"Yeah, well, we're lined up to tour with Huey Lewis and The News, starting in about three weeks. The record's out. The first video's out. It looks like we're made in the shade for awhile. But I still can't really believe it."
Believe it, shmucko, Larry silently appended. You've got it by the balls. He disliked the underpinning of jealousy that he heard in his own mind's voice, but he couldn't do anything about it. It was like trying to deny the existence of his prominent schnozzola.
He could understand why Billy hadn't shown up. It was spineless and stupid, and it was guaranteed to blow Billy's romance right out of the water, but he could understand it. Dave had taken all the steps that Billy had refused to—looking sharp, playing love songs that were three and a half minutes long, assimilating the sound and technology of the last five years—and made it pay off. Dave was playing Madison Square Garden, and Billy was playing Washington Square Park. Dave was holding down a $1,500-a-month loft on the Upper West Side, with money left over for coke; Billy was three months behind on his half of their miserable Bowery hole-in-the-wall, with barely enough money to keep him alcoholed and nicotined into submission.
Larry watched Dave work his crowd. It was something to see. Those big green eyes, that easy smile, the blond half-ton of cascading curls that framed his tanned and lupine features. Dave reminded Larry of the young Robert Plant: painfully handsome, brimming over with confidence and enthusiasm that was sublimely self-conscious. The women in the crowd had a tendency to squiggle when Dave looked at them. It made Larry sick; but again, he could understand it.
"We stepped in at number seven," Dave was saying, "with a bullet." Larry was half-inclined to fire one at his confidence-brimming head, "If we don't hit number one next week, our manager says that he'll eat his condominiums. Or his condoms. I forget." The crowd gave him a laugh.
I'll trade you, Larry thought. You make bad jokes, I'll sell out coliseums. What do you say? I'm ready for anything.
He had no idea how entirely wrong he was.
THREE
"ON YOUR OWN"
Outside, it was beginning to rain: big fat drops, the size of marbles. His guitar was still out on the fire escape, thumping and twanging as the water came down. But Billy couldn't quite bring himself to touch it.
Not yet.
It was an Ovation acoustic six-string with a pickup and a molded plastic back. Its sunburst finish had been mottled forever by a spilled beer at a keg party back in 1977. It had been up waterfalls and huddled around campfires at thirty-two degrees. If it couldn't handle a little rain, then fuck it.
But that wasn't all.
The big thing was that he blamed his guitar. For his lateness to the party. For the death of the girl. For the twelve years that he'd squandered on his fruitless quest for fame.
Billy Rowe sat on the edge of the bed. Another cigarette fumed between his fingers. Another quart of Bud hung snugly between his knees. He had watched the last of the cops depart, red lights trundling off to brighten other windows in the City of Boundless Opportunity. He'd watched the static darkness descend, once again.
Like the rain, which was coming more violently now.
Like the violence, which was starting to reign.
"Oh, you're so clever," Billy said to himself "You're so clever that it makes me want to ralph."
In truth, all the queasiness had pretty much vanished; what remained was a lowly perception of self. Detective Rizzo, that bastard, had gotten through to him
(i guess he didn't see you as much of a threat)
in ways that ticked him off but were very hard to argue with. Especially when it came to
(president of your fan club?)
Mona, who would probably chew his head off if he showed up in this state. No questions asked: just an audible tearing of canines on flesh. She wouldn't wait to hear about the murder. She wouldn't wait to try and understand what he'd been through. She'd just take one look at him and then go out of her mind.
Which is exactly what I need, he thought, to make the moment complete.
Something large and fat thudded against the low E string of his guitar, sending a low thrumming into his ears. He set down the quart and stood up quickly. No vertigo. Nice. He moved toward the window that led to the fire escape.
Pools had formed over the front of the body; tributaries trickled down the neck. He guessed that maybe a quarter-inch of water had gathered inside. That was not good. The guitar was his only source of income; it was also his old and dependable friend, the vehicle of his self-expression.
Sudden shock—the realization that things could actually get worse galvanized him into action. He grabbed the Ovation by its dripping neck, tipped it over, and started thumping on its back like a man burping a baby. He shook and tilted it, draining out every drop he could, then dragged it inside and looked for a towel.
There was one right next to his feet, of course. There were dozens of everything scattered across the floor of his room. Need some filthy underwear? he asked himself rhetorically. You got it! How 'bout a complete set of vintage Hendrix albums, all out of their covers? No problem!
He stooped to grab the towel. Evidently, it had dried of old age. He made his way back to the bed with it and got to work.
Rizzo's contempt had proven contagious. Billy found that he could barely stand to wear his own skin, much less sit in his goddam room. It was depressing; especially when one considered what it said about his present state of repair.
You're losing it, man, he told himself. You're watching your life cave in all around you, and you're not doing anything to stop it. What you ought to do is grab a shower, toss on your cleanest clothes, and get the hell over to the party before you lose your girlfriend forever.
Bubba barked.
"WAH!" Billy yelped, jumping a half-foot into the air. He came down staring in his stupid dog's direction. Bubba barked again, and then started to growl. At the bathtub. "What's the matter?" Billy asked.
And then the shower came on.
Bubba jumped back, yapping. Billy almost echoed the gesture. The shower came on at full blast, roaring into the old porcelain tub and splashing all over the floor. Thick plumes of steam began to rise from it. The water was hot.
But nobody had touched the shower faucets. Bubba was the only one close, and he was easily a yard away.
"Jesus," Billy droned, setting the guitar down on the bed and slowly rising. The steam was getting thick now; the water continued to thunder down. "This is weird," he muttered, nervously approaching. He grabbed the quart of beer off the floor, thinking vaguely about using it as a weapon.
The tub, like the only sink, was located in one corner of the kitchen, in classic tenement style. Bubba had backed across the room and was whimpering at the foot of the stove. He and Billy exchanged a nervous, searching look. There were no answers in it.
Billy stared, through the steam, into the bottom of the tub.
The rat was roughly the size of his foot, excluding the length of the tail. It was belly-up, legs twitching feebly, while the scalding water pummeled it from above. Its black-brown hair was slicked down, back-fur plastered to the white porcelain. Its mouth was open, the lower jaw jittering.
Except that it wasn't a rat.
"Omigod," Billy muttered, staggering backward, eyes wide. The terror was back; and with it, a kidney-punch of nausea. He tried to pull his thoughts together, but his mind refused to focus. Nothing felt real. Nothing made sense. When he closed his eyes, the darkness cartwheeled,
"No," he hissed, catching himself in mid-stumble. His eyes shot open and saw that he was falling, the sharp upper rim of the bathtub racing toward his face. He threw his hands up before him. The quart went flying. It shattered in the bathtub just as he caught himself at the rim, sending sploshes of beer and shards of glass up to spatter his face and hands.
You almost fainted, his mind informed him. There was a stinging pain in his right cheek, just below the eye; another on the back of his left hand. He swiped at them absently w
ith the palm of his right, then fell back on his knees to the floor.
The rat was dead. A quick glance to his right confirmed it. The exploding quart hadn't fazed it a bit; it just lay there, jerking to the shower's choreography.
Except that it wasn't a rat.
The white-heat steamclouds were blistering, blinding. Hot water and sweat formed sparkling beads on his clothing, flesh, and hair. He leaned forward tentatively, waving his right hand in front of his face, trying to get a clearer view of the thing . . .
. . . and it was staring back up at him with eyes flat-black and lifeless, yellow dagger teeth grinning out from the pink cleft palate. Nothing about the angle or shape of the head was right: the ears, too long and pointed; the snout, too blunt and wide, with monstrous flaring nostrils. It looked like a wingless mutant fruitbat, the more he stared at it. Even its stiffening limbs were too long, and strangely jointed .
"Noooo," he droned, inching away from the horror, barely able to hear his own voice over the roar of the shower and the low thrum of terror in his mind. He could feel the madness, the nightmare delirium, sliding back into his brain like a dagger.
And the madness terrified him.
He couldn't bear it.
Not again.
"This isn't happening," he told himself. "I'm gonna turn off the water, and nothing will be there. . .
In his bedroom, something heavy fell over and shattered.
He heard chitenous, scuttling sounds.
"JESUS CHRIST!" Billy yelled, leaping to his feet. He was suddenly very much aware of the floor: the shadowed corners, the hiding places. He backed into the middle of the kitchen, heart thudding painfully in his chest. Behind him, Bubba was starting to yowl. Billy felt like joining in.
There was something in the room with them.
"Oh, shit." He could feel his balls constricting, feel the cold sweat prickling at his armpits and eyes. He backed up another step and then froze abruptly, while a full-blown poltergeist scenario played out inside his mind: the door slipping out of his grasp and slamming shut, then locking itself, cockroach-laden dishes rising up from the sink, winging themselves into the walls like kamikaze fighter planes; dirty clothes and record albums, circling in the air like a spiraling dolphin dance . . .
. . . and things, scuttling quickly across the floor, closing in on his ankles with jagged teeth and glittering eyes
He was afraid to move, but staying was out of the question. Behind and to his left, Larry's room was entirely dark. They could be coming in through the bathroom window, he realized, sneaking a peek through the blackened doorway.
Nothing.
This isn't happening, he tried to tell himself. This is crazy—
Then the bolt lock on the front door unlatched.
And the door creaked slowly open.
Bubba wasted no time. He let out a squeal and raced through the opening, disappearing out into the hall. Billy watched, as the door swung wide, and the knob began to turn by itself. Chika-chika.
"Okay," he hissed. "Okay." His hands came up, apologetic. He tried to watch his room, the shower, and Larry's room at the same time while he backed quickly toward the door. He knocked into Bubba's leash with his heel, picked it up automatically.
Whatever it was, it was already inside.
The door was for him.
He used it.
FOUR
THE PARTY, REVISITED
Mona sidled up to the bar and ordered a Tangueray and tonic. It arrived, vanished, and went back for a refill in the space of thirty seconds. The bartender had the good sense not to raise an eyebrow. She thanked him with a healthy tip and wandered back into the crowd.
She couldn't get Billy out of her head; that was the hell of it. Now that she was giving serious thought to dumping him, the memories were piling up like sandbags in a bunker's doorway. No amount of assault from the outside could get through.
It was just her, and her gin, and her mind's home movies.
Nearly fourteen months of them . . .
They met at a cast party for a low-budget splatter movie called Sorority Slaughterhouse. Mona had played the bitchy temptress who stole the show by getting a pitchfork through the face. Billy was a guest of the makeup artist, who'd done the life cast of Mona's face and been raving about her ever since.
As is often the case at New York parties of the talented unknown, the name of the game was Show 'n' Tell. Artists, actors, and models had their portfolios ready. Writers had their manuscripts. And musicians had their demo tapes, if not their actual instruments. The obligatory jam sessions, solo performances, and sing-alongs went down, for what seemed very much like forever.
Mona, of course, had a weakness for rock 'n' rollers. Her last four boyfriends could have constituted a band, in fact: bass, guitar, sax, and drums respectively. She knew with painful intimacy what to expect from a relationship with one; she'd seen more infidelity, slovenliness, drug abuse, and fiscal irresponsibility than she'd ever dared dream possible.
But they were her obsession, and they were certainly never boring. So whenever her heart got the urge to pull an arrow from its quiver, it always aimed at a crazed musician.
She was surprised, but not displeased, to find that Billy had entered her sites.
On the plus side, there was the little matter of his talent. He was, far and away, the best performer in the room. His repertoire of Beatles tunes, his catchy originals, the soulful way his voice and guitar made even the worst of his companions sound good: all of it weighed pleasantly upon her heart, like the press of a lover's breast against her own. And so far as she could tell, beneath the scraggly clothes and hair, he was a rather attractive man.
Which brought her to the minus side: his absolute lack of visual style. It was painful to watch such a gifted man so oblivious to Manhattan's most sacred imperative. The other musicians, however bereft, had at least the good sense to sub image for imagination; Billy Rowe, on the other hand, looked like he'd just finished sloppin' the hogs.
Mona hesitated, heartstring taut and arrow aimed. Do I really want to do this? she asked herself.
Then his tape came on, filling the air with his music.
Drowning out the audible twang of desire in flight
The songs on his demo tape were multifaceted gems, complex and beautiful. There were flaws: shifty drum sound, spotty mix, eccentric arrangements, and occasional overplaying. They were not perfect gems. But there was spirit in the music. And talent. And vision.
Even Lisa, who basically viewed men as cock-mongering subhumans, was obviously blown away by him. She had him in a corner, and they were laughing their heads off about something; for a moment, Mona was concerned that her roommate was about to take a rare trip into heterosexuality. But no; when she walked over, the first thing Lisa said was, "Seduce this man, he'd be fun to have around…"
Thanks a lot, Lees, Mona silently mused, pulling back to the very different party being held in the present. A middle-aged record exec winked at her; she returned a thin and empty smile, then stared down at her shoes.
There was no getting around the melancholy that the memories dredged up. They made her remember why she'd fallen for him in the first place; and why, despite all the many excellent arguments against it, she was in love with him still . . .
The music, he explained, was the demo tape from his rock opera, The Real War. It was, as he described it, his "dinosaur": a two-hour-long epic, three years in the making, that had proven utterly unmarketable. It was obvious to Mona that he was slightly embarrassed—evidently, he'd been told more than once that breaking into the music biz with rock opera was like attempting micro-surgery with a jackhammer—but there was also a surprisingly fierce pride in what he'd done that showed through.
Which led to a discussion of his reasons for wilting The Real War, and the hard core of battle-scarred idealism that lay beneath Billy Rowe every move and gesture.
"The real war," he explained, "is the battle against the madness within ourselves." He went on to
describe the plot of his opera, which involved a conspiracy of enlightened men and women who, having conquered their own personal demons, were now determined to raise the global consciousness and prevent its Armageddon/annihilation.
Mona repressed her urge to scoff. Rock operas, changing the world: it all reeked of a '60 simpletonicity that she'd found little place for in her day-to-day life. But there was something contagious about his conviction: a simple faith in the ultimate goodness of his fellow human beings, and in the goodness of God, that touched a place inside her where the longing to believe was still very much alive.
Six years in New York had done a number on Mona's compassion. She'd stepped over too many urinating bums, fended off too many talent scouts who wore what brains they had in their scrotums, seen too much of the tough ol' world in action to maintain a bleeding heart. Most of the people she met had adopted a sort of cynical chic: coolness was the ability to laugh and shop while the rest of the world screamed and bled to death. If the Bomb comes down, make sure you're stoned enough to see the trails. When the going gets tough, drop a hit of Ecstasy and toddle of to Club Med for the weekend.
Billy Rowe was refreshing. Cop-show words like honor and courage slid off of his tongue with effortless panache—and unquestionable power. He gave the impression that he was willing to die for what he believed in, and what he believed in was love.
They left the party together at one o'clock. By three, at her apartment, the beast with two backs was grinding its way into Heaven. The two hours between had been spent in the sweetest, slowest, most luxuriant, and excruciating foreplay either one had ever known: necks and nipples, tongues and toes, lips and fingers both north and south, all mounting together in an orgy of giving—both torrid and astoundingly tender.
He was there for her; that was the astonishing thing. Her life had been full of sexual athletes, most of whom would never make junior varsity: ball hogs, glory hounds, ignoring the cries of their teammates as they moved in for the score.
The Cleanup Page 3