Chapter Sixteen
St. James was on his second Jäger of the evening—his fourth if you counted dinner—when Connie came through the crowd. He waved at her. Men turned toward her like sunflowers facing the dawn.
“I waited for you downstairs,” she said, sliding on to the adjacent stool.
“I’m sorry. I should have gone down to greet you. I’ve been here since nine.”
“All right. I told you In Crowd would pay. Did you save your receipt?”
St. James pulled the stub triumphantly from an inside jacket pocket. Connie took it and put in her handbag. She wore a white and yellow strapped summer dress with yellow flats. The purse was yellow vinyl. She looked stunning and emitted some disturbing tropical scent.
“Want a drink?” he asked.
Connie glanced at his shot glass. St. James could smell her disapproval. Well, fuck it. He was old enough to be her dad, had he impregnated her mother at age twelve. There was no sense in acting the fool because there was no payoff. But St. James, like millions of men before him, couldn’t help it. Her beauty, her near-crazy sexiness forced him into ancient male patterns. “Oh, come on.”
Connie sighed. “I’d like an Icelandic martini straight up with an olive.”
As St. James conveyed this message to the bartender—a young man with jet-black hair, a stud through his chin, lip, eye, and ear piercings—Connie tugged on his sleeve. St. James swiveled to see Freddie Guttierez boppin’ their way with a disco strut, throwing out his hands and shaking his hips followed by a mesmerized and laughing Brigid. Brigid had changed into a little black cocktail dress and black heels and looked sensational.
Guttierez saw them and waved. “How are you, my friend?” he said to St. James, sticking out his paw. St. James shook it. Guttierez wore a ridiculous Tyrolean hat with a little brush in the headband.
“Never better,” St. James replied.
Guttierez turned to Connie. “Delightful to see you again, Connie.”
Connie nodded. “You guys.”
The bartender arrived with their drinks. Guttierez insisted on paying and ordered a Tecate and Brigid ordered a Depth Bomb, which was a shot of Jägermeister in a Red Bull. St. James had heard they led to strokes. Well, she was young.
“Mr. Guttierez,” Connie had to yell to be heard. “What are you going to do if the band comes on?”
“Call me Freddie. If that band goes on, me and Kaspar are going to have a private talk. After the show.”
“Melchior’s trying to get an injunction, you know,” St. James said holding his Jägermeister up to the light.
“You know, my friend,” Guttierez said, “nobody in Germany drinks that swill. It’s strictly for American college students.”
“This from a man who orders Tecate,” St. James said.
Guttierez laughed. “You’re funny. I like you. Don’t I know you from some place?”
“I used to be Ian St. James.”
“Why does that name ring a bell?”
“Because, Freddie,” Connie said, “Ian is a well-known musician. And his father Oaian was the Banshees’ drummer.”
Guttierez put an arm around Brigid and arched his highly expressive eyebrows. “Then you and I share a common interest. Neither one of us wants this band to go on.”
“I’m not so sure,” St. James said.
“What are you not so sure about?” Guttierez said.
“The drummer does look an awful lot like me father. I mean, I never knew him, but there are thousands of pictures. I used to stare at them for hours trying to convince myself that this grinning stranger was me father. He always had a pretty bird at hand.”
“You don’t really think he’s your father. You’re twice his age!”
“Not quite, but I get your point. I don’t know. I’d like to talk to him. That’s why I’m here. I tried to talk to him in Prague, but that fucker Kaspar spiked my drink and stuck me in the trunk of an auto due to be crushed. I barely escaped with me life.”
“That is something else for which I will pay him back.”
St. James shuddered. He would definitely not want Guttierez mad at him. He knew the type of person Melchior employed. True, Melchior had always been kind to him, possibly as a result of his never requited love for Oaian, possibly because he deemed it good politics. St. James was grateful for every bit of luck that fell his way. This was the biggest chunk in a long time. Melchior had promised him a recording contract if he helped Connie hype this into the story of the year.
Most likely they were a bunch of clever impostors, possibly surgically altered to resemble the originals. But who and why would anyone attempt such a thing? What was the point? Was the band incapable of writing new material? And why now?
A man appeared onstage in a ragged tuxedo, bowtie undone, stalking the stage like a meth addict. He took the mike.
“Meine Damen und Herren The Banshees!”
Three musicians loped onstage to thunderous applause and whistling. They all had military sidewalls. Oaian’s right arm was now completely blanketed in an elaborate Oriental tattoo. St. James had missed it in Prague because Oaian had worn a long-sleeved shirt. The tat was new.
“Oll roight then,” Paddy growled into the mike. “’Allo Berlin!” and he burst into the opening riff of “Race the Devil,” Oaian providing a multi-faceted backbeat, Cunar thrumming on bass. The club was filled to capacity. Almost instantaneously, a number of clubbers gathered on the dance floor before the stage and began to gyrate like spastics in the grip of religious ecstasy.
Guttierez grinned fiercely at the stage. “Let’s dance!” he said, pulling a laughing Brigid along behind him.
That proved to be a mistake.