Voice

by Joseph Garraty

  Douglas arched one eyebrow. “You know this for sure?”

  “It was four kids from the show last night, and they were acting all crazy when it all went down. I don’t need a jury to give me a verdict on this one. Christ, the other guys in the band think you’re selling some kind of psycho drug to people that come to our shows.”

  “I told you,” Douglas said, and there was a knife edge buried in the whisper. “Crazy people are part of it. Bitch and moan all you want, but deal with it.”

  “They killed somebody.”

  “I’m sure it won’t happen again. It’s not your fault. Get over it.”

  “And they’re staying crazy now. Randy here has been out of his goddamn head for over twelve hours,” Johnny said, his eyes flicking to the man next to him. “What is going on?”

  Douglas put his hands in his pockets, and the line of his mouth drew tight. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Johnny.”

  Once again, Johnny broke eye contact. The voice in his head snarled. Are you gonna let this fucker push you around every time you see him? Do you mind if I . . .?

  Johnny felt that push again, the one that came before he sang. Go for it.

  “Douglas, you miserable prick, you’re fucking this up. Again.”

  The words came out of his mouth, but, unlike when he sang, they were dissociated from his thoughts—he was every bit as surprised by them as he would have been if somebody else was speaking.

  The older man’s eyes widened, and he leaned in toward Johnny. He bared his yellowed teeth in a smile. “Is that you? Is it really you?”

  “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” Johnny heard himself say in a mocking voice. Douglas smiled wider.

  “I won’t screw up this time,” Douglas whispered.

  “Goddamn right you won’t. Now, take this sad sack of shit away, and I don’t want to see another one.” Johnny was so wrapped up watching the reactions on Douglas’s face that he didn’t notice his own arm move to point at Randy without any apparent instruction from him.

  “Sure thing,” Douglas said.

  Ha! Johnny thought. Take that!

  Douglas turned to go, guiding Randy with a hand on his back. “See you later,” he said.

  “Yeah. See you,” Johnny said, and his voice was his own this time. He watched Douglas walk away with Randy, and then he started home.

  ***

  Douglas left Johnny behind, pushing the dumb babbling bastard that Johnny was so worried about in front of him. The guy—Randy was as good a name as any—muttered and mumbled, but he went where he was told. Probably he’d recover his wits in another day or so, and if not—well, so much the better.

  A dark excitement filled Douglas’s body, tingling like electricity to the ends of his fingers and toes. The voice, the boss, had spoken to him—harsh words, sure, but he had failed too many times not to understand the impatience.

  Randy tripped over a tiny crack in the sidewalk, and Douglas watched him fall, making no move to help. He got up after a short struggle.

  This was the most dangerous part, Douglas knew from bitter experience. The disciples, as he thought of them, were stupid at this stage, and too weak to completely control either their bodies or their hungers. Some vague vestige of intellect usually kept them from doing anything too stupid in public, but last night they must have been hungry indeed.

  That should never have happened, and he would have to heed the boss’s warning—it couldn’t happen again. Not where Johnny might find out. Soon the disciples would be strong enough, but until then Douglas would have to be even more vigilant. Johnny could still stop everything, if he really wanted to. Others had, Douglas recalled with a bitter pang. One had even managed to commit suicide, long after Douglas had thought success was assured.

  And there was his own failure, too, the one that hurt most of all.

  Not this time. He thought of the boss’s words, and that dark thrill ran through his body again.

  “Johnnyyyyyy,” Randy said, dragging it out in a wavering, exultant wail.

  Douglas grinned. “You said it, man.”

  Chapter 18

  Case took one look at the booth and eased in next to Quentin, across from Danny.

  “Where’s Johnny?” she asked.

  Quentin pushed his menu away. Danny, she noted, hadn’t even opened his.

  “He’s not coming,” Danny said.

  “Tough to have a band meeting without Johnny.”

  Danny inclined his head toward Quentin. “This is Quentin’s show.”

  Quentin half-turned in his seat to be able to see Case better. There was a second’s pause while his eyes moved from Danny to Case and back, and then—

  “I think we need to take a break from the band for a while,” he blurted.

  Case made no response, watching as red blotches bloomed on Quentin’s face, like ink clouds spreading through water. Quentin folded his hands, unfolded them, and then put them in his lap.

  “A break,” Case said at last.

  “Yeah. Maybe a few months. Maybe—I don’t know. Longer. I mean, not too much longer. Just until, you know. Things calm down.”

  “Until things calm down. Which things? Our fan base? I’m sure they’ll get good and calm after we just go away indefinitely. Or do you mean the clubs that are actually asking us to play now? I bet they’ll calm down plenty.”

  “Case—”

  “Or how about my fucking landlord? No, wait—he’s not going to calm down at all, because three hundred bucks a month is going to vanish from my income, which cuts pretty close to the goddamn bone. Are you insane? We’ve worked our asses off to get here, and, what? It looks too much like success for you?”

  Case knew she was shouting, and she could see people at neighboring tables gawking, but she didn’t much care. This was absurd.

  Quentin fiddled with his water glass. “I’m not afraid of success. But that stuff that happened the other night—that freaks me out.”

  “No shit?” Case said. “You think you’re freaked out? I was right fucking there, and I’ve had nightmares about the body ever since. What the hell does that have to do with the price of eggs?”

  “I don’t know,” Quentin said, holding up his hands. “It’s just—you know. They were at the show, just like some of the other weirdos we’ve seen. And Johnny keeps getting weirder. Did you see the way he flew off the handle the other night? I don’t think any of this is good for him. He’s losing it.”

  “You didn’t think maybe you’d get his opinion on whether or not he’s losing it? We’re going to decide without him and let him know the verdict?”

  Danny finally spoke. “I think Quentin’s right about Johnny,” he said. “He’s taking that stage persona of his way too seriously. I’ve never seen him like this.”

  “So talk to him,” Case said. “Or something. I’m not going to sit here and decide what’s best for him.” She breathed out, trying to calm down, and addressed Quentin. “I’m not ready to ‘take a break.’ Not on Johnny’s account, and not on yours. If you want some time off, do what you gotta do.” She lowered her voice further and forced herself not to look away. “We’ll—I’ll miss you.”

  Astonishment wrote itself all over Quentin’s face. “My God,” he said, “I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say to anyone.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get all choked up over it,” she shot back, but she smiled.

  “I want this as much as you guys do, you know. I don’t want to swing a hammer the rest of my life, and playing music with you guys is—well, it’s the best thing I do. But this is getting weird, and I don’t like it.”

  “Give it another couple of shows,” Case said. “If you can’t take it after that, we’ll figure something out. But I’m telling you, what happened after the last show was a fluke. It can’t get worse than that.”

  “Yeah,” Quentin said. “You’re probably right.”

  ***

  To Quentin’s relief
, the next show went well, as did the one after that. Johnny’s creepy friend didn’t come around, and the strange behavior of the audience had all but stopped. Quentin doubted the two were unrelated. Johnny still worried Quentin, and some of the songs still gave him a bad feeling, but overall, Quentin was optimistic and even starting to have fun again.

  Erin continued to deliver one record crowd after another, and soon they were moving to bigger venues. Christmas came and went, and the old year sloughed away like so much dead skin, revealing the shiny pink new year beneath it. They ended the year on a high note, playing New Year’s Eve to a sold-out crowd, and the band had a blast and got good and drunk afterward. It was like the old days, almost, only better.

  “Only good things from here on out,” Quentin said, raising his glass.

  They all drank to that.

  Chapter 19

  From the Dallas Observer, February 12, 2010:

  Ragman Draws Crowds

  When you ask Ragman frontman Johnny Tango who his biggest influence is, he gives you a look designed to make you think you’re the dumbest son of a bitch he’s ever set eyes on.

  “Dylan, man.” He shakes his head. “You need to do your motherfucking homework.”

  And that’s how the interview starts.

  We sat down with Ragman’s lead singer Johnny Tango and guitarist Case, representatives of the band that took home our Readers’ Choice Award for Best New Act for last year. The pair of them are Dallas’s up-and-coming current answer to the dynamic duo of Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, or the Toxic Twins Steven Tyler and Joe Perry—comparisons Case, at least, seems to relish.

  Johnny, it turns out, is more of a Dylan fan.

  The two of them are a study in weird contrasts and unexpected similarities. Case won’t sit on the couch—she pulls out a wooden chair from the table nearby and perches on that, coiled as though ready to strike at any moment. Johnny affects a more languorous attitude and stretches out on the couch with his arms spread wide across the back—but if you look closely, you can see that he, too, is vibrating with barely controlled tension. He grins and sneers and sulks and swears like a sailor. She keeps her face deadpan during the whole interview and also swears like a sailor. He’s got the leather jacket, and she wears the leather pants. They both wear white T-shirts. He slips back and forth from coarse vulgarity, a caricature of pool-hall machismo, to academic English-speak without being aware of it. She looks at you like she just might decide to break your nose, and never wavers. They seem as likely as any pair to be the latest bastion of rock and roll in Dallas.

  We asserted that we had not, in fact, done our motherfucking homework, and picked up the interview from there.

  Observer: Bob Dylan?

  Johnny: Yeah.

  O: That’s a strange influence for a band as heavy as yours.

  Johnny: It ain’t that fuckin’ strange. Dylan was as heavy as they come. Loud, too. Pissed a lot of motherfuckers off when he went electric, but he didn’t care. Doesn’t get heavier than that. Had a nice bike, too.

  O (laughs): Still, you have to admit it’s not typical.

  Johnny: Only because people don’t listen to what the man said. Apocalyptic visions, impassioned rants against the establishment, drug addiction, cryptic messages from wherever-the-fuck. He was fearless. He tackled everything, head-on. Nobody was as rock-and-roll as Bob fucking Dylan, not before or since.

  Case: Except maybe Johnny Thunders.

  O (to Case): Johnny Thunders—now there’s a name you don’t hear much these days. Is he one of your major influences?

  Case: Yeah.

  O (after a pause): Who else?

  Case: Anybody who ever hung a heavy fucking piece of mahogany around their neck and played no-bullshit guitar.

  O: Such as?

  Case: Jimmy Page. Joe Perry. Slash. Neil Young—he gets some of the ugliest sounds out of a Les Paul you ever heard. It’s fucking great. Martin Barre. Clapton, before his balls fell off. Kerry Buchanan, from Crashyard. He doesn’t get enough credit.

  O: Your band has had a fair amount of success locally in a very short time frame. What do you attribute that to?

  Case: Good PR.

  Johnny (glares at Case): Good fucking music.

  O (to Johnny): Anything specific?

  Johnny: Yeah. We rock the fuck out without treating our audience like eighth graders. (He pauses, thinking for a moment.) Plus we put on a hell of a show.

  ***

  “It’s time,” Erin said, putting the paper away. “Thou shalt go to Austin.”

  Later, Case would trace a bitter wealth of misery back to that statement. For now, she just raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “Sure. The band’s doing pretty well in Dallas, but you guys are never going to make any money playing to the same hundred people every month. Time to start spreading the love. Austin’s a good place to start making regular visits.”

  Case sighed. “A new town. Empty rooms. It’ll be just like starting over again.”

  “No guts, no glory. Besides,” Erin said, adding a wink, “I know a few people.”

  Case laughed—it was hard not to. “All right. Let’s set something up.”

  ***

  “Austin.” Gina’s voice betrayed no emotion.

  “Yeah,” Danny said. “We talked about it, and it makes sense. Good music scene, lots of college kids. If we’re going to be serious, we can’t sit in Dallas and hope the world comes to us.” He smiled nervously. She didn’t smile back. “You wanna come?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just an overnight trip. We’ll be back before you know it.”

  She gave him a brittle smile. “I really don’t feel like driving three hours to go sit in a smoky bar. Especially not on a weeknight.”

  “Take the next day off. It’ll be fun.”

  “No thanks. I can only imagine what your boss would say if he knew why you were taking that Friday off.”

  Danny laughed, showing more than a little strain. “My boss is older than God, and he thinks Lawrence Welk was the pinnacle of Western musical achievement. He’d want to know why I’d waste even a minute of my precious vacation on that goddamn noise.”

  Gina just looked at him. He didn’t need her to make her point any plainer than that.

  “Don’t have too much fun,” she said, and Danny cringed. Ever since that fucking show, there had been an ugly tension under the surface of their relationship, like a saw blade draped under a silk sheet. It threatened to tear through only when he talked about things related to the band, but it seemed like it was always there, just waiting for him to push against it too hard.

  “I won’t,” he said.

  She turned back to the contract she was reading.

  Chapter 20

  Another Dallas show, another packed house. The band’s momentum had picked up like Johnny never would have believed after they won the Best New Act award, and it wouldn’t be long before they’d have to move to even larger venues. Room for a couple hundred was no longer enough, amazingly.

  Johnny woke the morning after the show, sweaty and shaking. Another Dallas show, another bad dream. Another bad dream that seemed a little too real. At least nobody was following him home anymore. Douglas had taken care of that problem, or it had gone away of its own accord—he didn’t care which.

  He was rolling over in bed, trying to fall asleep again, when somebody pounded on his front door. Johnny got a sudden, very bad feeling, like ice water poured down his spine.

  Let it go, the voice suggested. Johnny thought that sounded just fine. Ignore it and it will go away.

  “Mr. Tsiboukas, this is the Dallas Police Department. We’d like to have a few words with you.” More pounding.

  Oh, fuck. Johnny got up. Ignoring this would do nothing but make it worse. “Just a second!” he yelled, and he scrambled for some pants.

  Johnny went out to the living room and opened the door. A heavyset guy in a cheap coat waved a badge at him.

  “Detective Or
tiz,” he said. “Dallas Police Department. Sorry if this is a little early.” He didn’t look sorry.

  “’Sall right. What can I do for you?”

  “Can I come in?”

  Johnny flung the door wide so the detective could see past him into the living room, but he didn’t get out of the doorway. “Actually, I don’t have any chairs. I live in squalor, as you can see.”

  The detective wrinkled his nose.

  “Uh, yeah,” Johnny said. “Carpet gets wet every time it rains. Stinks to high heaven.” Johnny stepped outside and pulled the door shut. “Probably better just to talk out here. What’s going on?”

  “Do you know Kevin Stevens?”

  “No,” Johnny said, puzzled. “Who is he?”

  “The young man who was killed behind the Curtain Club last night.”

  Johnny’s eyes widened in real shock—and, he fervently hoped, nothing more than shock.

  Relax, the voice told him. Dallas is a violent place. Like most big cities. Something bad happens every night.

  The detective watched his face with interest.

  “Uh, sorry,” Johnny said. “That’s . . . kind of shocking. My band played the Curtain Club last night. I was right there.”

  “Yeah. I know. We’re talking to everybody we can track down who was there. Did you see anything unusual last night, either in the club or outside when you left?”

  “Not really. Just a bunch of drunk people, you know?” Had he seen anything unusual? He didn’t think so, no. In fact, he was sure of it. Douglas hadn’t been there, and even the crazies were nowhere in evidence these days. He was really in the clear—of course he was. So why did he feel so guilty?

  The detective nodded. “Can you give me the names of anyone else who was there?”