The Music of the Spheres

by Allister Thompson

  *

  It was seven o’clock in the evening, and Marty was looking despondent, slumped behind the wheel of his car. “Look, Simon, we’ve been all over the city. We’ve been to the Bronx, Oslo Quarter, Little Newcastle, Stepney, we’ve been uptown, downtown, we’ve talked to everyone we know, but no one’s seen this bloke. I’m as broken up about what’s happened as you are, but looking for some criminal we’ve never heard of in New York’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I just want to go home and think for a while.”

  “Stop whining, Marty. It doesn’t become you. Anyway, we haven’t talked to Lou Freed yet. He may have a lead for us. After all, he was Burlington’s best mate.” Hastings’ face was set and hard and had been all day.

  “All right. Let’s get this over with.” Marty’s grumbling was really starting to get on Hastings’ nerves, although it was somewhat understandable. He didn’t look dapper; he and The Hammer hadn’t slept at all. Billy had apparently been out like a light all day and was still sleeping when Marty went out for the day. Staying with Guy’s corpse in Marty’s apartment hadn’t been at all good for The Hammer, and he had disappeared at 6:00 a.m. while Marty was finally dozing. Later that morning, Marty had called a funeral home to make arrangements.

  Marty pulled his baby-blue Edsel in behind a mist-green model. They were now going to visit the Cashmere Overlords’ sound check at Vic’s Sioux City, a popular but seedy bar near Spanish Stockholm. They were playing a double bill with a west coast band named The Kaleidoscope. The bar’s entrance sported a tall neon sign in the shape of a cowboy roping a steer. A few young black-shirted hooligans lay passed out on the curb, looking grotesquely like dead soldiers in their masks. All school-age children wore masks by law, but legislation hadn’t been passed yet for the general population, despite the atrocious air quality. It wasn’t as bad yet as Tokyo or Peking (the former had recently been evacuated in its entirety by the latest Shogun after a million deaths), but it was getting there.

  The bouncer recognized them and let them in right away. The Overlords’ roadies were loading the equipment onto the stage, and the band members, dressed as always in black leather jackets and blue jeans, were lighting up a bong.

  “Guys, it’s good to see you,” Lou Freed said in his low monotone. His face was inscrutable behind wraparound shades. “I can’t believe what I heard. Everyone’s been depressed all day, man, for real. When’s the funeral?”

  “No time to chat about that, Lou. We need to talk about something more urgent.” Hastings related the story of Guy’s death and the tests of the young doctor.

  Freed whistled softly. “I’ve seen a lot of dirty shit in this town, Si, lived here all my life, but nothing like this. We thought Hunter just overdosed on something tainted, since no one ever told us exactly what happened. You think someone’s out to get us?” Neither Lou’s face nor his tone showed any sign of fear.

  “Well, one thing’s for sure, we’re clearly getting taken a lot more seriously than we ever thought. Someone believes that killing freaks will take the wind out of our sails. But they’re wrong.”

  “They could come after us next. Who’s to say they’ll use the same method next time?”

  Hastings put a hand on Freed’s sleeve. “You can help us, Lou. I need to know whether any of your lads saw someone matching this dealer’s description the night of that gig. And if anyone knows who he is.”

  “Well, I didn’t, but let me ask the guys.”

  When the situation was explained, Cain Jones, the band’s Welsh violist, nodded slowly, one lank black lock drooping over his forehead.

  “You know, something strange did happen, very strange indeed, while you were fetching your pre-gig calzone. We’re lighting up some kind of dried plant, see, much like we are today, when we hear a fuss from the door — someone’s trying to get in to talk to us, but Jorge over there won’t let him in. He wanted to sell us some drugs, said he had some new products, not yet for sale in the Virginian market. Hunter wanted to have a look, but Jorge said the chap had been making trouble in the Hispanic community, that he was some kind of career criminal just in from South America. Jorge’s got a lot of underworld connections, you know. A couple of minutes later, Hunter vanished for a while. Didn’t say where he’d been.”

  “Sounds promising,” Freed said. “Jorge! We need to talk to you.”

  The imposing bouncer lumbered over to them, his pockmarked face set in a glare. “What is it, Mr. Freed? Do you need a bigger guest list?” He had only a slight accent.

  “Nope, but we need to ask you something. You remember that sleazy drug dealer you kept out of here when we played that gig a couple weeks ago?”

  The bouncer’s scowl deepened. “Yes, I remember, Mr. Freed.”

  “We need to know everything you’ve heard about that dealer. It’s very important. We think he’s responsible for Hunter’s death.”

  Jorge’s face turned sorrowful. “That does not surprise me. I spend, as you know, most of my time in my own community. This man, who is going by the name Enrique Nuñez, though that is probably not his real name, appeared suddenly, hanging out in the cantinas in Spanish Stockholm, spending lots of money, selling strange chemicals, and trying to pick up our women. We are suspicious of outsiders, and he did not make many friends. My cousin Manuel bounces over at El Corazon, over on Göteborg Avenue. This guy comes there at least once every couple of nights, and he usually gets thrown out within half an hour. When he came here, there was no way I was letting him in.”

  “Bingo,” Freed said.

  Marty raised an eyebrow at Hastings. “This has to be the same fellow. Jorge, would your friend know where this guy’s crashing?”

  “Maybe. He has had to listen to this man blabbering about himself for weeks now.”

  “Well, well,” Hastings said. “Not a very careful assassin.”

  “He probably figured these deaths would never be investigated,” Freed put in.

  “Well, Marty, we know where to go.” Hastings and Marty headed for the door.

  “Guys!”

  They turned around.

  “What are you gonna do if you find this guy?”

  “I don’t know, Lou. But I’m just angry enough to do something foolish.”

  Jones started to tune his viola, and they were accompanied by a hair-raising screech as they went through the door.

  *

  The ride to El Corazon was a silent one, with each lost in his own thoughts. Hastings didn’t really have an idea of what he would do should he manage to corner Enrique Nuñez. The police obviously weren’t going to do anything to help. The fact that Nuñez had been seen at two crime scenes wouldn’t mean much to them if they were dead-set on refusing to assist for ideological reasons. Besides, the trail didn’t necessarily end with a Colombian drug dealer who possessed no guessable motive. Guy Calvert had been a dealer’s best friend, willing to seek thrills from the underground if mainstream pharmaceuticals had become boring. It was even possible there was some twisted mind behind the murders, someone with a hatred for countercultural musical figures.

  Hastings sighed and started reading the cover story of the evening New York Times, which Marty had bought outside Sid’s:

  POP STAR COMES TO “SUSPICIOUS” END

  There is widespread mourning today in the musical and music-loving communities at the unexpected death of rising star Guy Calvert, lead singer of popular band The Spheres, onstage at the Elysian Fields last night. According to eyewitnesses, the band had not even completed the first song of their first set when Mr. Calvert collapsed in obvious pain. He was pronounced dead by a doctor at the scene.

  The band’s manager, William Prestwick, today angrily accused the police of refusing to investigate a death he called “suspicious” and “very likely the result of foul play.” The police department have issued a stern denial that there was any need for further investigation, saying that deaths of this kind can be “quite common in a population with an appetite for unregulated pharmaceut
icals such as Mr. Calvert is alleged to have possessed.”

  However, the incident is being taken seriously at City Hall, with Mayor Bill Pitt VII saying today that if there is any truth to Mr. Prestwick’s allegations, the investigating officers should be subject to “strong censure.”

  None of the surviving members of the group could be reached for comment today, leaving the band’s future uncertain. According to prominent music journalist Rodney Blair, a well-known supporter of the group, speaking today from his London home, the death has “not only negative implications for the future of pop, but is a tragedy for the cause of social reform across the Empire and the world, for which Mr. Calvert was an eloquent spokesman.”

  See page C1 for an overview of Mr. Calvert’s short career.

  “Good old Billy,” Hastings said. “If anyone can make people sit up and take notice, it’s him. We’ve left him all alone to deal with it.”

  It was now fully dark, and a strong fall smell of mixed burning and decaying leaves poured in through the Edsel’s open windows. Autumn had always been Hastings’ favorite time, although it was not healthy for his already melancholy psyche. Naturally introverted and occasionally morbid by nature, he was romantically attracted to the aura of decay and the cycle of life that permeated the season. Now, however, the city itself, which had been his natural habitat, disgusted him as he looked out through bare branches on its millions of never-sleeping electric eyes. The metropolis squatted on the edge of the ocean like some primordial monster that fed on human carrion. It would take a million years for this ugliness to finally crumble and its rusting skeleton to be covered again by turf. The city was humankind’s decrepit monument to their arrogance, and it would long outlive their undeserved mastery of the planet.

  The streets were deserted, as they generally were after nightfall, but it wasn’t late enough for any of the brutal young gangs to be slinking through the shadowed alleys. The road was, however, thick with Plexiglas-coated cabs and armored private cars. We rarely even see each other, Hastings thought. We hide in our cages, and when we need to travel, we dash fearfully into another, mobile container, each person desperate to maintain some personal space in an overcrowded world, each filled with hate for the others and forever guarding his personal stash of consumer goods, from which he derives his entire sense of identity and worth. Are we dreaming when we think we can influence the way these people live?

  Aloud, he said, “Everything’s gone to shit, mate.”

  “Almost there,” Marty answered, his voice muffled by the Dunhill hanging out of his mouth.

  Spanish Stockholm was, by contrast, bustling. They felt the change the moment they turned onto Göteborg Road. Neon lights flashed everywhere, and crowds of revelers filled the sidewalks. No one seemed to be alone; they were all in pairs or raucous groups. The air was filled with cheerful shouts and music from the countless busking Mexican and South American folk groups.

  “Well, these people at least aren’t quite dead yet,” Hastings said, continuing his inner dialogue as Marty maneuvered the oversized boat with difficulty into a tiny parking space.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Just remarking how lively it is here.”

  “Tell me about it. These people have some fucking dignity, man.”

  El Corazon sported one of the largest and brightest signs in the neighborhood, a huge yellow neon palm tree with pink fronds. Two tall, burly bouncers in black T-shirts stood impassively and immovably outside the door with their massive arms crossed, seemingly oblivious to the slight nip in the air. As Marty and Hastings approached the club, another doorman appeared, dragging two smaller men out by their collars, one with each arm. The men were cursing loudly in Spanish. The bouncer deposited them roughly on the pavement with a sneer. The two men were both smallish, with slicked-back hair, and they wore the baggy suits in fashion in the Hispanic community.

  They got up and looked as though they were about to start fighting again, but the stares of the three bouncers were enough to send them off in opposite directions.

  Marty was the first to get his pluck together and approach the three hulking men, who were now chuckling amongst themselves. It made them look a bit more approachable. “Excuse me, sirs, but we’re looking for someone who works here.”

  The men’s faces instantly closed off, and the smiles vanished, to be replaced by fierce scowls. One, a man with a big, bushy beard and a gruff voice, answered, “And why would you be looking for someone here, English? What business you got at our club?”

  “Um, listen, we’re not here to make trouble,” Marty said hurriedly, waving his arms in a placatory gesture. “We were sent by Jorge Jimenez from Sid’s Sioux City. He said that his cousin Manuel might be able to help us identify a certain South American who’s been hanging about here. Is Manuel here tonight?”

  “Why do you want to know about this man?” growled the towering, balding, double-chinned bouncer suspiciously. “And who are you?”

  “My name is Marty, and this is Simon. Our friend Guy Calvert died last night, and we have reason to believe this character may have been involved. I hear he wasn’t too popular around these parts.”

  The men’s faces showed that they recognized Guy’s name. The man with the beard became a little more polite. “Well, I would not be surprised at that. We are sorry for your loss. We Mexicans appreciate music in a way that these gringos, these Virginians,” he leaned away to spit, “do not. I am Manuel. Come in.”

  Manuel led them through the dimly lit, crowded, and smoky bar, past a tiny stage on which a salsa band was jammed. Many couples were dancing energetically in the small open space in front of the stage. Hastings could feel the sweat in the air like a fine mist, and it was as hot as a furnace in the room. Manuel led them past the bar, through a kitchen redolent with the odor of strong spices, and into the cramped, stuffy back office. He gestured to two wooden chairs in front of the desk and poured each of them shots of tequila. Hastings noticed with some disgust that a fat insect lay coiled at the bottom of the bottle but tossed his drink back anyway. The warmth that hit his stomach inspired a new optimism.

  “We know quite a lot about this man you describe, and we have had our eyes on him for a while. The police ignore the high level of crime in our neighborhood, as you probably know, so we try to keep an eye on things ourselves. This man appeared a few weeks ago and has made trouble everywhere he goes. He goes by Enrique Nuñez, and he boasts that he is a well-respected man in Colombia. Some members of the Colombian community have identified him as a career criminal there, very notorious in organized crime circles, with ties to the corrupt state police system. As you know, the Colombian state is an oligarchy with strict control over the people. There is also a strong underground crime scene, involved mostly with illegal drugs and the South American slave trade.”

  “Would anyone know how we can get our hands on this chap?”

  “It so happens that you are lucky. Fernando, that’s the head barman, lives in the rooming house where Nuñez has been staying. His brother owns it. I will bring him here.” Manuel picked up the phone and dialed the bar. A short conversation in rapid-fire Spanish followed. They could hear a voice bellowing on the other end over the noise of the bar. “He will be here in a second,” Manuel said. “But tell me, what will you do with this man if you can find him, and the police are being so unhelpful?”

  “I don’t know,” Hastings answered, a little annoyed that everyone kept asking that question. There only seemed to be one answer, and it was one he didn’t want to confront. That was if the trail really ended with Nuñez.

  A tall, thin man with graying hair entered, dressed in a loud tropical-style shirt. His voice was guttural from years of second-hand smoke intake and yelling over the music. “So you want to know about my pal Nuñez?” He perched on the edge of the desk, eager to please. “I may have to disappoint you.”

  “How so?”

  “Because Mr. Nuñez packed up and left this morning. Told me he was going back home
, that things weren’t going well here, and I can tell you I was glad to see the back of him.”

  “He’s gone?” Hastings could feel his optimism crashing and burning. The warm, fuzzy feeling from the tequila vanished.

  “That’s what he told me, although he could have been lying, I suppose. He was nothing but trouble, bringing whores upstairs and, from some of the sounds, beating them, coming in drunk and high out of his mind … and one other strange thing I noticed.” He paused, frowning.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it’s strange, ever since he moved in, the rats in the walls have been coming out and dying like crazy. His room was full of them this morning. It almost seemed like he was poisoning them somehow. Of course, I’m happy to get rid of the pests, no complaints there, but it’s very strange, you’ll agree.”

  Marty and Hastings exchanged looks. “Practice makes perfect, I guess,” Marty said grimly. “A little warm-up for the main event.” They stood up. “Well, thank you, Manuel, Fernando.” They shook hands.

  “I guess that’s that,” Marty said with resignation as they got back into the car.

  “What do you mean?” Hastings said curtly.

  “He’s gone! What can we do? Hire some sort of private detective or contract killer, like in a fucking film? Look, Si, I’m going to need a long convalescence after this. Guy’s gone, and running after some assassin in South America whose name is probably a fake isn’t going to solve anything! I’m sure we can put ourselves back together, given time.”

  Hastings couldn’t believe his ears. “Guy was like a brother to us — to me, if not to you. I know that this bastard killed him, and I’m never going to rest until Guy gets justice. And what if the killer isn’t satisfied with just knocking off one of us?”

  “So what the hell are you going to do?” Marty looked exasperated and exhausted. His knuckles were white on the wheel.