He thought he’d found it in a guitarist named Cannibal Rex, formerly of a group called Jonestown Massacre.
Jonestown had signed to Metal Blade in the wake of Bitch and Lizzy Borden cranking out a relentless brand of thrash guaranteed to make metalheads apoplectic with bliss. It was sticking your head inside a jet turbine to get off on the whine. The hardcore slant had reenergized the familiar patternings of heavy metal —the pro forma sexism, the punk biker look, the lyrics about hell and death and apocalypse. Two of Jonestown’s songs, “Black Wedding Dress” and “Hell Wants You!” had even been played on KNAC, a so-called hard rock station that decried the metalzoid label. Stannard didn’t care about labels as long as the contents were stimulating. He reevaluated his costume. Ten years ago, it might have been dangerous, different.
Jonestown Massacre fell apart a week and a half after Stannard’s agents had gotten Cannibal Rex’s signature on a contract. Cannibal—real name, Martin Killough Beecher—became the new lead man. The PR guys had stamped their hooves and moaned. Cannibal Rex was something they could not sell to the T-shirt-buying fourteen-year-olds in Stannard’s constituency.
Cannibal Rex was bald. The scars on his pate suggested that he shaved his hair with a meat cleaver. He wore the urban punk uniform of Levi’s, combat boots, and suspenders and affected a Special Forces green beret with a bullethole through the shield. He had lost the pinky and ring fingers of his picking hand in a gang fight and later had surgery performed to remove the useless hand bones. His right hand was in perfect proportion but only had three digits, rather like Mickey Mouse minus one. He wore one of the smaller finger bones as an earring. His eyes were very red, his pallor nearly blue. His complexion was that of an overdose victim on a morgue slab. He tended to spit on people when he talked. He rarely talked. Thick, murky wraparound shades hid his eyes from the world everywhere except onstage—he liked to glare at audiences, and those eyes were not something you would want paying attention to you for any length of time. His crimson glare was a laser, threatening to drill your heart and make you dead. He had recently begun wearing a combat knife, sheathed to the small of his back, while playing live gigs. He seldom spoke to the band in public, except for Stannard. When he spoke to Stannard, no saliva flew.
That was all the general public knew of Cannibal Rex.
“Rex, move on over here. One more time, right?” Logan McCabe pointed to Cannibal’s masking-tape mark on the stage floor. They were shooting Stannard’s new video on the old Chaplin stage in Hollywood, which was now an adjunct of A&M Records. The set suggested a bombed-out school classroom with a flaming sky visible through shattered windows. Cannibal dutifully moved to his mark, bone earring swinging. There was bullshit, and there was business. This was business.
What Gabriel Stannard knew about Cannibal Rex was another matter. He knew that Cannibal, as Marty Beecher, had killed two people in self-defense a long time back. Barehanded. He knew that Marty had been invited to enroll at Juilliard. Marty didn’t want to study classical guitar, even as a prodigy. Somewhere between the two events, Cannibal Rex was born and he could chop off two more fingers and still be a more versatile guitarist than most of the guys who made the cover of Musician magazine.
Logan McCabe had maneuvered into feature films by doing Pimp Killer and Hollywood High Hooker Squad for New World Pictures. Exploitation films for Roger Corman meant a furious production pace and a stranglehold-tight budget. If you were willing to shoot a movie in ten days, years of experience could be had on a shoestring. McCabe was willing and had gotten his chops. Stannard had previewed McCabe’s movies on his VCR and requested the director because of the visceral way he handled action scenes. McCabe was not a director of videos, and Stannard had no interest in precision dancers, guest star cameos, or tinsel.
Neither did Cannibal Rex. Stannard recalled their first alcohol-stoked jam in Stannard’s subterranean recording studio. Cannibal shotgunned a beer, blasted a line of good Peruvian snow up each nostril, and manhandled his Les Paul, sawing out a nasty improvised riff. He had repeated it a few more times before getting a vomitous expression on his face. His only comment: “This bites major hose.” He bent his pick double and chucked it across the studio. But the riff existed, and like the one Keith Richards had picked out for “Satisfaction,” it grew into a song. Stannard and Cannibal punched it back and forth, building and shaping the tune until it was a killer. The title was “Maneater,” and it was sure to jump to number one…if they could ever get the damned video in the can. McCabe had tried thirteen takes of Cannibal wailing on his axe and was still dissatisfied. Time was wasting, the union’s meter was running, and tempers were fraying on the set.
The oil smoke used to diffuse the stage lighting was giving Stannard a piledriver headache. All the starch was leaking out of his backbone, and he was sinking into his chair. Sertha appeared at his elbow bearing a glass of Sweetouchnee tea the consistency of Valvoline. It was cut with brown sugar and afloat with lime wedges; Stannard liked to think of the beverage as caffeinated rocket fuel. He crunched five Excedrin dry and drank half the glass.
“People, the sun. Has gone down. Outside. And here we stand.” McCabe shook his head sadly, as if in sympathy at a passing busload of retards. “If this shot had any less juice, it’d be as dry as a nun’s punky.”
Sertha shot Stannard a questioning glance.
He smiled weakly. “Never mind. Another screwed-up American idiomatic expression, signifying boredom.” The remark brought some tired chortles from the crew. Stannard knew they were all wearing thin; the gaffers and effects guys had even stopped ogling Sertha. He sipped his tea and snaked his free hand between her legs, to wrap around one thigh in a half hug. Ice clinked as he tilted the glass.
Her calm, contoured, almost Oriental eyes assessed him. “You’re doing better today. There’s blood in you, life in your eyes.”
“That’s from my daily Sertha injection.” He polished off the tea, chugging it. “W0000aahh, speed rush!” He made exploding noises, like a child playing with toy soldiers. “Horus says I’ve just shifted the focus of my anger. Horus is real big on shifting one’s focus.”
Cannibal Rex stood on his mark, shades on, expressionless, a mannequin awaiting the flick of the switch reading detonate.
“You’ve stopped worrying, is this what you mean?”
“Nope. Just that I’m worried more, right now, about the way we’re pissing time on this one little piece of film.”
McCabe’s assistant director hollered for quiet on the set, and everyone ran through the motions for the ten-second take. One more time.
‘Gasm had a concert date coming up in Tucson, Arizona. Stannard had taken very careful note of their tour schedule. Now he was dealing with his own timetable and observations, not those of the police or the TV news. Rather than sitting at home, gun at hand, wondering when doom was going to drop down on his head, he was beginning to formulate a plan. He was assuming responsibility for his own life, rather than waiting around for others to pick up the slack.
Horus’ security force was stationed discreetly at the stage doors. They were joined into one mind by antennaed headsets. They wore bulky, zippered windbreakers and packed slim attaché cases that concealed all manner of brutal retaliatory capabilities. Sertha assumed these guards—three men and two women, not counting Horus—were the source of Stannard’s newfound ease. She was only partially correct.
Horus stood in the shadows like a dream idol from Stannard’s subconscious, arms folded, face impassive, his golden earrings winking brightly. Sertha looked from him to Cannibal Rex and back, thinking of dark and light chess pieces of equal value.
Stannard knew his image was a lie. The macho posturing, the badder-than-thou stance, were mostly the product of his TV and comic-book fantasies. He had pumped up his body (artificially, so chided Horus), he’d become proficient in the use of weapons. His persona scared people enough to make him interesting and intimidated dealmakers enough to insure him a hefty income. But it was a
ll on the order of the man who fanatically amasses a vast library without ever stopping to read the books. The collection implies knowledge, wisdom, worldliness. And if people thought you were knowledgeable, and worldly wise, you really didn’t have to be because they deferred to you automatically. It reminded Stannard of the way clerks behaved in the face of presumed wealth.
The headache was making the hard comma of scar tissue bisecting his right eyebrow pulse. He wiped sweat from his face and felt the tough little bump there. His mark.
The stage was so hot that sweat generated all along his forearm, where it was in contact with Sertha’s thigh. He released her. She was bearing up well in skintight white jeans and an oversized, sleeveless designer T-shirt with hand-painted balloons all over the front. Endless fashion shoots had inured her to the heat of klieg lights. Her face was perfect, like an antiperspirant ad.
Rock ‘n’ roll was Stannard’s life. And rock ‘n’ roll insisted he do something besides dent his buns, waiting for an axe to drop and split his head. If his life were headed toward some kind of personal apocalypse, then rock ‘n’ roll and the persona that he had lived for so long demanded that he be the one to initiate the final onslaught.
There was an idea there. Part of his brain, the part that recognized hope, came to full attention.
Rolling over for an oncoming Fury like this Lucas Ellington guy was no answer. Depending on the real world to save his ass was no answer. Stannard had to take everything up he feared in two fists and choke it until somebody won.
He looked at Cannibal Rex, frozen in position, guitar jutting. What if he was to suddenly attack the camera filming the video footage? Just swing his guitar and smash dead on into that fucker? It’d cost a fortune. Everybody’d get supremely pissed. Violence—wham!
What if that violence could be interpolated into the video? The video could end as the guitar smashes the camera and blacks out the frame. Chop the music off; no fades, no lead-outs, just click and gone. Play it straight for half the running time, then the band goes berserk. Have cameras whirling around to catch the action as it happens. See the props and backdrops suddenly exposed, camera crews panicking, stagehands dropping their styrofoam coffee cups. Bash—a camera in the middle distance bites the dust. And the song grinds on, losing an instrument at a time as more band members fly into the fray, gleefully wiping out everything.
Stannard abruptly realized how the video should end. The camera—the final, surviving camera—pushes in on his face. Dark, manic, threatening. Cannibal Rex lurks to the rear. Stannard grabs Cannibal’s guitar and mouths the final line of the song.
“C’mon, bad man—take me down if you can.”
Then the camera gets knocked cold.
It was a modification of the song’s final line, which spoke of bad girls, not bad men. But Stannard had the clout to get away with this one-time editorial change.
Hell, Circus magazine would devote a column to speculating on the secret hidden meaning. To the Bible humpers, “bad man” could only be the Big Red Guy, and that meant even more press.
A grin cracked across his bored expression. Yeah, this could stir up a lot of rock ‘n’ roll trouble. He loved it. The specter of Lucas Ellington had stolen his sleep, made him iffy in the sack, put him on the instant defensive. The solution was to call him out, on his own terms, and win. No cops. No headlines. To Stannard, the answer was to live his own myth at last and send out a message that only Lucas Ellington would understand instantly.
C’mon, bad man—take me down if you can.
The Sweetouchnee tea hit him like pure crank, kicking his metabolism into overdrive.
“Hey, Logan! Get your massively artistic ass over here! I’ve got an idea that’ll save this dead meat!”
Logan McCabe squared off his baseball cap and ambled over. Standing in the wrecked schoolroom set, Cannibal Rex smiled as if he knew telepathically what was about to happen.
15
Sara Windsor did not want to redden her eyes, so she rubbed them with the backs of her knuckles, gently, easily. Her day’s workload had implanted weariness into her bones, but her brain was starkly awake, defying the fatigue. Her lower lip had developed a small chapped patch; her tongue refused to leave it be. She would worry it until it dissolved away and things were normal again.
Apt personality externalization, she thought. Her brain was chasing after Lucas Ellington. It did not want to take a break or defer work until tomorrow.
Her favorite chair was a broad, low-slung, handcrafted recliner with wide, flat arms. When she had selected it at Furniture Barn, she’d known those wide arms would be perpetually piled with her take-home work. Everything, even the chair, related to her job. She was either terribly efficient…or the work had invaded every aspect of her life, even her love life, or her choice of furniture, or her favorite television programs.
Perched on the chair arms were two ungainly stacks of file folders, their machine-cut manila edges spiraled out of true by a random bump. Closer to the edge were several freebie notepads, the kind you pick up at xerography shops as a customer perk. They were covered with vagrant scribbles: Laundry Thurs. or else! Or else she’d have not a stitch of underwear pleasant to the nose. Call Mom. For the fourth time that month. The more she spoke to her parents, the less they talked about. She had begun to wish they did not speak at all, so that their relationship might turn around and improve. PHONE BILL—by 27th. Which bill the goddamned “diversified” phone companies, a system once the best in the world, were preparing to double, or triple, or tack on a surcharge, or some other surprise. Sheffield: Marnie—Ghost & Mrs. Muir. Work. Again.
Daniel Sheffield preferred hearing cassettes of Bernard Herrmann movie sound track music during analysis. It helped him concentrate. Lucas had been into music, too, but his method of focusing his thoughts when talking to Sara had been to stare at a candle flame until he achieved an almost meditative calm.
Enough stalling, she thought. Let’s do it.
Several pens maintained precarious positions on the backward-slanted arms of the chair, listing against their pocket clips to keep from rolling off into oblivion. The purple one refused to write, she knew; it had given up two days ago. At the very brink of the left arm, just shy of the edge, she parked her steaming mug of black Laichee tea. The dripping metal tea ball was fished out and left to cool on a folded paper towel, its duty done. She balanced a yellow legal pad against the bare knee that poked from her bathrobe, flipped to a clean sheet, and began to write.
GUNTHER LUBIN—roadie for J. Knox—knocked cold ½ hour prior to Knox killing—found 1 hr. after.
The San Francisco police still suspected Gunther Lubin of some culpability in Jackson Knox’s murder, but they knew they had nothing concrete on him. Doctors had examined Lubin and decided that he had most likely been in dreamland at the moment Knox died. They’d probably kept a leash on Lubin and grilled the poor bastard mercilessly following the murder of Brion Hardin in Denver. If they had been able to add one plus one.
CRYSTAL DIPRIMO—(sp?)—Brion Hardin’s groupie? Girlfriend? Daughter?—Asleep during Hardin murder and/or under from dope. No alibi. Time factor?
It had taken the staff of the Denver Hilton nearly twenty hours to trip over Brion Hardin’s stiff, cold corpse in room 704. When they did, Crystal DiPrimo was still snoring in the keyboardist’s room, sleeping off a load of Quaaludes and red wine. The police had awakened her, and she had not been polite. Even drugged, she might have been capable of knifing her paramour if she could have overpowered a man nearly a foot taller and ninety pounds heavier; if she could have wielded a heavy blade like a trained marine; if Hardin had been already incapacitated. That last was mostly fantasy, since the only thing found polluting Hardin’s metabolism was a couple of bottles of dark Heineken. The Hilton desk clerks recalled exactly zero about a man named Calvin Westbrook, the renter of the murder room. The rock and roll magazines and tabloids had not been charitable about the killings. All possible angles on intergroup hostilities h
ad been enthusiastically milked. Lurid color shots of Jackson Knox’s mangled body were run alongside newspaper photos of the Room 704 bloodbath, and it was immediately rumored that Hardin had threatened to quit Electroshock in midtour in order to form a new band with Knox, a band that would violate a number of contracts and rouse the ire of a lot of record company execs. It was further rumored that certain members of Electroshock did not appreciate certain other members sleeping with certain of the group’s concubines and whores.
Speculation flooded in and engulfed the event. Media waves would evenly fill any gap the killer—or killers—had left behind.
One sobering trivium had floated to the surface in a Nude Thymes editorial. Clapper Boyette, resident cynic, writing in his popular Slings and Arrows column, had spelled it out.
First Knox, then Hardin. Assess this. Knox was just beginning to blossom as a soloist—BFD—-and Hardin’s band was creeping up on the make-or-break third-album stage. No great loss either way, but a tragedy considering that more Whip Hand fallout still lives in a band called ’Gasm. It’s a tragedy that ’Gasm wasn’t wiped out instead, removing a metalhead buboe from the butt of rock and roll. Too bad. Oh, well. We can hope, can’t we?
The hot tea stung Sara’s raw lip. She licked it absently.
KNOX—land mine.
HARDIN—military knife.
She underscored military. The coroner in Denver had specified a “long, broad blade” and put forth an educated guess that the murder weapon had been a marine corps Bowie knife. That much had made the papers.
That afternoon, in a Dos Piedras hunting and fishing shop, Sara had found such a knife. Seeing it, she could not believe such things actually existed. The thing the shop’s proprietor had dragged out of the display case looked like an enormous parody of a knife. She’d joked about it resembling a prop from a mad slasher movie. Doubtless anxious to assist this attractive lady and keep her in his store for a few moments more, the counterman had trotted out several catalogs and reference books from his stock room for her edification. In a glossy, oversized tome titled Military Hardware of the US from WWII to Indochina, Sara had gotten her first look at an antipersonnel mine.
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