FAREWELL GHOST

by Larry Caldwell

  Clay nodded and tossed the Gibson into the tech’s arms.

  In the far wings, Priest was screaming at a pair of bouncers, his words lost in 130 decibels. By the time he realized Clay had stepped into the stage lights, it was too late.

  Fiasco Joe was crouching on the far side, his Fender held out in a ham-job for the flashes popping in the crowd, and Clay had a clear shot at Savy’s mic. Any fear or doubt was gone the moment he raced out in front of the sea of bodies. Savy was halfway through the second verse of “Disaffected,” when she sensed someone sidling up beside her. Her reaction suggested she’d have expected the corpse of Jerry Garcia to appear, maggots falling from his eye sockets, before Clay Harper. She missed a word, a line, and then Clay had the microphone in his grip.

  Fiasco was yanked from his revelry by the new voice in his monitor; his eyes grew sharp, furious, understanding Clay’s coup immediately. In the dark beyond him, Priest was jumping and swinging his fists like a fine-carpet salesman ruined by a vomiting child, and Clay grinned and sang with everything he had. Over the bridge Savy matched him word for word, syllable for syllable—but by the time they reached the last chorus she had stepped away, surrendering the mic, nodding at Fiasco and Spider to keep playing, just keep playing dammit.

  Clay’s adrenaline overloaded him. His doppelgänger—the onstage maniac that had possessed him at their first three gigs—took full control. He shook the mic stand violently back and forth, banged his head to the blast-beat. If any of the bouncers came for him, he would surely tear their arms off and paradiddle their heads with the bloody stumps.

  No one came. Though there was upheaval in the sound booth, no engineer dared fuck with the mic levels of the convulsing figure that drew every eye.

  The Palladium was round and reminded Clay of an Art Deco dance hall. Sweeping balconies to the left and right, where the crowd could stand three deep and pitch beers down on the churning mass below. The room had screamed at the sight of him and they screamed now as Clay urged them on. But it was hard to gauge the emotion behind it. The faces leering up from the barricade looked vicious in the stage lights, and Clay wondered if it was the song doing that or his arrival.

  But when “Disaffected” slammed to its abrupt punk-rock halt, a cheer rose to the Palladium’s ceiling and—Reality check!—Clay knew that, whoever was watching, wherever they’d come from, they were here for the music. And for him.

  Not Priest though. To say the new Ghost manager didn’t enjoy golden rain on his parade was an understatement. He shouted something to Fiasco, something civil like “Deal with him, shit-for-brains!” And Fiasco stepped to the backup mic.

  “How about Clay Harper, boys and girls? Out of thin air. Hole-lee shit!”

  The crowd hollered and hooted its roadhouse welcome.

  “Yes, Clay Harper, back from the dead.” Fiasco gave him a wink and walked his fingers playfully up and down his bass. Doo-Dub-Doo-Doo-Dub-Dub-Doo. “Except nothing good lasts forever. This is unfortunately Clay’s last show with us. He’s quitting the band.”

  The boos he intended to invoke were there, but scattered. Mostly, a confused hush fell over the house, waiting to hear if Clay would confirm or deny. And Clay pressed his teeth against his mic and told them, “The good news is ‘Disaffected’ was Joe Belasco’s last song with the band. He’s leaving to pursue his true talent in the Jim Rose Circus. Swallowing light bulbs in his ass.”

  Laughter filled the room, followed by several mock whistles, and Clay gave Fiasco’s wink back to him. “So can anyone play bass for us? Anyone here need employment?”

  Two dozen hands shot up.

  “Hey, dick,” Fiasco fired back, “why don’t you just go back to burning your—”

  “This song’s called ‘Skeletons at the Feast’. Count us in, Spidey.”

  Spider hesitated, lifted his stick, then hesitated again, a deer in the giant headlights of his mounted toms. He glanced desperately at Savy, whose face gave nothing. Though she must have communicated something to the beatmaster because his stick slammed the hi-hat—1-2-3-4—and they were into their second song and Clay was still there, still at the center of the storm.

  Without a second guitar, their sound wasn’t as robust as it could have been, but the crowd didn’t care. Unencumbered, Clay pogoed and danced and played with the crowd. And the crowd responded to his every demand—if he wanted them to bounce, if he wanted them to clap together, if he wanted to divide the room and send them stampeding at each other in a fun-loving Wall of Death, all he had to do was order it so.

  He was singing the last of “Skeleton,” when someone leapt onstage. There were a pair of bouncers below, but as Boyle had foreseen, the volume of crowd-surfers and rascals shoving at the barricade overburdened them. Clay watched the figure mount the apron, expecting Davis Karney, or worse.

  A bearded man appeared in the lights. Clay was mid-stanza and couldn’t distance himself from his approach. “Everyone is special, but most, we get forgotten,” Clay sang, slightly off-key, and now the man was reaching for him, and Clay clenched his fists, ready to claw his beard off. But instead of attacking, the man only grabbed the mic to sing the next line with his beer-battered breath: “Life is just a peach, so luscious and so rotten!”

  “Don’t know about the future,” Clay sang with him. “Can’t say how the story ends…” And all at once he recognized the would-be singer. Not his face, but his tattoos. From the night before. It was the naked guy in the Alice Cooper mask, the one who’d brought down the Viper’s disco ball. At the time, Clay had assumed he was drunk, high, or simply wackadoo, but before he’d gotten himself tossed out, the man had somehow found the time and attention to absorb Clay’s lyrics. And here he was again, singing his heart out as if Ghost had released an album and given him months to learn the lines.

  Between verses, Beard moonwalked and blew kisses to the crowd. And then he was tearing at his shirt and shoes. He had his pants and bikini briefs most of the way down before security emerged to drag him away. “Yo Fee,” Clay shouted, “I think we found your replacement!”

  Before “Houdini Nights,” the guitar tech hurried on stage, trading guitars with Savy and handing one to Clay as well. Priest, Clay noticed, was no longer stalking the wings.

  “I don’t know what they expect me to do with this thing.” Clay plucked a few sour notes. “Lucky for you, we’ve got the best guitarist in the land carrying me through. How about a little love for Miss Savannah Marquez!”

  The crowd gave her more than a little and Savy replied with a flattered bow. After “Houdini,” they crashed through “Hot Blood,” followed by their crowd-pleasing cover of “Gimme Danger.” Clay obeyed the set list that had been taped to the center monitor, which meant that “Danger” was followed by—and this took some real nerve, considering everything that had happened—a cover of Rocket Throne’s “American Rapture.”

  But Clay took everything in stride up there, living one moment to the next like it was his last night on earth. The thunder of the Marshall stacks, the convulsing of their speaker cones, the vibration in his feet, the palm-muted distortion and frenzied down-picking riffs, the war-gallop of the drums, the sound of his voice carrying out the open lobby doors and across Sunset Boulevard, the shifting shafts of stage light, the writhing animal of the mosh pit, and the great choral echo of every voice singing “American Rapture” (Rocco would have been proud). In many ways Clay had been homeless since the day his mother died. But he realized now, This is my home. Because the stage was more than just wood and hardware; it was a transformative portal for performer and audience. He would live here the rest of his days. And if there were no more days, if tonight was his swan song, these were the moments that would flash through his mind before he was cast into the void.

  “In Rolls the Storm” was intended to be their penultimate song. They had never written a proper ending to it, preferring the spontaneous nature of jamming on and on. Such wasn’t the case tonight; Fiasco and Spider’s moods had visibly dwindled, un
derstanding that Clay had the Palladium in his palm, and they played with all the life and movement of studio musicians performing light jazz. Clay could sense them trying to bring “Storm” to a conclusion within seconds of its crescendo, then at the one-minute mark, and at three minutes, Clay acquiesced.

  “You’ll have to forgive us,” Clay announced, “we don’t have quite as many tunes as most bands that headline this place. But if the rest of Ghost will indulge me, I’ve a ballad I wrote for the occasion. You don’t mind a quick ballad, do you?”

  The crowd let him know it didn’t.

  And Fiasco glared his daggers, but dropped his bass onto its stand and followed Spider off. Savy passed her guitar to the tech, as if all this had been rehearsed, and stepped just out of the lights. Clay withdrew the crumpled lyrics for “There’s No End to This Wanting” and the tech reappeared, offering him an electric acoustic and taping the tattered loose leaf at his feet, while Clay tuned and attempted to recollect the chords he’d put together that morning.

  After a few false starts, he began. The song wasn’t completely arranged, but there was enough to fake his way through. He had written it as a love letter, a song of faith and belief. But the story soon met with an unhappy twist. Sometimes the harder you fought for love, the deeper your ruin. And that simple truth struck Clay now: He would never hold Savy again, never again make love to her, never tour with her, never unlock the mystery of who she really was. The crowd watched him, their shadows still. They had come to Hollywood to witness a beginning, but what they were getting was a coda, a shooting-star goodbye. It was the quietest songs that killed. And when Clay’s voice broke on the last line—“…and I never saw my love again…”—he looked to Savy and was buoyed up by the sorrow in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” Clay mumbled, and the room clapped uncertainly. “We’ve got one more song for you, so if my band is still in the building, how ’bout we finish this together?”

  Savy wiped at her face and donned her guitar. Fiasco and Spider returned with all the reluctance of students after a fire drill. “Let’s leave it all out here,” Clay told them, off mic. “Everything we’ve got, no fear, no holding back.”

  And then they tore through “Voices in the Dark” for the last time as a band, playing it furiously, and with all the terror and sadness in their hearts, playing for an uncertain fate and a dream gone suddenly wrong. It was everything they were in that moment, maybe everything they always had been, and Clay was proud to be a part of it, however briefly. Savy’s solo never sounded more alive. And when she stepped to the center mic to sing “This is how I emp-tee pain!”, Clay traded the line back and forth with her, and for a few, long moments, the crowd and their band and the plotting going on in the dark of the stage wings ceased to exist. It was only the two of them, expelling hot breath into each other’s faces, screaming until their voices were raw and ragged, and no longer there.

  28

  BURY OUR FRIENDS

  He almost made it. The house lights came up and Clay hurried off stage. He had wanted a word with Savy, but Gar Basserman appeared backstage with a fistful of roses, collected Savy in his arms, and made a point of kissing her as Clay passed. And though Clay tightened with all the vile jealousy that was intended, he also felt an odd sense of relief. Savy had heard “Wanting”—in retrospect, half the reason he’d crashed the show had been for her to hear that song—and it said everything he wanted to say to her. No point hanging around, mucking up their feelings with small talk. Besides, his window to egress was closing fast.

  Pounding through the stage doors, Clay was released into the night cool. A handful of fans were waiting along the paddock fence and they hawkeyed him immediately. “Clay! Clay! Sign something for us!”

  Be it obligation or self-indulgence, Clay couldn’t deny them. He accepted the ticket stubs and pens they slid through the chain-link, even a white Chuck Taylor that one guy tossed over. He signed as quickly as he could, while they assured him that they’d be buying all the music Ghost ever recorded ever. They’re going to be as disappointed as I am, Clay reflected.

  Then he was around the corner, searching for the gate that would lead him out to the parking lot and the noise and chaos of a Hollywood night. It was deserted back here, the bored-looking guard having quit his post. No roadies, no tour buses. Only BadVan, sitting in the dark on the far side of the paddock. And what had happened to the light? Last time through, Clay was certain there had been illumination to rival daylight.

  And the exit gate was bolted shut with a bike chain. And even as his mind ordered his body to climb the fence—haul ass, get out!—BadVan’s headlights snapped on, pinning him. The engine revved and the van screeched and charged. Clay took two steps to his right, meaning to escape back around the building, before a fist struck his skull from behind. Clay was on his knees before he knew he was falling, white, static-cling bursts of light flashing across his vision.

  The van was speeding at him, and Clay had time enough to contemplate what its tires would feel like crushing his bones.

  Clay Harper. Run down by his own angry band.

  Except someone was straddling him and BadVan swung wide, angling itself in a V with a dumpster to block the view of the fans streaming into the parking lot. Wincing, Clay rolled to his back, already knowing it was Fiasco Joe who’d cold-cocked him. The coward can’t even…

  The thought died at the sight of Spider towering over him. “Spidey, what—”

  The drummer hit him again. Once, twice. Tight fists, hard blows. Right cheek, left eye. Clay writhed, his face already numb. “You ruined it for us,” Spider hissed. “You ruined it, you fuck!”

  “Spider, chill,” Fiasco said, hopping from the van.

  “No one’s going to listen to us without you now,” Spider told him. And if Clay hadn’t seen the face clearly enough to identify, he wouldn’t have believed the raging, murderous voice belonged to a drummer who’d once gone glassy-eyed over James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful.” “That’s how you wanted it,” he fumed. “To ruin us! Motherfuck us!”

  Spider ripped at Clay’s shirt and Clay knocked his hands away. “You screwed me first!”

  He landed an uppercut to Spider’s gut and Spider grunted and dropped back a step.

  Fiasco came flying in, leading with his leg in some pseudo martial-arts attack. His knee struck the side of Clay’s neck and his palm crunched Clay’s nose back into his head. The pain was hot, intense, blinding, and Clay rolled and collided with the back wall of the Palladium.

  He managed to get a foot under him, but his body only had a single, slow gear; his attackers were on him right away, fingers clutching and scratching, knuckles pounding muscle, glancing off bone. Clay hit Fiasco in the ear and shouted something that might have been help!, but his tongue was bloody and Spider cut him off with a swift kick to the groin. Clay gave a tortured moan; the strength left his legs and, that fast, the fight was over. He was at their mercy.

  Spider mounted his torso like a wrestler. “Look at the big star lying here like a little bitch,” he spat. “Too good for money. Too good for us. Now you’re going to bleed, Clay. We’re going to hurt you bad.”

  “Quickly,” Fiasco warned him. “Before Savy comes looking. Hold his mouth. I’ll shove my steel toe down his throat.”

  Spider yanked a clump of Clay’s hair and pain shot from Clay’s scalp all the way through his neck; the static cling danced in his eyes again. With his other hand, Spider seized Clay’s jaw and forced it open. “Wider,” Fiasco urged. He stepped back, stomped his shiny black boot like a bull primed for the charge.

  Clay watched it happen like something out of a dream. Like most, he’d pondered how things would end for him, envisioning all manner of fates—from dying in his sleep at an appropriately old age to falling into a jungle river with piranha. Never had he considered getting beaten to death in the dark by two people who had been his friends. And yet—

  “Wider!” Fiasco demanded. Spider cranked Clay’s head harder, until Clay e
xpelled a helpless, pain-choked gasp. They were enjoying this, savoring the moment, and Clay couldn’t even close his eyes against it. As Fiasco raced forward, Clay did everything he could to think of the show, the simple magic of expressing himself in front of thousands. But as the executioner’s ax of Fiasco’s boot arched toward him, all Clay could think of was Savy. Savy looking at him as he sang “Wanting” to her. The emotion in her eyes. Savannah…

  Fiasco’s legs lurched sideways and the dumpster gave a flat metal crash and spun askew as Fiasco bashed into it. And then Spider was letting go, and through his half-conscious haze, Clay witnessed a tattooed man, fists up, pummeling Fiasco in the ribs. “Mo!” Spider shouted. “This isn’t your fight!”

  Savy’s brother, still topless from giving Clay the shirt off his back, had come out of nowhere. Clay didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  Fiasco took another blow, and another, before Spider caught Mo under the arms and dragged him off. “No, no, this is your fight, Mo,” Fiasco managed, leaning against the dumpster, “you’re just fighting for the wrong guy.”

  “He’s trying to fuck us out of our money,” Spider said. “Money that Savy earned for you and your family. Now let’s deal with him.”

  Mo didn’t hesitate. He threw his weight back against Spider and body-checked him into the wall. Spider grunted and released. “You think I’m stupid?” Mo told them. “I know what under-the-influence looks like. And you boys are under something a lot worse than anything I’ve ever taken. You—and my sister too.”

  He raised his fists like an old-school bare knuckler, and gestured for them to bring it. “Careful,” Clay croaked from the ground. “They’ll kill you too.”

  Fiasco stood to his full height, which was at least six inches taller than Mo’s, and advanced. “You think those druggie arms can beat both our asses?”

  “Probably not,” Mo admitted. “But I’ve got a concert’s worth of backup.”