by J; P Voelkel
“I told you, they’re more into playing music than collecting old stones.”
“But Lord Kuy said—”
“Don’t take any notice of that stuffed shirt,” guffawed Ah Pukuh, unleashing a wave of halitosis that almost knocked Max off his feet. “If he gives you any trouble, I’ll set the hellhounds on him. Raptor meat is their favorite!”
Max laughed nervously. “Even so …”
“Kuy answers to me!” bellowed Ah Pukuh, thumping on the desk. Then, seeing Max’s consternation, he softened his voice. “Look, this situation is a real downer for you, man. Why don’t we sort it right now? I’ll take the Yellow Jaguar with me to the poker game tonight and give it to the Death Lords on your behalf. End of story!”
Max thought about it. “Can I come with you?”
“No,” said Ah Pukuh, “not possible. ‘Gods and mortals, different portals,’ as the old saying goes.”
“In that case, I’ll hang on to it until you speak to the Death Lords. The rules were very specific about me taking it to Xibalba in person and I don’t want to mess up. My parents and Hermanjilio and Lucky Jim are all depending on me.”
“Whatever you want, man,” conceded Ah Pukuh. “I’ll talk to them after the gig tonight.”
He looked at Max pointedly, and Max took the bait.
“What gig?”
“The Rats are playing a private party to celebrate some impending nuptials.”
Max looked baffled.
“A friend of mine is tying the knot,” explained Ah Pukuh. “It’s going to be quite a party. You’re welcome to crash it.”
“A wedding?” said Max dubiously.
“The wedding is tomorrow. Tonight, it’s a masquerade ball.”
“A ball?” said Max, even more dubiously.
“The guys will be playing their new material,” wheedled Ah Pukuh.
“But I have to leave Spain tonight,” said Max.
“I thought you were a free spirit, man. But if you have to get home to mommy, I suppose we could drop you at the airport.…”
“Well,” mused Max, “I guess first thing in the morning would be okay.”
“Of course it would!” Ah Pukuh encouraged him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
When he looked back at this moment, Max would realize there were many answers to that question, with each outcome worse than the last. But right then and there, blinded by the stars in his eyes, he foresaw only an easy way out.
“You’ll speak to the Death Lords for me? You promise?”
“You have my word.”
“It would be worth staying just for that,” said Max, thinking aloud.
“That’s settled, then,” announced Ah Pukuh. “Tonight we party with the Rats, and tomorrow you fly home a free man!” He held out his fat hand across the table.
“Let’s shake on it!”
Inexplicably, as if in a dream, Max shook on it.
Again in retrospect, he would say that he should have known better.
He would warn you that jaguars, like leopards, don’t change their spots.
And he would tell you never, ever to trust the god of violent and unnatural death.
But, in that deluded moment, full of soda and pizza and the spirit of rock, he was feeling mellow.
He convinced himself that everyone deserved a second chance, even Ah Pukuh. He allowed himself to believe that the Death Lords had lost interest in claiming their favor. He told himself that, after all the fear and trouble of the last few days, he deserved time off to have some fun. For one night, he wanted to forget everything and party with the Plague Rats.
Yeah. It was really as simple as that.
Ah Pukuh came around and slapped him on the back.
“Well,” he said, “it’s been real, but I have work to do. No rest for the wicked and all that. Why don’t you visit with the band until party time? They should be waking up any moment now.”
Max nodded and turned to go hang with his idols. He was living the dream, all right.
“Oh, just one thing,” said Ah Pukuh. “No cause for alarm, but you need to watch your stuff. You’ll be sleeping on the bus tonight and I can’t guarantee security. You know what the fans are like—they’ll take anything that isn’t nailed down. If you want to give me the Yellow Jaguar, I’ll put it in the safe for you, just to be sure.”
Warning bells should have rung in Max’s head.
Every bone in his body, every fiber of his being, should have resisted this suggestion.
Had Ah Pukuh hypnotized him in some way?
Had he spiked the soda?
Drugged the pizza?
Or was Max just so focused on the prospect of meeting the Rats that he wasn’t thinking straight?
Who knows?
But the indisputable fact of the matter was that Max Murphy, in slow motion (or so it seemed when he looked back on it), unzipped his backpack, pulled out the yellow stone necklet, and willingly handed it over to Ah Pukuh, the erstwhile god of violent and unnatural death, head honcho of Xibalba, boss of the Death Lords, and cohort of every evil slimy thing in the twenty-three layers of the universe.
And that, not surprisingly, turned out to be a very big mistake.
Chapter Fourteen
HANGING WITH THE RATS
It took Max a while to get talking to the Plague Rats. He didn’t want to come off like an adoring fan, so he played it cool, all the while fighting the urge to beg them all for autographs.
His polite inquiries about their travels in Spain and his ruminations on the music business were met with stony silence.
He tried again. “I saw you all at the airport; you were on the luggage carousel, remember? I was with Nasty Smith-Jones. Do you know her? She runs one of your fan sites.”
“This kid can’t ’alf talk,” said Trigger Mortis, who was laid out on a sofa. “ ’Ey, kid, can you put a sock in it? I can’t ’ear meself snore.”
“You’re British?” Max asked him, in surprise. “I thought you were from Boston, like me.”
“I don’t care wot you thought,” snapped Trigger.
“Rock stars don’t talk like ’arvard graduates,” Ty Phoid sneered. “Don’t you know nuffink about rock ’n’ roll?”
“ ’E’s got a cheek,” agreed Vince Vermin. “Gettin’ on our bus and tellin’ us ’ow to talk.”
As the band lapsed back into hostile silence, Max looked for another way to break the ice.
Hoping to impress the Rats’ drummer, Odd-Eye Ebola, with his percussive skills, he salvaged some chopsticks from a takeout container, shook off the old noodles, and used the sticks to beat out a rhythm on a chair back.
Odd-Eye watched him for a while with interest. “ ’E’s not bad, though, is ’e?” he said to the rest of the band.
Ty Phoid nudged Vince Vermin.
“ ’Ere’s a good one for you, Vinnie,” he said. “What do you call a geezer ’oo ’angs out wiv musicians?”
Vince Vermin shrugged.
“A drummer!” announced Ty, with a smirk.
“Oi! That’s out of order!” Odd-Eye Ebola lunged at Ty, and soon they were rolling around the lounge area, pummeling each other with their fists and destroying everything in their path.
Max watched them happily, like an indulgent parent at the playground.
“Oi, kid!” yelled Odd-Eye. “Drummers’ honor! Back me up ’ere!”
Looking around for a weapon, Max grabbed a can of Coke, shook it hard, and opened it over Ty’s head. For a moment, everyone froze as they watched the syrupy brown fizz spray into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. It was all the time Odd-Eye needed to flip his opponent over, pin his arms behind his back, and hold his drumsticks tight across his throat like a garotte. Ty gurgled his surrender, everyone laughed, and Odd-Eye took a bow.
“Nice one, kid!” he said.
“Thanks,” said Max. “It’s a little trick I picked up in Street Fight Extreme: Diner Wars.”
Trigger Mortis sat bolt upright. “You play Di
ner Wars? Did you get past the waiter wiv the explodin’ banana splits?”
“Yeah,” said Max. “It took me a while to figure it out, but you have to get the banana peel out of the trash can, and throw it down, so he slips on it.”
A groan went up around the lounge.
“We’ve been stuck on that level for days,” explained Odd-Eye.
“I know all the cheats,” said Max. “I’ll show you, if you like.”
And thus began the happiest afternoon of Max Murphy’s short life, playing the latest video games with his favorite band. And at no point, not once, not ever, did he wonder how he got so lucky or question why it was happening.
On the few occasions that he dragged his eyes away from the huge plasma screen and looked out the window, he noticed that the parched scrub of Extremadura had given way to rolling green countryside. He registered a line of white windmills squatting on the crest of a hill, tractors working in neatly plowed fields, a Roman aqueduct arching high above a winding river.
By early evening, as they left the highway, the blue sky had surrendered to dark gray clouds and the landscape had changed again. Max could see little gray stone cottages and gray stone farmhouses surrounded by gray stone walls. Sky, stones, bricks, roofs—everything outside the bus window was gray except for the green of the grass and the leaves and the moss on the stones. It was the most intense green Max had ever seen, as if someone had increased the saturation on Photoshop. He guessed it must rain quite a bit around here.
As if on cue, a hard gray rain spattered the windshield like a handful of gravel.
They left the main road and headed down a narrow country lane. Branches thwacked against the bus windows, making Max instinctively duck to avoid them. He looked through the glass and jumped to see a round, red, angry-looking face staring back up at him. It was a thickset old woman, head scarf tied tightly under her chin, flattening herself against a gray stone wall to let the bus pass. In front of her was a wheelbarrow full of glistening gray fish. The lane got narrower and narrower, and the bus slowed to a crawl. More stout and ruddy women with wheelbarrows lined the route like an honor guard, until the bus finally eased itself through an ornate iron gateway and onto a long, straight driveway.
At the end of the drive sat a magnificent gray stone palace.
Max whistled in admiration. “That’s quite a pile,” he said to no one in particular.
Ah Pukuh stuck his head through the bead curtain. “Welcome to Galicia, boys! Time to get ready!”
Galicia?
An ominous bell rang in Max’s starstruck brain.
Max turned to the nearest Plague Rat, who happened to be Trigger Mortis. “Do you know whose party it is?” he asked.
Trigger scratched his head and picked some popcorn out of his long, tangled hair. “Some rich Spanish geezer,” he said.
“Doesn’t anyone know who’s getting married?” Max asked the room at large. “Who’s paying you for this gig?”
Odd-Eye Ebola pulled a crumpled card out of his back pocket and studied it. “ ’E’s got a fancy coat of arms, ’ooever ’e is.” He tossed it to Max. “ ’Ere, kid, ’ave a wedding invitation.”
Max inspected the card.
Strangely, the name of the bride wasn’t mentioned. But the name of the groom—and their host for tonight—was Count Antonio de Landa.
Chapter Fifteen
SHOWTIME
Could I use some of that?” asked Max as he watched Ty Phoid cover his face with white makeup and circle his eyes with heavy black shadow.
“You wanna look like a Plague Rat—yeah, why not?” said the lead singer, passing over the cosmetics.
Odd-Eye Ebola studied Max’s handiwork. “Not bad, little drummer boy, but wot about yer ’air? Want me to fix it?” And before Max could answer, he’d selected an aerosol can of hair dye from the shelf and sprayed Max’s hair jet black.
“I like it,” said Max, admiring his reflection.
Odd-Eye smiled. “I ’ope so, coz it won’t wash out, not fer a long time.”
“But it ain’t finished yet,” added Trigger Mortis. He squeezed a full tube of gel into Max’s locks and coaxed them into rigid spikes.
“Cool,” said Max, nodding his appreciation.
Vince Vermin surveyed him critically. “One last thing,” he said, pulling out a penknife. With three deft swipes, he shredded Max’s jeans just above the knee.
The transformation was complete. Max was delighted by the stranger who stared back from the mirror. His own mother wouldn’t recognize him now—let alone his archenemy, Count Antonio de Landa. And that was important because his three previous meetings with Landa had not gone well.
The first time, Landa’s bodyguard had threatened him in the hotel at Puerto Muerto. The second time, Landa’s thugs had chased him and Lola down a raging underground river. And the third time, Landa would have shot him at point-blank range if a blowgun dart from Hermanjilio hadn’t stopped him in his tracks.
So, you could say, they were not on the best of terms.
“Stop admirin’ yerself,” called Trigger Mortis, “and come and help us set up.”
Confident in his new disguise—but still keeping a wary eye out for Landa—Max followed the band members into the palace.
It was an impressive venue, if a little incongruous for a gang of tattooed, leather-clad punks. The building had obviously been built up and enlarged over the centuries, to create an ever-more resplendent collection of towers, wings, and reception rooms. The vaulted entrance hall—a former courtyard, now roofed over—reminded Max of his uncle’s home in San Xavier. There was a huge walk-in fireplace, almost as big as the Murphys’ whole kitchen in Boston. Above the carved wooden mantel was painted an intricate family tree, too high to read but impressively long and old-looking. The other walls were lined with oil paintings of haughty men with pointy black beards and thin lips; gleaming suits of armor stood guard over antique side tables and stiff-backed chairs; the marble floor was spread here and there with oriental rugs.
It looked like a museum, not a home, reflected Max as he helped the roadies sort out amps and cables and mixers, while the band explored the palace. It was easy to keep track of their whereabouts from the shatter of broken china and the thuds of upturned furniture.
Now Max heard Odd-Eye Ebola calling from a nearby room, “ ’Ere, guys, look at me!”
“Don’t do it!” yelled Trigger Mortis.
“Do it! Do it! Do it!” chanted Vince Vermin.
“Bet yer can’t make it all the way to the bottom!” came Ty Phoid’s voice.
“ ’Ow much do you bet?” called Odd-Eye.
“Ten quid!”
“Yer on!”
Max ran in to see the rest of the band staring up at Odd-Eye, who was perched at the top of a highly polished wooden banister, which swept and curled and swooped along a grand staircase from the gallery above.
In front of Max’s horrified eyes, the drummer launched himself backward with a bloodcurdling cry, sliding expertly down the banister at gathering speed before becoming unseated at the first bend in the stairway and plummeting to earth with a painful crash.
“I win,” said Ty Phoid. “Where’s me ten quid?”
“I made it to the bottom, didn’t I?” groaned Odd-Eye. “But I think I’ve done me back in.”
Ah Pukuh came waddling into the room, as fast as his fat little legs could carry him. “What’s all the noise?” he asked. “What are you doing in here? You should be getting ready for the …” His voice trailed off as he took in Odd-Eye’s stricken position. “What’s the matter with him?”
“ ’E can’t get up,” Trigger pointed out. “ ’E’s done ’is back in.”
“Looks like ’e won’t be playin’ tonight,” observed Ty, “but it don’t matter. ’E’s useless anyway.”
Ah Pukuh’s corpselike pallor was tinged with an angry red. His plague boils throbbed purple through his makeup, and his slicked-back hair began to spring up and bristle into snaky tufts. �
��We must have drums! Everything must go as planned. Get up, get up!” he bellowed, kicking Odd-Eye hard in the side.
“Steady on,” said Trigger.
“Leave ’im alone,” said Vince.
“ ’E’s just a drummer, ’e don’t know any better,” said Ty.
“This could ruin everything!” bellowed Ah Pukuh, his eyes bulging with fury. “If he does not play tonight, I”—he searched for a suitable punishment—“I will destroy you all!”
An icy wind blew through the room, and somewhere a door slammed with a sound like a knife coming down on a butcher’s block.
Now, for all their black leather and tattoos and scary makeup, the band looked like four frightened little boys. Every time Odd-Eye tried to get up, he fell back with an anguished cry.
“I can’t do it,” he whimpered.
“You will do it,” commanded Ah Pukuh, kicking him again, and this time the band did not defend him.
This was looking bad—for Odd-Eye and for Max. Ah Pukuh was certainly not in the right mood to relay the all-important question to the Death Lords.
“I’ll do it,” said Max.
“That’s it!” gasped Odd-Eye, his eyes watering with pain. “The kid can play in my place! ’E’s a crackin’ little drummer and ’e he knows all our songs, ’e told me.”
They all swiveled their heads toward Ah Pukuh, to gauge his reaction.
Ah Pukuh stroked his multiple chins thoughtfully.
Then his blubbery face split into a hideous rictus grin. “Yes, why not? This could be perfect! I promise you an unforgettable evening, Max Murphy.”
“But let’s not mention the new lineup to Count de Landa,” said Max hastily. “He might think he’s getting shortchanged.”
“Yeah,” quipped Vince Vermin, “ ’e might smell a rat! A Plague Rat! Geddit?”
“Just clear that loser out of here,” ordered Ah Pukuh, pointing at Odd-Eye, “and get ready for your sound check.”
“But where’s this party ’appenin’?” asked Vince. “I don’t see no stage or nuffink.”
“That’s because Count de Landa has planned something very special!” Ah Pukuh clapped his hands together like an excited child. “Follow me.…”