David looked over cautiously, smiling to cover his awkwardness. He couldn’t help remembering how she’d pressed against him in the toilet of the train. It was the same Sarah Wynberg all right. Even after all those years, he should have known her. She obviously hadn’t recognized him, either. Nor had any of the others. It wasn’t surprising. He’d been a skinny runt back then. A little pipsqueak everyone called “Newt.” His time in jail had changed that. He might have been a runt going in, but he’ d found a constructive way of passing the time: weight training. He was nothing like that pipsqueak kid when he got out. He was a completely new man now and as far as he was concerned he’d stay that way. Not a single one of this bunch was going to know different.
Max laughed and rubbed his hands together like a kid anticipating treats. “Well, it looks like this is gonna be some reunion after all.” He glanced around the room. There was one more face he didn’t recognize. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said to the silent white-haired figure seated in the armchair.
The man inclined his head. His blue eyes turned on Max from across the room, but they were eerily vacuous.
“Not in person,” the man said, “but we’ve met in print numerous times.”
“Eh? How’s that?” Max demanded.
“This is Crispin LaFey, Max,” Spike interrupted, lest Max say anything derogatory to such an important writer.
“Crispin LaFey,” Max said slowly, as though tasting the syllables. Of course he knew the name. This was possibly the most important rock writer the country had produced, and one of its best-known critics. It was he who had discovered the band. “You wrote the first articles on us all those years ago. I remember.” Max stood and held out his hand.
Crispin didn’t rise or offer a hand in return. He sat there with a vacant look on his face as Max waited with his arm extended.
“Uh, he’s … he can’t see,” Spike said to Max apologetically, lest Max take offence. “Guy’s blind,” Spike whispered.
“Blind?” Max said. “Well, fuck me. I never knew. It’s an honour to meet you, sir,” he said. “I humble myself before your presence.” And with that, he did a surprisingly graceful bow to the blind writer.
“It’s I who am honoured to take part in this historic event,” said Crispin. “I’ve been looking forward to it for many years.”
“So have I,” Max said with a deep laugh. “So have I.” He looked around the room. “Where is everyone else? Where’s Harvey? Where’s our so-called new drummer?”
Spike shook his head. “Harvey’s not here yet. The drummer’s coming with him, apparently. Some big name. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I’m to pick up Mr. Keill later this afternoon,” Edwards said softly. “And, yes, I was told there’d be another gentleman with him then. For now, may I show you to your rooms?”
Edwards picked up Max’s and Sami Lee’s bags. Noni and Pete took hold of their own luggage.
“You’ve got the best frickin’ view of the water,” Spike called out as they turned to go. “Third floor. I’m only on the second. I was going to insist on having that room myself, but then I remembered the lovely lady you’d be coming with” — he turned to Sami Lee, who smiled grimly — “and my better self got the better of me, so to speak. So it’s all yours. Enjoy!”
Max and Sami Lee followed Edwards, with Pete and Noni trailing behind. Spike’s eyes were glued to his old friend and former partner as he ascended the stairs.
That was almost too easy, Spike told himself. But I’d better not underestimate Max Hardcore. Not for a second.
Chapter 7
Edwards led the newcomers up two flights of stairs and down a hallway. Each door and adjacent wall panel was a different colour, almost like being in a box of M&Ms. He led Max and Sami Lee to a green door sandwiched between two others, purple and red. Producing a set of keys on a gold ring, Edwards unlocked the room and let them in.
A window faced them directly across the room, offering a panoramic view of the ocean. White caps crested the waves. Sami Lee looked out briefly then turned to Max.
“I wonder what the other rooms are like,” she said with a pout.
“Pretty much the same, I’d bet,” Max replied.
“I wonder if they are,” she said, as though undecided whether to stay.
“This is the room Mr. Keill asked me to put you in,” Edwards said apologetically. “The others have all been assigned.”
Sami Lee’s eyes flashed. “Is that so? You mean we don’t have a choice?”
“This one’s fine, hon,” Max told her. “If you don’t like it, we can take it up with Harvey when he gets here.”
“Whatever.” Sami Lee shrugged. Her hand tugged through her hair, scattering the purple tendrils.
Edwards left Sami Lee and Max alone. Pete and Noni waited for him in the hallway. Checking his list, Edwards directed them to a yellow door and a pink one.
“Quite the colour scheme,” Noni joked. “Like modern art.”
“In fact, I’m told Mr. Keill had the design based on a famous contemporary painting,” Edwards said, “though I’m not sure which work he had in mind.”
Noni stood back to regard the hallway. “Probably a Mondrian,” he said. “At least, it looks like it could be.”
“Listen to Mr. Culture,” Max said, from inside the doorway to his room.
“I can afford to sound rich,” Noni joked.
The door to Noni’s room opened onto a view even more impressive than Max and Sami Lee’s. The suite was decorated in a sleek, contemporary style. A two-tone duvet lay across the bed. Pictures adorned the walls. There was nothing of the humble cottage retreat about the place. The influence of an accomplished designer was evident at every turn.
Noni put down his bags and looked around. The place was a top-dollar pad, all right, but he’d seen just as good before. It was a long way from the edge of the jungles in Guyana to the big cities of the world, but one by one they’d all opened their doors to him: Paris, London, Vienna … anywhere he hung his hat was home now. He’d played the colour card when it worked for him, but he quickly dropped the guise when it relegated him to anything with “minority” written on it. Civil rights cases might look impressive on a resume, but they sucked when it came to paying the bills. Noni Embrem didn’t do minority. Not anymore.
He glanced out the window. He was a true citizen of the world now, and if he’ d bent a few laws and played false with a few abstract concepts like justice to get where he was today … well, it had been more than worth it. If anyone asked, he’d gladly do it all over again, whatever the cost.
Pete’s room lay at the far end of the hall overlooking the small cove where they’d landed. The boat sat beached, front end thrust up on shore. In the distance, the water had grown rougher, but inside the cove the waves broke softly against the rocks, as though exhausted by their journey to the island.
On the ride over, Pete had worried the Voice wouldn’t like the accommodations he was given, though he knew he might have little say in the matter. But the Voice didn’t speak when he entered the room, which was a relief. Pete didn’t want to deal with the anxiety it would cause him if the Voice disapproved.
He turned to see Edwards watching him. Was he supposed to tip the man? Apprehension welled up inside him. He fished around in his pocket and drew out a few coins, but Edwards turned them down.
“No need,” he said.
Pete put the coins back in his pocket and placed his cellphone on the table beside the bed.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour. Feel free to join us for a drink before that,” Edwards said as he turned and left. He quietly conveyed the same message to Noni and Max and Sami Lee as he went back down the hall.
“Are you the bloody cook, too?” Max called out.
“Captain, cook, and chief bottle washer,” Edwards replied.
“Mind
what you make then,” Max told him. “I’m allergic to all forms of shellfish.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been fully apprised of that. Mr. Keill has asked me to ensure that there’s no shellfish on the menu for the entire week. And as Mr. Anthrax’s digestion is delicate, I’ve decided against making any spicy dishes.”
“What’s that? Spike’s gone all delicate on us?” Max laughed.
“So I’ve been told,” Edwards said. “I’ll do my best to cater to everyone’s appetites, at least as much as I can with the ingredients on hand, of course.”
Edwards then headed back downstairs to the kitchen to prepare the evening’s meal. He didn’t like to admit it, but he was rattled to learn the identities of his guests on the island retreat. No one had told him about a band reunion when he applied for the job. Mr. Keill’s highly detailed emails said he would be looking after his guests, but no mention had been made of the Ladykillers.
They were a vile bunch. Not just the band members, but the others, too. The women were even worse. That freakish Asian with too much makeup and the one who looked like a cartoon blonde with her breasts hanging out all over the place. The other one in the V-neck sweater — Sarah or Janice or whatever she called herself — had come onto him before they’d even set foot in the boat. She’d stared at him like a starving animal sighting a meal. He had no use for women like that. Desperate. Edwards preferred a little fight in his women. He didn’t want anything so easy. At least Sandra was a modest sort, though anyone could see that all the fight had been beaten out of her.
As for the lawyer, Edwards had no time for the breed. They were all liars and frauds with a licence to kill. They could ruin your life, if you let them. And then there was that blind guy who stared at you till it gave you the creeps. Edwards wasn’t so sure he was really blind. There was something about the man’s eyes, how they seemed to follow you around the room. The only one he didn’t mind was the real-estate guy, David. He seemed all right. How had he got mixed up with this bunch? Probably queer, but they usually weren’t a problem. A little flirting never hurt, as long as he didn’t have to put out. If Edwards got the chance, he might hint that he’d be looking for a job once this island gig was up. Real-estate agents were always well connected.
One of the reasons he’d moved to the coast was to get away from so-called “civilization.” After years of driving taxi in a big city, he wanted as little to do with crowds as possible. These days, he preferred a retreat in the wilds. The coast had been perfect for that. In fact, he knew that one of the reasons he got this job was because he’d written on his application that he enjoyed isolation. The less he had to do with people, the better. If the truth be told, he was a misanthrope at heart. He had no use for human scum like the Ladykillers or their entourage.
Edwards turned back to the counter and picked up a long-handled carving knife. He pressed the blade against the heel of an onion and pushed down, neatly stripping off the peel. He made quick work of it and tossed the shreds aside. Cooking came easily to him. He’d worked as a chef in various hotels in the evenings after taxi work. It hadn’t been a problem for him, having no social life whatsoever.
As he sliced, an image of the dead girl’s face came back to him. So pretty. Why should someone like that have to die when scum like the Ladykillers lived? They were users. They destroyed people. Edwards felt his face heating up as he fumed and chopped. In less than a minute, the neat white slices were sizzling in a pan of hot oil.
The smell of cooking drifted into the parlour where Max and Sami Lee had just come downstairs to find all the other guests assembled.
Spike looked up. “Good room?”
“Nice.” Max looked around, taking in the neatly furnished quarters. “What’s next in this gig?”
“First things first — help yourself to a drink. Or if you prefer something harder” — Spike motioned to a sideboard where two small copper bowls sat propped before a mirror — “that’s available, too.”
Max looked over at the bowls — one was filled with white powder, the other with an irregular line of spiked joints. “Is that real?”
Sami Lee scooted over and dipped her finger in the powder. She took a sniff and smiled. “Oh, yeah, Maxie. It’s real!”
Max nodded grimly. “Harvey must be doing pretty well for himself.”
“So it would seem,” Spike said. “C’mon — I’ll show you around.”
He stood and headed for a set of French doors. Max followed. In the drawing room, a guitar, bass, and drum kit waited on a small stage alongside a rank of microphones. On the far side, facing the stage, someone had mounted two high-def video cameras.
Max looked it over critically. He turned to Spike.
“It’s all set up, isn’t it?”
Spike nodded. “Everything’s ready. It’s just waiting for us.”
Max turned back to the instruments. “Fine, but I’m not playing one fucking note till Harvey gets here. There’s no reunion till we talk about what kind of deal we get. And if I don’t like it, I’m outta here.”
Spike smiled and shrugged. He knew better than to argue. It hadn’t worked fifteen years ago. All it had done was break up the band. It was Max’s way or the highway. It had always been like that. Some things never changed.
“That’s okay, Maxie. We’re all in this together,” Spike said carefully, making sure to keep any trace of annoyance out of his voice.
Pete stepped into the room. He registered the looks passing between his former and maybe soon-to-be-again band mates. The pair ignored him. He turned his attention to the stage. To his surprise, he saw that someone had gone to the trouble of finding him a burgundy Cobra bass. His had been packed away for years and when he practised now, which was seldom, he used a Toby Deluxe. Beside the Cobra sat a red Telecaster guitar exactly like Max’s. And the drum set was a Ludwig, as Kent Stabber’s had once been. Someone was clearly anxious to recreate the old days down to a T. It left him with a strange feeling, knowing the length they’d gone to complete the setup. The Voice still had nothing to say about it all.
“That’s right,” Max said gruffly. “I wanna hear it from the fucker’s mouth exactly what I’m getting for this. Till then, as far as I’m concerned, this is a fucking martini party. I’ll have that drink now.”
He turned and headed back to the parlour. Just as he passed Pete, his eye caught the chessboard set up with what appeared to be a game in progress. Max stopped and looked at the scattering of pieces around the board.
“Chess, huh? That’s Harvey all over, isn’t it?” He gave a harsh laugh. “I guess we just have to sit and wait for him to make his next move.”
Count them! the Voice boomed to Pete.
Chapter 8
An hour later, the nine guests were seated around the dining room table. Place cards had been set out, indicating where each was to sit. Max and Sami Lee purposely switched places, sitting in Crispin’s and Noni’s chairs while leaving the wrong cards in front of them.
Noni smiled and made a joke of it when he arrived, taking Sami Lee’s place instead. Crispin was directed to Max’s seat.
“I’ve always wondered how it would feel to be the great Max Hardcore,” he said, with what might have passed for irony. “Though I’m not convinced I’m any closer to knowing.”
“When you find out,” Max said. “Let me know.”
Verna entered in a low-cut velvet gown, her wrists lined with an assortment of bangles. Janice followed in a blue summer dress, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. They sat across from David and Pete, still dressed in their casual wear. Noting the place card disarrangement, the two women gleefully swapped cards with David and Pete, but keeping the seats originally assigned them.
Both Crispin and Noni had worn dinner jackets. Spike came in last wearing black jeans and T-shirt. He sat at the head of the table looking funereal and authoritarian all at once.
Edwards came
out of the kitchen. He noted the seating changes, but said nothing about it.
“Hey, Edwards,” Max called out. “What’s with the fucking Martha Stewart name cards? Is Harvey afraid we won’t know who we are without them?”
Edwards smiled and nodded. “Just one of Mr. Keill’s finishing touches. If anybody has any special drink requests, I’ll be happy to see what I can do.”
Noni looked up. “How special?”
“Sir?” Edwards said.
“I have a request, but I doubt you’d stock it,” Noni said.
Edwards cocked his head. “Try me.”
“Well, I’m sure you have gin,” Noni said. “And a lemon, of course.”
Edwards nodded, listening intently.
“But you probably don’t carry something called Kina Lillet.”
Edwards gave him a curious smile. “In fact, sir, we do have Kina Lillet. Mr. Keill instructed me where to find it in his cellar. There are several bottles.”
“That’s astonishing,” Noni said. “In that case, the recipe is simple: an ounce of gin, stirred with half an ounce each of lemon juice and Kina Lillet.”
Edwards gave a curt nod. “I believe that is what is known as a Silver Bullet.”
“It is indeed!” Noni looked around at the others. “It really is astonishing, you know. They stopped producing the drink in the 1930s. Something to do with the quinine making it too bitter. I got a few bottles that I bid on at an auction several years ago — very expensive, I can tell you — but I’ve never known anyone else who had it.”
“Harvey always liked the best of the best,” Spike said with a knowing look. “Even back when he was pretending to be a prolie like the rest of us.”
“Anyone else for a glass?” Edwards asked.
“I’ll stick to beer,” Max grumbled. “No prissy drinks for me.” He looked over at Noni. “No offence there, dude.”
Noni nodded at Max. “None taken.”
Endgame Page 4