Greasepaint (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

Each of the bands has a small dressing room, seven in total. Crammed into one of the tiny areas, Corpus Delicti prepares for the biggest night of their musical lives.

Michael, Mona, Ricky and Skeezer suit up and slather on make-up for the show.

The dressing room is sparse, nothing more than a mirror, table and light in the room. Milk crates function as chairs. The four of them try to jostle for position in front of the mirror, the tension is thick.

“Glamorous life of the rock star,” Ricky says.

The mood in the room lightens, instantly. Ricky and Skeezer laugh. Mona manages a giggle and elbows Michael, who cracks a smile. The events in the alleyway grow more distant.

The door to the dressing room opens and the antithesis of a horror punk music fan strides into the room. Late thirties, clean cut and in a polo shirt/khakis combination, the small dressing area gets even smaller since the new entrant is built like a professional wrestler. He has a gleaming badge affixed to his belt and the department probably thought he had the best chance of fitting in at the club. They were wrong.

The band looks up and, like always in times of confrontation, Mona takes the lead.

“Can we help you?” she asks.

The man points to the badge on his belt.

The band stares at the badge, unable to get around the notion of a cop…in their dressing room. Skeezer shifts on his milk crate, squirming uncomfortably.

“I swear she was eighteen!” he blurts out.

Ricky clamps his hand over Skeezer's mouth, quickly. The officer shakes his head.

“Is there a problem officer?” Mona asks, trying to deflect any attention away from her ridiculous bandmates.

“It's Detective Morris, and there may be,” the large man says. Without another word, the detective pulls out a cell phone. He holds up his finger indicating that the band should wait. He dials a number and holds the phone aloft.

A cell phone rings in the dressing room. Ricky's pocket lights up like a glow stick is inside.

Ricky slowly fishes the phone out of his pocket as the detective stops the call.

Mona and Michael turn to look at Ricky. Skeezer moves in behind the guitarist in a coward's show of solidarity.

The detective grunts and shakes his head. “I just dialed a number from Monty Reigns' cell phone bill and, oddly enough, it belongs to you.”

Michael glares at Ricky. “What the fuck, dude?”

Ricky's mouth opens and closes. Nothing comes out.

“The shit part is that Reigns was found dead last night.”

The band turns to the detective. Ricky manages to find his voice. “What?”

Morris pulls over a stack of milk crates and sits down, positioning himself between the band and the door.

“I was curious as to why you would call him the night he died,” he says. “You don't seem to run in the same social circles.”

Mona and Michael turn on Ricky, pushing close into the guitarist's face.

“Yeah, Ricky?” Michael spits out. “Couldn't be you supplying that asshole with all the info and footage?”

“I…I…I just wanted some press for the band, man! This show is huge and we could sign a deal here!”

Michael starts forward, angry and hell bent on revenge. Mona stops him.

“You bastard,” is all that Michael can get out. Michael shrugs off Mona's hand. He turns and pushes around the detective and out the door. Morris watches him go, uninterested.

Mona shoots a look at Ricky and Skeezer that communicates pure venom. “Nice,” she says right before following Michael out. Morris lets her go too.

“It was his idea,” Skeezer calls out after her.

Chuckling, Morris stands and looks down at Ricky and Skeezer. The two of them cower, barely able to make eye contact with the imposing officer.

“Sounds like you've got a story for me,” he says and pulls a notebook and pen from his back pocket.

The detective scribbles the last of the notes into the little notebook and reads over what he had just written. He shakes his head, trying to process the information.

In front of him, sheepish and on the verge of tears, Ricky and Skeezer are still on the milk crates. They have their hands in their laps. If it weren't for the garish costumes they would look like obedient school boys.

“So, you mean to tell me that you were calling the victim for press for your band, nothing else?”

Shame prevents Ricky and Skeezer from looking at the detective.

“Yes, sir,” Ricky manages.

“And you had no qualms selling out your friend?”

Skeezer sighs. Ricky looks up at this, trying to meet the officer's gaze.

“Sir…we had no idea it was that bad. We never would have done it if…”

Morris cuts him off. “Right.” He finishes his notes and stuffs the notebook into his back pocket. “I'm going to find your friends and get the real scoop on this. So far it doesn't appear like you guys had a reason to knock off Reigns…”

The pair of them look up, eagerly. “No sir!” Ricky blurts out.

“But, your pal Michael has a legitimate motive. I hope to God that you didn't start something that he finished.”

Ricky and Skeezer turn toward one another. That was a possibility they had never considered.

“I'll be back,” the detective announces before turning and leaving the dressing room.

The pair are quiet for a few moments after the detective leaves. Skeezer manages to end the silence.

“Oh shit. Did we fuck up?”

Ricky hangs his head back down. “Yeah. We did.”

Chapter Twelve

The club is filled to capacity, borderline overflowing. The fans undulate, back and forth, waiting for Corpus Delicti. Their patience wears thin and the packs of rabid music fans begin to loudly voice their displeasure.

A small group of Orzo fans, complete with masks, enter the club and huddle together in a small group, moving like a bullhead shark through the people. The other fans part and make way for the Orzo fans. Even the most vociferous, angry fans, displeased with the delay, quiet. These are a different breed of fan. The Orzites are a bit more than even the hardcore fan can stomach.

Heads held high, the huddled mass of Orzo masks stop in the center of the dance floor and stare at the empty stage in front of them. They are given a wide berth, despite the crowded dance floor.

Outside the club, Michael kicks a garbage can, sending the cheap metal bucket sailing down the alleyway. The trash strewn about the alley from the can advertises the current show and that just makes him angrier.

Mona exits from the service entrance and scans the alley. She sees Michael and heads for him. Michael turns, ready to rage, but is caught in Mona's hug. He relents.

He sobs, the emotions taking over, into Mona's ear.

“I can't believe those guys.”

“I know. Remember, our future could be set here…those guys, I don't know. We'll manage.”

Michael pulls away and leans against the alley wall. He slumps down to the ground, squatting above the filth of the alley. Mona, keeping her hand on his shoulder, stands next to him. Michael gets the feeling that she always would.

“Why the fuck would they do that?” he asks.

“The press. You know how important this show is.”

“It doesn't give them the right.”

“No, it doesn't.”

A moment passes. Both of them contemplating various futures, running scenarios in their minds, desperately searching for an exit plan.

Mona breaks the silence, addressing the 800 pound gorilla. “Do we do the show?”

Michael stands. “We have to. This might be it.”

Mona nods and sighs. She had come to the same conclusion. The other gorilla rears its ugly head. “And Ricky?”

“After.”

Mona nods again. Their hands find each other and Mona and Michael stand, staring into one another's eyes, ready to take on the world.

“Michael!” a voice calls out from the alley.

The couple turns to find Orzo bursting from the inky darkness. Michael squeals, involuntarily, and steps back against the wall. Mona takes a step forward, ready to defend her lover when this particular Orzo steps into a pool of light to reveal it was just another one of the Orzites in the cheap Orzo mask.

Breathless, the Orzo fan skids to halt in front of Michael and Mona with his hand outstretched. He holds a pen and paper. “I'm so lucky I went outside to smoke,” he manages to get out between heaving breaths. “I've got you all to myself!” The fan shoves the pen and paper at Michael. “Sign this, please?”

Michael shrinks back trying to burrow into the wall while Mona slaps the paper and pen out of the fan's hands.

“What gives you the right, freak?” Mona spits out. It is less a question and more a declaration of disgust.

The Orzo fan lifts the mask to reveal his face. It is Orzo39 from the Monty Reigns show and he is smiling from ear to ear. “Orzo was a genius and Michael was the last person to see him alive…it must be a great honor! We love you!” Orzo39 beams at Michael.

Michael's brow furrows, his anger overpowering the memories. He steps forward to get face to face with Orzo 39. “Honor? It's an honor being raped and humiliated?”

Orzo39's smile drops. Taking the fan by the shirt, Michael spins and pins the smaller man against the alley wall.

Mona gasps, the sudden change in Michael's demeanor shocking her. “Michael…”

“Listen to me you little bastard, never…
ever
look at me again. You have no idea what I can do…no idea…” Michael's voice trails off but his eyes blaze. He pins Orzo39 against the wall with one hand and raises the other in a fist.

Mona, with a great deal of effort, pulls Michael away from the shocked fan.

“We have a show, baby,” she says.

She steers Michael toward the club entrance in the alley. He allows her to get him in the right direction but, before entering, Michael turns to Orzo39, pointing.

“This ends today.”

Without another word, Michael and Mona enter the club.

Orzo39 watches them enter. After a moment, his smile returns. He picks up his pen and paper and replaces the mask over his face.

Michael paces backstage in the small hallway that leads from the alley door. His fists open and close reflexively as if he were squeezing and releasing the anger.

Mona attempts to get Michael to focus.

“Calm down…those guys will fade away too.”

“I know…it's just hard right now.” Michael manages a smile.

“What's hard, movie star?” A voice from the darkness inside the club cuts through the hallway.

Michael and Mona turn expecting yet another Orzo fan. What they find is far worse.

Before them stands a rival band, each of them sporting the long hair and black dress of a metal band and they are all wearing the same T-shirt reading “Da North Side Kings.” Although each of them look incredibly similar, their leader and vocalist, Tom, stands in front of the group. His smile drips bad attitude and his leather clothes creak as he moves. He is flanked by Dick, Harry and Leon…guitarist, drummer and bassist respectively.

Michael's shoulders slump. “Not now, all right?”

The North Side Kings, as one, laugh.

“Not now?” Tom asks. “So the big ass movie star is telling us lowly rockers ‘not now.' Your shit band opened up for us at the last show, bitch…and now your face is all over the TV.”

Mona steps up and stands in front of Michael, defending him once again.

“Do you actually listen to that bullshit? Look, Michael doesn't want any part of it.”

Dick steps around Tom. Mona looks from one to the other, they were nearly interchangeable.

“No part of it? Your freak boyfriend has about a million other freaks in clown masks out there. How does that look for us when the record labels start dusting off the contracts?”

“It's not his fault!”

The band laughs again. This isn't going well.

Michael steps around Mona and closer to the Kings. “Just leave us alone, Tom. This has nothing to do with you.”

Tom takes the bait and steps nose to nose with Michael.

“This has everything to do with us. You're out of your league.”

Tom pushes Michael. Michael pushes back. Tom rears back with a fist, ready to start this in earnest. Mona pushes Michael to the side as Tom lets it fly and she is slammed in the head.

Mona flies back, crashing against the wall of the club and crumbles to the floor. Michael can only watch, in shock. “MONA!”

Michael bends to check on Mona, but Tom stops him by grabbing onto Michael's jacket. He pulls Michael up and slams him against the wall. Before Michael can move or even register a protest, the rest of the Kings converge on Michael with feet and fists. The group pummels Michael, slowly moving him toward the door to the alley.

Tom stops the beating and grabs Michael by the head, using him to open the alley door with a slam. Michael flies through the doorway, landing and skidding onto the concrete filth of the alley.

The Kings converge on Michael as the alley door shuts behind them. Separated from the rest humanity, they attack with fists and feet.

“Our slot!” Tom shouts out.

“Fuck you, clown boy,” Harry says between kicks to Michael's ribs.

The beating continues as a white-faced phantom steps out of the blackness of the alley. The shape never makes it too far into the light as if it preferred watching the beat down from the relatively obscurity of the shadows.

Leon notices the clown first and turns. After a moment, he gets the attention of the rest of the Kings and they stop their torture of Michael long enough to turn and regard the thing in front of them.

It is, most certainly, a clown. It looks like Orzo, but who can tell with all the masks and costumers out there? Tom manages to laugh, even though he is a bit nervous, as they take into account the newest player in the game.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

The clown mimes. It points at itself and then waves it off. After a momentary dramatic thought, it holds up a finger indicating that the group should wait.

The band laughs along with Tom this time, until the clown reaches behind and pulls out two large carving knives.

As a unit, the band backs off. Tom manages to get his hands up.

“Whoa…take it easy fella!” Harry says.

The clown smiles just then and shakes its head and steps back, well out of striking range with the knives, as it begins to juggle them.

The band, fascinated with the gleaming steel, is enthralled by the display in front of them. Spin after spin, pass after pass…it looks as if the clown could lose a hand at any moment.

Michael manages to pull himself up, half-conscious, and stare at the display in front of him. The image goes in and out of focus, but he knows that the Kings, despite being complete assholes, are in a great deal of danger. They watch the display, marveling at the clown's dexterity, and Michael knows it is only a matter of time.

For all of them.

Stars and spots explode in front of Michael's eyes, the knives dance in the air and he can only manage a quiet, weak, “No…” before passing out.

The clown continues to juggle, pulling off more and more difficult tricks. The Kings are lost in the show. They gasp as the knives fly up and around the clown's body and head. Behind the back and through the legs, nowhere is safe.

Just as abruptly as the juggling begins, it ends. The clown stops juggling and takes a deep breath.

The band applauds, loudly, and shouts catcalls.

“All right,” Dick yells out. “Let's have the big fucking finale!”

The clown smiles and nods. He takes a deep breath and throws one knife in the air. With speed belying his size, the clown steps forward and nearly decapitates Tom. Tom's throat opens and, before the rest of the band knows it, he bleeds out on his “Da North Side Kings” T-shirt.

Deftly, the clown catches the other knife behind his back and wades into the shocked band members, the gleaming steel slowly dulled by blood, viscera and bone. Dick is eviscerated cleanly in a long, swooping motion. Not one to waste energy, the clown continues the forward motion of that move and cuts Leon's femoral artery. Dick crumples to the ground followed by Leon who tries, in vain, stop his own bleeding even resorting to using Dick's intestines before the blood loss becomes too much.

Harry backs away from the clown, hands out and pleading. “Why, man?”

The clown points at Michael's prone form and then wags his finger at Harry.

“We were just kidding!”

The clown takes both knives and spins into Harry, slashing across his abdomen and neck. Harry falls to the ground, gushing gore. The alley quickly fills with the blood of Da North Side Kings, the crimson fluid mingling together.

The clown stands alone, surveying the handiwork. It casually drops the knives into the growing pools of blood. The members of the band all die relatively silently as the clown turns his attention toward Michael.

Michael groans, half-conscious, as the clown drags him toward the alley entrance to the night club.