Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

his face was a simulcra, a face designed to mimic that of a human as closely as possible and the stress lines in his fluid-metal face showed that he smiled a lot. ‘Na,’ he said cheerfully. ‘They managed to get out for the interval snacks.’

  ‘Where’s Vid got to?’ Keys wondered out loud.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Riff. ‘He seems to be spending a lot of time alone lately. I just hope he isn’t getting too hung up over Nutter.’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything.’

  ‘He hasn’t said much since we left The Inferno.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s still uncomfortable after that fight with Ben,’ said Hal. ‘From what you’ve told me, I’d say that he was fond of the kid.’

  ‘Fond?’ Keys raised himself up and gazed at the simulacrum. ‘But they argued all the time.’

  Hal grinned. ‘Methink he doth protest too much,’ he said.

  ‘You might be right,’ said Keys. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t expend that much energy on someone you hated, would you?’

  ‘I don’t see why the two of them don’t just talk it out. It’s not as if they’re in different cities.’

  ‘Probably doesn’t want Tony to know where we are,’ said Riff. ‘He’s always been a bit paranoid about him.’

  ‘Perhaps we should pop up and see him,’ said Keys. ‘You know – make sure that he’s alright.’

  Riff nodded. The three robots rose and made their way over to the elevator.

  ‘Has Emil said anything to you guys about the future?’ Hal asked as they waited for the doors to open.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said Riff. ‘Why? Has he said anything to you?’

  ‘Not as such, but Karl’s a bit restless.’

  ‘Why?’ Riff wondered what anyone had done to upset the bassist this time. He’d always seemed a little over-sensitive.

  ‘I think he feels that we’re playing second-fiddle to you guys,’ said Hal as they trooped into the elevator. ‘He gets the impression that Emil thinks more of you.’

  ‘Well, we are pulling in the numbers, I suppose.’

  Hal nodded and pressed the button for the top floor. ‘Yes, but he thinks that just because we play the matinees and you play the evenings.’

  ‘I thought you guys were a jazz band,’ said Keys. ‘Isn’t the music supposed to be more important than the money?’

  ‘That’s what jazz musicians like you to think – they all say it’s about the purity of the music, but you offer them a fat contract to play backing for some tone-deaf crooner and they’ll take it like a shot. Purists are always mercenaries at heart.’

  ‘Maybe that explains Tony.’

  ‘I didn’t say it worked both ways.’

  Nobody replied: coming from the bustle of the ballroom it seemed suddenly quiet in the corridor. Hal knocked gently on Vid’s door, conscious of how loud his knock sounded in the stillness. When no response came, he knocked slightly harder.

  ‘Vid?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Vid. Are you in there?’ Riff added, boosting the bass content of his voice to make it carry further. There was still no response.

  ‘Perhaps he’s out,’ said Hal.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Keys. ‘Hey. What’s this hole in the door?’

  Hal and Riff looked up to where Keys was hovering near the top of the doorway. Sure enough there was a small, elliptical hole, as if someone had been attempting to site a spyglass with inadequate tools.

  ‘Knothole?’ Riff suggested.

  ‘Can’t be. Plastic doors,’ said Hal. He looked across the corridor and then tapped Keys on the arm. Keys turned and followed the direction in which the drummer was pointing. There was an elliptical burn on the wall, just above the opposite door. Worried, Keys began to hammer on the door with all four hands.

  ‘Come on Vid, open up,’ he yelled. There was still no answer. Riff moved Keys gently aside and shoulder-barged the door. The robots piled into the room behind him.

  They found the room quiet, except for the sound of a slight breeze rustling the curtains. Vid was standing by the window and made no move to face them as they entered. Worried, Keys flew over to the bassist’s side, and tugged at his arm.

  ‘Come on, stop playing,’ he chided his friend.

  Riff crossed the room in rapid strides and examined the windows. They were closed, but there was still a breeze. His searching eyes found a small, circular hole just below shoulder-level and he pointed it out to the others. Panicking, Keys turned Vid round on his wheel and his jaw dropped. Vid’s screen was completely blue, except for a small-white cursor blinking in one corner; there was a small circular hole through the front of his chest.

  45

  Ben waved his hand across the communicator, dismissing Riff’s image and ending the call. His shoulders drooped and he took a deep breath as he sank onto the edge of the stage.

  Dobbsy looked up from where the band were lounging in the bar. ‘What’s up?’ he said.

  ‘It’s Vid,’ said Ben simply.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Someone’s shot him.’

  ‘Vid?’ Dobbsy’s expression was blank.

  ‘Our bassist.’

  Mark’s expression attempted to be blanker than Dobbsy’s. Then, realisation dawned. ‘Oh, you mean in Blood and Oil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So do your friends need a replacement?’

  ‘What?’ Incredulity lent pitch to Ben’s voice. It passed Mark by entirely.

  ‘Only, I don’t seem to be doing much around here.’

  If looks could kill, the city’s musical death toll would have gone from a statistic to a phenomenon. As it was, Ben’s glance only silenced Mark for a few minutes.

  ‘It sounds like Vid was right about there being a plot, anyway,’ he said, his voice an exercise in self-control.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ said Dobbsy.

  ‘Well why else would anyone want to kill him?’

  Dobbsy had no answer and a silence descended.

  It was interrupted by a female voice from across the room. ‘Something up?’

  Ben looked up to see Sheila entering. Under normal circumstances, the appearance of the prostitute would have pleased him, but now he accepted her presence with little enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s Vid,’ he repeated himself. ‘He’s been shot.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Sheila. ‘He lined himself up for that one.’

  ‘What?’ Ben hadn’t really expected sympathy from the prostitute, but the complete lack of surprise in her demeanour simply increased the surprise in his.

  ‘Well, he’s been poking his nose in a lot of things he shouldn’t lately.’

  ‘What do you know about this?’

  ‘I heard that your friend had been poking his nose into some of Tony’s business dealings,’ Sheila sat down on a barstool and crossed her legs with practiced dignity.

  ‘What? You mean stuff to do with the band?’

  ‘Oh, don’t come the innocent,’ said Sheila tartly. ‘You know as well as I do that the band was nothing but a front.’

  ‘A front?’

  ‘You don’t honestly think Tony admired you musically, do you?’

  Ben’s stupefied silence told his own story. Sheila frowned and reached into a pocket for her cigarettes.

  ‘So Tony’s given up taking on willing partners, has he?’ she mused, almost to herself. ‘I thought when I saw that robot again he was just pulling the same old scam.’

  Ben looked up sharply. ‘What robot?’

  ‘What do you mean What robot? Your drummer, of course.’

  ‘Nutter?’

  Sheila’s eyes flashed angrily. Ben, guessing the name might have been unknown to her, explained. ‘Why didn’t he say anything?’ he added.

  Sheila shrugged as she lit her cigarette. ‘Perhaps he had his memory wiped,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was only a robot.’

  ‘Nutter wasn’t only a robot,’ Ben snapped. Any traces of a
ffection that he’d once held for the woman had dissolved in the light of her casual disinterest and he felt as if the deeply instilled moral upbringing that told him to respect women would be the next casualty at the going rate. Dobbsy, feeling unsafe in Ben’s presence, dragged Mark out of the door. Vic and Gary had already left.

  ‘Nutter,’ Ben began, delivering the words slowly and purposefully, ‘was my friend. He wouldn’t have been involved in anything dodgy.’

  ‘You can tell yourself that as much as you like,’ said Sheila, helping herself to a drink from the bar, ‘but he was in it up to his ears. Or rather, it was in him.’

  Ben made to reply, but then the import of the words struck him. ‘It was in him?’ What was that supposed to mean? He remembered Vid’s suspicions about Nutter’s remains – the white powder. A horrifying thought occurred to him.

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Ten out of ten. Top grade Cram if Tony’s to be believed,’ said Sheila, clearly insinuating that belief in Tony wasn’t a universal constant.

  Ben thought about the effects that alcohol had had on Nutter and the discussion about underlying chemicals. He should have seen the signs, he knew. Why hadn’t he? He’d been too distracted, that’s why. Too distracted by the same whore who was sitting at the bar, puffing away at her own fix and laughing to herself. Laughing about his stupidity. Laughing about the way he’d been duped – duped by Tony.

  His face flushed with scarcely controlled rage. ‘Where is he?’ he snapped.

  Sheila took a long drag, but said nothing.

  ‘Where is he?’ Ben repeated.

  ‘You mean Tony?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  Sheila shrugged. ‘He’s probably in his office,’ she said. Ben shoved his chair back and rose to his feet.

  ‘There’s no point going up there,’ Sheila added to his retreating back. ‘You haven’t got anything on him; all the evidence went up