Chapter Five
Just my luck! Kaspar thought. He’d forgotten about Ian, the Banshees’ sole legitimate heir, although all three had spread their seed from Berlin to Los Angeles. Ian had been a footnote in the Banshees’ hagiography, the unlucky son of a notorious parent. Julian Lennon, Tal Bachman, Arlo Guthrie.
Well, at least this one hadn’t killed anyone. Yet. The question was how was Kaspar to get rid of him? Bothering the band at this stage with family bullshit could derail the train. On the other hand, Oaian was just as likely to deny parentage no matter how much they resembled each other.
And they resembled each other. Even a blind man could see that.
Kaspar couldn’t possibly tell him the truth. Then he’d have to kill him and that would be problematic. So Kaspar stalled.
He might have to kill him anyway.
“Well, ah, let’s just give them a minute to decompress. Every band needs that.”
St. James looked down at him with lugubrious eyes. Where had that Viking gene come from? “Are you the roadie?”
Kaspar flashed his wolfie grin. “Roadie, manager, wet nurse, and kapo.”
“You ever done this before?”
Kaspar shrugged dramatically. “I’ve been managing bands for ten years. Solis, the Brocktons, Stanislaus?” He looked up at St. James, his blue eyes searching for recognition. Nada.
“I could really use a shot of vodka. Can I buy you a drink?”
The tall man looked longingly at the bar where the bartender, a young man with a severe haircut, was wiping up.
“Why not?”
They went to the bar. “Manfred, my friend,” Kaspar said, “how about a couple of White Russians?”
The bartender nodded and went to work, expertly blending the liquors in large cut glass tumblers. Kaspar watched in the mirror as the Greek looking guy and a rangy kid in blue jeans picked up the corpse and carried it back toward the dressing rooms where they would carry it down the back stairs, load it in a car, and dump it out in the countryside.
Idiot took too much ecstasy. Happened all the time. Kaspar really had managed bands, and the last thing he wanted was to cause trouble for the venue. It had been difficult enough getting the booking. And costly. Kaspar watched his companion, whose attention was riveted on the cocktail.
Manfred set the drinks on the bar. Kaspar and St. James picked them up.
“Cheers,” Kaspar said, taking a sip and watching as St. James tilted the glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing until the drink was gone. Kaspar signaled Manfred for another. The body was gone, and St. James hadn’t even noticed.
“So what brings you to Prague?” Kaspar said.
“Fuckin’ club offered me a gig. When I showed up, it had burned down.”
“Ah, would that be the Zipper Club? Terrible, just terrible. Two people died, you know.”
“I didn’t hear ’at. So here I am, high and dry without two kopeks to rub together. I don’t even know where I’m spendin’ the night.”
Kaspar nodded. Now he understood. St. James was looking to cash in, borrow a few bob from the old man. How much would it take for the troubadour to abandon his quest?
How had he heard about it in the first place? Their only advertising had been the handbills set out at other clubs. Of all the cursed luck! But wait a minute. Perhaps Kaspar could turn this goat fuck into stew. Who better to tell the world, “yes, they’re back,” than the drummer’s own wee lad?
That raised all sorts of problems of the time travel sort. It made Kaspar’s brain hurt. It would have been better if St. James had never shown up. It would have been better if St. James had never been born. As St. James drained half of his second drink, the answer came to Kaspar in a ray of light. Casually, he felt in his pocket for a rufie. He was no rock star and had to take what he could get.
Kaspar pointed toward the windows. “Look at that.”
As St. James dutifully followed the finger, Kaspar dropped the rufie in his drink.
“What?”
“Didn’t you see it? A pigeon trying to get in. Fellow like you, you shouldn’t be scrabbling for gigs in dumps like this! Your name should be up in lights.” Kaspar noted the hopeful gleam in St. James’ eyes.
“You got that right. I’m writing a new album … a new album …”
Kaspar signaled for another drink.
Later, long after the band had left, Kaspar helped the tall troubadour down the rear stairs.