Molly Moon & the Monster Music (3 page)

Back in central Quito the cab stopped short of the hotel. The alley to the square was so crowded with people, the driver couldn't get any closer. Hoards of fans, who had flocked into the city to see the Japanese boy band play that evening, were gathered outside the hotel. Molly paid the cab driver, picked up
Petula, and with Gerry holding on tightly to his hat and his bag, they tried to push through.

“When you was in New York in that Broadway show, was it like this?” Gerry asked as they squeezed through the crowd.

Molly wondered whether to tell Gerry that she had become a star on Broadway by hypnotizing an agent and a producer to get a part in a show, and then by hypnotizing everyone including the audience to think that she was the most talented performer ever. She was still ashamed when she remembered how she had become a star by conning people. Gerry would be shocked by how selfish she'd been. She would never use her hypnotism in such a way again, she thought. She decided not to explain what had really happened. Instead she laughed.

“Oh, I wasn't as big as these guys. They're huge!”

“You were good, though, Molly. All the papers said so.”

“You know what they say—don't believe everything you read in the papers.” Molly smiled.

Finally Molly and Gerry made it to the hotel elevator. A flustered bellboy stopped them briefly, then recognized Molly and Petula and pressed the elevator button for them.

“Oh, puppy,” he gasped to Petula, stroking her head. “Zis is loco.”

Inside the suite, Micky was lying on his bed reading. Petula bounded in and jumped up to greet him.

“You've been ages!” Micky said, sitting up and smiling at Gerry. “You must be Gerry. I'm Micky.” He reached out to shake hands. Seeing a mouse in Gerry's, he faltered.

“This is Titch. And, yeah, I'm Gerry. Hello.”

“Gerry's going to have a shower,” Molly said, surreptitiously pointing to Gerry's hair and holding her nose, “because Titch has had a long journey—on Gerry's head.”

“After that we can go and see the Japanese boys,” Micky suggested. “They've given us VIP tickets for their concert tonight. Want to go?”

“You bet,” said Gerry. “But with all them fans downstairs,” he went on, “they'll probably have to leave from a secret door.”

“You're right.” Micky smiled again at Gerry. “The passes they've given us get us into the stadium through a special door
and
we get to go to the party afterward. But you'll have to get a move on, and leave Titch here with Petula. OK?”

While Gerry was in the shower, Molly changed her top for a black-and-white, stripy long-sleeved
one, and she put on less grubby sneakers. Gerry came out of his room in jeans and a T-shirt with a whale on it. He made a nest for Titch in a box with holes in its lid, and Molly left Petula a bowl of water.

After a quick snack of tortilla chips and guacamole, they were ready.

Before they left the room, Molly's eyes darted around to see whether she'd left anything behind. On the table she saw the black velvet pouch with the gold coin in it. For some reason she didn't want to leave it behind. She picked it up, left the room, and closed the door behind her.

Quito Stadium stood on the outskirts of the city like some sort of giant metal spaceship. The cab Molly, Micky, and Gerry were in drove through a special guests' gate and soon pulled up at the performers' entrance to the building. Micky knocked on the door and a serious-faced man opened it. He looked at their passes, nodded, and accompanied them along a series of gray passages and up several flights of stairs into the heart of the building. As they followed him, the noise of an audience somewhere beyond thumped through the walls. The man turned the handle of a white door and, while he could still be heard,
said, “Kids, after the show, follow this passage upstairs. That's where the party is. Enjoy the gig!”

He opened the door and Molly, Micky, and Gerry walked into a vortex of sound. They were on a private balcony with a perfect view of the stage. The auditorium was heaving.

“What's the band called?” Molly shouted to Micky.

“Zagger.”

The friends peered down.

“Glad we're not down there,” said Micky, looking down at the fans at the very front of the crowd in the mosh pit.

“Yeah, you'd get mashed up like a stick on a stormy night,” Gerry observed.

Micky laughed. “Squashed like a beetle in a mud flood!”

Molly gave Gerry a hug. “It's really nice to see you,” she said. “I've missed you.”

A deep voice came over the loudspeakers:

“
Señoras y señores!
Ladies and gentlemen.
El momento que ustedes esperan . . .
The moment you are waiting for . . .
De la bienvenida por favor . . . ZAGGER!
”

The audience erupted. Zone by zone, the stage came to life. A silver drum kit with a halo of lights
above it rose up in the very center. Banks of keyboards, glowing with yellow light, emerged to the left, and an electric guitar in blue neon appeared on the right. More white light revealed a cloud of snowy curtains at the back of the stage. These parted and three boys, each one dressed in a sharp silver space suit, stepped out toward the audience.

The boys looked amazing. Their hair jutted up, cutting the air so that they looked like strange bird-boys. The tallest one's Mohawk was orange, the middle boy's was red, and the smallest's was green. Their silver suits had peaked shoulder pieces that gave the impression that they might suddenly spread wings and fly. Molly looked at Gerry's face and smiled. He was enraptured.

The smallest band member, a boy who was very solidly built, leaped up onto the drum rostrum and sat down. Picking up two black sticks, he began to play. Fierce and precise, he beat out a rhythm that soon had the audience whooping and cheering, clapping on the beat.

While the drummer drummed, the tallest boy went to the keyboards and the other one to the guitar, which had a microphone stand near it. The drumming suddenly stopped.

“Hellooooo, Quito!” the tallest boy shouted into
his microphone in a strong Japanese accent. “How ya doin'? You ready for some show?”

The audience whistled and cheered.

“OK. You ready, Chokichi?”

The boy on the electric guitar gave his brother a thumbs-up.

“You ready, Toka?”

The drummer nodded and leaned toward his microphone. “You too, Hiroyuki?”

“You bet!” Hiroyuki replied. “Here we go . . . A one, a two, a one two three four.”

And then the music started. It was mad. It was amazing. And mostly it was in Japanese. But this didn't bother the audience, because they loved watching the band perform. The boys played fast tunes that had the whole audience jumping and slow songs that the crowd swayed and waved their hands to. After three songs they went offstage and minutes later came back on in karate outfits. Chokichi did a fast karate-style dance that ended with a flying leap and a somersault kick into a papier-mâché tiger, which burst, releasing confetti. At the same time tons more confetti exploded into the audience.

Even when they thought the concert had finally finished, the band came back onstage again (this time in black space suits) for several encores. At last
they left the stage, the lights dimmed, and the sweaty but satisfied crowd started to leave.

“Let's go to the party!” said Micky.

M
olly, Micky, and Gerry made their way to
the staircase that led to the VIP party room. Other people jostled their way past them. Ahead, the noise of the after party grew louder.

A bouncer stood at the door, burly and unmoving.

“Name?” he asked, referring to a list.

Micky gave their names and they were through. Beyond was a large room with a dark blue ceiling dotted with lights like stars. The walls were covered with hundreds of tiny soft lights shaped like ivy leaves and the room was full of expectant people.

Molly glanced about. The band hadn't arrived yet. She, Micky, and Gerry crossed the room to a seating area with a door leading off. Before anyone knew what he was up to, Gerry went across and pushed it open.

“I don't think you're supposed to go in th—” started Micky. But Gerry had already slipped through.

Molly looked around. No one had taken any notice. She went through, too. Nervously, Micky followed.

Beyond the door a passage opened into a hexagonal space with doors in four of the walls. A big round sofa strewn with cushions and sheepskins sat in the middle like a huge, hairy slug.

“Why did you come in here?” Molly whispered to
Gerry.

Gerry shrugged, but before he could reply, a booming voice filled the air. “Fifth rate! That's what it was!”

“Sounds like a Russian accent,” Micky mouthed to Molly.

The voice continued. “You, Hiroyuki—Miss Sny tells me you sang flat ten times. And you were slow to come on in three numbers. Miss Sny noted every mistake down, so don't think you can get away with it.”

Silently Molly, Micky, and Gerry moved closer to a door that was slightly ajar.

In the room beyond, Molly could see part of a mirror and a chair on wheels, on which was perched a nervous-looking Japanese woman in a black suit. She was holding a pen and pad. Was this the Miss Sny the cross Russian-sounding man had referred to?

“And,” the thickly accented voice went on, “your footwork was lousy. I may be deaf, but I'm not blind. That break dancing you did—well, you shouldn't have bothered! And you, Chokichi . . .” Molly saw a little hairy hand pointing. “Your energy was dismal. Your karate dance was a disaster—even worse than Hiroyuki's efforts. And, Toka . . .” Molly saw a small man in profile. She realized that he was
the one she had seen getting into the limo with the band earlier. The one Micky had said was the band's manager. “. . . Your drumsticks were as weak as jelly chopsticks in your hands. Pathetic! No strength! The others could have performed without you.”

Molly got a good look at him as he stepped forward, still shouting. His fat face and bulbous nose were pitted and scarred, his eyes small and sunken as a pig's, and his rubbery mouth looked mean and was fringed by a bristly black mustache. The hair on his head was short as a mole's. He held a cigar between his teeth and on his feet he wore white shoes with a substantial heel, presumably in an attempt to give himself extra height.

Molly decided to take a look at what was going on in his head. Quickly she summoned a thought bubble to appear above him. Oddly, inside it was an image of a boot pressing down on the head of each of the Japanese boys. Molly let the bubble pop.

“I'm telling you,” the bullying manager went on, “if it goes on like this, you're all finished. I'll find another band. Then you will all be has-beens, yesterdayers—washed up, with no one interested in anything you do.”

With that, the man turned to the door. Molly, Micky, and Gerry dived for the sofa and covered
themselves with sheepskins and cushions.

“Oh, and you are to stay in this room. You're banned from the party.”

Fiery with fury, he steamed out. Molly poked her head from under her sheepskin rug to see him go. Hot on his heels was his efficient-looking assistant. They walked away, Miss Sny trying to keep up so that he could read her lips.

“But, Mr. Proila, their CD is very good . . . really it is, Mr. Proila,” she said. “And Chokichi played the new number very—”

All of a sudden there was a squeal from Miss Sny. Mr. Proila had punched her arm.

“Shut it, Sny, or I'll shut it for you.” The door to the party room opened, producing a wave of noise. Mr. Proila marched through, slamming the door in Miss Sny's face.

“
Baka!
” she muttered. Rubbing her arm, she took a moment to pull herself together and then followed her boss.

Molly threw the rug off herself.

“Coast clear,” she whispered, and Micky and Gerry emerged, too.

“He's a nasty piece of work,” Micky said quietly. “Let's go and see the boys.” He knocked on the door and entered.

T
he boy band were sitting together on the sofa in their dressing room with stunned looks on their faces. The biggest one, whose expression was the most forlorn, was fumbling distractedly with a piece
of paper, folding it and tapping it.

Molly, Micky, and Gerry edged into the room.

“Hi, guys. Great show,” said Micky gently.

“You were brilliant,” added Molly.

“The best band I've ever seen live,” enthused Gerry, pushing from behind. “Well, actually the first band I've ever seen live, but still, you were A-MAZIN'.”

“Glad someone thought so.” Hiroyuki, the boy with the paper in his hands, smiled. “My keyboards weren't good. Apparently we were sucking.”

“You were sucking what?” asked Gerry.

“He means we sucked,” explained Chokichi. “His English is sometimes a bit wrong.”

“You didn't,” said Molly, stepping closer. “You were really good. That man doesn't know what he's talking about.”

“Is he your dad?” asked Gerry.

“No,” Chokichi replied, half laughing. “He's our manager.”

“He's putting you down,” said Molly, “so that you think you're so bad that no one else will ever manage you. It's because you're so
good
that he's doing it. He doesn't want you to leave him.”

“Ya think so?” said Toka, the small, muscular one. “Because he real mean just then. I don't like
performing anyway. An' his meanness make me want to kit.”

“To kit?”

“He means quit,” explained Chokichi.

“Well, he's wrong,” Molly assured Toka.

The band boys looked at one another and perked up a little.

“Thanks for coming, Micky,” said Hiroyuki. “And this your sister, Molly?”

Micky nodded. “And this is Gerry.”