They talked about esoteric things: magic, religion, life and death, and though they disagreed most times, the discussions were more debates than arguments, spirited and friendly.
Diana thought back to something Tyler said to her one night after the two men had gone to sleep. Tyler had done a concert in Boston, they all checked into a hotel, planning to travel to Philly in the morning. “Your father ever talk about the occult with you?” Tyler asked.
“He talked about legends—the statues near the LaNeau…things like that. I guess he’s a mixed bag, keeping secrets from me over the years. I know that my father studied—still studies—lots of things; creation, the angelic wars in heaven, and on to the fall of Lucifer. He loves knowledge, has a couple of occult shops on the boardwalk back home. Not sure that Dad practices any type of mojo…he’s pragmatic…a businessman. Why, what did he tell you?" Diana was familiar with her father's thirst for information, with his vast library, consisting of religious books; Christian, Judaism, Paganism, Buddhism, a host of African, European and other world deities. What could Tyler tell her that she already didn't know? However, she had his attention for the first time in a while. She wanted to hold onto it, so she kept the conversation going. “What happened?”
“He told me he started questioning things, got too deep into the secrets of religion. He said he sort of fell from grace.” Tyler threw French fries into his mouth and laughed, but there had been a secretive exchange between the two men earlier, something Nicky whispered in Tyler’s ear—something that turned Tyler’s face white. “Nicky's fucked up anyway.”
"Yeah, he broke my mother's heart a thousand times—like you always break mine."
Tyler ran his hand down Diana's cheek. "I'm trying, baby. Don't want to hurt you, but sometimes—"
"It's the nature of the beast, Tyler. I'm a rock star's wife," she said, her voice tinged with bitterness.
Tyler held her for a moment, and then retreated back to munching on fries, and devouring what was left of a burger.
Diana lay on the bed afterwards, unable to sleep at first, and observing her husband as he began to sketch, humming soft and low.
After a while she drifted to sleep, believing that the men in her life could keep her from harm. Years later she'd wondered if they paid a price for that protection—for everything good in their lives.
A murdered woman had been found in the hotel’s basement the following morning, and another in a close by alley; both slashed numerous times, with blood trickling from cold flesh. Their screams apparently muffled by music from a jazz club and a couple of bars on the strip. Tyler's face paled when he heard the news. Nicky suggested they leave as soon as they'd been questioned and cleared by police. Diana’s father remained calm; gathering luggage and belongings, making sure nothing would be left behind. Tyler paced back and forth, muttering, wringing his hands. Always too sensitive and emotional, Tyler's behavior seemed normal to Diana back then. She allowed him to vent, leaving him alone so she could peer into the street.
Police cars lined the walk, with a forensics team hard at work behind a stream of yellow tape. People gathered, across from the hotel, out of curiosity, seemingly in shock as body bags were lifted inside a morgue van. Cops escorted a young man out of the hotel, handcuffed and flanked by detectives.
Nicky came up behind Diana, touched her shoulder. "They got their man already. He's just another wayward soul giving in to the voices inside his head."
"What are you saying?" She'd asked.
Nicky looked to the window. "Probably Schizophrenia. He'll claim the Devil tempted him." He shrugged. "They'll still question us. Procedure, you know?"
Diana looked to the street once more. A police car pulled away, moving slowly through traffic. Morning fog seemed to follow that vehicle, twisting and turning like smoke around the wheels, and over the windows. Faces manifested within misty tendrils, eyes looking upward, seemingly mocking her. She backed away from the window, flinched when a loud knock sounded at the door. A burly detective arrived, first speaking with Nicky. Nodding every now and then, finally shaking her father's hand, and then moving on to Tyler.
The detective questioned the trio prior to other hotel guests, asking if they'd seen anything, heard anything in the still of night. No one heard a thing but steamy jazz music.
Afterwards, Nicky made arrangements with the manager to leave through one of the hotel’s back doors, so that no attention would be drawn to the famous singer.
They drove away, hidden behind the limo's tinted glass. Tyler slumped down in his seat. Nicky peered out the window, gazing at people in the crowd. He spoke softly, "Cops said the guy had been hanging around for days, checking out women who went in and out of the place." He sighed, and then leaned back in his seat. Both men seemed jittery, anxious to be far away from that hotel—from Boston.
Diana now wondered if the killer who'd shot Tyler had stalked him for a long time, moving closer to her husband as time went on, and then finally gunning him down.
Now snow streaked the landscape with white powder. Tree branches bent as wind picked up. Something moved within those branches. Were they things imagined, creatures wandering Talbot's Bay in the tenebrous night, or a sadistic killer?
"The evil ones are here tonight," said Bruno as he hurriedly closed the curtains. "Like always."
Diana wondered if they were doomed, if they'd fall victim to whomever killed her husband, and she wondered if the killer watched them now.
13.
Within the bedroom, photos of rock stars and groupies hung on the walls. A small TV sat on a shelf across from the bed. A bottle of cheap whiskey had been propped on the nightstand; a snapshot of Diana and Tyler leaned against a lamp in that photo. Diana picked up the picture, cupped it in one hand, and then traced the images with the index finger of the other.
It had been taken in New York, backstage at CHARLIES RED ROOM. She disliked the place and the people that they’d encountered there, but Tyler always told her, “It’s just business, babe. It’s just who I am.”
****
April 1991
CHARLIE'S RED ROOM, a dive upstairs from a tanning salon in The Bowery, signed Tyler as a main attraction; one of many lowbrow establishments that had employed him since the couple arrived in New York City. From the beginning, no one doubted that his music brought magic, and a bit of class, to the distasteful surroundings; windows decorated with faded red curtains, Elvis paintings on velvet, waitresses dressed in white cowboy boots and hot pants. The air stank of stale beer, cigarettes and sweat. The clientele consisted of people absorbed in pitchers of beer and talk about the latest Jets game.
Diana watched her husband from backstage, taking in every note and the mesmerizing sound of his voice.
The pay sucked, and Tyler spent money too fast, much to Diana’s frustration. She worked as a waitress at a small diner during the day. She hated it, and despised customers who complained about watery eggs, or demanded a second cup of coffee too soon after the first. She'd been good with numbers in school, able to figure out detailed problems without the aid of a calculator, but jobs in finance were hard to come by; she lacked a four-year degree, something would-be employers demanded, so she settled for work inferior to her intelligence and abilities. No matter how hard she worked, how much she earned in tips, the rent was late, and they ate peanut butter and jelly in order to afford heat and Tyler’s expensive stage gear.
"What I wouldn’t give for a big juicy steak," she whispered as Tyler's voice echoed through CHARLIE'S. When the song ended, applause broke out from a woman seated by the stage. She’d been there before, always on a Monday night, wearing a black sequined dress, donning dyed black hair cut in jagged layers, circles of red rouge prominent against milk white skin. She stood when Tyler slid the guitar inside his beat-up leather case, and then she boldly joined him on the stage.
The woman said something to Tyler, but Diana couldn’t hear over clinking glasses, drunken customers, and the sudden explosion of Rod Stewart sing
ing Maggie Mae on the jukebox.
Tyler sat on the edge of the stage; speaking to the woman for a few minutes, and then she placed a business card beside him. They shook hands, then she quickly exited the club.
Diana wondered what the woman wanted. Was she hitting on Tyler, or had an opportunity finally come?
Tyler finished packing, and then joined Diana backstage. He shook his head. “That woman, did you see her? She’s from Aero Records, said they’re interested in my music. Told her that Nicky Bernardo is my agent, and she’s going to give him a call.”
Diana shrugged. Tyler had been approached by record companies in the past. They gave him a big come on, and in the end they wanted him to pay money up front. “Glad my father will handle it, and not you. Could be another scam. Woman looked like she could use a makeover; the way she carried herself, strutted up to you--like she thinks she’s hot or something. That dress—kind of trashy.”
Tyler laughed. “She probably never looked in the mirror, but Aero Records is big in the city. Her name is Emily Bourgeous. She's the head honcho. Rolling Stone has interviewed her tons of times.” He crossed his arms.
“Way cool. What’s next?” Diana had reservations about Emily and her motives.
"Keep your fingers crossed. There could be a deal in the making." Tyler beamed. "I've got to mingle with the clientele now."
He left her side, moved into the crowd, stopping at tables, talking to people, laughing with them. They were regulars, women and men he'd most likely meet up with later. Jealousy plagued her, but Tyler told her he had to socialize with the customers. It was good for business, and he'd never cheat on her, but that didn't mean she had to like it.
At times Diana thought she’d made a mistake marrying Tyler—going to the city with him. Maybe she should have stayed on the bay, working for Nicky in day, and finishing up her BA at the state university at night. Her father would have supported her, and he’d warned her about Tyler, telling her, “He’s like a child, self-centered, living for the moment. I’ll support you no matter what you want to do…even though my gut says you’re making the wrong decision.”
Diana sighed when a blonde woman patted Tyler's hand, and then whispered something in his ear. His face flushed a bit, and then he nodded.
"Damn it, Tyler," Diana said softly, but she knew he loved her, and she promised herself she'd stick it out. She wanted to trust him, but she could always go home if things didn’t work out, embrace the world she'd been born into…if she chose.
***
Diana kept their small apartment tidy, but the floor tiles remained dull no matter how hard she scrubbed, and the wallpaper stayed stained and torn. And on a late April night she sobbed as she took in the shabby surroundings, feeling alone and defeated.
Tyler came home at dawn—stoned, smelling of liquor and cigarette smoke, and without a word he’d stumbled to bed. In late afternoon, when she returned from work, he hadn’t awakened, his clothes and sheets of music on the floor.
Diana took off her coat, gloves and hat, and then picked up Tyler’s jeans and the shirt he’d worn at CHARLIE’S the night before. She stacked papers on an end table, resisting an urge to throw them in the trash. When finished, she proceeded to carry the dirty laundry to a basket in the bathroom. She flinched when a small journal tumbled out of Tyler’s jean pocket, falling onto the floor.
He’d always recorded his thoughts and ideas for new songs, most of it fantasy, but sometimes he jotted down experiences with other musicians and associates. She bent to pick up the journal, gazed at the bright red cover, and how her husband had carefully jotted his name in felt tipped pen there. He’d been staying out all night lately, had been quiet about his meeting with Emily Bourgeous, so curiosity got the best of Diana.
She opened the journal, remembering that she hadn’t hesitated to peer inside an old grimoire years ago. She thumbed through pages filled with song lyrics and strange drawings of exotic sea creatures and majestic felines. Halfway through, a recent date caught her eye, and she began to read Tyler’s words.
April 16th, 1991
“She opened windows, turned up the stereo, and Lynyrd Skynyrd’s guitar blasted. I remember thinking about my jail cell upstate, listening to Skynyrd on an old tape recorder. I scored it on a trade for my pencil sketch of Maggie, that damn stripper who I got busted with. It was her damn idea to rob those convenience stores along the interstate. Cops gave her a deal when she sang to them. Last I heard they’d found her body in a rented room in New York. Somebody went crazy on her with a knife and with shards from a broken bottle. It happened after I got out of prison, after I moved back to Talbot’s Bay, and after I told Nicky the story.
“My past isn’t pretty, but my future is rocking. I met with Emily Bourgeous before Diana’s shift. Nicky arranged it, telling me that he’d take care of all the details later.
“Her office was small and cluttered, and she wasn’t as professional as I thought, chomping on gum during our meeting, and swearing like a truck driver, but that’s the way music people are.
“She told me, ‘You and I are fucking going to make it work. I want to release Songs for the Devil first, and if that goes well then we'll release another in a few months. Sound good?’
“I was a little uncomfortable with her boldness, with the way she flaunted her body. She’s not attractive, but I’ll do anything for that record deal—anything at all.
“She told me she’d have the contract ready for Nicky by the end of the week.
“She’s as legit as they come, with framed gold records hanging on her office wall, and Rolling Stone magazines on her desk. She promised me that I’d see my name in lights. But it left me with an uneasy feeling. Didn’t Nicky tell me that there’s always a price to pay?
Diana shifted her foot, kicking over a deck of Tarot cards piled on the floor. They tumbled; none landed face up but Death who stared at her with a disdainful grin. Was it a euphoric opus?
Life is getting better. Everything I set out to do is coming together. I still think about what me, Magician and Nicky did back on the bay with the girl. It has nothing to do with the record company’s offer. Or does it?”
“Diana?” Tyler stood there, swaying, pale and with bloodshot eyes.
“What does all this mean, Tyler? What happened on the bay with that girl…with my father and Magician? Is this real, or something you made up?”
“Some of it’s real. The girl was a backup singer who I used in a recording session. Your father…and Magician partied with her, told me she had connections with some big shots in New York. I left when things started getting wild. I swear…”
He stumbled backward, turned and collapsed on the bed. “No worries, babe. Everything is falling into place.”
14.
In public Tyler confessed his love for her.
“She’s my soul,” he told reporters.
“My soul,” Diana said softly, as she stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair fell in tight ringlets down her shoulders. Her makeup had long ago worn off, leaving her skin pale and her eyes rimmed with dark circles. She’d gotten too thin over the past few weeks, and her clothes hung off her body.
She leaned closer to the looking glass, studying every flaw and mark. A radiator hissed and a door opened and closed downstairs, and suddenly a face materialized behind her, eyes slanted upward like a cat, lips turned up with a sly smile. Diana spun on her heels expecting to encounter an intruder, but she remained alone. She sighed, reminding herself that the pills her doctor prescribed were strong, and often had side effects.
She turned, gazed back into the mirror, and then a subtle noise—a soft ringing—drew her attention to the dresser. A curious box she hadn’t noticed before sat there, one Tyler had made years before
He’d learned the strange craft down south, in New Orleans. Diana believed that Tyler's charming and mystical story most likely contained elements of fiction.
“I met a woman who told me that she loved my music. She approached me after
a small show in a club on Bourbon Street. I think that’s how the story is supposed to go,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Now Diana envisioned Tyler holding the box in his palm after he’d completed it. Telling her, “It’s part of me, fashioned with my hands and mind.” She reached down, touched the box, and then remembered his voice when he told his tale.
“I ain’t gonna lie to you when I tell you she was a great lover. Nicky introduced us, and I think that he was pissed when she took to me so fast. She followed me around the country for months, teaching me about her beliefs and the funky wooden boxes she carved.
“She called them soul catchers, and said that all you need to do is press the box to a dying person's chest, and at the moment of death—when the soul leaves the body—it gets trapped in the box. This woman—Analetta—she had hundreds of them, on window sills, on the kitchen counter with the spices—underneath her bed. She taught me how to sand the wood, told me what symbols and colors are the strongest."
Diana slipped the photograph under her arm, and then picked up the box. She studied abstract patterns and astrological signs made with bold red and blue brush strokes, and she asked, “Did you really believe that your boxes could trap souls? Where is yours tonight, Tyler?”
She turned the box over on one side, and then the other. Next she turned Tyler's creation upside-down, and that’s where her father had taped a note.
Diana,
“This belongs to you. One of Tyler’s trinkets.
Dad
Confusion filled her and she asked, “What makes you think that this—out all Tyler’s creations—would be the thing I’d want the most?”
Nicky had looked out for her over the years, but their relationship had always lacked warmth and normality. But she often wondered if his concern bordered on obsession. She dismissed those thoughts when she looked to the strange box once more.
City at the Edge of the Earth Page 6
