Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  "Not a peep out of you," I warn Peter. With the flick of the bedspread to cover me, my eyes close off the world, yet the sound of Peter's impatience kills my quest for slumber. What if he's right about Rosalyn? Will my fate be like that of The Graduate, running into a chapel to stop her from marrying the wrong guy? Would she run off with me only for us to get those same looks on our faces that Elaine and Benjamin do, thus signaling that once the battle is over the thrill is gone?

  Peter's gaze on me seems to penetrate through the darkness. He says he and I act in extremes because we don't have the necessary tools to counterbalance our emotions. When all this goes down, how balanced will I be? "Hey, Peter. Why didn't you kill Stoddard while you were alive?"

  My body tilts slightly to the right in response to a sudden dip in the bed. Peter takes pause before responding. "You know, the thought never occurred to me. When I had Jane and my music, even if all else was going to hell I was pretty happy. Then I only wanted justice. Jane would be so disappointed in me now."

  "Don't worry, Peter. We'll make her proud. Meanwhile, I want to hear all of your stories from the time you were signed onward, especially if they involve Jane."

  Poet's Problem

  A guy who looks like Mr. Clean asks, "And what do you do, Jacqueline? You must be some type of model or actress, right?"

  Why did we do this to ourselves? We thought if we came to Mulligan's on a Thursday we could focus on quality conversation.

  We were wrong.

  "I'm on the marketing team for STN," Jacqueline says to the man with the muscles bulging under his tight, black T-shirt. Every now and again he gives them a little flex and winks at her. Creepy! I'm surprised he hasn't kissed them yet.

  "Really? Sporting Today Network? I bet that means you know a lot about what men like." His hand goes to her knee. I cringe on her behalf while she stays cool and continues to look him in the eye like she doesn't notice his advance.

  "Actually, I'm head of marketing for women, so it doesn't matter what the big dumb jocks like. However, I can tell you everything the ladies like." Jacqueline leans over and puts her head on my shoulder, then gazes up at me like we are the Dynamic Duo of Sex Goddesses. Poor Darla is so entertained she nearly sprays her drink out of her mouth. Much to Jacqueline's dismay, her will-never-be-suitor doesn't seem to get the hint.

  "So, uh, there's a party at my place tomorrow night. Maybe you'd like to come by." His eyes leer at my tits as he asks. Wow. As if the deal hadn't already been sealed that he is out of luck, he's now taken out an insurance policy.

  "I'm sorry. I'll be busy with my friend." Jacqueline makes a show of giving my hand a squeeze, thus messing with the clueless man.

  "Well, I'm sure there is room enough for both of you."

  Gross!

  Touching our foreheads together, her eyes stare into mine. In their own way they burst with laughter. "Nah. Have a nice night," she tells him. He strolls off, trying to hide his walk of shame.

  As soon as he is out of sight Jacqueline's jovial grin fades. With the dip of her finger into her glass she swipes some of the chocolate ganache off of the inside of her Mayan Chocolate Martini and stares before sucking it off. "Why is it so hard to find decent men who appreciate us?" Her solemn tone reflects the darker side of romance. "I know we are just as guilty as they are of checking out the hot ones, but even if a guy who I wasn't attracted to approached me in a genuine fashion, I would at least ask his name and talk to him. Instead, all we get are the creepy freaks who just want to get us in bed."

  "Wanna hear something dumb?" Darla says. "I'm depressed because Chris left poetry on my windshield this morning."

  "Was it that bad?" I ask.

  "Terrible, but in a very sweet way, which is the problem. If he's willing to leave me bad poetry he wrote himself it means he really cares." The ice in Darla's glass crunches as she smacks her straw into it. "He's a great guy. So great I'm scared it's all going to fall apart, you know?"

  "All too well," Jacqueline says. "You know what though? Someday that risk will have been worth taking. I know it seems I'll date anyone who comes along, but the truth is I want what my parents have. I want to wake up next to a great guy each morning so we can both complain about how cold it is and try to bribe the other to get up and make coffee. When we are old, I want to be the one who helps him up the stairs while he teases me about my false teeth. And I want kids with him, even if we adopt." She halts to dab the water welling in her eyes. Her voice gets a little shaky. I wish I could do something to give her relief from loneliness. "And when I die, I want be buried next to him after giving him the absolute best I could each and every day. I'm never, ever going to find that if I don't keep taking risks. Believe me, he is out there, and I will find him."

  I squeeze Jacqueline's hand with the deepest of love and sincerity. "You're right. You will find him. I know you will."

  Darla puts down her drink and braves to face her own concerns. "How many of these have I had?"

  "Just one that I know of."

  "Good, then my resolve is real." Darla rises and grabs her cell phone. "I'm off to make a call. There's someone who illuminated my day, and I'm going to tell him I don't want to wait until Saturday to see him again."

  Everyone around me is trudging forward. Darla is daring to hope for her future. No matter how many times she falls on her face Jacqueline refuses to stop looking for Mr. Right. Niles uses his lack of emotions as a reason to be a better person. Meanwhile I get lost in my heart and flail.

  Through my foolishness a few things have become abundantly clear. There are no short cuts to healing, but I have to stop dragging my feet. Niles is a beautiful man that I want in my life. He shows strength by attempting to tackle adversity whether it's with his perplexing emotions or by building houses of sugar packets. Deep in my heart I know I can find trust in him. Niles in any capacity is a gift, and I will kick my own ass so I can be a gift to him as well.

  Communication Breakdown

  Quarter of ten on Friday morning finally rolls around. Peter hovers over my shoulder. He reads the passcode aloud as I type and then verifies I've tapped the proper keys. My jittery finger hits a three instead of a two and we both jump like it's the end of the ever loving world. What happened to Niles, the cool cucumber?

  After entering the last digit I take a deep breath and hit the return key. A seemingly innocuous red message appears.

  Invalid login.

  Crap!

  We begin the process again, hunting and pecking keys to be sure the right ones are hit, calling out the characters as they are tapped, and verifying each one.

  Invalid login.

  Crap!

  "Have we been duped?" Peter asks.

  "Slip into the hallway. Check any place where someone could be waiting for us. Also, make sure no door is cracked open where somebody could be watching our door from their room."

  My attention turns back to the password. Each character is clearly written, including the distinct line through the zero to show it is not an O. This is exactly what was entered, twice. A third time will end with a system lockout and Stoddard getting a breach of security message. Why would she hand over the wrong code instead of standing me up?

  She wouldn't. It wouldn't be worth the risk of getting caught. Either she grabbed a decoy password or this one is encoded.

  Peter reappears, his face stern. "The hall is dead. No one in the elevator. Nobody suspicious looking in the lobby. We've been had, haven't we?"

  "No. She's got the wrong password, and we've only got fifteen minutes to figure the right one out."

  Figure it out? He's barmy. Either I'll find it myself or it's time for plan B—whatever that is. "Don't go anywhere," I warn Niles. I pop into Stoddard's stodgy office. Somewhere here is the password. He probably left that phony one in a drawer, which likely means there's a safe containing the real one somewhere.

  It being in the wall seems too obvious, so I forgo the notion of having a solid body and drop myself halfway down the flo
or with my feet in the room below and my head still in the office. I look for changes in the structure that feels like muck as I pass through it. Everything seems the same until I reach the area just under Stoddard's desk. Under the floorboards sits a box with enough cash to end hunger in Africa. With the exception of needing a good vacuuming, the floor is clean. However, a piece of paper is taped under the desk drawer, and it has all of his passwords. This can't be real. Stoddard is not that stupid. The fact it shows the same password that Niles has proves it's a decoy. This means Annie's planning on having Mr. B.S. in here pronto.

  I make for the walls, pulling off gold record after gold record, searching for a safe, a list of passwords, or anything of use. The first record has a series of numbers on the back. Could I have gotten so lucky?

  No, I'm Peter Lane, and I'm up against Ben Stoddard. Luck does not exist. He makes sure of it.

  Each award has writing on the back. Usually it's a bunch of numbers. The one given to Love Machine flares my nostrils. What does seven two seven five eight three mean? If one of these holds the code to that system, how can we tell which one it is?

  Anger builds. He doesn't deserve this award, and he doesn't get to keep it. I'll smash it down on the desk and shatter it to bits, hoping the bastard will cut himself while picking up the pieces.

  I raise it in preparation for the smash, but something shifts inside and pops out from under the loose backing that was clearly once removed and reattached. A knot hits my stomach as I slide out several photos. The first shows my old flat ablaze. The second is of emergency services pulling out a cloth-covered stretcher with a body on it. Jane sits on a curb, huddled over and screaming.

  Oh, my darling, Jane. I'm so very sorry for getting tied up in this mess. I was only trying to stand up for us.

  The final photo makes my throat clench. If I had a stomach, I'd be retching. It's a snap of a car on fire in a ditch. I'm barely able to make out the blood-splattered body in the front seat as Jane's. This is what the two guys who were seen walking away from the wreckage were doing. This was their proof that they got her. That sick creep, Stoddard, is keeping trophies!

  See Emily Play

  Where the hell is Peter? We're running out of time.

  "Out of Time," like The Stones song. I begin humming.

  Who could Emily be? The girl he's having an affair with is Natasha. Maybe Emily is code to enter the name of whomever he is seeing at the time.

  I begin typing, N-A-T-A

  Stop. Risking being locked out on an unfounded hunch is mission suicide. Rapidly the keystrokes are deleted and my hands slid under my lap and away from making a foolish move. My humming resumes.

  Emily isn't a kid, a grandchild, the wife, his mom, or any of the former secretaries that we came across. A dog? Childhood sweetheart? His version of Rosebud? Was the Rosebud thing really about playing with a sled?

  Huh, playing …

  Pink Floyd did "See Emily Play." The Zombies did "A Rose For Emily." The Moody Blues had "Emily's Song." What was the other song that had Emily in it? Wasn't there one with some weird name?

  I do a quick web search. "Look to the Rainbow (Emily)" by The Airwaves Of Time pops up. That sounds right. My humming changes tune as I lean back.

  A click resounds in my head, almost as if I hear it. It sends me popping up to surf to a Wikipedia entry on the band out of Nottingham who just happens to have been produced by Ben Stoddard! Robin Hood may have come to my rescue.

  On YouTube I find an old promo shot of the band as they recorded the hit. It starts off with a clapboard with information that smacks my head. Date: October 12, 1967. 101267 or, as the English would write it, 121067. This is where the passcode came from. Meaning the leading characters are not WOT, they are AOT, like the band name. He changed a single character so it would be easy to remember.

  Take the risk Niles—slowly. Use hunt, peck, and verify.

  And … Deep breath … Enter.

  No lock out message! I'm in!

  Leaning back in my chair with a stretch and the crack of my knuckles I shout, "Take that high school jerks who made fun of my music. Loo-sers!"

  On my monitor, framed objects float off of the wall, flip about, then return to their places. Peter has to get out of there before Stoddard catches him.

  Okay, that's stupid. The guy's a ghost and generally invisible, so why worry?

  Because it's Peter, and he gets a little crazy at times. Besides, someone's got to occasionally monitor these feeds, so if I can see those pictures moving, so can they.

  Nothing. I keep coming up with a big nothing as far as a safe goes. However, what I'm finding behind these records is damned depressing. How the hell can we tip off the authorities without it looking like a set up? Besides, when you get right down to it, they prove nothing other than the fact that Stoddard is one sick, creepy little monkey.

  Footsteps are on the approach. They sound heavy and determined. The door flies open and a goon bursts in. He sees the award seemingly suspended in the air and snatches it out of my invisible hands. Comically he looks to the ceiling. His brow scrunches as if thinking wires surely must be attached to the frame. I audibly laugh, and he spins around as his search intensifies. "Who's there?" he calls out with a hint of treble in his voice. For once, little old me is the one frightening the big guns. I laugh again. All things do come in good time.

  After closing my eyes, because it somehow seems to help, I pop back to the hotel room to find Niles watching Stoddard on his computer monitor. "What are you doing with that picture?" Stoddard asks the goon.

  "You did it!" I exclaim with a delighted stomp of my foot. "You bloody well did it! How'd you manage?"

  The guard says to Stoddard, "I, uh—it looked like it was about to fall, so I was just—"

  "Get out of here!" Stoddard shouts back. "It's bad enough I have to deal with my wife in a few minutes."

  "It was actually pretty simple," Niles tells. "The coding system he uses isn't unique."

  Stoddard yanks the record out of the goon's hands. The pictures start to slide out of the backing. He shoves them back in. Good, now I know they have his prints on them, but all that does is prove he knows they are there. "Peter Lane," Stoddard says, shaking his head while reattaching the record, "you are still a pain in the ass."

  "How did he code it?"

  "Wait, wait, wait," Niles says, waving a hand to me and drawing himself closer to the monitor.

  "Sometimes I wonder if that seven hundred and twenty-seven thousand, five hundred and eighty-three, post-tax pounds I've made off of you from this album alone has been worth it."

  So that's what those numbers mean. That filthy little prick!

  Stoddard plants his hands on his hips, steps back, and snickers, "Apparently lighting a guy on fire doesn't lead to true death. I spent far too much money making sure you and your girlie were silenced to have to deal with you again, yet you haunt me anyway. Well, good for you, Mr. Lane. I'm certain I would do the same if you were responsible for my demise. Who knows where things would've gone had it not been for my boy, Pritchard, starting that little fire. Then again, sometimes a dead legend is worth more than a live wire. No one cares about the old and living, but the young and dead—now that gets people to shell out nostalgia money. Thanks for the cash flow."

  "That ruthless bastard!" My hands grip into a mock strangle. "I ought to go back over there and—"

  "Peter, wait a second." Niles jumps out of his seat. For the first time I feel true enthusiasm from him. "Didn't you hear? We got it! We got our confession! Mrs. Stoddard could completely fail us, and it won't matter. Pop on over and tell her we are switching to the hotel across the street as a precaution. As soon as I hand her the drive, I'm off to claim Rosalyn whether the merger between you and I happens or not." He holds his hands up to the heavens as if in thanks. The grin on his face is like he's struck gold. "It's always satisfying to win a case but this, this is different. Never before have I won a personal battle. I feel—I feel amazing!"

/>   My Mind's Eye

  The bitter reality hits. I'm about to die.

  Niles won't have my memories, and our evolution will not allow him to see the world in quite the way I do. The next time my memories will surface is when he passes on. At that point Niles, myself, and all those we have been before will be resurrected. When you die, and the memories of your past lives return, you become the only guest at a family reunion.

  It's all lovely and well, but no matter how you look at all the rubbish in the can, with Niles out fooling around with Mrs. Stoddard, doing his business and giving her the hard drive, there's not much longer to write my own epitaph.

  Stoddard kept a small fortune under the floorboards. He doesn't need it, but I know a few blokes who are worthy. Given what Stoddard said my old band mates are not likely to be living high on the hog. Like the unkillable spirit that I am, I play Robin Hood by strolling into Stoddard's place and helping myself to the filthy lucre in the floorboards. I laugh while waltzing out the front door. Not only am I liberating part of Stoddard's fortune, I'm well aware if anybody walks by, they'll see a floating bag of cash like in one of those cartoons the kiddies used to watch before the matinee.

  After three stops, Peter Lane and his memories can disappear. I went through so much with these guys only to be torn apart by the wicked money machine. We all deserved so much better.

  My feet get planted in front of a modest house. The inside is warm and inviting—light tan walls, cozy furniture—yet it's as simple as the outside. Sadly, I've come while Bobby is away. I've missed the old fellow.

  Photos grab my attention as I head down the hall. Bobby's managed to have quite the family. At least one of us got that. Farther down is a platinum album—his version of the one Stoddard has on my behalf. Two more reside next to it—the one awarded to John, our drummer, along with mine. Has Johnny passed on? That web doodad of Rosalyn's showed him as alive and living reclusively. How odd.