Someone else was there, too—a dark shape, sitting in a corner chair. Diana strained her eyes, and then realized it was a young woman; head down and hands clasped.
Nicky reached over and drew the draperies tight, obscuring her view; and a few moments later Diana heard someone scream, but it had to be the wind, or one of the visitors. She didn’t question it, because Nicky used his office to meet with performers—singers, dancers and actors. The clandestine meeting had to be a business transaction, and maybe the girl was a backup singer for Tyler, or a thespian.
Two days later, joggers found a young girl’s body on the beach, and they said she’d most likely been attacked by a wild animal, hungry and lost in the storm. It had happened before…and Diana didn’t give it a second thought. Not until after Tyler’s death.
3.
Tyler Bane was dead, and as in life, Tyler’s death held the world transfixed, and the scene of his final goodbye was an event for the masses, in flurrying snow and brisk December wind.
Diana Bane clasped her hands, and bent her head as though she’d tuned out her surroundings, but she took in everything, every face, each word and act, both genuine and phony.
She’d draped a long black coat over a black lace dress, and loose strands of hair spilled from underneath a floppy hat. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her face pale. Someone commented, “You’re brilliant on this somber night.” But she couldn’t place the middle-aged man, who stiffly walked by her, mumbling about Tyler’s talent, and further sympathies for Diana’s loss.
She remembered the look on Tyler’s face a few months ago, how his eyes grew dark when he spoke. “I want a night burial when I die. How cool would that be?” He said. “Bring my body back to Talbot’s Bay. That’s what I want.”
“You’re not going to die, my love. You’re young, and the world needs you…I do, too.” She'd punched his arm playfully.
“Shit happens; you know?” His eyes were sad, flitting to a dark corner, as though he’d seen visions of his demise.
Tyler had always been melodramatic and moody, and she’d heard his somber predictions before, but this time his prophecy had been right on.
Now she slipped on dark glasses, and then pulled down the brim of her bonnet. She took a step back, wishing Tyler stood beside her with pen in hand, and with amusement in his eyes, greeting those who'd come to pay their respects, because he would have enjoyed this final party.
Mourners, elite, and with grief-stricken faces, well known to the world, with reputations colorful, notorious and woven deep into the fabric of pop culture, came to catch a last glimpse of their king, to experience Tyler’s ultimate exit from a life of glamour and unholy extremes.
A few members of the press were invited, but others were told to stay away. And armed guards, police and some of Nicky’s henchmen, secured the main roads leading to the graveyard, making sure annoying paparazzi and curious onlookers were kept out. She imagined fans, obsessed with Tyler, sat glued to TV screens, crying as though he’d been a lover, someone with whom they’d shared intimate moments.
The Hotel LaNeau loomed in the distance, its windows lit up, and smoke billowed from chimneys on the roof.
Diana’s gaze swept the crowd, at people dressed in old fashioned suits, brimmed hats with feathers, and patchwork skirts with bells at the hems; and those individuals mingled with people who wore designer clothing.
Diana spotted a couple huddled by a tree. The man wore a tattered fedora and a faded get-up—1960’s bell bottom jeans, a tie dyed shirt and platform shoes. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. The woman wore a colorful dress, and numerous strands of beads around her neck. A wide red headband held back her long, curly dark hair. They both were pallid, with skeletal hands; and their gazes were fixed on The Hotel LaNeau. They looked ghostly, as though at any moment they'd evaporate into mist. The woman’s eyes flickered to Diana, and the odd lady bowed her head as wind lifted the edges of her hair. For a flash, shimmering snakes seemingly protruded from her scalp, writhing and stretching toward Diana, but when the man struck a match, Diana realized that her eyes were once again playing tricks on her, and then smoke and swirling snow shrouded the strange couple.
“I don’t want to be here alone,” Diana whispered.
She searched the graveyard, asking herself where Bruno had gone, and if her father was close by, then suddenly her driver broke through a crowd of mourners, and went to her side.
“You doing all right?” He asked, following her gaze.
“As best as I can. I hate that Tyler wanted this hoopla. Just bury my ashes when I die, no theatrics, no throng of celebrity hovering over my dead body.”
Bruno searched the crowd “I know many people here, but lots aren’t familiar,” he said as a woman with salt and pepper hair glided past them. She wore a purple knee-length coat, trimmed with red fake fur. She clutched a rose, and dabbed her right eye with an embroidered hankie, and she bent her head when a slender priest read a psalm from the bible.
Diana’s voice was weak and thin. “That’s Laura Sloan. She was a backup singer for Tyler when he played with the Black Sentinels, before he signed with Aero Records, and before Songs for the Devil hit number one on the music charts. Anyway, now she’s on Broadway. Rumor has it she’s also runs a high-priced whore house.”
Diana lifted her chin, nodding slightly when another woman appeared at Laura’s side. She looked to be about sixty, with long black hair topped by an orange beret, a scarf of the same color draped over her long silk coat. “She’s a woman branded by the press as the High Priestess of one of New York City’s satanic churches. Lives at The Dakota and does celebrity séances. They always make the papers. She supposedly conjured up John Lennon and Sylvia Plath.” Next Diana motioned to a man standing by Tyler’s grave.
“And over there, the guy dressed in the gray suit--he’s Oscar Mastrado, Tyler’s drummer from back in the day. Papers speculated that he sacrificed his own kid during some fucked up ritual. The boy was found dead in a deserted warehouse in Chelsea, all kinds of black magic paraphernalia surrounded the body. Cops arrested a drug dealer from the city, said evidence pointed to him. But a lot of people still think the guy was set up, and that Mastrado is guilty."
Bruno studied Mastrado for a moment, most likely detecting the guy’s cold demeanor, and the way he smiled roguishly when a group of young girls passed by.
"According to gossip they should all be locked up. I wonder who invents the stories, and I wonder if some are true..." Diana sighed heavily. “Maybe they’re just victims of trash reporting by leeches who make money on lies, and on the stupidity of star struck housewives.”
“They did it to Tyler, too.” Bruno shook his head.
“Fame is a curse.” Diana nodded, forcing a smile when an elderly woman took her hand and mumbled sympathies. She watched the woman walk away, and then join Oscar Mastrado. “Great actress back in the fifties. Now she’s just another old lady." She leaned close to Bruno, and whispered, "They say she killed her last husband."
A feeling of dread filled her when snow flurried at her feet and eerie wails emanated in the distance. There was something on Talbot’s Bay that tugged at her soul, a feeling she couldn’t yet decipher. But, for now, there was enough grief to deal with, enough tears yet to be cried…enough death.
4.
Tyler, I’m sorry,” Diana said softly to herself, tears welling in her eyes, her hands shaking.
Bruno put his hand on her shoulder, seemingly to comfort her, and said, “Nicky is here.”
Diana noticed her Dad entering the graveyard, shaking hands with guests, and then disappearing into a horde of people.
"Give him time. He needs to preen for the cameras," Diana said icily, and then she felt a twinge of fear when a man, dressed in dark fur, brushed by her. He hummed softly when he stopped to look upward at the LaNeau. He slid his hands in his pockets, and then turned to her, speaking slowly. “So sorry Mrs. Bane.”
Something wasn’t right about the guy
—spectral, from another time, similar to the couple she’d seen earlier. His face was pasty white, and blue veins protruded from his neck and forehead. Dark liquid trickled from his hand, and onto the ground. “People do what they gotta do, you know?” His breath smelled putrid, and his teeth were broken and cracked.
Diana didn’t respond. She felt Bruno’s breath on her face. The driver whispered something in her ear, but the words were incoherent. Only the strange man’s voice registered.
“People sacrifice blood to get the things they need.” The man smiled, but his eyes were devoid of emotion.
Bruno spoke again, but his words flew away, and then crumbled. Wind stirred, and an owl called from somewhere in the distance. Diana looked upward, snow flurried, and then the man was gone.
“It’s like he vanished.” Bruno’s voice was agitated now.
“People do what they gotta do,” Diana repeated thinking of Tyler.
“You sure you're okay?” Bruno asked again.
“Yeah, that guy spooked me. Was he bleeding, or was it just mud and filth?”
“Probably nothing.” But the driver’s eyes gave him away. She realized that he tried to ease her mind, but his attempts were fruitless.
She thought back to the period leading up to Tyler’s death. He’d been on the phone a lot, speaking quietly to someone; and he spent time with someone who waited by the newsstand below their window in early morning—and often at night—away for hours, coming back smelling of whiskey and cigarette smoke. She had a feeling that her father came into town and secretly met Tyler. Perhaps they made macabre plans, but that was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
The two—Tyler and the person of mystery—walked close together, hands gesturing ominously.
“Big changes coming, babe,” he’d tell her after the mysterious gatherings, or odd phone calls.
“What kind of changes? What’s with the cloak and dagger business? Is it Nicky?” She'd asked Tyler one day upon his return.
“There's something I've got to deal with. That's all,” he told her. “Can’t get into to it now.”
“You know how I hate secrets.”
Tyler answered in a mocking tone. “Sometimes secrets are good for the soul.”
He ordered his attorney to prepare a will, organizing journals and notes Tyler kept at their New York apartment. She told herself that she could live with his mood swings, with the eccentricity, and that in no time he’d be back to drinking and carrying on. That’s when her headaches flared up, always starting with an annoying twitching in her right eye.
She blamed her malady on stress, reminding herself that she’d had migraines since she was kid, but when she experienced several blackouts, followed by strange visions, she decided to seek medical help. Doctors in the city did the usual X-Rays and scans, but ultimately attributed the malaise to menstrual cycle fluctuations and anxiety. Diana believed that they’d missed something, and so did Tyler and her father, and when Nicky made initial arrangements for her to go to the clinic, Tyler’s reaction was odd.
He smiled sadly, and told her, “I only want the best for you, but you might not be here when it happens.”
“When what happens?” She asked.
He shrugged. “Just bury me in paint splattered jeans, my old denim shirt and with my acoustic guitar—at twilight—and mourn me when darkness falls.”
He stood there with a distant look on his face. She hugged him. He’d grown thin, almost skeletal. He didn’t respond to her touch. It made her feel undesirable, as though he’d rejected her. “Tyler, is it me? Do you want to split…at least for a while….so you can sort things out?”
He pulled away from her, looked into her eyes. “Don’t be sad, kid. There’s not much time. That’s all it is.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? What’s wrong? What the hell is going on with you? You sick? The drugs, the drinking, it’s got you messed up—worse than ever—is that it?”
“It’s just fucking time.” He walked away from her, shoulders hunched, muttering softly.
She decided to stick around, delay admittance to the clinic, but things got worse. A long hot summer made city living unbearable, forcing people to stay within the confines of air conditioned apartments. Tyler locked himself behind a closed door, forgetting the customs he and his wife had performed for years; the shopping trips, the walks and the meals at New York restaurants. Sunday had been special for so long, an unbreakable habit until July drenched the city in its heat. Even so, Diana continued to take a cab to Broadway and Canal, ducking in and out of trendy shops, down a tangle of side streets, stopping for coffee at an offbeat diner on West Houston. Her destination was always the Strand bookstore on twelfth, and she’d lose herself in the musty basement, searching for vintage treasures, weeping behind stacks of dusty books, remembering how she and Tyler made the same journey every Sunday afternoon.
July gave way to August, and Tyler shrunk deeper into shadow, barely speaking except for his secret calls, hardly going out until the stranger came to visit.
Diana cried a lot, but had given up pleading with her husband. It was no use, and his absence hurt her more than anything ever had.
The air grew less stagnant, and soon nights became cooler. Labor Day was quiet, and the city seemed to sleep as though in wake for a season that had died too soon. October brought chillier winds, stores abound with macabre masks and costumes. The witching season—autumn with its vivid colors, darkness and cold wind—casting its spell over the city. That’s when the headaches became unbearable, and she checked into Renewed Hope Medical Center.
Then Tyler was gone.
Nicky had been there when it happened, and he’d told her the story in vivid detail, “I was in the deli next door, waiting at the window for Tyler to get back from his recording session—the first one he’d done in a while. The limo pulled up, and I saw him get out of the car, and his body guard was next him, and I remember Bruno was a few steps behind. Fans and photographers were there, calling his name, and police cars and news vans were parked on the street. It was raining—foggy—and I saw somebody come out of nowhere…out of the shadows. Tyler was in plain view, waving, eating up the attention from the crowd. All of a sudden something exploded, and at first I thought it was thunder, a bad muffler… anything but a gun. Then Tyler collapsed, and people were shouting, and screaming his name.”
Nicky sighed heavily, and then continued the story. “Cops confirmed that Tyler died instantly. Said the killer was quick, smart, and left them without a clue.”
The words assaulted Diana like angry fists. She lost her balance, and someone helped her to a chair, and then everything went black. She awoke hours later, telling herself she’d had a bad dream, that Tyler was onstage, playing his guitar. He’d just written a new song, the words penned in marker on bed sheets. He’d make love to her when she got back home, and they’d go on forever.
Now Tyler would never come back, and she asked herself if his death had been the price for the fame…for immortality and wicked juvenile wishes.
5.
1987
Diana didn’t think about Tyler again until he rolled back into town on a steaming August afternoon, guitar strapped over his arm, looking like he owned the world. He'd been away, serving time for robbery; and, after a year, returned to his parents' house in the residential area. Diana wondered if he looked for work, and if anyone would be willing to hire him after what he'd done. Later she learned he'd gone to Nicky, asked for an audition at Club Solomon, one of the businesses her father owned. Tyler landed a two-week gig. Those two weeks turned into a month, and then it became indefinite. Before long, Tyler had become a local celebrity.
She clipped articles about him from papers, carefully pasting each one in a scrapbook; and occasionally she sat at a rear table at Club Solomon during his rehearsals, getting lost in his mystical music, pretending that he’d written lyrics about everlasting passion for her. Her heart pattered if he looked her way, and she asked herself, “Does he love anyone
? Could he love me?”
Curiosity and attraction overwhelmed her, and she asked Nicky, “Is Tyler doing all right? Can you invite him to dinner, or—?”
Nicky chuckled, and told her, “Best you stay away from him.”
But she’d seen Tyler around town, with Nicky, or walking arm and arm with tough girls who bleached their hair, and tattooed their bodies. Tyler didn’t notice Diana much, except for a quick nod of the head or a wink, but she remained infatuated with him.
Back then, Diana wore no makeup. Her hair had been long, wavy, cascading down her back; jeans and simple pleasant blouses made up her wardrobe. She’d tried on black lace stretch pants, and low-cut punk tops, at the Goth shop. She bought black kohl, a fake tattoo. None of it suited her. There had to be other ways to get Tyler's attention.
Her obsession began to affect her life. She withdrew from friends, spending hours simply writing Tyler’s name over and over in her journal. She even carved his name into her thigh flesh with a razor. It left a scar, bleeding profusely at times.
Her mother had done spells for the tourists and locals. She made magic pouches to lure back husbands who’d strayed, or marriage pillows guaranteed to get a procrastinating boyfriend to pop the question. Diana knew her mother’s antics were bogus, but she was so anxious about Tyler that she began to question the power of her mother’s actions.
Once, when still in grade school, she’d ask the woman. “Mama, how do I make a guy love me?”
“You can’t play with shit with like that. Not supposed to get somebody to do something against their will. It can backfire. What I do is different, and the outcome would be the same without my spells. The power of suggestion most often does the trick. It’s smoke and mirrors for the most part. But if you mess with the wrong shit, then Karma has a way of coming back and smacking you upside the head.”
But Diana’s desire wouldn’t rest, and she’d try anything, even chant her wishes to fabricated Gods and Goddesses.
City at the Edge of the Earth Page 2
