Spiral

jamb. An electronic chime inside played chords of a song I remembered from the old days but wouldn’t have known belonged to Spi Held’s band if I hadn’t been standing on his front steps.
    The left door swung open, a man in a long-sleeved T-shirt and cutoff jeans looking out at me. The dog at his feet was wagging its tail, tongue lolling. Until it got a good look at me, that is, at which point the dog’s face drooped, and it began to back slowly into the house.
    The man stayed put. His eyes were bleary, the little remaining hair on his head mussed, as though he’d spent the night tossing and turning in bed. I would have recognized him from the videos I’d seen with Lourdes Pintana and Mitch Eisen, but the Fu Manchu mustache helped.
    As did the Day-Glo portrait of his younger self on the front of his T-shirt.
    ”Mr. Held,” I said.
    ”Spi, man.” He ran the index finger of his left hand in a practiced, efficient way under his nose as he sniffled. ”You’re the guy used to soldier with my dad, right?”
    The term ”used to soldier” seemed a bit forced coming from his lips. ”John Cuddy.”
    He extended a meaty hand. A sweaty one, too, as we shook.
    ”Come on in, John. We can talk in my writing loft.” Held led me into a massive foyer, brightly lit, with white tile on the floors and white, glossy walls. It was hard on the eyes, almost to the point of snow blindness, and the air smelled reconditioned and somehow artificial.
    The dog was still walking, ten feet ahead of us and down the hall. It looked a little like a border collie, but its coat was gray with black patches, its paws like white socks, and I’d thought at the door that one of its eyes was blue, the other brown.
    I said, ”Is that a particular breed?”
    Held turned to me. ”What, Bowie?”
    The dog’s ears perked up, and it stopped to look back at us. ”As in ‘Jim’?” I asked.
    ”Un-unh. As in ‘David.’ Very named him Bowie account of Australian shepherds having that one blue eye and one brown. You know, the Ziggy Stardust shtick.”
    I didn’t get the allusion. ”Bowie looks kind of sad.”
    ”He is.” Held shook his head. ”Ever since Very got killed, the dog comes to the door whenever the chimes ring, figuring maybe she’s finally coming home again for him.”
    The dead girl’s father spoke heavily, but more like he was refining the line than feeling it.
    As Held and I started down the hall, Bowie turned right into a doorway. When we passed by, I could see it led to a sunken living room, where an unfamiliar woman’s voice spoke in hushed tones.
    A little further down the hall, Held jerked his head back toward the living room. ”My wife, Jeanette. This whole shit with Very really has her down.”
    ”Understandable,” I said to his back.
    ”Fact is, we’re all kind of down.” Another swipe at the nose and a sniffle. ”Up here.”
    Held began to climb the staircase—a ”spiral” one, no surprise. I followed him toward what I guessed would have to be the turret I’d seen from the street.
    At the top, an opened door brought us into a circular room maybe fifteen feet in diameter with a ceiling nearly as high, a big paddle-bladed fan hanging a body-length down from the center and turning slowly like a ship’s propeller at low speed.
    ”This is my sanctuary, man.”
    The walls displayed framed posters tacked up in no discernible order. Some were colorful album covers, a silhouette of the band or provocatively posed women drawing your eye. Others were mostly lettering, concert advertisements with dates and places. All had the Spiral name and logo somewhere on them.
    To make conversation, I said, ”Quite a museum.”
    ”Museum? Uh-unh.” Held moved to an ergonomic chair near a computer hutch. In front of him was a guitar resting in its stand, a wire snaking from the base of the instrument around to the back of the computer. ”You’re looking at the future, not the past.”
    Taking another ergo chair, I gestured toward the guitar. ”You can compose from that onto the computer?”
    ”Yeah. Amazing, huh? In the old days, I had to like pluck away for hours, getting the music fixed in my head without writing down any notes on sheet paper. Couple times, I had heavy tunes— moto -heavy, man—all up here.” Held pointed to his left temple before swiping at the nose again. ”But then the snow would fell up, take it all away.”
    ”Snow as in...?”
    ”Cocaine, man. Not that I use that shit anymore, other