by Tina Amiri
As Night popped backstage for some water, his manager cut in front of him and yelled in his face: “You’re everybody’s fantasy! And most importantly, you’re the record company’s fantasy! When you scream like that, out there, you bring out the devil in those girls! They want to ravage the tiger, save the tiger, tame the tiger! Each and every one of them just wants to fuck you! And those guys out there are all dreaming they can have that kind of power—not to mention there’s a whole crew of them out there who just want to fuck you too!”
Through his smile, he lit up from top to bottom. It tickled him to hear that everyone thought he possessed all this power. All he wanted to do, suddenly, was rush to the front of the stage and bathe in a vainglorious shower of it.
One of his little trademarks, at any venue, was to play a classical excerpt between songs. Doris came to expect the intrusion on her keyboard, as much as his fans anticipated it, and every time he did it, the crowd went berserk. It amused him to be overtly stealing from the meager bag of tricks that Andrew had granted him, and now to flaunt these tricks in front of a global audience.
****
Andrew tried again to cross his living room without the aid of his cane. He growled when, as usual, a snap of pain caused him to collapse before he even reached the corridor. His plans would have to wait a bit longer.
From the armchair, he snatched up his cane before hobbling over to his den where he’d posted a calendar. In March, he’d crossed off the days that would not see his fulfillment. Atlanta, Jacksonville, Seattle… He had the whole tour schedule, including inane trivia, and rare behind-the-scenes photos. It paid to be a member of the fan club.
Night could pour his lungs out for now, but he was quickly running out of those blissful hours. So nobody could ever link him to the call, Andrew drove to a payphone, in town, and had an operator connect him to the hotel currently hosting Morning’s Desire, in Atlanta. He held the magazine in front of him to read off their manager’s name, unwilling to honor the idiot by remembering it.
“Yeah, I have a message for Gin Corbin, if you can put me through… I’m calling from,” he cleared his throat, “…Detonic Records.”
****
When all their PR duties were completed, after the concert, Doris squeezed Night’s arm. “We did our first stadium tonight, Morgen. You must feel different…actualized. I’ve been listening to you talk about this day for years. Don’t you think we should celebrate, together, even if you still think it’s wrong?”
He saw her point and considered the offer as they stepped into the hotel lobby.
“Your place or mine,” Doris said with a triumphant grin, but she stopped and let go of Night when Gin pushed through the security to reach him.
“Before you go off to get wasted, Morgen, I just picked up a strange message from the front desk. Someone claiming to be from the record company said it was imperative for Morgen Dahlsi to know there might be consequences for assuming ‘your other side.' Any idea what that would be about? Have you had any threats from a nut-job before?”
Night gawked at him and backed right into Doris. “No…”
“You didn’t rip off someone’s song or anything, did you?”
“My Other Side…? No, that’s all mine.” Regardless, the caller’s message would replay in his head for the rest of the night. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said to Doris before picking up his pace. He barely noticed his private security staff clearing his path to the elevator.
Between the Daphne lookalike he saw today and a message that struck him as one from beyond the grave, he had little consideration left for what should have mattered to him tonight: the world that was finally his…the world of a living, breathing star.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Their short time in Jacksonville passed without incident, in the way of creepy messages from mysterious callers. No matter how Night tried to rationalize every freakish call to date, he couldn’t dismiss his instinct. Did Morgen truly know the outcome of his visit to Oregon? Would it matter if Andrew wasn’t dead? Night had already determined that he would gladly bleed for the opportunity to throw his success in Andrew’s living face, but not knowing if he had survived gave Andrew the upper hand, once again…even perhaps in death.
Night sat pensively in his chair while Brandt retraced the charcoal liner around his eyes with a smudge brush, but then a thought escaped.
“Why would someone try to stop another person from being happy?”
Brandt flinched. “Maybe if someone is acting on justifiable revenge… Why, what’s going on, Morgen?”
“No. Not revenge. What if the person really didn’t deserve what someone did?”
“Then, I would say it’s this certain someone you’re talking about who’s probably a bit messed up.”
“Right…so why would a person still care about someone like that?”
Brandt grinned. “This someone must be pretty significant, and can’t be all bad, or this person wouldn’t care so much, would he?”
“I’m not sure,” Night debated, still remarkably on track. “If someone thinks they’re giving a person everything, but lies and hurts people to make sure they get what they want…is that all right?”
“What exactly are we talking about here? It’s not all right—”
“But if someone actually believes they did everything to help the other person and made sure that nothing ever took that person away…it must mean that they really loved the person?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in some twisted way.” Brandt scowled. “But it sounds like someone has some serious—”
“So why do people hurt other people if they love them?” Night stared straight up into a handful of brushes.
“Well, not all people do. I guess some people just have a lot of issues and by the time their love filters through, it just comes out all warped. They become incapable of real love. Why are you asking me these things, Morgen?”
Inside his own head, Night fiercely confronted the scenes of his past. “Why would a person be so stupid as to go through so many years without realizing what you just said about someone’s love?”
Brandt shrugged in exhaustion. “I suppose that after such a long time, the person would no longer know what love is.”
“So you think that’s it…that the person doesn’t really know what love is?”
“Sounds like it, Morgen.”
“Well, how can a person know if it’s real?”
“It’s not hard to know love when it’s real.” Brandt leaned over and lightly placed a kiss on Night’s temple, and then he walked away.
****
On a cool, drizzly Sunday in April, Beth paid Sandy a personal visit in the hospital.
Sandy rolled his head toward her, barely taking his eyes off the small television monitor on the window side of his bed.
“My mom told me your legs are healing pretty good.”
“Yeah,” he grunted.
“Morgen called me from his hotel this weekend and we were talking about you.”
Sandy refused to turn his eyes away from the TV. “Don’t you mean Night?”
“No, he called this morning,” she replied, tossing her head back in a mock laugh, but he seemed oblivious.
“What I’m saying is, don’t you mean Night called this morning?” He rattled his head. “Is the other little fuck finally dead so Night can be Morgen permanently now?”
Beth’s eyes narrowed at Sandy. “What are they giving you in here? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just came to find out if you’re planning to work for us again because me and my brother don’t think it would be such a good idea after what you did, spying on him to make some money, like a big creep.”
The features of Sandy’s face screwed together. He appeared to be pondering the proportion of her naivety to her intelligence.
“Well, anyway,” Beth continued, “don’t think of coming back, or next time you’ll end up the front page scandal of the day—not my brother. We have all the pro
of we need, which includes the hole you drilled into Morgen’s room. Don’t forget, my whole family is very popular right now.” Heading for the door, she added, “So call and let me know what you decide…you little fuck.”
****
Aden peered through the clouds from the airplane window when he nudged Night. “We still got something to aim for, and I’d like to know why we haven’t heard it from you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Next time,” he declared, “I want Madison Square Garden. Do you see that name on our itinerary?”
“I don’t understand. Didn’t we make it?”
“Dahlsi, whatever happened to your crazy-psycho ambition? What happened to our leader since we got our record deal?”
Night searched his intuitive mind for any faint signal from their leader, but unlike the old days, Morgen chose to remain aloof. Night tried to draw a clue from his last dream that left him with the sense that Morgen had undergone some kind of change and was somehow at peace. Logically, this implied that Morgen had passed on, but something kept him from grieving just yet.
****
Halfway through their week in New York State, following another public interview, a nightclub near their hotel became the scene of yet another memorable bash. They would be admitting only the first two-hundred and fifty fans who showed their Morning’s Desire concert ticket stubs, as well as a few privileged guests who uttered passwords given to them by the band members themselves. Night had given these special keys to five girls whose friends would not be denied entry.
“Hey…” Gin called when Night walked into the private back lounge with Colby. “If it isn’t the man who spurns parties and covets the medal for the world’s most mysterious rock star.”
Not on this occasion, Night thought, accepting a drink from a server with one hand and a spliff en route from Aden with the other. He tried to mimic his friend but didn’t inhale properly, therefore wasting his turn.
A man came into the room, delivered a message to Gin, and walked out again.
“Hey, Morgen…your password-babes are being checked in at the front.”
Night abandoned his razzing companions in the private party room to submerge himself in the chaotic atmosphere of the main hall. His vision clouded amidst the various forms of smoke and dry ice oozing from somewhere. Fans decked out in new-wave style danced past him and, in light of his choreography lessons, he was able to show up every move as he crossed the room on his way to the front.
He typically felt the alcohol in his blood more than anyone else and, already, the world seemed ten times friendlier, and another ten times freer. He kissed the dark girl, and then the fair one who he’d met behind the stage—the one who reminded him of Daphne. She began combing her hands up his chest while her friend grazed his neck from behind. He didn’t even care that his T-shirt was rising precariously high over his back… after all, it was dark, and the tireless flashing of colored lights made it challenging to see any details.
Doris walked over, at the edge of her own group, and paused beside him. She flung her hair and walked past him and his followers. He noticed Doris and Brandt exchanging a concurring sneer before continuing on their separate ways.
Night could tell that almost everybody in the place was deeply intoxicated by something or other. Having consumed hardly anything himself, he wondered about his excuse as his inhibitions drifted off like the puffs of mist around the room.
“Do you like it?” asked a redheaded girl when she noticed him staring at the trim on her corset-bra.
He was held speechless by the memory of Daphne’s pink ensemble from that night on the bridge. His lips went straight for her cleavage, then traveled up to her mouth, and back down again, deep inside the boned cups of her bra.
“What’s your fantasy?” asked the young woman. “Whatever you want…” All of her bracelets tumbled to her wrists as she guided his hands from her chest to her hips and then behind them where she pressed his palms to the bare skin beneath her miniskirt.
His left hand circled to find the slightest strip of lace along her hipline and running through her fold. He pictured his fantasy, Daphne, as he closed his eyes and clutched her to himself, but he allowed somebody else to oust her.
This new girl brought a fancy drink to his lips before replacing the glass with her mouth. This continued until she wore out every trace of her lipstick and they could taste nothing but each other’s chemistry. He felt the envy of others through their greedy hands on his back, arms—and someone even dared to sweep his groin.
But in the end, all this fervor gave way to a surprising truce. They all moved to the back room and, for a full hour, he just chatted with his intimate audience and answered their many questions as he upped the ratio of alcohol to blood in his system. It stunned him when he reflected on his own learning curve and remembered the inane questions he used to ask Morgen about the industry. Someone in the group wanted to know if he would play a song, just for them, and Night had to do little more than look up and point to get started. A crewmember closed the door to the back room and another brought him a guitar.
Slurring somewhat as he added the words, he played acoustically, creating whole new renditions of Morgen’s mellower songs. His solos generated a resurgence of lust making it difficult to play with arms groping him from all sides, mouths nuzzling his studded earlobes, and faces with pleading eyes appearing around his knees.
Akin to Daphne’s shoe falling off the bridge, an alarm suddenly blasted through the building. Most of his followers sprang up and looked to him before an explanation came from the far side of the door.
“Fire!”
A crewmember hustled people out through the back entrance while the scene in the main hall turned into pandemonium. The music stopped and, through the backroom door, Night could hear guests screaming and personnel shouting, trying to establish order.
“Who set it?” Night demanded when Colby came alongside him and pushed him toward the back exit.
“Nobody set it, dummy. Something just went wrong with the light show.”
The main street looked like a concert ground. Night sprinted toward the throng, out of range of some scolding shouts warning him to stay put. Two fire trucks soared past him and stopped close to the main doors that now spewed boundless amounts of black smoke, along with the venue’s guests. He scanned the crowd before getting mobbed by fans, but adrenaline made it possible to escape, to tear away from everyone, and slip back into the private lounge at the back of the failing building.
Images from the last minutes of the Emerald Shore raced through his mind and merged with his present perception that at least half the band and crew had not made it out. He couldn’t imagine why more people hadn’t come through the back room to flee the building—until he opened the inner door and got bowled over by smoke, heat, and fire.
Meanwhile, people still pushed through the front doors. With the fire now infesting the backroom, he stumbled into the main hall, already nauseous and virtually blind. Someone grabbed him from behind—someone in full fire-protective gear who pulled him into the back room before resealing the inner door and the back exit.
Fire and EMT personnel escorted him into an ambulance where he instantly received oxygen, interspersed with puffs of medication from inhalers while his manager insisted they do everything in their power to allow the show to go on at their next venue. Gin calmed down when one of the EMTs deemed his smoke inhalation to be “mild to moderate” and only recommended some blood work and a thorough follow-up assessment.
Night still threatened to bolt as Gin and a flock of security transferred him to the limousine. “But what about the others…?”
“They’re fine,” Gin barked, scrambling in beside Night, after shoving him into a vehicle that already seated the other band members.
****
Andrew stoked the flames in his fireplace, then sat down to read the entertainment section of the newspaper—the column about the Morning’s Desire tour. The inter
view clips at the end of these stories were always the best.
****
Q: Morgen, is there a particular kind of girl that really draws your eye?
A: Well…I’m not sure. But if they’re especially nice and really fun...long hair…blond—but red’s good too—and freckles…I like that. That’s really special.”
****
Andrew reflected on Night’s reply. There was little mistaking the childish descriptiveness of his answer. It begged for a simpler truth: One that looks like Daphne: a homely, cheap, shameless slut.
The column also confirmed that Boston came next on the band’s itinerary. “Night…how did you ever manage this?” Andrew muttered at the flames.
He absently closed the newspaper, then glanced down doing a double-take. The headline took another second to digest. A massive nightclub fire involving Morning’s Desire…? He grimaced as he grinned. “Don’t tell me… Did you burn down another building?” he asked as though Night was right there.
But the article disclosed the truth about the club’s overzealous pyrotechnics. He lowered the paper as his mind went on a tangent. He’d had a few radical ideas, but he’d never thought of “smoking the band out” of a venue. The wasted opportunity pained him.
In another week, he would be ready to throw away his cane and make the shorter trip to Chicago. He still had to commit to one believable disguise before pursuing the great imposter…this magician he’d somehow cultivated.
Studying Night’s magazine photo again, he allowed himself one more shot of cognac over which to reflect. At one time, it had sufficed to stifle Night’s voice behind a lie, but now it would have to be choked out and buried, or else every Morning’s Desire song would be an ode to his failure.
Chapter Twenty-Six
With fingers pressed against his aching throat, Night squinted against the fluorescent lights that surrounded his hotel bathroom mirror. His residual eye makeup and crunchy hair confirmed what he so often needed to verify: that his new life was real, and he had some extra proof this morning. He felt queasy from the anti-cyanide-poisoning medication he’d received at the clinic, and somewhere between last night’s energetic concert and the smoke inhalation, he’d blown out his voice.