Opening Act Page 22

  He skimmed down the list of Rita Dovermans and Nicholas Jelniks and Lakota Stains, and the pint-size profile pictures all sort of began to blend together, so that they meant exactly nothing.

  And then he saw it.

  Right there in the middle of that long roll call of Overlords Facebook fans.

  William Blake.

  William Blake, with the same profile picture of an especially buff-looking painted angel.

  No. Fucking. Way. was his first reaction. It was simply too bonkers to think that after everything had gone so wrong between them, Loni would actually Like his band’s page.

  Ah, but then she’d blocked him, right? So she’d be assuming he’d never find out.

  So why was he finding out? If she’d blocked him, William Blake should be completely and utterly invisible to him, wherever he—or rather, she—went on Facebook.

  And that’s when he realized the crazy, wonderful thing that had happened. Pernita had made him open a second account, under an assumed name, so that he could go around Facebook incognito, talking up Overlords and urging everyone to buy Grief Bacon. Pernita had several such accounts herself and was tired of doing all the hard work on her own.

  Shay had chosen the name Bruce Banner, and that had been a good little rebellion against Pernita, because of course she didn’t recognize it. The Incredible Hulk was far beneath her notice, at least until he decided to switch his tatty purple pants for Ermenegildo Zegna flat-fronts. But of course, he then realized everyone else in the world would recognize the Bruce Banner name, so he’d been too embarrassed to actually use it, until Pernita had forced him to the night before, commanding him to go online right that minute and do some word of mouth on his own behalf. She’d practically stood over his shoulder while he’d done so. Afterward he’d been so steamed, he’d just shut the laptop and gone to bed.

  So when he opened it this morning, it was to Bruce Banner’s account, not Shay Dayton’s.

  And Bruce Banner was not blocked by William Blake.

  Just thinking that sentence in his head was so wonderfully goofy that it put him in a good mood. He only wished Lockwood or somebody was here to share it with. But instead, his excess of giddy good feeling caused him to do the next best thing. Bruce Banner sent William Blake a friend request.

  That night’s event was a media cocktail party at a club in Venice called Hazzard. A certain Wendii Frontiac, who was apparently very influential with a particular stratum of LA ersatz-hipster society, had committed to showing up and taping a segment for her weekly webcast on what was trending in the city’s nightlife. Pernita was beside herself. Apparently she’d been trying to get to Wendii Frontiac for years. The entertainment for the event was Jonah and the Wail. Halbert Hasque—again, running things in absentia—had flown them in from Atlanta to give an extra push to the Palladium gig coming up in a few months.

  Arriving at the club fashionably late, Shay left Pernita to air-kiss all her very, very closest friends on the planet and then take her new outfit for a grand tour of the room. He made his way to the bar, where he ordered a good stiff tumbler of Scotch. Then he turned his attention to Jonah and the Wail, who were already playing.

  It was pretty impressive stuff. Jonah, the male member of the duo, handled all the surprisingly lush and textured instrumentals himself, using only a synthesizer. Meanwhile the Wail, a wan, goth-looking female, sang spectrally into her mic, almost at a whisper, except for the occasional phrase where she went soaring up into the stratosphere, hitting a pitch so high Shay could swear he heard dogs barking blocks away. Obviously this vocal trait was the source of her stage name.

  The compositions were very rich, very dark, very complex, and in unusual time signatures like 7/8 and 11/16. Shay was really enjoying listening to them, listening hard, and digging his way into their mysteries…

  …but then Wendii Frontiac dutifully appeared, beaming laserlike ambition. She stuck a microphone in his face and chirpily asked questions like, “What’s more important to you, music or image?” and “If you had to pick only one Overlords song to win over a new listener, what would it be?” and “Who’s your greatest musical influence?” and of course, most important for this town, “Who are you wearing?” As Shay was by then slim enough to once again accommodate the Dolce & Gabbana, he was able to provide this satisfying reply.

  Pernita, taken aback by Wendii’s sudden appearance, had to practically vault across the club to reach Shay while he was still being interviewed. She needn’t have worried, though; he acquitted himself exactly the way she’d rehearsed him (and re-rehearsed him, and re-re-rehearsed him). He was nearly finished by the time Pernita showed up. In fact, he was just mentioning (for the third time) the Palladium gig and the date. Completely off-the-cuff, he mentioned how excited he was about Jonah and the Wail joining them, and didn’t they sound great?

  But Wendii Frontiac’s eyes had already lost interest. She turned aside and told her cameraman that was a wrap. So it was up to the lesser media in the room to give Jonah’s singular soundscapes some love. Shay would do what he could to help. He was a fan.

  He expected Pernita to wait for Wendii to depart before taking him aside and telling him the ninety-six ways he’d screwed up the interview but never mind, you did your best, baby, next time maybe you’ll really listen to me. But instead, to his astonishment, she scampered after Wendii, trying desperately to engage her in a few moments of substantive trend-whore conversation. It was rare that Shay got to see Pernita pay homage to anyone else’s authority, so it was worth a few nourishing laughs at her expense.

  A few minutes later Jonah and the Wail finished their set. Jonah, who was a short, energetic guy with crazy hair and a glittering amber jacket, came down into the club. The Wail evaporated off the stage, probably to go back to her dressing room and, who knew, bathe in the blood of young virgins or something. Shay intercepted Jonah at the bar, where he was ordering a drink. “Nice set,” he said, extending his arm. “Shay Dayton. Good meeting you.”

  “Hey, Shay,” he said with a slight southern lilt, and shook his hand. “Likewise. Saw you from across the room.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You recognized me?”

  “Hard not to. Your face is goddamn everywhere these days.” Jonah’s drink, a glass of Johnnie Walker Red, was delivered. He raised it and said, “Cheers. Here’s to the Palladium.”

  “To the Palladium,” Shay said, and they each tossed back a mouthful.

  Shay went on to say how much he liked Jonah’s songwriting, and asked where he studied and for how long, and what he’d been doing since—and Jonah answered amicably enough, though downing his drink a bit faster than Shay himself would have dared. When he’d drained the glass, he smacked his lips, plonked it back on the bar, looked out at the crowd, and said, “What a fucking circus this is. All these tragic cases just dying to be seen. Because if somebody doesn’t notice them they might fucking disappear into thin air or something. Pathetic.”

  Shay sighed. “That’s kinda this whole burg, though, isn’t it?”

  “It’s this industry.” He looked at his watch. “Man, I cannot fucking wait to get out of here.”

  Shay took another, more measured sip of his own drink and said, “Well, you’ve only got one more set, right?”

  “No, you don’t understand,” said Jonah, stepping away from the bar. “I mean I really cannot wait.”

  Shay blinked. “You’re—you’re going now?” He glanced back at the platform. “But…what about the Wail?”

  “Marcia? What about her?”

  “You’re—you’ve got—you’re supposed to be—”

  “Look,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “she’ll be fine. Maybe she’ll be a little embarrassed when she comes out to sing and finds there’s no one there with her, and maybe she’ll ream my ass tomorrow. But I’m not a fucking slave to this shit, and she knows it.”

  “But…your reputation, man. People will talk about this.”

  “Exactly,” he said, fishing arou
nd in his pocket and producing a car key. “A helluva lot more than they would’ve talked about me otherwise. People like bad boys. What they don’t like are guys who kiss ass. The guys who want approval don’t get it.” He grinned. “I don’t fucking care what they think of me, and I show it. So of course they fall all over me.”

  Despite the lubricating the Scotch had given it, Shay’s throat went suddenly dry.

  Jonah cocked his head. “You wanna come?”

  “Me?” Shay said. “Bolt on a party that’s thrown in my honor?”

  “Best kinda party to bolt from. Really drives the message home. What do you say?”

  Shay laughed, not entirely sure he was serious. “No. No. I’m…thanks, but.” He cocked his head. “Seriously. You’re just…going to go?”

  “Watch me,” he said, palming the key and turning toward the door. “You stay here and wag your tail like a good little lapdog. See where the hell it gets you.”

  He walked a few steps, then paused, went back to the bar, borrowed a pen from the bartender, and scrawled something on a paper napkin, which he handed to Shay.

  Shay looked at it. It was a phone number.

  “Let me know when you’re ready to break the chain,” he said with a wink.

  And then he was gone.

  Shay wandered about the room in an incredulous daze for a while, until Pernita found him and told him not to walk around with his mouth open, he looked like a half-wit, and snap to it there were some people he still needed to meet.

  Fifteen minutes later the Wail returned to the mic and stood forlornly alone until everyone realized she wasn’t doing anything. Then there was a flurry of activity as the people in charge of the event (including Pernita) tried in vain to locate Jonah. Eventually, an upright bass player emerged from behind a closed door and hauled his instrument up on the platform to accompany the Wail in an abbreviated set of stripped-down melodies that was, Shay had to admit, no less compelling.

  Later, on the way back to the Hasque mansion, Shay asked Pernita whether they’d hired the bass player in advance, and she admitted they had.

  “Daddy’s idea,” she said from behind the wheel (she always drove). “Jonah’s got kind of a reputation for flaking out mid-gig. It seemed smart to have a back-up plan.”

  “I’m amazed your dad would put up with that kind of shit from someone he reps.”

  She shrugged. “What can you do? Jonah’s basically a genius. You work around the quirks.”

  Pernita usually insisted on sex following a press event, as though it were her right—a kind of Roman triumph conducted beneath the sheets. But apparently tonight hadn’t been enough of a success to meet her benchmark, what with Wendii snubbing her and Jonah taking a powder. When she joined Shay in bed, she gave him a perfunctory kiss, then turned her back on him and coiled up in bitterness, like a snake.

  Shay had trouble sleeping, as he usually did after these kinds of events. Too many faces too close to his left a kind of psychic imprint on his consciousness, and he had to wait for all the intensely curious eyes, babbling mouths, and spectacularly coiffed hair to fade into mist before he could sleep. But tonight he had the added element of Jonah’s advice to him. Was he really a lapdog, letting other people tell him when to sit, stay, roll over, beg? Was his true self getting lost in this by-the-numbers pursuit of rock stardom? Was rock stardom worth it? Or, as Jonah implied, was he going about it entirely the wrong way?

  Eventually, after tossing and turning, he went down to the kitchen for something to eat. He’d managed to sneak a few hors d’oeuvres at Hazzard, snarfing them down while Pernita’s back was turned, but he was still hungry.

  There were only fruits and vegetables in the refrigerator. Pernita was still monitoring his diet like he was a racehorse. He took an apple from the shelf—what he wouldn’t have given for a slice of cold pizza!—and sat down at his laptop to keep him company while he ate. When he opened the cover, he found Facebook still on the screen, opened to Bruce Banner’s account.

  There was a notification. He clicked on it.

  William Blake had accepted his friendship request.

  He smiled as he chewed on the apple. This was very, very intriguing. He had to wonder why Loni had said yes. She couldn’t know it was him. She couldn’t know it was anyone.

  He went immediately to her profile page. And the first thing that struck him was her most recent status update:

  Only three days till my reading in Santa Barbara! Please come if you’re in the area. I’d love to meet you and would greatly appreciate your support.

  Beneath was a link to a bookstore, announcing that Loni Merrick (Merrick! Finally, he knew her last name) would be reading from her new self-published volume of poetry, Venus in Retrograde, at five in the afternoon.

  The date was the day after tomorrow.

  So that was why she’d accepted Bruce Banner’s friendship request with no questions asked. Loni Merrick had entered the ranks of the audience whores. Just like Shay, just like every performer everywhere, she had seats to fill, and who knew, Bruce Banner might fill one of them. And with that, Shay decided that Bruce Banner would. In fact, it wasn’t a decision; it was more like a sudden awareness of what had already been determined, somewhere else, by unseen forces.

  He thought for a moment about the difficulties involved, but there was never for a moment anything resembling doubt. And sure enough, he came to understand that the unseen forces had been busier than he’d even dreamed. The unseen forces had laid it all out for him.

  He went back upstairs, found his phone, found the contents of his pocket from where he’d emptied them when he’d undressed, and located the napkin with Jonah’s number.

  He sent him a text: Hey it’s Shay. I’m ready to break the chain.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I gotta tell ya,” said Jonah with a bit of a sneer. “When you said you were ready to break the chain, I didn’t think you meant this.” He flicked his cigarette out the window in disgust. “Driving to goddamn Santa Barbara. In the middle of the afternoon. To go to a bookstore.” He turned to Shay. “Sure you wouldn’t rather hit a crystal meth den in Compton at three a.m.?”

  Shay shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I told you,” he said. “It’s to see a friend. An author,” he added, lamely. As if any literary credentials would impress Jonah Piercon.

  He was growing increasingly uncomfortable with his decision to slip away to attend Loni’s reading. Jonah was proving to be much more of a borderline sociopath than he’d realized from their brief conversation at Hazzard. But what could he do? Jonah had the wheels. Too late Shay realized he could’ve just rented his own car, on the sly. It would’ve been far less trouble than managing Jonah on the road. But until now, he’d thought it would be a kick to have a friend along, a partner in crime.

  Unfortunately, Jonah’s idea of crime was significantly more elevated than Shay’s. He said, “Well, if we’re gonna be swanning around Santa Barbara with the snobs, we might as well get ourselves tight for it. Could you pass me the party mix?”

  The “party mix” was a small vial of white powder with a little silver cap that had a tiny spoon affixed by a slender chain. Shay had originally guessed it to be cocaine, but Jonah’s nickname for it implied that there were additional ingredients as well.

  Shay had buckled to peer pressure and taken a bump when they’d first gotten into the car. Now he was fiercely regretting it. He felt as though he was having a heart attack. That might just be the effect of Jonah’s driving—he seemed to think it was against the law to go under seventy-five and was blithely oblivious to anyone who might be in his blind spot when he changed lanes—but the chemicals couldn’t have helped. Shay cursed himself for being such a wuss. He’d always hated cocaine. “Fake fun,” he called it; it made your heart beat faster so you thought you were enjoying yourself, but really, you weren’t. It was all illusion.

  He hated cocaine, and yet he’d taken cocaine—and not just cocaine: cocaine spiked with God knows what else. He
’d refused any seconds or thirds, but of course by then it was too late. He was royally fucked up. He could only imagine how wrecked Jonah must be, though that guy’s resistance was undoubtedly considerably higher. The way he went at it, it was clear he snorted this stuff for breakfast.

  Shay passed the “party mix” to him but, worried about the increasing deterioration of his attention span, added, “Listen, it’s not fair for you to have to drive the whole way. Why don’t I take over?”

  Amazingly, Jonah agreed. Probably because he was having far too much trouble unscrewing the vial’s itty-bitty cap while simultaneously keeping the wheel steady. “Sure, thanks, bro,” he said, and he immediately swerved toward the shoulder—almost clipping a Dodge Dart that was sailing alongside them.

  He shifted the car into park and got out. Shay sat for a while longer in the passenger seat, because he wasn’t entirely sure the car had stopped moving. It looked like the road ahead was laying steady and flat before them, but the feeling against his face was like g-force.

  Jonah knocked on the passenger window. “Change your mind, bro?”

  Shay snapped to attention, opened the door, and got out. “No, no, I’m still cool.” And in fact the sudden snap of cool air against his skin made him feel a little more grounded. He shook his head vigorously, sending his hair flying, then stamped his feet against the gravel a few times—trying to shock his wits back into functioning. Come back, come back, he thought to himself. Where are you, Shay, man? I need you!

  When he felt reasonably fit to drive, he got back into the car, shifted into gear, and pulled back into traffic. It was helpful to have a job, something to concentrate on. And in fact, his focus seemed very, very sharp. He had to pinch himself every now and then just to keep from getting too focused and forgetting other, peripheral activities like, say, breathing.