by Paula Guran
A horn blared from the right. Billy jerked the wheel and brought the Testarossa back into the fast lane. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and spotted the car he’d nearly sideswiped. A big lemon-yellow Cadillac. The Caddy flipped its brights and pulled behind him.
Shit. Billy eyed the pimpmobile’s smoked windows and angry lights, and then he eyed himself in the Testarossa’s rearview mirror. His long blond hair was stringy with sweat (the same hair that Tiger Beat always referred to as “Lyons’ mane”), and his eyes were swimming with fear.
Billy looked away. He rolled down the window and gulped a deep breath of winter air as he hit the gas, leaving the Caddy behind.
It was on one cold and frosty night
When Stackalee and Billy Lyons had one awful fight.
All about an old Stetson hat.
Billy stared at the tape deck, his lips curling in disgust. “It’ll be a great record, Billy,” he said, his voice a lisping imitation of his agent’s. “Folk music’s in. Ethnic music too. We can hire these Delta blues boys for next to nothing. It worked for Paul Simon, didn’t it? He gave those African singers a hit record, and you can do the same thing for these old boys.”
Billy gripped the wheel and thought about that. The Delta bluesmen hadn’t even cared about having a hit. They’d only wanted the money. All through the session they’d treated Billy like a plantation overseer who was pushing for an extra bag of cotton. Oh, they’d been polite about it, but they’d never gone out of their way to influence the project. Until Alan said that they should record “Stackalee”, that is.
The old men wouldn’t touch it. “You shouldn’t ought to sing that one,” said a guitar player called Iron Box Jack.
“Why not?” Alan asked. “It’s too perfect to pass up. It’s got a guy called Billy Lyons in it, just like our Billy.”
Iron Box shook his head. “That’s ’xactly why. Boy name of Billy Lyons shouldn’t even be thinkin’ ’bout Stackalee, let alone singing ’bout him. Man, don’t you know about Stack? Don’t you know that old Scratch give him a magic oxblood Stetson that allow him to do all kind of devilment? Don’t you know how he shot Billy Lyons on account of he thought Billy stole his magic hat?” The old man looked straight at Billy. “You don’t want to sing that one. Stack’s a trickster, Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.”
Billy laughed. Alan shook his head.
“Iron Box, they don’t believe you,” a wizened bass player said. “Why, just look at ’em. They ain’t got no knowledge of that stuff.”
“Guys, guys, it’s just a song,” Alan began, but the conciliatory coaxing routine didn’t work with this crew. The bluesmen flat-out refused to record “Stackalee” with a singer named Billy Lyons, contract or no. So Billy did the only thing possible to please Alan – he strapped on an old acoustic and went into the studio alone, where he made a hit record that put anything Springsteen did on Nebraska to shame.
Thinking about that, Billy smiled in spite of himself, and in spite of the damn song blaring in his ears. He’d shown those old bastards, even with all the shit he was taking about it now. He’d shown them. He’d recorded the song on his own, without their help, and the fact that it was an unexpected hit was just icing on the fucking—
Billy’s head snapped back, slamming against the crown of the driver’s seat. Sharp pain bloomed at the tip of his spinal column. The Testarossa shuddered, Billy managed to pull out of a skid, and then his head snapped back once more. Black spots of agony danced before his eyes; he squinted around them and focused on the rear-view mirror.
The Caddy sat on his tail, its angry headlights blinking like wild strobes.
Stackalee got his gun. Boy, he got it fast!
He shot poor Billy through and through: the bullet broke a lookin’ glass.
A bullet exploded the Testarossa’s back window, ricocheted, and shattered the rear-view mirror before its power was spent. Billy ducked low, his neck muscles twitching spasmodically. The Caddy rammed the Testarossa a third time. Billy lost control of the car, skidded across three lanes and raced along the dirt shoulder, the Testarossa’s thick wheels kicking up beer cans and garbage. He screamed, braking just short of a chain-link fence that separated the freeway from a shadowy embankment.
The Caddy roared through a cloud of dust, its wheels spitting gravel that pelted the Testarossa, then pulled back onto the blacktop and sped away into the night.
* * *
The dust died down. Traffic whispered past Billy, the drivers unaware that the nation’s number one singing sensation sat locked in his fancy car at the side of the road, shivering, fearful of losing his dinner.
The worst part was not knowing who was after him. So many people had made threats. A headline-grabbing Muslim minister had called him a white devil, and a rap group from Chicago had threatened to kill him. It had been in all the papers. The rappers had called him “Massa Billy” and used his album for target practice. And they weren’t the only ones calling for his head; the critics were after him too. Rolling Stone had done an article claiming, not too subtly, that Billy Lyons had climbed to the top of the charts on the backs of a bunch of poor, old black men.
Okay, maybe he had, but who hadn’t? Had the critics forgotten about the Rolling Stones? Had they forgotten about Elvis?
He says Billy. “I always treated you like a man.
’Tain’t nothin’ to that old Stetson but the greasy band.”
Billy shifted into first gear and pulled onto the freeway. He was going to make it through this. He’d just recorded a song, that was all. He hadn’t done anything wrong or broken any laws. He listened to his singing, heard the pain and energy there. “I’m not Salman Rushdie,” he whispered, “and I’m not Pat fucking Boone, either.”
“Have mercy,” Billy groaned. “Oh, please spare my life;
I’ve got two little babies and an innocent wife.”
Billy entered Alan’s house through the unlocked front door. After spending an hour at the mercy of the Testarossa’s blaring speakers, his ears rang as if he had two enormous seashells jammed against his head. The whispering sound was worse than any shellshock he’d ever suffered after performing in front of the towering speakers he used at stadium shows. It didn’t hurt as much, but it was twice as haunting.
Billy flipped on lights as he moved from room to room. He covered the downstairs – all clear – and then started toward the stairway that led to Alan’s bedroom.
Billy paused at the foot of the staircase. Quiet. No music upstairs. No voices. He climbed into the shadows and found a light switch at the top of the stairs.
And then, standing alone in the dark, he noticed a knocking sound. Not anything with a solid beat, but measured, insistent. Definitely there.
Billy turned on the lights and almost fell backward. A man stood ramrod straight at the far end of the hallway. Big shoulders and an ankle-length black leather duster. An oxblood Stetson hat. No face.
A mannequin. Jesus. Suddenly Billy remembered the costume fitting for the “Stackalee” video. This was his outfit. Had to be.
“Alan,” Billy said, “this isn’t funny.”
Billy moved down the hallway, following the knocking sound that seemed to be coming from Alan’s bedroom. He pushed against the bedroom door, but it wouldn’t give. He pushed harder, the knocking stopped for a moment, and he managed to squeeze into the room.
The door fell closed immediately, pushed by Alan’s weight. The agent was still alive, but Billy could tell that there wasn’t anything left of him. There was a small black hole on one side of his forehead and a bigger hole on the other, and his white sideburns were sticky with blood. Part of his brain lay in a glob on the carpet, but there was enough left in his skull to control his right hand, which tapped a measured beat on the bedroom door.
The costume designer was on the bed. He had a similar wound, but he wasn’t moving. On the wall above the bed, four words were scrawled in blood: WHERE’S MY MAGIC STETSON?
Billy pu
lled the bedcovers over the designer’s corpse. A silver-plated Colt .45 tumbled out of the tangled blankets and landed at his feet. He scooped up the weapon and checked for ammunition. Four bullets remained. Billy clicked the cylinder closed.
And then he realized that the whispering ringing in his ears was gone.
Alan’s meaningless Morse code suddenly took on a steady beat, like one of the old bluesmen pounding a guitar to keep the rhythm. A gold bracelet on the agent’s wrist made a shivery sound like a tiny cymbal. Billy cocked the pistol. Involuntarily, his foot began to tap.
Billy licked his lips. He stared at Alan’s wrist, at the gold bracelet. And then he sang, his voice quavering with horror as the words spilled out of his mouth, unbidden.
The White Elephant Barrel House was wrecked that night;
Gutters full of beer and whiskey; it was an awful sight.
Jewelry and rings of the purest solid gold
Scattered over the dance and gamblin’ hall.
Billy slipped through the doorway, holding the pistol before him. The house was quiet now. He’d moved Alan to the center of the bedroom, where the only thing to tap was the lush, soft carpet.
The silence felt good. No seashell echo. No singing. Billy took a deep breath. He’d get into the car and drive to a police station, or anyplace where he could find people. He’d find safety in numbers.
At the top of the staircase, Billy turned abruptly and stared down the hallway.
The mannequin was gone.
A blast of heat boiled up the staircase; the smell of hot slag and brimstone burned Billy’s nostrils. He whirled and pointed the gun at the looming figure who stood in the shadows below. A smoky red glow enveloped the man, and Billy stepped back from the power of his evil smile.
“Thanks for the return trip ticket, Billy Boy. I’ve been too long in old Scratch’s Jailhouse.” The man grinned. “I’d surely rather spend my time in one of these here Cadillacs than in a little ol’ brimstone cell.” He spread his big hands, weaponless, and the song rumbled from his gut and boiled over his lips.
Stackalee shot Billy once; his body fell to the floor.
He cried out, “Oh, please, Stack, please don’t shoot me no more.”
“Not this time, you son of a bitch,” Billy said.
Stackalee threw open his coat and went for his gun, but Billy was already firing. The first shot pierced the Stetson. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall behind the black man, sticking there like gory pudding, but the Stetson stayed on Stackalee and he barely rocked back on his heels. The second and third bullets slammed into the big man’s chest, and the last hit him in the mouth.
Stackalee spit teeth, laughing. Blood pumped from the holes in his chest and dripped down his shiny black coat, pooling in his pockets and around the pointy tips of his boots. Again, he sang.
And brass-buttoned policemen all dressed in blue
Came down the sidewalk marchin’ two by two.
Sent for the wagon and it hurried and come
Loaded with pistols and a big Gatling gun.
Billy dropped the gun and wiped his bloodstained hands on his jeans; Alan’s blood mixed with the blood from the Fender Stratocaster. His eyes went from the stains to the gun to Stackalee.
Stack’s a trickster. Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.
“No,” Billy whispered. “No!”
Stack nodded. “Fingerprints, Billy Boy. All yours. Powder burns on your gun hand, too.” Growling laughter, he pointed a long index finger at Billy and cocked the imaginary weapon with his thumb. “Bang bang, Billy Boy.”
Outside, sirens wailed.
Stackalee tipped his Stetson and disappeared into the shadows. His footsteps echoed through the house, keeping time for the lyrics that spilled over his bloody lips.
Now late at night you can hear him in his cell,
Arguin’ with the devil to keep from goin’ to hell.
And the other convicts whisper, “Watcha know about that?
Gonna burn in hell forever over an old Stetson hat!”
Billy Lyons closed his eyes and whispered, “Everybody’s talking ’bout Stackalee.”
Bed and Breakfast
Gene Wolfe
Gene Wolfe’s wonderful “Bed and Breakfast” takes place at a homey place located on the road to Hell where weary wanderers can spend the night. Some of the “regulars” are demons, of course, others aren’t. Just because you are on the road to Hell doesn’t necessarily mean you are planning a visit, although literature is full of those who have – fictionally or faithfully – visited Hell and returned to write of it. Dante Aligheri (c. 1265–1321) may not actually have gone to Hell, but he wrote convincingly of a journey there with the Roman poet Virgil (70 BCE–19 BCE) as his guide in his Divina commedia. Virgil himself penned the Aenid, a Latin epic in which Aeneas travels down to Dis, the underworld, and visits his father. Emanuel Swedenborg (1688–1772) claimed to visit both Heaven and Hell and converse with angels and demons. His book Heaven and Hell (1758) provided details. In 1868, Saint John Bosco (1815–1888), founder of the Society of St Francis de Sales visited Hell in his dreams, a trip he later vividly described.
I know an old couple who live near Hell. They have a small farm, and, to supplement the meager income it provides (and to use up its bounty of chickens, ducks and geese, of beefsteak tomatoes, bull-nose peppers and roastin’ ears), open their spare bedrooms to paying guests. From time to time, I am one of those guests.
Dinner comes with the room if one arrives before five; and leftovers, of which there are generally enough to feed two or three more persons, will be cheerfully warmed up afterward – provided that one gets there before nine, at which hour the old woman goes to bed. After nine (and I arrived long after nine last week) guests are free to forage in the kitchen and prepare whatever they choose for themselves.
My own choices were modest: coleslaw, cold chicken, fresh bread, country butter and buttermilk. I was just sitting down to this light repast when I heard the doorbell ring. I got up, thinking to answer it and save the old man the trouble, and heard his limping gait in the hallway. There was a murmur of voices, the old man’s and someone else’s; the second sounded like a deep-voiced woman’s, so I remained standing.
Their conversation lasted longer than I had expected; and although I could not distinguish a single word, it seemed to me that the old man was saying no, no, no, and the woman proposing various alternatives.
At length he showed her into the kitchen; tall and tawny-haired, with a figure rather too voluptuous to be categorized as athletic, and one of those interesting faces that one calls beautiful only after at least half an hour of study; I guessed her age near thirty. The old man introduced us with rustic courtesy, told her to make herself at home, and went back to his book.
“He’s very kind, isn’t he?” she said. Her name was Eira something.
I concurred, calling him a very good soul indeed.
“Are you going to eat all that?” She was looking hungrily at the chicken. I assured her I would have only a piece or two. (I never sleep well after a heavy meal.) She opened the refrigerator, found the milk, and poured herself a glass that she pressed against her cheek. “I haven’t any money. I might as well tell you.”
That was not my affair, and I said so.
“I don’t. I saw the sign, and I thought there must be a lot of work to do around such a big house, washing windows and making beds, and I’d offer to do it for food and a place to sleep.”
“He agreed?” I was rather surprised.
“No.” She sat down and drank half her milk, seeming to pour it down her throat with no need of swallowing. “He said I could eat and stay in the empty room – they’ve got an empty room tonight – if nobody else comes. But if somebody does, I’ll have to leave.” She found a drumstick and nipped it with strong white teeth. “I’ll pay them when I get the money, but naturally he didn’t believe me. I don’t blame him. How much is it?”
I told her,
and she said it was very cheap.
“Yes,” I said, “but you have to consider the situation. They’re off the highway, with no way of letting people know they’re here. They get a few people on their way to Hell, and a few demons going out on assignments or returning. Regulars, as they call them. Other than that—” I shrugged “—eccentrics like me and passers-by like you.”
“Did you say Hell?” She put down her chicken leg.
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Is there a town around here called Hell?”
I shook my head. “It has been called a city, but it’s a region, actually. The infernal Empire. Hades. Gehenna, where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. You know.”
She laughed, the delighted crow of a large, bored child who has been entertained at last.
I buttered a second slice of bread. The bread is always very good, but this seemed better than usual.
“Abandon hope, you who enter here. Isn’t that supposed to be the sign over the door?”
“More or less,” I said. “Over the gate Dante used at any rate. It wasn’t this one, so the inscription here may be quite different, if there’s an inscription at all.”
“You haven’t been there?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
“But you’re going—” she laughed again, a deep, throaty, very feminine chuckle this time “—and it’s not very far.”
“Three miles, I’m told, by the old country road. A little less, two perhaps, if you were to cut across the fields, which almost no one does.”