They ripped through a few songs: “Face,” “If It Doesn’t Kill You,” and the cover of “Hey Bulldog” that Cody had been dying to play. With One Word Ben on bass they were tighter than ever, and they had more than enough numbers for a full twenty-minute set.
Playing without Karston was like having lead weights removed from his hands and head, a feeling that made Devin feel sick and even angrier at Cody for being right.
Through it all, through every song, the crowd kept chanting, “‘Lying to the Angels,’ ‘Lying to the Angels’!”
They were planning to do another few numbers first, but the chanting had grown too loud. Finally, Cody put his head down theatrically, then raised a single finger to quiet the crowd. After a moment, it actually worked. When the sound dropped enough, he spoke softly, somberly, into the mike, saying only, “For Karston.”
The space was flooded with sound: a torrent of slamming hands mixed with wild shrieks. It got so loud, the cops in back shifted nervously. All the while, Cody just stood there, the picture of sadness, holding his head down, letting the tip of his white hair touch the mike. Cheryl and Ben were like zombies, expressionless. Devin figured he looked the same, but also knew their dull shock would be mistaken for something deeper, like mourning.
They all waited for the new round of applause to die down. Devin had no real sense of time, but he’d have sworn it went on for five minutes. And what were they cheering for? Not Karston, whom none of them had really known. Was it all just for the creepy haunted song? Was it for death in general?
Some in the crowd finally realized Torn wasn’t going to play until they stopped, so loud shushing mixed with the roar. As the shushing rose, the roar quieted. For a second, only the shushing was left, like a host of strange hissing insects. Then it, too, faded.
The whole crowd, the whole huge crowd crammed into the converted train tunnel, fell completely, totally silent.
Cody gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. Cheryl clicked her sticks four times. Devin started finger picking.
It was the most complicated thing he’d ever played in public. It started on an E minor. On the second measure, Ben came in on Karston’s bass.
As Devin stayed on the E minor, Ben walked down to D-sharp, D, C-sharp. Together, they hit a C and a G, right on time.
It was amazing. It wasn’t quite the melody as Devin had written it—Cody was improvising as usual—but it was low and mournful, and the wildness in Cody’s voice sounded like it was being held back by thick chains of sadness.
Devin joined in on the verses. He was sort of a control track for Cody’s total improv, reminding himself how the song had actually been written.
After the second verse, Cheryl slammed out a hard steady beat and Cody went wild with his shrieking chorus:
If the crowd had been excited before, now it went insane, hooting, hollering, and throbbing as if everyone had been twisted together into one giant, monster thing. Devin couldn’t hear himself play or sing. He had no idea if he was on tempo, but it really didn’t matter. The moment had blown past the song.
This was usually where Devin would pull back into himself, watch himself watch himself, but not this time. Whatever had grabbed the crowd grabbed Devin, too, mixing with his anger at, and awe for, Cody. He played hard, frantically. It felt as if all his frustration, fear, and rage were flooding out his fingertips and his throat, out into the speakers and the world, calling out into the void, hoping something would answer, but not knowing, or caring, what it would be.
When Torn finished “Lying to the Angels,” the crowd started roaring again. Devin thought it was a more subdued, thoughtful sound, as if the song had moved them, but then realized they might just be tired of cheering.
What he didn’t kid himself about was the slew of foul language that came from somewhere in the back. Scanning for the source, he thought he saw some fists and arms flying. In seconds, a swarm of blue swept toward the spot, shoving people out of the way and into one another as it went.
Cody saw it, too. “Be cool, people,” he said into the mike, but the only effect of his announcement was that the people jammed in front now tried to turn around to see what was going on. Near the stage they were so tightly packed, some couldn’t even manage that. For the moment, their frustration expressed itself as a pained wriggling, but Devin feared it could quickly turn ugly.
The angry shouts continued, with more voices joining. The police, frustrated at being unable to get through, grabbed some of the people in the crowd. The people, probably not even realizing who was grabbing them, fought back. More fists flew.
The group up front looked ready to panic. It seemed everyone was.
“Wow, this is turning into a riot,” Cody said.
“Let’s play,” Devin said, hoping a song would distract at least most of the crowd. Cody, who actually looked a little frightened himself for a change, nodded. Devin turned up his volume and slammed the first chord of “Chili Bone Finger” on the Ovation. Nothing came out. The power to their amps had been cut.
As the shouting grew louder, Devin looked around the stage, perplexed. He saw Allen Bates frantically waving them toward the back room. One Word Ben was already unplugged and heading offstage, Cheryl following. Cody looked at Devin, shrugged, unplugged his guitar, and walked off. Devin couldn’t do anything but follow.
The sounds behind them grew louder and more chaotic. Bates raised his voice. “It’s a mess. We’re being shut down. They’ve got more squad cars coming. Don’t worry, everyone will be all right, but I want you guys out of here. Come on.”
Devin and Ben laid down their guitars, but Cody refused to let go of his Les Paul as they followed Bates through the back. He pointed down a flight of stone steps that led into a small dank tunnel.
“You want us to go down there?” Devin said.
“Where’s it go?” Cheryl asked.
“It’s an access tunnel to the children’s furniture store, built back when it used to be a warehouse,” Bates said. He was in a hurry, casting nervous glances back over his shoulder as his cell phone vibrated and chimed. He grimly ignored it, fished out a key, and handed it to Devin.
“Your folks dropped you off with your equipment, right?”
Devin nodded. It had been meant as a big show of support. They were all supposed to go out for steak dinner afterward, a treat from his father.
“I’ll make sure they get out of the club and I’ll have them pick you up in the parking lot out in back of the store,” Bates said. “Until they show up, pretend you’re the Beatles and try not to be seen.” The phone chirped and buzzed again. Bates looked back and forth nervously. “You’ll be fine. No one knows about the tunnel. I’ve got to get back before they destroy the place.”
He whirled, but before he could leave, Cody called to him. “So, Allen! Still want us back next week?”
Bates gave him a weird grin. “Ha. Yeah. If I can afford the insurance.” Then he vanished toward the noise, flipping open his phone as he went.
As a group, they shrugged and walked down the steps. The air felt cold after the heat of the lights and the crowd. The sounds, now above them, seemed far away. After using the key on a big green fire door, they climbed another set of steps and emerged into the quiet furniture store on its main floor, facing the display windows.
The scene was surreal. All around them were cribs, bassinets, and mock children’s bedrooms. Red and blue
