Chapter Seventeen
St. James stood and looked back toward the entrance.
“Who are you looking for?” Connie asked.
“The Professor. I hope nothing happened to him.”
“He probably came to his senses and went home.” They had to shout into each other’s ears to be heard. “Is that your dad?”
“I don’t know!” St. James yelled. “I’ll have to get down there for a closer look!”
Connie yelled, “I’ll save your seat!”
St. James downed his drink acutely aware of Connie’s disapproving gaze. He’d taken Guttierez’ words to heart. Henceforth, he would leave the Jägermeister to the college kids.
Getting to the stage presented certain difficulties. Mainly, the mob before him filled every available inch of space. St. James never was one for elbowing through a crowd. At least he could see over most of the heads when he stood on tiptoe. He found himself shuttled off to the left side in the third or fourth row. Further forward, progress was impossible. Between the leaping bodies, he concentrated on the drummer.
The drummer had one of those young/old faces that in their youth projected their seniority, and in their seniority projected their youth. He was the spitting image of Oaian St. James, eyes screwed shut, arms flailing, cymbals crashing, never losing the beat or the sense of forward propulsion. At one point, he looked up and seemed to stare straight at St. James.
He mouthed the words, “I love you.”
Did he? Or was St. James just smashed?
“I am bloody smashed,” he said, but of course no one heard him, not even himself. He turned his attention to the other Banshees. Save for the new wave haircut, Cunar and Paddy were dead ringers. Identical. Plastic surgery had entered its Golden Age.
Clones.
It popped into his head. They’d cloned a cow, a pig, and a dog. They’d been talking about cloning people forever. Could this be it? The cost of such an undertaking would be monumental. Surely someone who had mastered the science of cloning human beings wouldn’t lavish his talents merely to bring forth a fake rock band.
But who was to say the Banshees represented the first fruit of this mysterious agency’s labor? If they’d mastered cloning, might there not be dozens, if not hundreds of clones walking around? Their brains implanted with fictitious histories and synthetic personalities. Who was next? Jim Morrison? Elvis?
In that case, the Banshees were merely an artful exercise, amortized over years of secret production. Of course, only a madman would attempt such a feat, but many of the Banshees’ followers were mad. St. James believed that was a study done to determine which Satanic heavy metal band had inspired the most suicides, homicides, and assaults, the Banshees would win hands down.
The band segued flawlessly into “Bo Diddley.” God, they were good! St. James hadn’t heard a band this hot in eons. Through a break in the crowd, he caught a momentary glimpse of Guttierez and Brigid dancing dirty. The sheer press of humanity chose the style for them.
More and more people continued to pack the floor until St. James was expelled from the fringes, like a splinter rejected by the body. He went to the men’s room. Heavy snorting issued from the closed toilet booths.
I could use a whiff of something right about now, St. James thought. Perish the thought, boyo.
The band was playing “Honky Tonk Women” when St. James emerged from the restroom. St. James jigged and wedged his way back to the bar, extremely uncomfortable from the press of humanity. All the makings of a tragedy. All one had to do was light a match. The Station Nightclub fire in West Warwick, RI had killed a hundred people. Nice round number.
Stop it, boyo. You’re creeping yourself out.
When St. James finally reached Connie at the bar, Kaspar was sitting in his seat. Kaspar rose as St. James reached them.
Kaspar stood. “I was saving it for you!”
Connie was bright-eyed and excited. “I was just telling Kaspar how good these guys sound. Even if they are fakes, they can bring it. Melchior should embrace these guys, not fight ’em.”
“Excuse me,” Kaspar said disappearing into the crowd.
St. James flopped down on the stool and looked for the bartender. Connie turned her back to the bar, disapproval evident in her posture and pursed lips. Well, fuck it. He was a grown man. She wasn’t his keeper, and there was no point acting the swain. He’d only make a fool of himself.
St. James ordered another whiskey. The entire room thrummed to the Banshee’s beat, the walls seeming to pulse in and out like a living thing. Beyond the sound booth was wall-to-wall humanity. If you fainted, you would not hit the floor.
The Banshees brought “Women” to a satisfying conclusion, and there was a momentary lull in the din.
“MOLOCH LOVES ME!” bellowed a man with buffalo lungs. Others took up the chant. “MOLOCH LOVES ME! MOLOCH LOVES ME!”
A smiling Paddy, face slick with sweat, nodded his head three times and hit it. Oaian scrambled a titanic riff and the band launched into their signature shocker. Red and blue lights strobed over the dance floor like a disaster scene. Heads pogoed furiously, bodies slamming sideways, all indistinguishable in the red/blue flashing light.
A queasy feeling developed in the pit of St. James’ stomach. Serves me right for drinking like a tosser, he thought.
Impossibly, the band kicked it up a notch, Paddy ripping one monumental riff after another. They were allegro and fortissimo. Paddy spat out words in Gaelic. At least, St. James thought it was Gaelic. He couldn’t be sure. The audience responded like popping corn. As the band reached the chorus, the audience surged together in the middle of the dance floor, momentarily creating a mound of humanity. Hands flew up and down and for an instant St. James thought he saw the red/blue lights reflected in a knife. Out of nowhere, Paddy hit a dissonant chord. The crowd dropped all pretense of dance and turned on one another in a grunting, snarling, hair-pulling mass.
A woman’s scream split the air, high, hysterical, nerve-grinding, and unending, a primordial cry of shock and pain shot into the lizard brain. The band stopped mid-chord, unplugged their axes and ran out the back. There was no chance of catching up with them. Only a greased snake could get through the mob.
Something wet and warm smacked St. James on the forehead. He used a napkin to mop it off.
Shouts of alarm, another earsplitting scream, and suddenly people were stampeding off the dance floor, running for the front exit. From his perch at the bar, St. James looked around for signs of fire. There was nothing. Nor did he smell smoke. Everyone at the bar took off like it was a raid, leaving St. James and Connie to themselves. The mash-up at the door looked like the Three Stooges times a hundred. Glass shattered. No one took control, no one grabbed the mic. It was an ugly free-for-all. It was Altamont.
Within minutes the club had emptied, people streaming out through the double doors, ripping their clothes and splattering blood from the broken glass. Somebody turned on the lights. St. James looked at the smeared red napkin in his hand.
The smell of sheared copper and charnel house protein was overwhelming. St. James was staring at the napkin when Connie touched his arm. Her face was a mask as she stared down at the stage. St. James followed her gaze. The dance floor was a lake of blood: blood tracked up the stairs, blood tracked to the front door. In the middle of the dance floor lay Guttierez’ flattened hat.