Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery (35 page)

*  *  *

When I came to, I was stumbling through the woods, still experiencing the fabric of reality ripping at the seams. It was like trying to stare into darkness through running water. Once, I tried to touch it and almost fell down. My hand passed right through the wavy membrane without sticking, but a distinct shock pulsed inside me, shooting down my arm and around my heart, settling at my ribs.

So dumb, I thought. So drunk and dumb.

And that reminded me of something. I stopped and looked down. There was a beer in my right hand. I held it aloft against what little moonlight cascaded through the trees. Less than a third remained. Then, I became aware of a pressure in both front pockets, and, reaching down, realized I had a High Life in each. They were suddenly cold against my leg, and it was then I felt entirely and fully conscious.

I must have blacked out and snuck back in the house for more beers.

Without hesitation, I drained the remainder of the beer in my hand and stuck it mouth down in my back pocket. The flash of otherworldliness returned, illuminating the world around me. I saw unfamiliar shapes dancing between rows of trees. My stomach, too, then awakened, something unpleasant pressing against the lining, turning it, making me desperately want to vomit. But I didn't. I choked back the urge and felt the warmth of the alcohol coat me like an aura.

I uncapped a beer and kept walking in the same direction. That tactic seemed to work for me during my blackout, so why stop now?

A pale blue light distinguished itself from the ubiquitous darkness. It pulsed with a four-on-the-floor rock beat, and moments later the accompanying music rose to ear splitting levels.

I noticed the drums first. A snare that sounded like a neck snapping with every strike. A severe, cringe-inducing crash cymbal. A bass drum deep enough to flatten my chest.

The accompanying guitar screeched like an injured panther, and once or twice I had to cover my ears. Whoever was playing stuck doggedly to the highest frets, but nevertheless it sounded good in a chaotic, anarchistic sort of way, reveling in the destruction, in the basic biological function satisfied by feedback.

I reached the ragged clearing that used to be the Boogie House's parking lot, and a few wispy silhouettes darted along the edge of the building and stopped. They melded together into what could only have been a lover's embrace.

I stopped to mark the moment with a swig from my beer, raising the bottle in mock salute, but received no acknowledgement in return. My stomach lurched, but I forced myself to accept more alcohol. I’d be paying for it in the morning, but this seemed worth the anguish.

Reaching the doorway, I peered in at the ruckus. People danced, dripping sweat under the glow of convenient overhead lights, gyrating to the raging drumbeat, bodies nuzzling and bumping together under the auspices of uninhibited musical passion.

Black men and women were dressed in tight pants and low-cut shirts, in jewelry and leather jackets and butterfly collars and sunglasses. The amplified acoustic guitar of past visions had been replaced by a bright blue Fender Stratocaster, the high-pitched yawl of a blues singer's voice replaced by a somewhat lower and funkier version of what I had heard in the Boogie House before. The song transmitting over the speakers was not about hell or redemption but black solidarity and individual pride, and the people, whose faces occasionally rose above writhing shoulders, seemed more open and free and determined than those in past iterations. Late Sixties, maybe, was the time period. They were angry and happy and ready for something to happen, and I had the feeling something was about to do just that.

As soon as I stepped in the door, the music stopped cold, and I jerked unconsciously at the abrupt volume shift. I expected the throngs of people to turn toward me, maybe attack me like a zombie horde.

The patrons had ceased dancing and were now staring in my general direction. I’d never felt so exposed and so naked in all of my life, and I thought about running but couldn’t. I couldn’t move, let alone run. Their eyes held me transfixed, and I sought desperately for something to say but remained mute. I felt the hatred of a hundred sets of eyes staring right through me. The eyes of a hundred ghosts.

The spell was broken by the sensation of movement behind me. I felt a rush of air and instinctively moved aside, glad to get away from the crowd, whose eyes, thankfully, did not follow me but remained fixed.

I turned to look.

In walked a younger, healthier, sharper version of Jarrell Clements. Law school graduate Jarrell Clements. Trying-to-make-his-name-as-a-young-lawyer Jarrell Clements. He adjusted his pants and snorted defensively, taking a cursory step toward the bar. "Y'all servin' whiskey here," he said. It was odd hearing a high-pitched version of his particular drawl. It was the sound of a young man trying on his adult voice.

Something inside me perked up. That voice. There was something about it that was so familiar, and I didn't have time to contemplate it.

"Yessir," the man behind the bar said. He was old and somber and had a perpetual hangdog expression about him. "We got permission to."

Two heavy-set white men stepped into the bar behind Jarrell. They were brandishing shotguns. I turned to face the crowd, comprised of a sea of horrified faces. The smell of sweat was overpowering, and the guitar amp's feedback was nerve-racking in the juke’s unsettled air.

"From who?" Jarrell asked.

The crowd parted and a man stepped out in front of them. I recognized him from an earlier hallucination as one of the owners of the Boogie House. "Hold on a minute," he said, his voice unexpectedly calm. He flicked his head back toward the stage. "Sam, could you shut off the amps for us a minute. That's awfully loud."

Very little had changed about the man. In fact, he looked to be the same exact age as the version of him from twenty years before.

Every head responded by glancing back at the stage, and the sweaty, frightened-looking guitar player nodded and then went about turning knobs and flicking buttons.

"Now," the owner said, "what is it you've come out here about? We done paid up and begged to be left alone."

"Evening, Devereaux. There have been a
plethora
of rumors surrounding this place. Wanted to come down and see the hype, firsthand."

Devereaux smiled forcefully. "Just a little bit of drinking and dancing," he said. "No different than the things white folks do on Saturday nights. Now, if you'll excuse us."

Jarrell spat on the floor. "That ain't what I'm talking about. People drinking don't concern me.” He smiled, took a moment to think of his next words. “A few people in town have been gettin’ sick.”

The bar owner looked as though this were a question he’d answered a hundred times. “And we have something to do with that?”

“It’s just odd, I reckon. It’s all people critical of this place. They’re the ones turning ill. Mayor's wife, who don’t care too much for drinkin’
or
dancin’, took to her deathbed. Doctors can't figure out
what’s
happened to her."

"That's a shame," the owner replied. Behind him, a young woman murmured, "We ain't had anything to do with
that
."

"It is a shame. It is," Jarrell continued. "I guess you people'd say it's her own doing, a
coincidence
she grew sick when she started advocating this place be shut down for the benefit of decent society."

Devereaux's face grew serious for a moment. "Quite the coincidence," he said. Devereaux was the bigger of the two men who had run the Boogie House. I remembered him from the dream-slash-hallucination. I wondered where the other man was, the skinny co-owner. Winston, I believed his name was.

The white intruder sauntered over to the bar. "Jack Daniel’s, please," he said. "Neat." The bartender hesitated, and Jarrell feigned surprise. "Don't want to serve a white man? Isn't that, uh,
reverse
racism? Don't I have my
rights
, just like y'all?"

Devereaux walked over to him, saying, "Please, Mister Clements, just say what you've got to say so we can get on with our night. We were in a pretty good mood, but now you’ve got people all riled up, and it may take us well on into the night to get over it." With that, he tried to smile, but it didn't quite work. "So I guess the people can thank you for giving us something to work out."

"Where is Winston?" somebody in the crowd asked.

It was Jarrell's turn to smile. "Oh, we had a talk with him. He's decided it’s high time to get the hell out of Dodge, and he told me to tell you it would be a good idea for you to do the same."

"He did no such thing." Devereaux’s voice was cold and angry but held a hint of fear. Maybe more than a hint, to be honest. His accent had also become less obvious, and I suppose it was in an attempt to gain credibility, to let some of the rumors of witchcraft to fall by the wayside.

"Well, then, why don't you wait around for him and see if he shows his face in this joint, this
town
even, ever again? I'll bet you a dollar to a dime that nigra won't do so much as telephone in the future."

Devereaux grew quiet, waiting for Jarrell to continue.

"Listen to me," Jarrell said. "The old guard in this town is theatrical. They like to ride down the streets at night, wearing hoods, burning crosses in people's yards. That's all fine with me, but it don’t work practically. It’s all show, and show don’t do anything. it takes
action
to keep the Junction safe."

"Uh-huh," Devereaux said, tensing up. There was a tightness in his voice, as if he knew what was coming next.

"And if you think I'm gonna let some chicken blood drinking niggers take over this city-"

The sound of the owner's fist connecting with Clements's face was louder than any distorted guitar. He just hauled off and punched young Jarrell right in his jaw. Devereaux himself even seemed surprised at the action. His eyes grew wide as he backed away, hands aloft in a defensive gesture. "You deserved that," he said, half-defiantly. “Sir.”

"Goddamnit!" Jarrell screamed, patting his cheek with one hand. Blood had begun to seep from an elongated gash just below the eye. The young lawyer held his hand in front of his face, shocked, and said, "Look what you done to my face."

"You can't come in my business and insult me," he said, rounding the corner of the bar, intending to go behind it. Slowly pacing. Slowly moving. Trying to defuse the situation.

Jarrell turned to the men behind him, and they stepped forward, raising their shotguns. "I'll call you whatever the hell I
want
to call you, voodoo man," he said. An evil leer broke out across his face, and although his mouth began to form itself into a shape, as if to emit sound, Jarrell didn't speak again.

An uncomfortable rumble broke out in the crowd. People turned and whispered to one another, and the temperature of the room rose by about ten degrees. Devereaux lifted one hand, and every mouth hushed in captivated awe. "Leave this place," he said. "Keep to yourself, and we'll be sure to keep to ourselves out here. Maybe that’s the only answer."

Jarrell spat again, and this time it was bright red. "This won't end. Even if I leave tonight, go out that door, nothing will be forgotten."

Devereaux placed one hand in his pocket, pulled out a small charm. His lips moved in a sort of unintelligible whisper. I couldn't hear what was being said. I doubt anyone else could either. When he finished, he said, "I'm willing to take that chance.”

He began to shake the item, and his hand became a blur of back-and-forth motion. Jarrell's eyes widened, but he mostly disregarded the display. He said, "All's I'm telling you is that you
will
be shut down. No amount of backwoods gibberish is going to stop that."

"And what if I pray for
you
to get sick?" Devereaux said, smiling grimly. His hand vibrated so that it looked both visible and invisible, simultaneously. “What if I do to you what you say I did to the mayor’s wife, eh?”

"I don't care," Jarrell replied.

"What if I place all my focus on you? Are you prepared to accept that?"

Jarrell nodded, but it was apparent he
wasn't
quite prepared. The voice that came out of him this time was even more thin and childish than before. "Or, what if I have you killed, right here and now? Do you think there's a snowball's chance in Hell I'd get convicted? What do you think would happen to this place then?"

Devereaux's hand increased in speed, jerking back and forth so quickly that his arm seemed to disappear below the elbow. An audible whirring could be heard above the breathing of the bar’s tired, drunk patrons. "If you kill me, these fine people will drag you out on the dance floor and tear you to pieces. Those guns don't have enough ammo for all of us."

The eyes of every person in the Boogie House had turned into dull, unseeing orbs. They stared straight ahead, enchanted, full of vacuous and abstract hatred. They were just waiting for a sign.

I turned my attention to Jarrell, whose face had become flush with embarrassment. He was slowly realizing this wasn't a fight he was going to win. His weight shifted backward, and he reached for the shoulder of one of his accomplices for stability. “This ain’t the way it ends, jigaboo,” he said.