by P G Loiselle
Usually we’d vary it up and slip in a mellow number here and there to let the concert goers catch a breath. This time, we kept it constant, on maximum overdrive, and after an hour and a half of raw power, we brought it over the finish line. The five of us killed every note, and at the end of the slaughter, the last chords hung in the air as I was waited for the jubilant cries to die down before addressing the crowd. Stone would certainly make whatever moves he had planned as soon as we informed the fans to stay tuned for the encore and an announcement. Usually I savored every ounce of applause, but they wouldn’t stop, and I was wigging out. For most of the show, Stone lurked about in the same dim corner at the back right of the hall. During the past few minutes, he was on the go. His distinguishable mug bopped in and out of my sights, but it was impossible to pinpoint his exact location or the direction in which he was headed. His movements seemed too random. Any attempt at synchronizing his whereabouts over the concealed headset was also futile with that resounding applause blasting from our ardent admirers. I couldn’t take anymore and had to interject.
“Thank you very much. We love you, Rhode Island.” I started speaking very low, almost in a whisper, trying to get everyone to quiet down.
Soon people caught on and shushed others who were still making a racket. Not before long, the podium was mine. I took the wireless microphone in hand and walked up to the front of the stage. Again, the enemy’s fat head appeared above the surface of the crowd before submerging into the hidden depths beneath the masses. I gulped down my fears and spoke to our guests.
“We’re so grateful and blessed that you, our most faithful fans, accepted our invitation to come out and support us tonight.” Some folks whistled and screamed but were quickly quelled by those who wanted to hear me continue.
“If you had asked me ten days ago, I would have thought we were history. Our good name and everything we stood for was dragged through the mud. But this week, the truth came out. One of you, a true fan, put ideals before blood to see to it that a wrong was made right, and the rest of the community followed.” Everyone cheered again with unfettered excitement and, within seconds, quieted in unison. “Since then, those who attacked us are now under fire, and we can focus on what matters most, being the best frickin’ rock band we can be. And we’re so glad you’re here to help us along. We’re going to take a short break and continue with the music until we drop. And don’t forget, we still have something very special to share with you afterwards, so be patient, and we’ll be right back.”
While our fans were still applauding, I took off to the backstage area, microphone still in hand, and dragged Stevie with me. The rest of the band lagged behind and only gradually moved to the back. We made sure that both doors leading to that room, the one from the stage and the one to the main hall, were ajar and took our places for the grand finale. A message was piped into our ears from one of our friends outside in the performance area.
“We have no idea where da Silva is. He’s been missing for like ten minutes. Christina seems to be looking for him too. And those two other guys who you thought would show up, they just forced their way into the club. They’re heading right towards you.”
We were all there, Amy, Stevie and me in front of the emergency exit and the rest in hiding, and now, the wrong guys were walking into the trap.
“I saw Stone move about the crowd,” I said, “while I gave my speech. Maybe he split to leave the dirty work to his heavy lifters. Dammit. What do we do?”
“Let’s abort,” Stevie said.
“No frickin’ way,” Amy said. “He’ll come. I can feel it.”
She barely finished her sentence when Herbie burst into the room, alone, staying near the door to the main hall. “Ha. We got you, you meddling bunch of troublemakers. Stay right where you are.”
There he was, his puffed-up baby face fatter than ever, sneering diabolically, spittle practically dripping from his fangs. He drew his revolver and pointed it straight at us. We had our hands on the escape hatch, our backs to him and only turned our necks, giving the impression that we’d flee if he came any closer. He quickly glanced left and right and gave a signal behind him for someone else to enter. With that kooky, overdone display, it could only be the boss himself, showing up for the party.
As he hobbled into the room, Joey da Silva immediately spoke. “Foiled,” he said while panting. “Thought I wouldn’t get wind…huh, hahh…wind of your…your scheme to dispense my assets to fans during the encore?” The killer strained to draw enough air into his aging lungs. “And you, Miss Almeida, to hand out the…huh, hahh, huh, hahh…the money p, p personally.”
While struggling to utter those words, he continued to teeter through the space. He tried to appear menacing and instead, seemed rather goofy as he bounced side-to-side, almost as if it were a near strike and he was the solitary pin that wobbled but refused to fall. He bobbed over to the corner of the bar where I had left the microphone and was doused in sweat and out of breath. He put out his hand to lean on the side of the bar and it slipped off the edge. He stumbled, barely gaining control and spared himself an embarrassing crash to the floor.
Rodney was next to enter, and it felt threatening only because he seemed to have no clue what to do and waved his pistol around like he was swatting flies. Besides some random soldier of fortune, I figured that would be the end of the entourage until one more familiar, yet unexpected servant of da Silva’s staggered in behind Rodney to take part in the showdown. It was Carney, looking horrorstruck with his traumatized eyes buried in twin hollow sockets. His bruised skin was a collage of purple and rouge with traces of flesh-color in between scabs. The guy’s whole head was puffed up, and his combover fell to the wrong side, revealing a patchwork of bandages. I almost felt bad for that lowly creature.
“Albert. Shut that door and get over here.” Stone barked out the orders with less properness than usual. “They’re your employees. Deal with them.”
Carney stepped closer, mid-room, and wrung his hands together. “Um, hi Amy,” he said. “I’m, uh…glad to see you’re ok. You uh…haven’t been to work in a while.”
“Not like that, you moron,” Stone yelled.
“God,” Amy said. “Look what they’ve done to you, Mr. Carney.” She seemed disgusted or maybe even sympathetic but not enough to change course. “Actually, you did this to yourself, you blowhard, so save your breath. I’ve got nothing to say to you.” She swung around to confront Stone while Stevie and I still had our hands on the door ready to make a break. She had a large tan briefcase in her hand, the kind that bankers and accountants lug around.
“Amy,” Carney said, trying to command her in forced baritone with all the strength he had. “You…you took something…that belongs to the company and, uh, we want it back.”
“I told you to save your breath, asshole. It’s you, da Silva, who I want to talk to.” She pointed at Stone.
Stone froze up. The elderly patriarch was momentarily at a loss for words, until he unleashed his marching orders to Carney with the full wrath of an unglued tyrant. “Get me that briefcase, you idiot, or you won’t survive the day. That is a promise.”
Carney’s eyes were awash in terror and his jaw stiffened.
“Do it,” Stone screamed.
Without any additional fanfare, he turned and lurched towards Amy like a wounded beast. Before he could get anywhere near her, I lunged between them and grabbed him by the shirt.
“Don’t take it personal,” he said and cackled as his features warped into an embodiment of pure insanity.
“It’s all personal,” I roared, right into his face while I twisted fistfuls of cloth from his shirt with both hands and attempted to thrust him upwards.
Before I could budge that lunatic off the ground, he kneed me hard in the testicles. Instantly, I buckled over and was about to go down. Instead of dropping to the floor, the pain gave way to fury, and my torso uncoiled as
I sprung back up to catch him in the jaw with a tight-fisted uppercut. The clack of his teeth smashing together made me shiver yet the fight in me only grew. I pounded him with one blow after the other, and he lashed back in what he must have felt was a literal fight for his life.
Stone screamed at the others. “Get her. Get my money.”
Rodney must have been the next one to rush Amy. Mike leaped out from his hiding place and tackled him to the floor before he could get too far. They both rolled around on the industrial cement as Rodney struggled to point the gun barrel at his opponent. Mike gave Rodney a headbutt and bit his wrist. Rodney yowled in pain as he let go of the gun. They both scrambled to get to it first, climbing over each other and alternately clawing back the front runner.
Mike kept screaming, “you pissed on my leg, you psycho.” Rodney could only squeak out a serious of grunts and giggles mixed in with an occasional yelp and holler in a mad dash to get to the weapon.
In the meantime, Herbie bull-charged Amy. Stevie intercepted him long before he neared her. Herbie had fifty pounds over Stevie, but Stevie wrapped his gangly extremities around the baby-faced aggressor like a boa constrictor and they both tumbled to the ground. Herbie immediately dropped his firearm, and in the ensuring fight, the pistol was booted across the room. With their limbs entangled, there were no punches, strikes or swipes even possible. They writhed around on the dusty floor as a pair of copulating worms would and, with their faces inches apart, gnashed at each other like a two-headed Hydra at war with itself.
“Soap opera?” Stevie yelled, referring to the intercepted call on the walkie talkie. “How about an action film, asshole?”
“Why not a murder movie,” Herbie shouted back. “Won’t be a mystery who the killer is either.”
That backstage area, usually a place of celebration, of anticipation, of refuge, was transformed into a living hell hole. The shouts, shrieks and primal clamor of the attackers and of the attacked flooded the space like a soundtrack of the suffering. It felt like we were battling for hours, yet it wasn’t even minutes. While we were all occupied, Stone was about to take his shot at Amy before she stopped him in his tracks.
“Come one step closer,” Amy said, “I’ll be through this door in an instant, and you wouldn’t have a chance at catching me, you loser. Not to mention that the alarm I’d set off will bring a whole rescue team here within minutes, cops too.”
“Herbert, do something,” Stone yelled. Herbie was still tangled up in his own scuffle and ignored his father’s pleas.
“See what a pussy you are,” Amy said, “you worthless piece of shit. Use and abuse everyone to do your bidding. You’re such a pussy, can’t even handle a twenty-four-year-old girl yourself. Always having someone else do your shit work and then treating them like dogs. Don’t you, pussy boy?”
“Herbert…Rodney…”
“There you go again,” Amy said, yelling above the chaos. “Can’t handle me, can you? How did you get to pretend to be such a big gangster boss if you’re really just a fat, lazy, incompetent pussy boy, who can’t do anything by yourself? You clumsy oaf.”
The three fights ensued throughout the one-way exchange between Amy and Stone. Carney and I settled for wrestling mode, mostly holding each other in place without the energy to do much more. From what I could gather from the dissipating commotion, everyone was either battle-weary already or waiting to see what would occur between the two prime foes. Stone finally chimed in.
“Enough, Miss Almeida,” he cried.” I don’t know what your intentions are, but you are only getting yourself deeper into trouble, much deeper.”
“You think I’m afraid of you, you blundering idiot, too stupid and incompetent to do anything yourself.”
Unexpectedly, Rodney let loose a triumphant howl. “Boss, I got him, boss.” He had Mike in a headlock and was holding a revolver up to his temple, ramming the barrel hard into the indent of his skull. Mike’s glasses were bent, and the lenses cracked. The poor guy looked pretty beaten.
“Oh, Michael.”
“Forget about me, Amy. Do you what you came to do.”
She nodded at Mike and grinned as though she’d already won.
“See why you should be afraid of me,” Stone said, ignoring her gesture of confidence. “You cannot prevail against me and my forces.”
“You? Why you?” she said. “What have you done? Bumbling around like a reject from an old age home.”
Stone glowed red. His rage must have been building with every insult.
“Couldn’t even kill my father yourself, could you? Even when you were still a young punk. You, wussy weakling. Probably had ten of your henchmen murder him because you know he would have kicked your pussy little ass. Isn’t that right, pussy boy?”
Again, Stone seemed taken aback, even more tongue-tied than before, almost breathless, until his eyes twinkled and his pursed lips morphed into a simper like he was feeding off her words to power his malicious intentions.
“What? You don’t think I know you had my father killed? The whole city of Fall River knows. It’s not a secret, so don’t try hiding it.”
“Should I whack him, boss?” Rodney said, talking about Mike.
“Whack him,” Herbie said, moaning. “Whack him good. This Slim Jim’s suffocating me. Ow,” he cried as the two starting rolling around in a fresh round of man-to-man combat.
“Do nothing of the sort,” Stone said, “until I give my command. That lad is capital, you see. The foolish girl will do the right thing. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Who’s the fool?” Amy said.
“Now, now, Miss Almeida,” he said, exhaling a stern response. “Enough name calling. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.” The killer propped up his chest. “So, this is what it’s about, your poor father?” He shook his head. “You know, it was a long time ago and I remember exactly. Your father, a pathetic fisherman, happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe he was the one who was too simple to save himself and…”
“My father was a great guy,” Amy said, interrupting him, “as opposed to you, you grotesque waste of space. Why don’t you shut up about him now, fatso.”
“Great is something else, Miss Almeida. Your father was a low-life peasant, and so are you. The world is most certainly a better place with one less inferior human specimen, like your father, depleting the Earth’s resources. The world was done a favor, Miss Almeida.”
“Shut up about my father, I said.” Amy started to shed a waterfall of tears while trying to retain an aura of fearlessness. Nonetheless, she appeared much more fragile than seconds before, almost vulnerable.
Stone must have seen what he thought was a break in the dam and went in for the kill. “It was a pleasure,” he said.
“Shut the hell up.”
“It was a pleasure, for me, to put a blade right up to your father’s rib cage myself, exactly in the right spot.”
“SHUT UP.”
“And push it deep, straight through his heart.”
“SHUT UP, I SAID.”
“Before feeding him to the fish,” Stone said with a proud smirk pasted to his face.
“Here, you want this?” Amy swung the empty briefcase to and fro to get up enough torque to reach him. “Take it,” she said and hurled it in his direction.
He lifted his hands to seize the case and must have mistakenly hit the trigger of his gun.
“Ahh,” I screamed as the bullet caught me in the ass and lodged itself into my left butt cheek. A heavy jolt of electric pain shot up my spine and throughout my bones. My posterior burned as though I’d been injected with vials of flesh-eating acid. The agony, the agony… “Ahh...”
Carney, not realizing who shot whom retreated into a lonesome corner to whimper and lick his wounds. Everyone else jumped up from their battles.
In the meantime, the briefcase wafted
high over Stone’s head. As he tiptoed in reverse to catch it, Dale, who had crawled out from his hiding spot near the bar, waited behind him sideways, on all fours, in the old schoolyard prank position. Stone tumbled over Dale and landed hard on his head. Stone’s men scurried frantically as the doors flew open and a slew of undercover agents poured into the room. They were led by a man I only knew by name.
Herbie had already started towards the emergency exit after the weapon fired and when he heard the added commotion, plowed his way right through and escaped from the building. Amy and Stevie ran to my side, trying to figure out where I’d been hit as I wailed like a suffering duck with a wing-full of buckshot. The last concrete moment that I recall was Christina rushing towards me, dropping to her knees and cradling me in her arms. I must have fainted from the pain and the rest of the night was a blur. I only remember snippets from my dreamlike state: being stuck with a tranquilizer needle while racing down the highway in a screaming ambulance or being rushed through some hospital lobby on a cold metal gurney.
The doctors must have operated immediately. When I woke up the next day, I had no idea where I was or how I got there. The remnants of the anesthesia along with the other preparations dripping into my veins, took away my ability to think straight and kept me weaving in and out of various states of consciousness for a good chunk of the morning. It was only as the hours rolled by that I slowly regained my mental fortitude. The better I could think, the more my bum and the surrounding area hurt. At some point, a doctor came in to check up on me and asked if I felt well enough for visitors. Amy and my bandmates must have been wandering the hospital wings and pestering the staff incessantly to see me. I didn’t feel up to it but signaled to the doctor that they could come in anyway.
