day just hit his bloodstream. “I can’t do it myself, Sid, there’s lots of moving parts to this one.”

  “I know. Any ideas?”

  “I’ve got a friend I could call.”

  “A sound guy, with a full monitor setup, even a board?”

  “Yeah, a guy I used to work with downtown. Has his own company, Sound Alchemy. Ever heard of it?”

  “No, but it’s not exactly my wheelhouse.”

  “He’s got great gear, does a lot of outdoor stuff, but he can rig a room without a problem. He’s actually kind of a genius. Odds are he’s booked—he’s pretty busy—but it’s Thursday, so we might get lucky. Should I call?”

  Before Sidonie could consider this unexpected option, the shriek of her name echoed from across the room. She turned to see Susan bristling at her office door, head shaking and eyes flaring in her direction. Sidonie’s responsive nod was a terse be right there.

  Jasper’s leg was twitching. “What do you want to do, Sid? We don’t have time to think about it.”

  “Call him. If he’s available, get him here ASAP. If he’s not, come find me and we’ll figure something else out. But don’t tell anyone—I mean anyone. I’ve got enough fires going without that one.”

  As Jasper sprinted off, Susan again caterwauled from afar. Sidonie took a deep breath, a slow sip of her sparkler, checked some notes on her tablet, then turned and walked purposefully in the direction of her frazzled client.

  THREE

  UNDER A CANOPY OF INDIGO CLOUDS AND THE BACKDROP of downtown’s shimmering skyline, the rush and hustle of Chicago nightlife surged outside the club. Discreet signage beckoned, the notable hip quotient of The Church a draw to revelers strolling past, and a growing crowd angled for any way in, guest list be damned.

  Wind off the lake, brisk and biting despite the timid approach of spring, buffeted the arrivals area with ruffian fervor. Undeterred, gorgeous women in sleeveless couture and gravity-defying stilettos teetered across the slush of Armitage Avenue to make their fashionable entrances. By six o’clock the valets were hopping, the velvet rope was taut, and invited guests, celebrity donors, and an impressive array of print and media personalities jammed the bar. In the adjoining performance room, a dramatic space of cathedral ceilings and artfully hung stage lights, dinner tables extending in from the adjacent dining area truncated a dance floor that was already filled with young, beautiful people getting the party started.

  In the midst of the cacophony, reigning from behind a rectangular bar of slick concrete, stained glass backdrops, and racks strung with sparkling Edison lights, was Al Bonnura, The Church’s head bartender. A forty-something veteran of the local circuit, with Italian movie star looks and a long history of entertaining Chicago’s cocktail aficionados, Al had achieved a kind of regional celebrity. He once confessed to Sidonie that he’d taken career inspiration from the film Cocktail, doing little to raise him in her esteem, but she was that rare woman who never warmed to his charms, a status he viewed only as a challenge to overcome. So far he hadn’t.

  But he did know his way around a bottle, and the shining, glittering women who surrounded his nightly domain attracted the swarm of men who followed. It was a prosperous formula that granted some latitude for his bawdy stylings, some of which, waitresses occasionally complained, bordered on unacceptable workplace behavior. Still, he managed to hold the line, if precariously. Tonight he was in rare form, playing to the phalanx of cameras and eager reporters: bottles twirling, quips flying from one end of the bar to the other; eyes glinting in high-pitched performance as occasional applause left his face flushed and ebullient.

  Stepping incongruously into the mayhem was a tall black man, midthirties, with serious eyes, in faded black jeans and a Thelonius Monk T-shirt. Notably dressed down in comparison to the attending crowd, his approach drew Al’s immediate attention, who hollered over the din: “You here for the pickup?”

  The man looked up, perplexed. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s out in the lobby. Red dress. Not feeling too good. I think she’s headed to River North.”

  The man’s demeanor shifted imperceptibly as he felt a tick, reflexive response to the cliché of presumption. He took a quick breath and smiled tightly. “No, not the cabbie. I’m here doing sound for Sidonie Frame. Was hoping I could grab a beer before the show.”

  Al took a beat, then shot him a chagrined smile, pulled out a Sam Adams and slid it across the bar. “Sorry, man. Been so busy I didn’t notice what was going on in there. Can’t say I’ve seen you in here before.”

  “No problem.” The man took a long draught, placed some bills on the bar, and reached out for a handshake. “Chris Hawkins. A friend of Jasper’s. Came in tonight to help out.”

  Al returned a hearty shake and pushed Chris’s money away. “This one’s on me. Sorry about the confusion.” He turned back to his beckoning customers as Chris slid to an available stool, spinning slowly to take in the room.

  Al was right; he had never been here before. Lincoln Park was not his usual stomping grounds, though his nights were more often spent working than barhopping. When he did get out, it was typically to clubs further south; smaller, more casual places with good jazz and blues, and the kind of home-style menus rarely found in tony rooms like this. Looking around, he noticed few faces of color in the mix.

  But still, it was a nice venue, a prestigious place, and he knew their performance roster was first-rate. Jasper had invited him in on several occasions—when guys like Clapton and Buddy Guy were play-ing—but so far he’d never taken him up on it. Until tonight.

  His availability had been a fluke; the original job fell through after a kitchen fire broke out in the booked venue. He’d been heading to dinner when Jasper called; given his old friend’s frantic plea, and the not-inconsiderable emergency wages being offered, he quickly shifted gears. This would be a shoot-from-the-hip kind of night, not his usual style, but after his monitors and board were set up and a rough sound check was managed, he was confident they’d get through well enough.

  Meeting Sidonie Frame had impact. He wasn’t sure why, but there was something about her that set the night on a different plane. It wasn’t just her swinging blonde hair and memorable face; it was the way she made eye contact: warm and direct. She’d been gracious and grateful upon meeting, going out of her way to make sure he had everything he needed. Which wasn’t always the case at gigs, certainly not always the case with women who looked like Sidonie Frame. Chris would never say he had a type, and typically he wasn’t drawn to white women—dating, briefly, only two in his thirty-four years—but she made an impression: not flashy, grounded somehow; smart and clearly in charge. That she was stunning seemed almost an afterthought.

  And approaching now from the undulating crowd was the very woman in mind.

  Her face lit up when she saw him. “Oh, Chris, good, I was just looking for you. I’m glad you got something to drink. Have you had a chance to eat? It’ll get too crazy later and I don’t want you to starve to death.”

  He liked that she’d thought of him. “Thanks, I’m good. Grabbed a burger a few minutes ago.” Just then Jasper flew by and Chris noticed he’d changed into a dress shirt and tie. “I’m sorry I’m not better put together,” he remarked to Sidonie. “I rushed over from another gig and didn’t realize the setup was so formal.”

  She stopped scanning the room to note his attire. “That T-shirt will only score you points in this room.” She laughed. “I’m just grateful you’re here. And listen, if you need to step away during the night, there’s a little office right behind the stage. It’s really more of a closet, but the door locks, so escape is possible.”

  Her tablet lit up with a text; she quickly sent a response, then turned back to Chris. “It seems we�
�re rolling. Just do your best and let’s be sure to touch base at the end of the night.” Her smile radiated a suggestion of what she was like when she wasn’t beleaguered.

  “Absolutely. You know where to find me.”

  “Thanks, Chris.” She squeezed his hand. “Jasper’ll take good care of you, and if my client drives you to drink, just know it’s on the house!” With that, she hustled off, people grabbing at her from every angle.

  Chris watched her cross the entire length of the room.

  FOUR

  DESPITE NOTABLE HIGHLIGHTS AND THE COMMENDABLE efforts of everyone involved, the evening was not without its glitches. Two of the guest speakers were ultimately so unnerved by the demands of public speaking they were barely audible, losing meaningful speeches to the din. Conversely, one of the two bands, local headliners poised for a national breakout, persisted on playing so loudly (despite Chris’s repeated adjustments) that several of the more elderly donors left early with expressed irritation. Lastly, Susan Brayman, while empathetic to the needs of an “Evening for the Chicago Empathy Initiative,” complained often enough that every transition was a battle (“We’re not serving dessert before the last speaker, I don’t care if it is soufflé!”).

  The food was delicious and well received, however; the dollars raised were substantial, and The Church was once again acknowledged as the place for entertaining and event fulfillment, making Frank a happy proprietor. Sidonie just wanted a hard drink and a long vacation, only one of which was available by evening’s end. As she sat at the bar sipping the best vodka gimlet she’d had in a long time, courtesy of Al’s magical touch, she noticed Susan leaning against the stage in a provocative pose, her smile coy as she chattered away with Chris. Jasper stood across from them boxing microphones, and when Sidonie caught his attention, he rolled his eyes. She waved him over.