Henry had been a Nixon man all his adult life, and when word
came about the Watergate break-in, he was sure the whole thing had
been cooked up to discredit his hero.
“There’s no way our fine President is involved in this,” he told
Buddy. “It’s all a conspiracy. Time will tell. Time will tell.” He
shook his finger, and then shook his head in disgust.
“Henry,” Buddy told him. “The press doesn’t lie. The facts are
pointing straight to the President. He’s got it all over
him.”
Buddy liked to goad Henry whenever the subject of Nixon came up,
but this was getting a little too personal. It was putting a real
strain on their friendship.
“Listen, Buddy. You’re full of it yourself. Nixon is not a crook.
I’m telling you, it will all come out, and you’ll see I’m
right.”
Buddy figured he’d better not push any more of Henry’s buttons, so
he changed the subject. “Hey, what do you think of those kids of
ours? They’re sounding pretty good in that band they got
going.”
Henry took a moment to adjust to the sudden change of subject and
began to mellow a bit. “Yeah, they make a lot of noise, that’s for
sure. It’s not the good stuff like we used to do.”
“Kids don’t want to play the ‘good stuff,’ Henry. They’re more
interested in the new sound. Hard rock. Heavy metal. You
know.”
“Well, that hard rock and heavy metal is about to break all the
windows in my house. It seems I’m always after them to turn it
down.”
“I’m a bit concerned about that Daly kid, though,” Buddy confided.
“I think he might be some sort of pusher. Spike saw enough of that
in juvie. I don’t want him to be tempted.”
“Spike’s a good kid,” confirmed Henry. “That stint in the hall was
probably the best thing that could have happened to him. Look what
it did for him, getting him playing the drums. I just wish he
wouldn’t hit them so hard when they’re playing at my house.“
“Hey, remember the old hatchery place? They never rebuilt it, did
they?”
“You’re asking me if I remember? How could I forget?” Henry held up
his fingerless hand. “So what of it?”
“I think the land is up for sale. You know, you and I got some put
aside. I was thinking that maybe we could build the band a practice
space. It’s pretty remote, and wouldn’t bother folks as much as it
does you.”
Henry pondered the suggestion and warmed to it. “I’ll bet we could
make a nice little studio for about ten grand. We still got a lot
of the old equipment from the Scrappers.”
Henry and Buddy engaged Sam to help them design the place. Sam had
done some work as a carpenter, and knew a bit about building
spaces. In a couple of months, their makeshift studio was
complete.
“I’m glad we put in the extra insulation in the walls,” Henry said.
“It will cut down the noise a bit. I just don’t want to be in there
when they really turn up those amps!”
Golden Fingers moved their equipment into the studio during the
summer. Their daily rehearsals intensified their desires to excel,
and I was writing even more music. The four-track recorders that
were installed were able to capture some of those new sounds, and a
distribution of the tapes to some of Buddy’s contacts in the music
business were beginning to get some notice.
Henry and Juliette’s 22nd anniversary was coming up in August, and
they decided to make a big deal of it. “Everybody waits to
celebrate their 25th,” Henry declared. “But we want to be
different. We’re putting together a big shindig this year. And
we’re inviting all our friends.”
Juliette wasn’t sure it was appropriate to make such a big deal
about their 22nd, but Henry was unconventional at times, and
stubborn in his insistence. She finally broke down and got in the
mood.
“We’ll rent out the Stomping Grounds and throw a big party,” he
told her. “Invite everyone, it’ll be a great time!”
Buddy offered to reunite the Scrappers and asked Henry if he’d like
to sit in on guitar. Henry declined, “That was long ago. That dream
is over. But we’ll take the Scrappers.”
After a month of planning, everything was set for August 12. The
Stomping Grounds was decorated like a wedding chapel, the stage was
set up for the band, the drinks were on the house and everyone was
having a good time. The Scrappers reunion was a big hit and the
party went on late into the night. Two A.M. arrived faster than
anyone expected, the drinks stopped pouring, but the fun never let
up. By 6 A.M. the party was finally winding down, and the revelers
were straggling out into the morning light to head home.
Golden Fingers had a rare day off from rehearsal, but the fact that
they got to drink up with their parent’s permission was reward
enough for their break in discipline. After recovering on Sunday,
they hit the studio first thing Monday morning.
As I approached the building, he could sense something was wrong. A
shattered window first told the tale as he noticed the open door.
Rushing in, to his horror he discovered the studio was empty.
Burglars had wiped them out.