“And where’s that?”
“If you listen to me, the zenith, my boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me guess. The band considers itself a democracy. Everyone tosses his spare cash in a jar; everyone contributes something to the overall sound, eh? Even the drummer gets a writing credit on your CD because you’re the Four Musketeers. Brothers-in-Arms. Am I right?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you know what constitutes a song by the definition of the United States Copyright Office? Lyrics and melody. That’s you. Lyrics and melody. You can’t copyright a drum part, a chord progression or a guitar sound. So when you write a hit song that could do well enough to buy a nice house, why should you have to give a quarter of a million dollars to some bass player who happened to be in the room when inspiration struck? It’s your melody someone hums when it’s stuck in their head, your words they remember. Perhaps even your pain that gave it life.” There was something harrowing in the way Rail pronounced the word pain, some resonant overtone that vibrated in the air between them like a rope snapping taut. Billy felt a hollowness in his stomach, a tightness in his throat.
“I haven’t written any hit songs.”
“Sure you have.”
Rail turned to the mini-bar, took out a bottle of Bacardi and poured two shots. He pressed a switch with his right forefinger. The nail was long for a man's, but immaculately manicured. The little window behind him slid down and he told the driver to take them back to Manhattan. The way he said the word made it sound like an enchanted island kingdom. Then he raised his glass to “catastrophic success.”
Billy didn’t know what to say, so he drank.
He wondered if Rail was for real, or if he was some kind of moneyed pervert, willing to drop some cash on whatever props would help him to seduce young men he’d taken notice of. With a little homework, a smooth talker could play on your hopes and dreams long enough to get you off your guard. And the guy sure could talk. He talked about who he knew at each of the majors and how much money Billy could expect in a bidding war.
He went on about the psychology of A&R men and how they were like hot women who expected the talent to grovel at their feet because they held the keys to the kingdom, but in reality, behind that power dynamic, they really only ever wanted someone if they thought they couldn’t have him.
Ever in fear of losing their jobs, they made most of their decisions by looking at what the competition seemed interested in. He knew who had engineered all of Billy’s favorite records and what those guys were working on now, and who was in rehab, and which Rolling Stone writer would favor you if you let him blow you. The guy was for real.
Billy hadn’t eaten anything in about six hours, and the Bacardi went straight to his head. By the time the limo passed through Hartford, he was sold. His ship had come in. By almost diverting his destiny, had he somehow forced God’s hand? His ego bloomed, watered by alcohol and ambition. He couldn’t wait to tell Kate.
At the thought of her, he sobered a little. “Wait, why are we going to New York?”
Rail laughed. “To pluck you out of the brackish backwaters of the industry, for starters.”
“But nobody knows where I am. When I don’t show up at two in the morning with the other guys, my girlfriend will be worried.”
Rail's mouth twisted, trembled on the verge of laughter. Billy asked him what was so funny.
Shaking his head, Rail poured more rum. The grin melted back into his handsome face as he handed Billy the glass. Billy took it, but didn’t drink, just stared at Rail, waiting for him to answer the question until, unable to hold the man’s unblinking gaze any longer, he had to look away at the first thing his eyes could focus on—the bat logo on the bottle. The silence spun out. When Billy glanced up again, Rail was still staring at him like a dog establishing dominance, the red lava undulating in his black pupils.
Trevor Rail spoke softly. Billy had to lean in to make out the words over the hum of the engine. “Don’t kid yourself, Billy. You weren’t concerned about Kate an hour ago, when I found you on the bridge. That’s when I knew you were ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To leave them all in your wake. Everyone who’s been holding you back.”
“Kate’s not holding me back. Wait, how do you know her name?”
Rail’s mouth twitched, a flicker of that sardonic grin. Before it could form, his face morphed into a mask of overwrought sorrow. “Oh, Billy,” he said, “don’t be ashamed of your selfishness. You’re an artist. It’s your nature to be self-absorbed. It’s practically your duty. You can’t help that that’s the way you’re wired. And now, for the first time in your life, you’re facing it: being honest about it. You were prepared to jump tonight, to let go of all your attachments, to let everyone you love mourn you. That requires a deep well of selfishness. To let your own pain trump everyone else’s. You need to learn to use that. Let that impulse focus and guide you, and it will take you all the way.”
He paused, giving Billy time to absorb his dark logic.
“Then you will be ready to give something to others, to the world, because you were true to yourself, not consumed by what other people want you to be. But it begins with severing the ties that bind you.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“Don’t lie to yourself.”
“I don’t see why it’s a big deal to let her know I’m alright. Do you have a cell phone? I’ll still go to New York with you.”
Rail cocked his head and spoke over the lowered glass at the driver. “Stop the car.” The driver pulled over. As soon as the car stopped, Rail reached past Billy and opened the door. “Get the fuck out.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“I thought you were serious, but you’re clearly not ready. My mistake. Get out.”
“Whoa, hold up. You can’t just dump me in the middle of Connecticut.”
“The hell I can’t. Out.” Rail pointed a finger at the hot top.
Billy cradled his guitar case to his breast and climbed out of the car. The door slammed shut. The limo crawled forward toward the stream of cars and trucks flying past on I-84, the left blinker flashing as the car picked up speed.
Before he knew he was doing it, Billy took a deep breath and let out a roaring scream, pushing his voice from the diaphragm as if he were on stage with a dead monitor and the band louder than bombs.
“WAIT!”
The brake lights lit, the car slowed, but the amber blinker continued to flash. Billy ran beside the gleaming black limousine. The tinted rear window glided down, and Rail gazed obliquely at Billy with a contempt that made him feel like he was a bum shaking some coins around in the coffee dregs at the bottom of a Styrofoam cup.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Billy said.
“Do what?”
“Anything. Whatever it takes.”
Rail laughed. A word from the sign on the bridge flashed in Billy’s mind. DESPERATE? The car stopped rolling.
“You really pissed me off for a minute there, Billy.”
“I’m sorry. I am serious. I am.”
“Don’t offend me like that again. I offered to make you a rock star. More beloved and influential than most presidents. Longer term too, if you play your cards right. More pussy than an Arabian prince. And you start talking about your girlfriend? Have some respect for the magnitude of what I’m offering you.”
The door opened. Billy climbed in.
As they closed the distance to New York, the January moon kept pace with the car, and Trevor Rail spoke the truth of Billy’s situation. He said he expected Billy to be an egotist. He would have no use for him if he wasn’t. He had seen artists lose faith and question their own value. He had seen performers sabotage their own success because deep down they didn’t feel they deserved it. You had to be an egomaniac to survive in the long run. Some singers reconciled this predicament by seeing themselves as saints, using their influence to save the world. Rail scoffed at the folly. “I
prefer proud sinners. I can lay the world before you like a dish, Billy. But only if you’re willing to make sacrifices.”
Rail poured Billy another drink. He went on in that smooth, droning British lilt. War stories, jokes, little insights into Billy’s childhood. Billy laughed, wept and watched the limo cabin fracture into a stained glass mosaic through the tears.
And then there was New York, all lit up and glittering like ice chips in the black fur of some beast under the moon. Billy wondered if the rum was spiked with something. It didn’t matter anymore. He felt good. The road was broken at intervals by sections of steel plates that made the car bounce on its shocks. Soon, taxicabs flocked around the limo like a swarm of bees.
Rail’s driver was aggressive enough to run with the best New York engine jockeys, maneuvering the unwieldy vehicle with precision, if not grace. Billy was thrown into the air above his seat a few times, hitting his head on the plush ceiling, feeling the steel frame through the fabric.
Rail stowed the empty glasses and laid a sheaf of legal-size papers on the little table beside the lava lamp. Densely printed small type.
“What’s this?” Billy asked. He had to raise his voice to cut through the noise of the engine, now working harder, and the background cacophony of taxi horns and hydraulic truck brakes compressed by the channel of tall buildings they were moving through.
Rail leaned in, close to his ear. When he spoke, Billy could feel hot breath in his hair. “It’s a production contract. It grants me the privilege of recording your first album. If I secure a deal for you, I retain points on the record and a modest percentage of the publishing. You will find it’s quite fair.” He drew a black felt tipped pen from his breast pocket, uncapped it and moistened the tip by placing it on his tongue for just a second—a quick gesture that was at once predatory and erotic.
Two conflicting voices arose within Billy simultaneously. One was a piece of advice he’d heard from several sources over the years: Don’t ever give up your publishing rights. The other was just a victory cry. I’m getting signed! I’m finally getting signed! His heart pounded so hard that he looked down to see if his shirt was moving. He took the pen in his clammy hand and unconsciously placed the cap in his teeth, clamping down on it like a nipple as he scanned the blocks of obscure legalese in the wavering bloody light. The car continued to rock and sway through the urban canyons of Manhattan.
In a flash, Billy saw the walls of the car disappear around him, the profusion of sparkling lights from the skyscraper windows replaced by stars above a dark sea. There was no land in sight. He was riding the back of a mammoth black wave from towering crest to bottomless trough, his stomach left somewhere high above and behind him in the plunge. Trevor Rail still sat across from him, not in the jostling white leather cabin of a limo now, but in a mouldering rowboat, holding the dripping oars above the water, teeth flashing like rubies from deep within a black hood. The image was vividly present, but gone in an instant.
Billy looked down at the papers and tried to focus. It was hard to read—the motion of the car, the alcohol, and his ignorance all conspiring against comprehension. He remembered how quickly he’d been kicked to the curb in Hartford for asking to call Kate. What was he going to do now, ask to call a lawyer?
I’m getting signed. The words were an incantation against all misery. They would have a powerful effect on everyone in Billy’s life. He imagined how their faces would look when he told them the news—his father, his boss, his band mates. Everyone who had ever politely encouraged him while privately scorning his chances. He would be vindicated. For every time he’d taken a song to the band that they had turned down, he would be vindicated.
But he could see Jim’s face a little too clearly. Could he really look Jim in the eye and admit that he had signed away any rights to the songs they’d written together? Could he really walk out on the band?
A new voice arose in his crowded mind, dressed in the tone and inflections of the man seated before him. At midnight, you were ready to throw your life away, your flesh and blood, and now you’re worried about a few percentage points on some money you haven’t even earned yet. That was enough to silence his guilt and doubt. Trevor Rail had found Billy Moon at the bottom, in his darkest hour. He had nothing to lose and the world to gain.
He put the pen to the paper and signed his name after the X.
* * *
The limo crawled up a narrow alley and stopped in front of a dumpster. Rats scampered over the lip and shot off into the dark. The driver got out first and opened the rear door. Billy climbed out with Rail on his heels.
“Where are we?” Billy asked.
“I’m going to show you what you have to live for.”
“In a piss-stinking back alley? This ought to be good.”
“In there,” Rail said, pointing his long fingernail at a reinforced steel door. The only indication of what lay beyond was a piece of gray driftwood hanging from a black iron scroll arm above the entrance. Painted on the wood in gold leaf in an archaic script were the words: CARNIVORE'S CARNIVALE
Rail knocked. The hinges shrieked and the door opened to reveal a bald-headed black man with a gold ring the size of a small doorknocker hanging from his nose. Rail inclined his head ever so slightly and said, “Good evening, Peter.”
“Evening, Mr. Rail.”
Peter reached out with a muscle-ripped arm and pulled on a heavy metal bar, like a gambler spinning a slot machine. A second, inner door opened like an air lock, releasing a wash of industrial voodoo drums and chainsaw guitars.
The space inside was packed with the sort of New York revelers who look like they’ve just stepped out of the six pages of cologne-drenched fashion ads one has to flip through to find the table of contents in Vanity Fair: bare-chested omni-sexual golden boys in Armani vests and emaciated girls in rawhide-laced slit skirts, thick black eyeliner, electric blue hair. The air was tinged with hashish smoke and pheromones and underneath it all, a bass note of charred flesh and iron.
The room, which at first sight had appeared vast, soon resolved itself into a claustrophobic box when Billy noticed that the purple and yellow robo-lights were reflecting back at him off mirrored walls. A tall, thin girl with a pallid complexion, dressed in a sequined leotard completed by a top hat and baton, stretched like taffy as she danced. It took Billy a few seconds to decide that he was not, in fact, tripping. They were funhouse mirrors.
A path opened through the crowd when Rail walked across the room. Even those whose backs were turned to him, or who danced with their eyes closed, stepped aside instinctively at his approach. When he and Billy reached the other side of the dance floor, they passed under an archway of heavy wooden scrollwork painted with cracked gold. The volume of the pounding music dropped down enough in this new space—more tunnel than hallway—to allow conversation as they passed through.
“What is this place?” Billy asked, touching the silky sleeve of Rail’s jacket.
“It’s a private club,” Rail said. “The finest fresh flesh in New York.”
The music receded behind them, and now Billy could make out another sound coming from somewhere ahead, growing louder. It was a drip-drop splashing sound, echoing through the tunnel. He looked down and saw that they were walking through a thin layer of water he hadn’t noticed before. The passageway was long; the only light the purple and yellow flicker on the ceiling far behind them at the mouth, and a dim blue glow up ahead.
Billy hesitated, thought of turning back. Who was this guy, anyway? His survival instincts were being triggered with each step they took away from the crowd. Billy stopped walking. Rail seized his wrist and pulled him forward with enough force to make him slip on the wet floor. As he tumbled toward it, throwing his hands out and bracing for impact, he felt his leather jacket tighten around him. Rail had caught him with one hand. In both the tug and the catch, Rail had revealed surprising strength. He steadied Billy and released him.
There was a scraping sound of flint and steel—a light
er sparking a flame. Rail’s shadow-painted face floated in the darkness, drawing on a cigarillo. The producer held the flame aloft, raised an eyebrow at Billy, and exhaled pungent smoke through his nostrils. He tilted his head toward the floor. It was hard to tell for sure by the wavering orange light, but before Rail capped the lighter, Billy thought he could discern a thickness in the consistency of the liquid running down the grated gutter at the margin of the tunnel. Not dirty water. Blood. The smell of iron in the air suddenly made sense.
Rail said, “Watch your step.”
Billy froze in place. Was it human blood?
As if reading his mind, Rail said, “It’s not exactly legal or kosher, but trust, me it’s the best steak on the hoof you’ll ever try. They have fresh oysters, too. Keeps you young, consuming things that still have life force in them.”
They walked on and came into the blue-lit room where a waiter was parading a drugged bull before a table of sharp dressed, clean-cut young men seated with an older woman whose place at the head of the table gave Billy the idea that they worked for her in some capacity. Rail nodded at her as they passed through the room. Billy couldn’t tell if she smiled at him, or if her face was permanently rigged with Botox injections.
“Don’t stare,” Rail muttered. “It’s not polite.” He put his hand on Billy’s shoulder and guided him to a tread-plate spiral staircase that descended from a corner of the floor.
The last thing Billy saw before the floor eclipsed his view was the waiter drawing a long, thin blade from his sleeve, and dipping it down his throat like a sword swallower at a circus. The sight of the docile bull made Billy think of the rum Rail had given him on the ride down from Boston. Was he drugged? He couldn’t tell. He felt light-headed, only half in his body. The alcohol, the drive, this dreadful place, the hypnotic voice of his guide—all of it was extinguishing lucidity.
At the bottom of the stairs, Billy found a black velvet curtain with a heavy, silver silk rope. He tugged on it. The curtain parted in the middle, and from behind him, Rail said, “I called ahead and ordered for you.”
The Devil of Echo Lake Page 6
