“Great, if you don’t have to spend your day sweating like a motherfucker,” Zweitic said, reminding them of the sweltering heat from earlier in the afternoon.
“Look at that moon,” Bree said when they reached the car. “Man, it’s so big you can almost reach out and grab it.”
Car doors opened.
Bryan and Johnny Z got in the front and Larry and Bree piled into the back, where Larry fished a joint from his shirt pocket and touched it to the flame Bree produced with her lighter. He took a toke, took another and passed it off to Bree, who had just opened her door to toss her smoldering Marlboro to the ground.
“What about that fucking bimbo?” Larry said. “Did you hear the way she was going on and on about how to write a book?”
“Yeah,” Bree said. “Who is she, Professor Peacock or somebody?”
Larry chuckled and laid a hand on Bree’s thigh.
Bree cut him a look and brushed it away.
“Aw,” Zweitic said. “She’s just some rich old broad, shoots her mouth off all over the message boards—pretty much the same kinda shit she was talking in there. I’ve seen her at another convention up in Atlanta. Kind of hard to miss her, if you know what I mean.”
Larry laughed and accepted the joint from Bryan, hit it a couple of times and gave it to Bree. “Hey, Z-man,” he said. “You got a flat surface?”
Zweitic’s hand dipped under the front seat and came up clutching a hardbound book. “Here ya go. I’m sure Ed Lee wouldn’t mind us bouncing a couple’a lines off TERATOLOGIST.”
“Great fucking book,” Bryan said.
“No doubt,” Zweitic said, and then took another toke. “Did you see the look Greaton gave her right before we left?”
“You mean when she started hijacking his conversation like she hijacks every thread she gets involved with on the message boards?”
“Why doesn’t he just tell her to shut the fuck up?” Larry said. “I know I would.” He held the book level in front of Bree, who touched the piece of straw to her nose and bent over the coke.
“Probably paid his way here.”
“You think so, Z-Man?” Bryan said, while Larry vacuumed his line.
“Somebody did. You saw all those posts about him not being able to go unless a plane ticket magically appeared in his mailbox.”
“I thought he was the great Rick Greaton,” Bree said.
“He is.”
“And he can’t pay his own way to a horror convention?”
“Sucks, don’t it?” Zweitic said, and then passed the book over to Bryan, who balanced it on his knees, snorted the last of the coke and tossed the book onto the floorboard.
“What’s up with that?” Bree again.
“It’s a long story,” Bryan said. “Let’s just say it’s a sad, ironic twist that he’s one of our generation’s greatest writers, and nobody knows who he is.”
“Somebody knows who he is,” Larry said. “Did you see all those people clamoring for his autograph, buying him drinks? Dude can hold his fucking liquor. He must’ve downed five of ‘em just while we were there.”
“Like I said, it’s a long story.”
Chapter Forty
Damien Crabtree tossed a ten dollar bill on the bar, picked up his drink and walked away. It had been a pleasant afternoon of fans and renewed friendships, book signings and pitch meetings, all capped off by a wildly enthusiastic crowd who had filled The Blue Room for a question and answer session with the great Damien Crabtree, and to hear him read a chapter from his new book—they actually cheered its conclusion.
None of that could have topped the euphoria he was feeling now.
So frustrated had he been by his distraught lover that he had spent the afternoon ignoring his ringing telephone, which was a ridiculous thing to do. When he finally did answer it, he found himself talking to his agent, who had called several times to let him know that Hollywood was interested in acquiring the rights to In The Flesh, a Zombie-like tale of flesh-invading parasites which had hit the shelves over a year ago. And Damien couldn’t take the call because he had been too busy hiding from Kyle, too much of a wimp to face up to the task at hand. So angry was he, that when he finally did find himself on the line with Kyle—which he knew he would, sooner or later—Damien calmly told him to pack his bags and be gone when he got back home, that it was over.
‘You never loved me.’
‘No, I guess I didn’t,’ Damien had said, cutting off Kyle’s sobbing reply by pressing a finger to the clear plastic protrusion in the telephone’s cradle.
And what a relief it had been, severing all ties with his former lover—forever, as far as Damien was concerned. He felt younger, twenty pounds lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted and he was no longer under the plow—wouldn’t be plowing Kyle anymore, either, but that was all right, there were plenty of fresh fields around the countryside, some right here in Orlando. That’s what Damien was doing now, surveying the landscape for a suitable companion. Sooner or later he’d find a virile young stud to share his bed. If not now, then later at one of the parties.
Chapter Forty-One
“Check it out!” Larry said, pointing through his open window at a marquee that read:
Appearing Thurs through Saturday
The Dixie Blitz Band
Southern Rock At Its Finest
They rolled to a stop outside a square, barn-sized structure. The building, constructed of weathered planks, had a raised red roof. Loud bass-driven music blared through the open front door a couple of long-haired guys had just walked through, muffled only slightly when the door swung shut behind them. The parking lot was full of cars and trucks, as well as a great many motorcycles that lined the front of the building. There was an empty parking space next to the bikes, beside it a bright red SUV some space-hog had parked right on the yellow dividing line.
“Southern rock?” Bree said, as if a bad smell had passed beneath her nose.
“Hell yeah,” Larry said.
“That’s so… eighties.”
“Better than being back at the hotel,” Larry said.
“No shit,” Bryan said. Though there was nothing wrong with the atmosphere back at the Clairton, it was the same old same old for Bryan, a veteran of many a Horror convention, and it was a nice change of pace to be able to get away and see a little bit of Orlando’s nightlife. The seedier the better, as far as he was concerned.
Larry cocked his head sideways. “That’s Limp Bizkit they’re playing.”
“Hm,” Bree said. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Look at this shit,” Zweitic said, sneering at the SUV, squeezing in beside it even though Bryan thought he could have found ample parking farther away. So what if they had to walk a little. It wasn’t like they were handicapped.
“I hate that shit,” Larry said.
Zweitic killed the ignition, opened his door and pushed until it touched the SUV. Then he swung it hard, three times, banging it off the SUV’s side. Finally, he held it in place, forcing himself through the narrow opening until he was standing in the asphalt lot.
“The fuck, Dude,” Bryan said, as Larry got out on the passenger’s side, holding the door so Bree could slide across and exit easily.
“Assholes,” Zweitic said, and then raked his car key from one end of the SUV to the other, bright red curls of paint falling to the asphalt as he went.
“Goddamnit, I didn’t come along to start a bunch of shit.”
“Chill out, Bryan,” Zweitic told him. “Nobody saw us. Who’s to say somebody who couldn’t park here didn’t park out there and then key the son of a bitch on their way to the door?”
“Maybe we should just leave,” Bree said.
“Fuck that,” Larry said, as the band broke into Gator Country. “I ain’t goin’ no where.”
* * *
The place was packed, most of the tables full. For a guy sporting a neatly-trimmed head of short blonde hair, Larry looked right at home with the toe-tapping rednecks and long-ha
ired country boys. Even clean-cut Johnny Z was running around high-fiving metal-heads, and mingling with country girls clad in skimpy halter tops and skin-tight blue jeans—some in tight shorts cut high enough to show off firm slices of their ass-cheeks. (One or two of them Bryan wished would’ve had the common sense to keep their fat asses out of sight.) Both men moved amongst the crowd, heads bobbing to the blaring music, Larry screaming, “Hell yeah!” at the top of his lungs when Southern Blitz’ dueling guitars began wailing out the instrumental finish to Molly Hatchet’s signature tune.
Bryan and Bree found a table. Moments later, Larry and Johnny Z arrived, each carrying two bottles of Rolling Rock beer.
“Finally!” Larry called out, turning his chair around backwards as he sat down, legs straddling the wooden seat, he and Bryan and Zweitic facing the band while Bree faced the bar. Grinning, feet keeping time to the music, Larry took a long drink from a bottle already half empty. “These guys are good!”
“No doubt!” Zweitic called out, clinking bottles with Larry, who then proceeded to drain his dry.
“Be right back,” Larry said. He stood, and Bryan said, “Better get two.”
“You ready?”
“No,” Bryan said. “For yourself.”
Larry disappeared into a crush of people, and the band broke into Bounty Hunter.
Zweitic leaned closer to Bryan, smiling as he said, “This has been one hell of a good time. And it was great finally getting to meet you.”
“You too, man.”
Zweitic took a drink of beer. “I never did hear from Harrow House.”
Bryan, shrugging, looked past Bree to the stage: the bass player to the left, the lead singer whistling into the microphone, twirling the stand in place; dueling guitarists side by side on the opposite end—wailing. Larry was right: those guys are good. “What can I tell ya, Johnny Z? Just keep pluggin’ away. Something’ll happen sooner or later.”
“Uh oh!” Bree said, nodding toward the bar, Bryan and Zweitic turning to see four young men surrounding Larry like Indians around a wagon train, one wearing a cowboy hat, one with a baseball cap turned backwards, all with shoulder-length hair. The two faces Bryan could see looked to be extremely pissed. Inexplicably, Bryan thought, Larry had the same look on his face as when he’d cold-cocked that burglar back in Charlotte, like he was having the time of his life and couldn’t wait to see what might happen next.
Larry said something and one of them sneered at him, scowling his reply.
Larry, grinning, shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
“The fuck was that about?” Bryan asked Larry when he arrived at the table, a bottle of beer in each hand.
“What?” Larry nodded toward the bar. “That? I bumped into one of those pricks. Seems people down here don’t like being bumped into.”
“Should’ve whacked him with one of your beers,” Zweitic said, and Bryan added, “I’m surprised he didn’t.”
“As long as I’ve been jonesing for one of these bad boys? Not a chance.”
“That’s our Larry,” Bree said, laughing while Bryan nodded his agreement.
Bounty Hunter came to an abrupt stop.
Seconds later, Southern Blitz’ lead singer called out, “A short pause for the cause, folks!” and the musicians exited the stage.
Larry took a long drink of beer and Zweitic did the same. While Bryan absentmindedly peeled the label from his near-empty bottle, Bree stared into the crowd.
“Think if I left a full beer sitting on the table it would still be here when I got back?” Larry said.
“Why? Where’re you going?” Bree asked him.
“Just thought now might be a good time for us to step outside and toast one.”
Bryan finished off his bottle. Smiling, he said, “Sounds like a winner. As far as your beer is concerned, I think you can kiss that baby goodbye.”
Larry gave his shoulders a slight shrug. “We’ll see,” he said, then, downing the rest of his bottle, he stood up, leaving it and the full one on the table.
They made their way across the noisy bar, out the front door and onto the sidewalk, where Larry reached into his shirt pocket. “Shit,” he said, frowning at Zweitic, who stood next to him. “I’ve got to roll another one. Unlock your car, huh?”
Zweitic shrugged. “I never locked it.”
Down the sidewalk they went, until they found themselves approaching Zweitic’s car. Bryan couldn’t believe it. The same four characters Larry had gotten into it with in the bar were standing around the SUV. “Just keep on walking,” he said, but as they came nearer, one of the guys—the biggest—called out, “This your car?”
Bryan’s mind cried out, Just say no and keep walking!
But Zweitic said. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Somebody keyed my SUV, motherfucker!” another said, red-faced, his wide eyes glaring, a Florida Gators cap sitting backwards on his head—shorter than the others but powerfully built, his nostrils flaring with every breath he took.
“We didn’t do—”
“They did it, Billy,” the cowboy said, cutting Bryan off.
“Goddamn right we did!” Zweitic called out. “Ya space-hoggin’ motherfuckers!”
No! thought Bryan.
Larry and Zweitic stepped forward and Bryan took a step back.
Bree stood rooted in place, a stunned look of disbelief painting her face as the four Floridians rushed them. Larry, grinning, punched Cowboy in the gut, drove a knee into it and slammed the knee into his face when he doubled over. Another ran past Zweitic, grabbed a handful of Bryan’s shirt and drew back his fist. “Here ya go, ya fuckin’ pussy!” he said. He swung but Bryan blocked it, and the two of them locked arms and fell wrestling to the ground.
The tallest and the shortest closed in on Zweitic. “What’re ya waitin’ for, Billy-boy?” Zweitic taunted the muscle-bound youth, who stepped forward, snorting like a bull.
It happened fast.
Zweitic stiffened his leg, driving a foot into Billy’s knee—through Billy’s knee, the joint bending inward, snapping like a busted bat as Billy fell screaming to the ground and the other guy swung on Zweitic, Johnny Z grabbing his forearm, kneeling and swinging the guy forward over his shoulder, letting the kid’s momentum slam him backwards into the truck; Zweitic jumping up in a kick-boxer’s stance, fists forward, grinning, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he said, “C’mon, bitch!”
Then they were on them: Larry, raining punches on Cowboy’s face, Johnny Z kicking the shit out of his guy’s ribs while Billy lay sobbing on the sidewalk.
Bryan’s assailant let go, scrambling to his feet as Larry and Zweitic kept punishing his companions. He grabbed a fistful of Bree’s hair and snatched her head back. “Hey, goddamn it!” he screamed. A knife was in his hand, then it was at Bree’s throat. “Step the fuck off!”
Bryan’s head snapped around. “Hey, man,” he said.
Larry and Zweitic kept punching and kicking.
“Do it! Now!” the guy yelled, pressing the knife to Bree’s neck, blood trickling from beneath the blade’s sharp point.
A gunshot exploded behind them and everything stopped, Bryan’s leg’s buckling as he turned to see some biker dude coming down the sidewalk, pointing a blue-steel revolver at the guy holding Bree. He had huge, flabby arms and wild grey hair; a long, thick beard that hung to the middle of his chest. He wore a sleeveless black leather vest, dirty black jeans and scuffed leather boots.
“Let her go,” he said, peering at them through wire-framed glasses.
“And if I don’t?”
The barrel touched the Florida boy’s skull. “What do you think?” the biker said, cocking the hammer back with a metallic Click.
The kid let her go and stepped away, clicked his knife and the blade vanished into the handle. The other two stood up and walked over to Billy, who was clutching his knee with both his hands.
“Back off,” the biker called out to Larry and Zweitic, waving them away with his gun as th
ey backed away.
“Now, get in your car and get the fuck outa here.”
“Goddamn, Dude,” Larry said. “We just got here.”
The guy shook his head. “Incredible,” he said.
“No shit,” Bryan said, and then grabbed Bree’s arm, tugging the stunned girl toward the car, shoving Larry toward it when he reached him. “C’mon, Dude.”
Bryan and Bree got in the back and Larry climbed into the front, where he turned around in his seat and nodded at Bree. “You okay?”
“Barely,” she said, reaching into her purse and pulling out a pack of cigarettes, shaking one loose, lighting it and then cramming the package back in the purse.
“Cornbread and turnip greens!” Zweitic sang out on his way to the car. “Ham hocks and butter beans! Rednecks on their hands and knees!” He opened the door, pausing for a moment, before shouting, “That’s what I like about the south!”
“Damnit!’ Bryan yelled from the back seat.
Zweitic squeezed into the driver’s seat. Laughing, he fired up the engine, backed away from the curb and held up a fist, which Larry bumped with one of his own.
“Good man, Johnny Z,” he told him as they left the parking lot.
Bree rolled her window partway down. “Now what?” she said.
“I was just starting to like that place,” Larry said. “I say we give Billy-boy and his crew time to clear out, and go back.”
“You really are crazy, aren’t you?” Bryan said.
“You keep saying that.”
Zweitic laughed as the car headed south, past a Krystals Diner.
Larry, turning in his seat, said, “This really sucks.”
“What sucks, Larry,” Bryan said. “Is Zweitic keying that truck—because none of this would’ve happened if he hadn’t keyed that goddamn truck—and you starting a bunch of shit inside.”
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