You Killed Wesley Payne

by Sean Beaudoin

  There were any number of people in the room sitting on old couches and broken chairs and a rug so dirty it had no color at all anymore. Caskets and Girlz with Two First Names sucked face. Kokrocks and Airplane Gluze and even some hipper New Skids groused furtively in the corners, sipping out of paper bags. Cape Silverspoon on the slum stood all capri’d and ponytailed, waiting for someone to tell them how totally wild it was they were here. They all more or less faced the stage, a plywood rectangle where Kurt Tarot stood in a lone spotlight, a cone of white punching into the darkness. Mick Freeley noodled away on a pointy orange Charvel covered in skull decals. Playing makeup and wearing guitars. Tarot wore a leather coat with a high collar. He held the microphone the way a cat holds a parakeet, nuzzling its feathers. Dalton looked around the room, at the eyes of the girls, most of them watching intently, completely hooked. Tarot’s paradox was to be enticing and off-putting in equal measure. His voice had a vaguely Arabic, snake-charming lilt, droning the same words over and over again.

  Kiss fist, eat floor

  Bite my wrist and drink some more

  Feed, feed

  Feed my greed

  Feel my pulse and

  Taste the gore

  Suck neck, hit deck

  Look down my throat and read the lore

  Rush Rush

  Into the blush

  Dethorn the rose and

  Beg for more

  Tarot suddenly stopped singing. He cocked his head to one side, staring out into the darkness. Here it comes, Dalton thought, but Tarot turned and made a sweeping motion with his hand. The band stopped playing, the song falling apart like a barrel of lamps.

  Tarot reached out and slapped the bass player. The smack resounded across the room, quieting laughter and random arguments.

  “I haven’t had time to learn this part yet!” the bass player explained, holding his cheek, a big punker guy in an A-TISKET, A-TASKET, YOUR GRILLED SPLEEN IN MY PICNIC CASKET T-shirt.

  Tarot straightened his guitar in an almost fatherly way.

  “Don’t get it wrong again.”

  The bass player took a deep breath, putting his hands on the strings. Everyone in the room watched as he ran through the first few bars, shakily at first, then stronger, almost having it locked in before flubbing a note. Tarot grabbed him by the neck and dragged him backstage. There was a scream. Tarot came back alone, gripping the mic with the points of his black fingernails.

  “Anyone elze?”

  A tall Casket ran onto the stage, beating out two others, and shouldered the bass. He slapped a funky little chord and then picked out the first ten bars of the song perfectly.

  “Good,” Tarot said, about to count it off, when he saw Dalton.

  “I believe we have been infiltrated by a Dick.”

  Everyone in the room craned their cheap-jeweled necks and turned their dyed-hair heads. A tingle ran up Dalton’s spine like a wet cliché. He never got a tingle. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He never sweated, or broke out.

  “I’m here to ask you some questions.”

  Kurt Tarot laughed into the mic, his skull piercing banging into the windscreen. “And how exactly did you know where to find me, offizer?”

  “Newport.”

  “Ah. The human camera lens. And why would he bring you here?”

  “I paid him. Apparently, so do you.”

  “Liar. If anything, I would have paid him to take you farther away.”

  The Crowdarounds laughed while Dalton considered the possibility that Ronnie Newport was full of shite.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #24

  Why are you here again? Better get off your ham and come up with a reason.

  A number of Pinker Caskets stepped away from the stage’s edge and into the shadows. One slid along the wall with a bandage on his hand from being stuck with a butterfly pin. Others came through the crowd, cutting off the path to the door. Tarot stepped off the stage as well, dropping the mic with a horrendous screech of feedback. Some of the groupies cheered, nipping off plastic bottles, eyes lolling in their heads. Tarot held up the mic stand, swinging the heavy metal end like a rockabilly ninja. Dalton backed away as far as he could, which wasn’t far. If he caught a mouthful of the stand it would be denture time. As he tried to retreat, an Airplane Gluze blocked his way. Tarot changed the arc of the rotating pole, picking up speed, and then let it fall with a dizzying whistle, collapsing the table in front of Dalton like a watered melon.

  “No Mizz Splonge to rescue you now,” Tarot said. “No reason to be here. No reason to be at all, really.” He raised the mic stand again. “But we can fix that.”

  “Do it,” yelled a bunch of Caskets. Others echoed them, starting a chant, “Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

  Dalton crouched, ready to slip under Tarot’s swing and grab the metal shaft. In Fjord of the Flies, Lex Cole had fought off a pack of feral Norwegians with a broomstick. If he could wrestle the mic away, he might be able to clear a path toward the door.

  “Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

  Tarot raised the stand high above his head, picking up speed.

  “STOP!” Cassiopeia Jones said, smoothing her way through the crowd, which instinctively made way. She walked to Dalton’s side, casually standing between him and Tarot. New Skid necks swiveled and Kokrock eyes bulged, the entire room staring. And they were right to. She was acetylene-hot in a one-piece leather bodysuit. Her boots were thigh-high with a pink spiderweb pattern scored into them, tapering to impossibly long heels. Her hair was dyed android blue. “He’s here because I asked him to be.”

  “You’re late,” Tarot growled, not lowering the stand. “And why would you azk him to come here?”

  Cassiopeia played with her cerulean bangs. “Because he can help us.”

  “Us?” Dalton whispered.

  Cassiopeia ignored him, concentrating on movement within the crowd. Caskets continued to press closer as Foxxes took strategic positions around the room. Jenny One, or maybe it was Jenny Three, stood behind Cassiopeia. Caskets and their sub-cliques had numerical superiority, but the Foxxes looked smoother, sleeker, and more fierce. Compared to the slovenly Des Barres passed out or Steel-toe Dystopia petulantly kicking holes in the walls, they were smooth and efficient and frightening.

  “What in farck are you doing here, Cassie?” Dalton asked, out of the side of his mouth.

  “Foxxes go down whatever holes they want to, Dalton, honey. Besides, I sing backup with Casket now. So watch your mouth, or I’ll sing a song all about you.”

  Cassiopeia stepped away from Dalton and casually walked to a couch, guys scrambling out of their boxers to get up and give her space. “Maybe you, me, and Dalty should go talk somewhere, huh, Kurt?”

  If Foxxes and Casket had formed an alliance, Chuff was in major trouble. On the other hand, it appeared to be a delicate alliance at best.

  Tarot jabbed at Dalton with a pinky nail. “This Dick I don’t trust. I have no interezt in talking to him.”

  “Fair enough,” Cassiopeia said, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m not sure I trust him either.”

  “Good. Then—”

  “So let’s give him a test. He passes, we’ll talk. If not? Eh.”

  Tarot smiled cold chrome. The skull worked around his mouth like a lizard playing with the mantis it’d just plucked from the air. He turned to a Casket guarding the door. “Bring in the nerd!”

  The assorted New Skids and Kokrocks clapped and cheered as two enormous Caskets came in holding Mole by either arm. They shoved him into a yellow recliner, spilling furious Des Barres into the trash on the floor. Mole looked at Dalton pleadingly while Tarot held out a microphone. It was live, giving off yips of feedback.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “You will zing us a song. All of us. Up on the stage.”

  “No chance,” Dalton said. He didn’t do stages. He didn’t do microphones. Mick Freeley moved up behind him.

  “I can’t zay I
like your chances of getting out of here with any teeth if you don’t.”

  The melody of “Exquisite Lies” rode up Dalton’s throat and plunged into his brain, driving out all other songs. It boomed around, canceling thought, rendering him simple-minded.

  “I don’t know any songs.”

  Tarot snapped his fingers. A Casket produced a huge sheaf of sheet music. Tarot pulled a chart at random, looked at it, and laughed.

  “ ‘Mustang Zally.’ How appropriate.”

  Dalton looked at the papers.

  “Go ahead and say it,” Tarot dared. “Go ahead and say no.”

  Dalton looked at the microphone. The Crowdarounds booed, jeering wildly.

  “Dalton!” Mole yelled, getting kicked in the stomach for his trouble. He lay at the edge of the stage, wheezing in pain. Cassiopeia inspected her nails.

  Dalton took the mic and walked onstage. The lights gleamed in his face. There were more boos. Someone yelled “Freebird.” Someone else yelled “Breadway to Unleavened.” Caskets in PRETTY IN PINK, UGLY IN FLESH shirts looked like they wanted to sink their teeth into Dalton’s ankle.

  Kurt Tarot waved his hand through the air, a downward chop that silenced the crowd. “Now or never.”

  The bass player and drummer started a backbeat, easing into the first few measures. Dalton set his feet apart and cleared his throat, squinting to read the hand-lettered lyrics sheet. His throat was rusted shut. He was deep into something he’d never experienced before—watery stage terror—which, in the end, was the least of his problems.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #25

  This sucks hard. This sucks harder than suck can handle. In fact, this totally glarks.

  The music picked up, coming around again. The boos got louder. A few people threw shoes, one just missing his head. Dalton squinted. The first verse was:

  Ooh, Mustang Sally

  Dontcha think ya oughta slow that Mustang down?

  Yow! Uh-huh uh-huh!

  Now baby, you gotta stop

  Cruising that mid-priced Ford around

  Wilson Pickett could pull that off, sure. To Dalton, it was a bunch of arrhythmic gibberish. And half of it wasn’t even the right words. But he also knew killing it onstage wasn’t really about the lyrics, it was about the attitude. It was about being on a sunny street corner in tight pants with sideburns and a wallet full of cash, whistling at cute girls in convertibles. It was about Joe Strummer, in pegged pants and a greasy pompadour, daring Brixton to rise up and smash the aristocracy with a slogan or a paving stone. It was confidence. It was animal. It was innate.

  Dalton closed his eyes.

  When he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

  The crowd was now throwing bottles, which broke in the corners. Dalton waited for the bass line to come around, like Lex Cole timing a leap between rooftops, and then started into the next verse:

  You been running with the wrong crowd, whoo

  Guess I better put your flat feet in

  Orthopedic shoes, too

  You been crying with your crying eyes

  Sally baby, signifyin’ lady

  Are you sure driving so fast is wise?

  His throat finally loosened. A warm tenor began to trickle out. He’d heard the song on Landon’s stereo any number of times, Landon being a big fan of sixties soul. Dalton relaxed a little and settled in with the rhythm. The crowd relaxed as well, suddenly half as surly, looking at one another in amazement. As it turned out, Dalton had a pretty good voice. Actually, a better than good voice. It was a little scratchy, but earthy and in key. It had a bit of plaint to it, a weariness, but it was solid and true. By the repeated chorus—

  All you wanna do is buy a vowel, Sally

  Buy, Sally, buy

  All you wanna do is bark and howl

  Ride, Sally, ride

  —the crowd was clapping and singing along. Dalton closed his eyes, stronger now, digging into the verses, playing with the melody. The band settled behind him, the drummer right in the pocket. The song was funky, riding along like it was meant to, like a red Cadillac on a hot day. Dalton, caught up in it, leaned back and hit a high note that had the girls squealing, just as the music went dead.

  Tarot held the PA plug in his hand.

  “ENOUGH!”

  The drums and bass staggered to a halt.

  “Thanks for coming, I’ll be here all week,” Dalton said to the silent room. “Oh, and the real reason school’s closed is so Fack Cult can conduct locker searches.”

  There was a beat of shocked disbelief, and then a group surge for the door. Dalton tossed the mic toward some Dystopias in the far corner. Cliques pushed and shoved while Mick Freeley and a few Caskets tried to wade against the tide, rushing the stage. Mole was just getting to his feet, holding his stomach, when someone slammed him into the drum set. It exploded, cymbals flying against the wall with an incredible clatter. Dalton grabbed a pointy orange guitar and swung it in a wide arc. The nearest Casket ducked, and the guitar hit an amp. The neck separated from the body, which clanged onto the stage, leaving him with a handful of curled strings. Mick Freeley screamed and flew at Dalton.

  “NO!” Cassiopeia yelled, having secured the mic, as Caskets and Foxxes squared off, eyeing one another rudely.

  “He did what you asked him to do,” Cassiopeia insisted, her voice steady. “He sang the song. A deal’s a deal. Now it’s time to stop acting like little boys and talk business.”

  “But… my guitar!” Mick Freeley moaned, holding it like a treaded cat.

  Tarot seemed to consider his options, most of which ended in a brawl with Catwalk Ninja. Everyone in the room waited for his signal, balancing their weight. Tarot finally held up one arm and made a fist. Caskets reluctantly retreated into dark corners. Cassiopeia nodded, and Foxxes did the same.

  “Zo we will talk.”

  Dalton followed Cassiopeia and Tarot out into the hall, trying to decide exactly what in farck it was he was going to say.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE MEETING AT YALTA

  What he said was: “You killed Wesley Payne.”

  In the end, he couldn’t help himself. Sure, it was Lex Cole’s signature move, like drinking a certain kind of martini or wearing a porkpie hat. Cole did it at least once every book—straight up accuse a mark of the crime, right to their face, just to see what it shook loose. Dalton had adopted it. Actually, stole it outright. And he’d already pulled it on Tarot once.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #26

  You need a new signature move. Maybe a blue Windbreaker with a racing stripe, or a cool catchphrase like “The proof is in the pudding—blood pudding!”

  “Also, Jeff Chuff just hired me to find a way to get rid of Pinker Casket. Like, this weekend. Once and for all.”

  Cassiopeia whistled. Tarot leaned back against the painted cinder-block wall, affecting a chromium yawn, but his eyes were bright with interest. Mick Freeley spat on the floor.

  “Put me on your payroll, and I’m your guy inside. I’ll tell you about the plan before it happens.”

  “Why would I pay you?” Tarot asked. “When I could beat the plan out of you instead?”

  “Studies show torture is a notoriously ineffective method of gathering information.”

  “But it feels zo good.”

  Mick Freeley snickered.

  “Listen,” Dalton said. “I came to Salt River to—”

  “Solve a zuicide? Or snake Chuff’s girl?”

  “To make money. Wes Payne’s a job, this is a job. They both pay. Chuff thinks I’m working for him, he pays too.”

  “Who can trust a man who works for everyone?”

  “The man who pays me the most.”

  Kurt Tarot actually smiled, but his eyes remained flat, dark pupils swimming in murk. “Go on.”

  “Chuff’s right about one thing, Salt River needs a new top dog. I’ve only been here two days and I’ve seen all the money you two are pissing away while you get ready to knock heads. Chuff th
inks he’s next in line to be boss, but he doesn’t want to do the heavy lifting. So I’ll help him put a coup in motion. When he realizes you’ve been tipped, it’s too late, Pinker Casket’s a Trojan Horse, and your guys pour out and wipe the floor with the Balls for good.”

  Tarot looked at his fingernails for a long time. “If Chuff needs you to do his planning, he’s even more of a fool than I thought. That’s assuming you’re even telling the truth.”

  “You heard about what happened in the parking lot,” Cassiopeia said. “Dalton doesn’t want Chuff around any more than we do.”

  Tarot stared at Cassiopeia pointedly. “Yes, but what else does Dalton want?”

  “He wants you to say ‘Mississippi sassafras.’ ”

  Tarot replied without thinking. “Mizzizzippi zazzafrazz.”

  Cassiopeia stifled a laugh. So did Freeley.

  “What?” Tarot glowered. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” they both said at once.

  “The other thing Dalton wants,” Dalton continued, getting comfortable with himself in the third person, “is to get paid. With Chuff gone, Salt River becomes a cash machine instead of a war zone. I start my own clique, cherry-pick one or two of Chuff’s rackets. You can have the rest.”

  “What kind of clique?”

  “I’m thinking of calling it Rope-a-Dope Misanthropes. Or maybe Jett Rinks. Your usual loners. Readers of the Beats. The terminally enigmatic. A bunch of us standing around shrugging and being distant. Sure, it’ll siphon off some arty girls, maybe a few drummers. Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “I told you it was worth talking to him,” Cassiopeia said. “He’s a mercenary, sure, but do you have a better idea?”