Friedheim collapsed with laughter. He reached into the pocket of his tight jeans and pulled out a tiny vial. "Just call me the toot fairy," he grinned. "But there's Oxycontin in here, and meth, and coke, and a fuck of a lot of other colors in the rainbow, so take it easy, dude. Okay?"
"Okay."
Rourke gratefully snorted some chemical assistance, rubbed his nostrils and leaned back to enjoy the effect. His eyes rolled back in his head and he twitched spasmodically for a moment. The engineer was busy snorting his own line, and failed to notice. But then Rourke stopped breathing.
[…he watches the doorknob carefully. it is brass, and the head reflects the compressed image of a table lamp. the reflection is moving, the knob turning, the closet door opening; it whispers along the nappy surface of a little throw rug, all spotted with freshly spilled blood...]
"I thought jocks from Nevada didn't do that kind of shit."
Rourke shuddered and breathed again. Bryan hadn't noticed anything amiss. Rourke sat up, sweating. Thought: Where the fuck did I just go? His mind cleared, and he winked to cover his fear.
"As my Uncle Jeremy always said, jocks from Nevada shouldn't run over budget on album projects."
B.J. Woodley, Sour Candy's hyper guitarist, was staring into the booth. He seemed desperate for approval. B.J. had chosen to wear flaming yellow sweats to the session, and the studio's sound-proofing was blood red. Rourke thought Woodley looked like a pudgy canary in the cat's mouth.
Peter tapped the talk-back button and heard his voice echo through the other room. "Good one, guys," he lied. "But I'd like another take, just to be on the safe side."
Groans in harmony. Lime Pauley, the drummer, started clacking his sticks together to set the tempo. He raised his voice over the din: re-tuning, whining and squeaky butts shifting on padded stools. The down side of recording live.
"Jeez dude," Lime sputtered, "I thought that was pretty good. Besides, Dee's gonna be here soon. If she gets in there with you, we'll end up fucking around all night."
John Hubbard, piano: "You got that wrong, Lime. Rourke's gonna end up fucking around all night."
Good-natured laughter.
Peter, his head still pirouetting from somewhere over the rainbow, was tempted to join in until Gordie Easton crossed his mind. Music Work's owner, and Rourke's boss, had a bad case for Dee Jennings. He viewed their sometime affair as a meaningful relationship instead of a career-driven hook-up, but Sour Candy's sultry lead singer obviously had a mind of her own. In short, Gordie would not have been amused.
Peter Rourke liked his job. Sure, the work wore him down; nudged him towards drugs and strained his nerves. It was also starting to make him rich in his twenties. Wealthy enough to put a redneck past behind. He thought it a fair enough trade.
"Knock off the bullshit," he barked. "Let's get on it. If you clowns would play the changes right, we could all go home early for once."
"Fuck you."
Thank God dirty looks don't kill, he thought with a grimace. That was out of line. The guys are trying. It's just not jelling, goddamn it, and that's more my fault than theirs.
"One," Lime counted. "Two. You know what to do..."
Before Peter could apologize, a pissed-off Sour Candy had launched into another take. Ironically, their resentment translated into fire and ice.
The song began to work.
Hubbard instinctively held back a little, then altered one synthesizer's voicing to a low growl at the top of the chorus. That prompted Joe Shane to start popping his bass, rap style. B.J. Woodley reacted in kind, stomping down on the volume pedal and crashing into his solo section like a tank springing from ambush. Real, on the spot musical feedback. They were zinging, driving, locking into it. Lime Pauley found something extra, too; by the end of the take he was whacking out an impossibly hip extra back-beat on the floor tom. Live music at it's unpolished best, rock as it once was.
Bryan Friedheim shook his head. He pursed his thin lips and reached for the rainbow vial again. "Well, I'll be fucked."
Rourke glanced over at the huge, rolling reels of the 24-track recorder. What was old was new again. He had always resisted going digital, and time had finally proven him right, but tape had risks attached. "You will definitely be fucked if we run out of tape."
"Promises, promises," Bryan lisped. He checked the computer's counter. "No sweat, Pete. According to my reliable little buddy here, we'll just make it."
And make it they did. Four seconds of absolute silence, with everyone holding his breath with the last note, in anticipation of Rourke's reaction. Then the tape rolled flap/flap/flap off the reel. Nail biting: Another one of the hazards of working the old-fashioned way.
Peter grinned and flashed a thumbs-up through the glass. Cheers erupted. He tapped the talk-back button.
"Fucking awesome!" he called. "Nice going. You're all released under your own recognizance, pending trial."
"Hell you say," Hubbard barked. "We know our rights, and we want to hear this one."
Bryan adjusted the equalization slightly, then rolled back to the start of the tune, as the musicians gathered in the booth. Peter told him to play the take at killer level, max honk. Hell, they'd earned it. This was probably one of the best cuts Sour Candy had ever laid down. It was bad, it was sixties, it was as snarling and as sprightly as something by the early Beatles.
Listening, Rourke felt confident that they had their follow-up to "Devil's Reign." He knew he was lucky. This time a hit would be due more to the band's playing than to his own songwriting.
Lime palmed Friedheim's vial and they all shared some rainbow to celebrate. The drug was catching on fast. It was a mind-ripping mixture of several different uppers and downers in powdered form. B.J. Woodley almost sneezed three hundred dollars worth into the console when Johnny Hubbard stepped out into the hall and called: "Red alert! This is not a drill."
Gordie. Christ. Peter began to straighten his clothing and tried to clear his bleary mind. The musicians ran for cover, suddenly got busy as hell. They started packing up while Friedheim rubbed his nose vigorously to remove any trace of the precious multi-colored powder.
Gordie Easton, the dictatorial owner of Music Works, had two serious problems when it came to relating to modern rock: He didn't understand the music worth a shit, and he disapproved of drugs. Still, he fully expected his staff to keep impossibly long hours in order to complete a project on schedule.
The door creaked open and Easton strode in. Gordie was nearly as tall as Peter, easily six feet; bald as a cue ball and cultivating a long, drooping moustache. He loved Hawaiian print shirts. Peter Rourke was the only employee able to look him square in the eye without laughing.
"Gordie, you surprised me. Funny, I should have heard your clothes coming."
"You got it, cowboy?" Easton barked.
Rourke nodded. "Think so. As a matter of fact, I'd probably bet my ass it's a hit."
"You just did," Easton said. He showed his wide teeth in a thinly veiled snarl. Rourke wondered if Gordie already knew about his hooking up with Dee Jennings. If he could have, Gordie Easton would have written "screwing no one but the owner" into Dee's recording contract.
"Kiss my ass."
"What did you say?"
"I was right about 'Devil's Reign,'" Rourke said defiantly. "Close to double platinum now, aren't we?"
Gordie didn't answer. He does know, Peter thought. But for the moment pride has to take a back seat to profit. Jesus, what a strange business.
"Wanna hear it, Gordie?" Friedheim chirped, figuring it was worth a shot. Easton shook his head, then turned and left without closing the door.
Bryan reached over with one graceful hand and sealed the booth. "Charm school grad," he explained to an unseen audience. "Went to school to study manners. Pretty smooth, huh?"
"He's a prick."
Friedheim shrugged. "There's that, too. Hey Pete, answer me something. You've got a monster hit, right? Your contract's almost up. Why you still gonna work for hi
m?"
"Because he pays me so fucking much money."
Bryan considered. "Not a bad reason."
They stared at one another. Don't say it aloud. I need the girl, Bryan. I don't understand it myself, but I do. Nothing personal, but just let it be.
"When's Dee due in for her vocals?" Friedheim asked, casually. He fiddled with a pencil and eyed the clock. His face betrayed nothing.
Rourke glanced at his platinum Rolex. "Right about now. Why don't you go set up? Then maybe we'll have time for a break."
"Sure."
"Leave me another."
Disapproval? Bryan slipped Peter the rainbow, then split to adjust the mikes for Dee Jennings. Alone, Rourke took another long hit up each nostril, closed the vial and leaned back. Rainbow always made him feel dizzy.
He felt tired, so very tired. It had been a long project, and the stress of carrying on an affair right under Gordie's nose was draining as well. Rourke wondered what Gordon might have up his sleeve to retaliate. [... he was a little girl taking a long, scary walk home through the desert carrying a basket full of eggs; something was circling in the darkness, snuffling and drooling and edging closer…] Damn it, what's wrong with me tonight?
Peter gasped as a hand clutched his shoulder. He sat up in the chair and spun around. Dee Jennings kissed him and laughed. "Wow, you're jumpy. How much you been doing, cowboy? Long lines?"
"Yards," Rourke said. This is just the rainbow, he thought desperately. It can't be coming back, not after all this time. This has to be the drug. I've got to stop, get back to normal.
The drug could be triggering something dangerous. I don't want to be like I was before; open that way.
But then he lost himself in Dee. Quick peek down the hall; a tug on the door handle, the sound-proofing popping his ears. He kissed her long and deep, massaged her full breasts. Dee rubbed his crotch. "I think Bryan's watching us," she whispered with a shameless leer.
"Let him," Peter said. "He's gay."
"So?"
"We're probably boring as hell."
"Fat chance."
Footsteps. Gordie?
They pulled apart, Dee smoothing down her Sour Candy sweatshirt. It was the kind sold during the band's most recent tour; ash grey, with a mushroom cloud design and "The Devil's Reign" spelled in blood-red letters across the front. The title seemed to shimmer and gnaw at Peter's subconscious. People were taking the band, and the tune, so seriously. He'd only been screwing around when he wrote it. They weren't Satanists for Chrissakes. Harmless fun, right?
His skin began to hump and writhe. He looked away, swallowing bile. It's the rainbow. Friedheim is right, I'm doing way too much of this shit.
[please, god, don't let it come back]
When Gordie Easton returned to the booth, Dee Jennings embraced him. Rourke, flushed with helpless jealousy, managed to remain calm. His career was at stake. Besides, Dee had made no promises. Gordie left, and Rourke ran Dee through her lead vocals. The short brunette was her usual professional self. Four or five warm-ups, six great takes; enough for Friedheim and Rourke to finish the record over the weekend.
By that time the entire complex was empty. Music Works was located in a large, twenty-story office building that towered over a dark and foreboding parking center. Friedheim was uncomfortable walking out to his car alone, so Rourke left Dee waiting in his office and rode down in the elevator with his engineer.
Bryan unlocked the door to his garish pink 2003 VW. He gave Peter a quick hug. "Nice job, man," he said. His reedy voice echoed through the deserted underground garage like a jazz clarinet. "You done good."
"You too."
Bryan started his car: Thunder in Carlsbad Caverns. He rolled down the window, just as Peter began to walk away, and whistled sharply.
"Pete?"
"Yo?"
"You got to stop it, man."
Rourke tried to keep things nice and light. He spread his hands innocently. Grinned. "Stop which?"
"Both, sweetie," Bryan said. "She'll bust your nuts, sure as the dope. You know that. And Gordie Easton is not generally considered to be a tolerant man."
"Yeah. I hear you."
Bryan sighed. "Then you may as well hear this, too. You don't fit here, Peter."
"Why is that?"
"Really want to know? You're too nice a guy to be doing this shit. This business will eat you alive if you don't have a pretty healthy ego and some emotional walls to keep the bullshit out. Go home, man. You've made good money. Go home and get your shit together and start another life."
"I'll think about it. Honest."
"Good."
"Good night, Bryan." A pause. "Thanks."
The little engineer drove away. Peter started back toward the glass doors encompassing the elevators. His reflection was distorted; elongated and shimmering. That eerie feeling of disorientation began to return, and the paranoia with it. Reality took a hike, and Rourke found his imagination running wild.
He fancied that someone was following him. He could almost hear an extra set of footsteps bouncing off the walls. As if they remained only a fraction of a second behind, nearly matched him step for step. Then there would be breathing, too; harsh and ragged. Hunhhh. Hunhhh. It could be some demented fan, maybe; some maniac stalking Dee Jennings.
Or perhaps he was "remembering" some future time and place.
Rourke walked faster, his heart thudding in his chest. Okay, life is good. Look, nothing is out there. This is just me. Too much partying. Got to cool it. It is not the talent returning. That's never going to happen. Never. I don't have to go home to know that, do I? No, but I want to go home. I really do.
He was relieved when the doors closed safely. The elevator rose with a whoosh and took him to the seventh floor.
When he got back to his office, Dee Jennings was spread like a nude centerfold across the papers on his desk. Soft jazz whispered from the stereo, and the lights were turned down low. She was stroking herself with two fingers.
"Gordie?" he asked, slipping out of his shirt.
"He went home," Dee purred. "I said we'd be working late. He believed me. Gordie always believes me."
Rourke skulled something (warning) from very far away. A glimmer of his old gift, twitching. But Dee was right there, warm and inviting. The sinister voice disappeared the moment he was inside her. They rolled like the ocean, and after an impossibly long time exploded into a nova. Rourke passed out.
He woke up alone, in blinding sunlight, sprawled on the plaid couch in his office. The hangover was bone-crunching. Two enormous, yellowing potted plants seemed to be leaning down as if to claw at his face. This is suicide, he thought. I'm killing myself. He made a pot of strong coffee, booted up his laptop and checked his huge stack of emails for anything of real importance. It took a while.
Tinkling harmonies, discordant whines. The band was already in the studio, preparing for the next recording session. I've got to get back to work, Rourke thought. Feel jagged, strung out. Shit. He washed up in the rest room, patted his muscular frame with paper toweling and dressed in the same old clothes. I need to get some real sleep. I need to see the sunshine.
A little grass took the edge off, and Friedheim had brought a fresh supply of rainbow, so the day went pretty well. Much like the day before, and all the days before that. Except for this droning, persistent voice. Peter Rourke couldn't seem to drown it out; no matter how loud the music, how strong the dope.
You're dying, it whispered, dying and you don't care. You can't control yourself. Why is that?Do you even know what you're running from any more? Maybe Bryan is right. Maybe it's time to go home.
2
JASON
When Jake Lewis noticed the ugly little man in the faded jeans, he was sitting on his battered brown suitcase, staring at the remains of a dead dog. How he'd ended up here in Two Trees, Nevada was anybody's guess.
Jake wouldn't have paid him no mind, but strangers were rare as hens' teeth these days, what with the new highway and all
. Besides, the man was on foot. Must have hitched his way to the turnpike, then walked a tad under six miles through the scorching heat. Had to be half blind from the sun and thirsty as hell, and yet he was just parked there, only a few hundred yards from Jake's battered old gas station, studying that stinking pile of bleached bones and stretched skin like some kind of Pygmy witch doctor.
Takes all kinds, Jake thought. He'll come beg a drink when he's ready. And with that, he went back to work.
Meanwhile, the ugly little stranger fiddled with the twine that held his suitcase together and stared down at the desiccated animal. His name was Jason Smith, and he was remembering; travelling back in time to recall the dog who had brought him Karen. The scruffy little brown mongrel, who had brightened his miserable days at Saint Augustine and connected him to another human being for the first and only time in his life. Dog had limped past the gates of the orphanage, whining, while Jason was hiding from some bullies near a stack of rusty garbage cans.
A little girl crossed the playground, and both spotted the mutt at the same moment. Jason had seen Karen around, but he'd never found the courage to talk to her. After all, he knew he was unattractive and small; the mirror reminded him every morning. His long, ragged red birthmark taunted him far more effectively than the bigger kids ever could.
"He's hungry," Karen said softly. "Hello, boy."
Dog lowered drooping jowls to his bleeding front paws and managed a feeble bark. The children giggled. When Karen faced him with a frank stare, Jason felt his stomach tie itself in knots. But she didn't flinch at his disfigurement. In fact, she smiled.
"He looks a lot like you," she said.
Jason surprised himself. "Heck, he's a lot prettier."
Laughter. Karen flashed a clean, slanted grin that dimpled her chin and wrinkled her freckles. Jason Smith thought: She don't care I'm ugly. He went all warm inside. Adults were full of crap. Kids could fall in love, just like anybody else.
Jason fumbled through the garbage cans and found a bone with a few shreds of meat still attached. He tossed the offering through the gate. The mangy puppy fell on it with a ravenous growl. Karen moved closer to take his hand, and Jason's heart skipped and twirled.
Night of the Beast Page 2