Chapter Twenty
There was no escaping the banshee screams, a high-pitched atavistic vibration that shook the spine like a rag doll. St. James tried to flee, but it took overwhelming effort to lift his feet, mired as they were in peat bog. He felt weak as a baby duck. No matter how hard he struggled, he could not escape the hands that grasped at him from every side or flashed stainless steel blades reflecting lakes of blood.
St. James phase-shifted from restless sleep to full wakefulness. The bedside telephone rang with a panicky emergency wail only the Germans could love. St. James groaned.
Attaboy, boyo, you’ve done it again.
His head felt like the inside of a churning cement mixer. He had to piss and vomit. Piss, vomit, or answer the phone? He knew damn well who it was. Quite the impression he’d made last night. Then it hit him.
The lake of blood.
Sobriety arrived with the finality of a Mercedes door slamming shut. He picked up the phone.
“St. James,” he croaked.
“Get up,” Connie clipped. “It’s two o’clock. I’m in the lobby.”
“I’d better shower.”
“You have fifteen minutes.”
St. James hung up and bolted for the bathroom. He heaved his guts up in the toilet—there wasn’t much left—drank three glasses of the tepid tap water, and took a hot shower. He put on his new clean jeans and an Oranjuly T-shirt, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the lobby.
Connie sat on one of the threadbare sofas, legs crossed, wearing hiking shorts and sensible shoes. She looked up from her laptop. She closed her laptop and put it in her backpack.
“Let’s get some breakfast,” she said, not waiting for St. James to acknowledge. He struggled to keep up. A half block down was a cafe featuring fresh-baked strudel. Connie went in, followed by St. James. The bakery smells triggered his stomach’s growling mechanism. He was either stuffing it down or throwing it up.
St. James followed Connie to the counter, ordering hot coffee, orange juice, and Belgian waffles. Connie put her credit card down on the counter, looking out the window. They took a table by the window.
“Hell of a night, wa’nt it?” St. James said cheerfully.
Connie fixed him with green eyes turned cold as the North Atlantic. “Do you wish to remain on this story?”
“Huh?”
She bored in, furious. “I asked you if you wish to remain on this story, because last night you got drunk—again. I practically had to carry you out of that club. I’m not being paid to nursemaid some middle-aged alky has-been. If you intend to work with me on this story, you’re not to have one more drop of alcohol, do you understand?”
“‘Middle-aged alky has-been?’”
“You heard me.”
“Ouch.”
Moment of truth, boyo. Time to grow up.
Now he was hooked. He couldn’t quit the story if he tried. If she booted him, he would continue to dog the band until he confronted the drummer. Much easier to do it with the backing of In Crowd than without.
“Oim in. I apologize for my behavior last night. I swear to you I won’t have another dram of liquor until this is over.”
Connie stared coldly. “I’d like to believe you, Ian. My old man was a drunk. I heard him swear to my mother a thousand times on the Bible that he would give it up. Guess what? He died in a Veteran’s hospital of cirrhosis of the liver. So I’m giving you one more chance. I smell liquor on your breath, I find one of those little servy-bar liquor bottles anywhere in your vicinity, you’re off the story. You won’t get a recording contract, and you’ll end up drinking yourself to death.”
God, she was beautiful. His boner could serve as the prow on a Spanish galleon.
“Why are you smiling? Do you think this is funny?”
“Not at all, luv. After last night, I don’t think it’s funny at all. Klapp phoned me while we were at the club. I want you to listen to the message.”
St. James brought out his cell phone and cued it up. He handed it to Connie who listened with a look of intense concentration. When the message ended, Connie quietly folded the cell and handed it back. She opened her laptop and made notes.
“Maybe we should go to the police.”
“Do you know what German police are like?”
Connie thought about it, touting up the costs. “You don’t seriously think we should go to England and dig up Paddy MacGowan?”
“Oaian and Cunar left instructions to be cremated. Only Paddy had a proper burial. His father claimed the body.”
“The father he hated.”
“The very one.”
A matronly woman in a light blue dress and white apron brought their meal. There was silence for several minutes while they ate. When Connie finished, she shoved the plate away replacing it with her laptop. “I’ll book us tickets to London. We can rent a car. You can drive, assuming you have a valid license.”
“That I do.”
“Great.” Connie focused on her keyboard.
St. James surreptitiously watched her. With her looks she could have been an actress. She seemed too smart to be an actress. Most of the actors St. James knew were self-absorbed morons.
“Did you call him?” she said without looking up.
“Who?”
“Klapp.”
Chagrined, St. James took out his phone again and dialed the last number. One ring. “I’m sorry, that number is not in service at this time.”
“His phone’s offline. Says it isn’t in service.”
“Herr Professor becomes more interesting in his absence. That’s it. I’ve booked us on Virgin out of Brandenburg at four PM. We’ll arrive London a little before six.”
“Should we call the cops or something?” St. James said.
“What? About Klapp? It’s been less than twelve hours, and we’re not his kin. It would just cause problems.”
She continued to peck and stroke her laptop. She stared at the screen. “Oh, Jesus.”
“What?”
“Now they’ve got a website. And they’re playing Axton’s in New York next Thursday.”