The Devil's Beat (The Devil's Mark) (9 page)

Max stopped when he saw the look Old Bone was giving him. He turtled his head a bit. “Oh, right. I'll just tell you about it later.”

For most of the next hour, the two sat in companionable silence—at least it seemed that way to Max. It was hard to tell with Old Bone. They were just starting into One Life to Love, which Max didn't like, because Cindy was such a bitch, and Rick was such a milksop, when a thought occurred to him. Mikey! Mikey loved One Life to Love. His old best friend Mike, whom he hadn't spoken to for at least three years was a general contractor! He really missed Mike and wondered what he had been up to. Mike normally spent his days building spec homes and doing home improvement for people. He would be the perfect person to help him out with this sorry excuse for a house. Max pulled out his cell phone, and, after searching around for several minutes, he finally found Mike's number. He dialed it up.

“Hello, this is Mike.”

“Hey, Mikey! This is Max!”

“...Max? Max who? I think I knew a Max once. His name was Maxwell Niemand. Went off to get a singing career. Changed his name and then just dropped off the face of the earth and refused to talk to any of his old buddies...”

The guilt barb struck home. Max winced. “I know Mike, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. You might have heard that this has been a bad couple of years for me.”

“That would fly if you hadn't stopped talking to me five years ago.”

“I know, I'm so sorry Mike...”

Mike let Max continue to grovel for several more minutes. Finally, Mike interrupted. “Okay! okay! I believe you! You are a faithless, juvenile, egotistical jerk with delusions of godhood.”

Max said, “Well, I wouldn't go that far... I don't think I'm juvenile.”

“Yep you are. Did I mention irritating and self-centered?”

“Yes, yes! I give!”

Mike laughed. “I'm glad you called, bud. Me and the gang have been worried about you.”

“I'm surviving. It's been tough, but I'm still alive.”

“I hear ya. This housing bust has been brutal. I haven't been able to find steady work for the last 6 months.”

“Ouch. That hurts, but actually I'm glad to hear it.”

“That's not making me feel the love, Maxy.”

It was Max's turn to laugh. “No, I didn't mean it like that. See, I've inherited this house. Actually, it's an old southern mansion. I need you to come out and help me fix it up.”

Mike laughed back. “That's rich! Me help you in a construction project? In your hands, a hammer is a deadly weapon. You are the only person I know who could saw a crooked line with a miter saw. What happened, did you get hit in the head?”

Mike sighed. He'd never live down the miter saw. He looked at the blue and black fingers sticking out of his cast, “More times than I care to count. So, I want you to come down and fix my house. Do you want to help me?”

“Of course I do. Where are you?”

“Outside of New Orleans, in Mississippi.”

“Uh Max, hate to break it to you, but last I heard, New Orleans was in Louisiana.”

“Ya, ya, smart guy, it's close to the border.”

Mike laughed. “Okay, what do you need done and what is your budget?”

“Well, this place was damaged by Hurricane Mark, and it looks like it was decorated by the Munsters. I want to fix it up so it looks as good as it did two hundred years ago.”

Mike whistled, “Sounds insane. What's the budget?”

“Whatever it takes,” said Max. “Whatever it takes.”

“Okay, when do you want to start?”

“When can you get here?”

“As soon as you can get me tickets, bud. I got nothing holding me here, and beans are getting old.”

“Great. I'll get it arranged. This is exciting. I can't wait to see you.” Max paused and then said a little less enthusiastically, “Uh, does it matter that the house is haunted?”

Mike snorted. “As long as the ghosts stay out of my way or can wield a hammer, they are okay by me.”

Max pictured the fire extinguisher crashing into the wall next to his head. “I wouldn't be surprised if they could wield a hammer.”

“Then, we'll sign them up.” said Mike, plainly not believing a word of it. Max smiled, thinking what his friend’s expression would be like when he met Old Bone. That would be something to remember!

The two old friends worked out the details for Mike's trip and stay, and then Max called Fritz, his old personal secretary, to arrange everything. Because Lucian had originally hired Fritz, he was automatically the subject of suspicion to Max, but he was keenly organized and exceptionally adept at getting things done. Max knew Fritz was the only reason he had been able to drop untraceably off the grid.

Max called his money manager, Tony, and left another message asking for a report on his finances. Max hung up and sat back down to watch the end of One Life To Love with Old Bone.

He was watching the ending credits of his show, when someone knocked on the door. Whoever it was, wasn't content with just knocking. They continuously knocked out a rhythm that seemed familiar to Max. He went to the door with irritation, opened it, and then stepped back to avoid being knocked on himself.

A strange sight greeted him, something you just didn't see every day. In front of the door, now knocking against the air, stood an emaciated old man, dressed in ratty jeans and jeans-jacket over a tie-dyed, torn, and stained Hendrix shirt. He was dancing around and playing a weird mixture of air-guitar and air-drums. He looked to be Arabic or some such Middle Eastern heritage. His mocha with cream face supported a prominent nose and bushy eyebrows that crouched over his closed eyes like, feral fuzzy caterpillars. He had wild scraggly Muppet hair that might have once been black but now was mostly gray. He had headphones on so loud that Max could easily hear the strains of “Magic Carpet Ride” from where he stood. That was the beat Max had recognized, accompanied by Goldy McJohn’s breakthrough organ playing, It had only hit third on the pop charts, but Max felt it defined the Hait-Ashbury era and was better than the more popular “Born to be Wild.” At least the guy had good taste in music.

Max stood bemused. Half fascinated, half appalled, he wasn't quite sure what to do. He had no intention of yelling over the man's headphones, and he certainly didn't want to touch the guy, who looked like a flea paradise. He didn't need the grief, so he closed the door. The knocking began again as soon as the door was within striking distance of the man's hands. In no mood to put up with this, Max paused and sighed. He threw the door back open and yelled, “Hey!” He repeated himself several times, but he didn't get a response till the song faded away.

As the song ended, the old raggedy man opened his eyes and looked at Max. He said, “Sorry, man. Couldn't stop in the middle of the sacred song, ya know?”

Max knew the feeling and it mellowed his reaction to the stranger, but when another song started up, and the visitor's eyes closed again as he readied his air-instruments, Max said, “Oh, no you don't!” He stepped forward and snatched the phones off the man's head. Afraid of catching something, Max quickly dropped them to dangle from the cord leading into the man's jeans pocket.

It took a second to register with the old man. When it did, he said, “Hey man, that's not cool. Taking a man's tunes. Not cool.”

 Max snapped, “What do you want?”

The human rag in front of him raised his eyebrows. “Chill Maxy-man, no need to get all hostile. I thought you'd be more cool you know, like your songs and stuff.”

Max's warning bells all rang. He narrowed his eyes. “How did you find me, and what do you want?”

“Hey, it's cool dude. The Dealer told me to look you up. He said, 'Josh old buddy, Max Faust needs some cheer from a peer,' dig? So, thought I'd drop by and bring you some magic.” The man shrugged out of his old, patched denim backpack. He dropped it, undid some ties, and rummaged around in it while muttering to himself. Finally he said, “Oh yeah. Here you go.” He triumphantly pulled out a garbage bag full of pills, hand-rolled cigarettes, dried mushrooms, and other, less identifiable, things. Given the size of the bag, Max was surprised it even fit in the backpack, let alone that the guy had to rummage for it.

The rickety man stood up and held the bag up to Max. “Here you go. If something in here don't show you the goddess, sharpen your chakras, and smooth out your panties, then yer dead, dig?”

Max involuntarily took a startled step back. He eyed the bag's contents and put up his hands. “Do I look insane to you? Get that away from me.”

The old guy looked surprised and then he seemed to deflate with disappointment. He said, “Oh dude, you are really bumming my high.” He pulled the bag back, opened it up, and started searching through it. He said, “I know I got somethin' for that. No, not the pink one. Was it red, or maybe white? Hmm.” Triumphantly, he pulled out a small diamond-shaped, blue pill. “This'll do the trick.”

Curious in spite of himself, Max asked, “What is it?”

The man's brows pinched as he looked at the pill. He moved it in and out, trying to focus on the tiny writing. He squinted. “v...i...g...r...” He shrugged. “I have no idea...but I'm feeling blue, ya know?” He popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed. Belatedly, Max recognized the pill. Josh had just taken a Viagra. Max pinched the bridge of his nose as he contemplated the chemical reactions which must be going on in this strange man's blood stream.

Josh swallowed the pill and made a satisfied sort of sound, the kind you might make after eating a perfect bite of porterhouse steak. He stood up straight, smiled happily, and showed Max a mouth full of bad teeth. “Ah... Yep, that was just the thing old Josh needed.” Josh's stomach rumbled a couple of times. His eyes rolled up on into his head, and he fell face first towards Max.

Max's reflexes kicked in, but not the Good Samaritan kind. He jumped back out of the way. Josh landed halfway into the house with a dull thud, leaving a cloud of gnats, flees, and other small fauna behind. Max didn't notice the swarm because he was busy staring at Josh. His body didn't collapse like a normal man's would. He laid face down on the floor, arms at his side, like a dime store Indian statue – straight and stiff as a board.

Max stared in disbelief and disgust. “Oh Je... for fuckin... God... phaaah!” He wanted to scream and rant, but he couldn't get the words out. He needed some different swear words.

Max wanted to break something, but he was tired of hurting himself, so he just took a couple of deep breaths while he figured out what to do. He knew he really should be checking to see if the guy was alive, but he just couldn't bring himself to touch the filthy man. He stared for a couple of seconds till he convinced himself that the guy was breathing. Max pulled out his phone to call 911. Instead of the normal five bars, there was no signal. Max looked up at the high, cracked, ceiling. “Really? This is how it's going to be?” He refrained from throwing the phone at the wall, put it back in his pocket, and muttered, “Time for option two.”

Gingerly, Max stepped over the rigid body and wondered if it was even possible for someone to be that stiff. “It doesn't matter because he's not my problem.”

He picked up the man's feet in their ancient Converse canvas high-tops. The body stayed stiff, and Josh's face was mashed into the floorboards of Max's entryway. Max swore, spun the guy’s legs around, and turned old Josh onto his back like a pig on a spit. He dragged Josh on his back, out from under the porch (whatever it was called down here) and into the gravel drive. The cloud of bugs displaced earlier joyously hopped back on board.

Once he was clear of the columns, Max dropped the worn sneakers, leaned over, and whispered from a safe distance, “Goodnight old Josh, and goodbye.” He stepped carefully around the body and headed back to the house. Just as he was about to shut the door, a distant, siren-like cry stopped him. He listened, rubbed his face with his hands, and shouted loudly to the sky, “There aren't any wolves in Mississippi!” He started to close the door again, when another mournful howl answered the first and then several others joined in. They seemed to be getting closer.

He angrily shook his fist in the air. “Fuck you Lucian! Do you hear me? Fuck you!” He turned back and dragged old Josh back into the house and left him lying in the front hall where he wouldn’t block the door. His imagination supplied Lucian's nasty, self-satisfied chuckle when his ears failed to do so.

That night, Max found himself alone in his motel room again, alternately staring at the ceiling, or the cast on his arm. His thoughts wandered hither and yon.

Christy! Her name was Christy. The girl of the magnificent chest. She’d had a pretty face. He couldn’t believe he had forgotten…

***

He slouched on the abused, but comfortable couch and watched the party swirl around him. The familiar sense of loss and emptiness had filled the space in Max left by music and the fans, but Jimmy and Dan were still riding high on the concert. They were good musicians but had never even imagined what a night like this could feel like. Jimmy was killer on the drums, but Dan’s little improvs pissed Max off. Even with the improv, both of them were preferable to the whining pricks they’d replaced, but this was Max’s band and Max’s music. There were thousands of guitarists where he came from.

He should probably just get his butt off the couch and throw the guy out, but it seemed like too much work. He’d have Lucian give him his traveling papers tomorrow and avoid any scene.

Max finished off his fourth rum and coke in a swallow and contemplated getting another as Lucian stepped up with a girl on either arm.

“Max,” said Lucian. “I knew you’d be sulking again, so I brought these two lovely companions whose fondest wish is to banish your loneliness for the night.

Max only had eyes for the girl on the right. She was young and had the most magnificent chest he’d ever seen. He tore his gaze from said mounds of glory, displayed to perfection in a low cut, tight white cotton shirt and took in her pretty face, long mousy brown hair, and over-painted eyes.

Max jumped up from the couch and offered her his hand, “Come on, let’s leave these losers behind.”