“That’s ludicrous. Fyre is Aries’ top act. You think they’re keen to break their best performing cash machine? I think not.”
“Your ego is standing in your own way. Aries has new acts signed, a floppy haired, lip-synching club boy they pulled out of Florida. Some singing, dancing little morsel from Iowa. These guys are looking to the future, and I don’t have to be the one to tell you that over-the-hill English rockers ain’t it. And if you’ve got some indie fantasy swirling through your outsized head, good luck getting that off the ground after alienating the biggest label in the biz. You’ll be blackballed all over Los Angeles. Aries has powerful people in their back pocket, and they will sabotage you at every conceivable turn.”
The warning should have made Brian angry or defensive, but instead he found himself confused and a bit afraid. “Why are you telling me all of this? Why now?”
The bumpy ride smoothed, and the car pulled onto pavement leading them under a canopy of trees. Faint lights gleamed in the distance.
Joe blew out a massive gust of air, his flabby body deflating like a balloon. “I apologize for getting short with you. I just want this party to go well.”
“And you think I don’t?” Though he had to admit, his apprehensions kept mounting. He checked his phone. A black X crossed out pale signal bars. He couldn’t leave. At the end of the tree tunnel, a gated mansion came into partial view.
“It’s, well, what I’m trying to say.” Joe slashed a hand through what remained of his hair, resetting greasy strands into some semblance of a comb over. “What I’m trying to say is try to keep an open mind, okay? Things work differently at these upper levels. Trust me.”
Brian said nothing, though sweat made the fabric of his shirt sticky. The slick way Joe requested trust didn’t inspire any faith. The car approached a fortress wall of an iron gate, and the driver hopped out and punched a code into a box. Bars spread open with a groan. The driver got back in. The car resumed a creep.
Invisible bugs crawled over Brian’s skin as the Lexus advanced upon a Victorian-style estate at the end of a mile-long driveway and manicured lawn. A few lights, too few, lit a smattering of windows on the first story.
Total isolation. Desolation. No neighbors in sight. The kind of place one dumps a body.
Damn Joe for putting him on edge, whipping his unease into a lather.
The Lexus pulled into a roundabout and stopped. There were no other cars. An internal sensation of a ball rolling downhill careened through Brian. He and Joe got out, slamming their doors in unison.
Joe rang the doorbell, rocking on his heels. His cheeks puffed.
“Nervous?” Brian drew out the word. Though Joe had always thought far outside of the box in pursuit of ambitions, Brian had acted in error when assigning a positive value to those traits.
The manager shook his head like he had a lit cigarette on his scalp.
“Hold up.” This from the driver, jogging from the idling car. In each hand, he held an item about the size of a Frisbee.
Brian dropped his gaze to the driver’s offerings. Time slowed to a drag. Two masks. Joe accepted one, an eerie mirrored thing the color of bronze, and slid the costume over his face.
“You’re kidding.” Brian eyed the one meant for him, latex molded to look like a skull. The driver thrust the mask forward, its plastic flesh trembling. They had to be pranking him, having him on. “Nice one, really.”
“You’ve never been to a masquerade ball? I told you, these guys like to maintain their discretion when brokering big deals.” Joe’s voice came out muffled behind the shiny shield concealing his face. Brian almost laughed at the absurdity. Almost.
“Makes no sense.”
“Fine. Have it your way. Get in that car and head back into town. I’ll tell these guys that the deal is off. Good luck getting even a Vegas gig after tonight.”
Cheap, sleazy Vegas imagery invaded Brian’s head, obnoxious bachelor parties and bored non-fans standing on tacky, frayed carpet while they took a break from losing money to slot machines to halfheartedly watch Brian’s show.
What was wrong with him? He could handle some stupid, off-season Halloween party. He accepted the mask and tugged flimsy latex over his head, breath muggy against the material. Its sickly-sweet odor overpowered him, befitting the overwhelming nature of the bizarre event.
From inside, footsteps advanced. Behind Brian, the car engine grew fainter and fainter and vanished. He swallowed a lump of dread. Nothing to do now but roll with things.
The door opened, and there stood a lanky fellow in a mask like Joe’s. A silver platter rested in his hands, the effect rendered dreamy and faraway through the narrow slits of Brian’s eye holes.
“Wallets, keys, phones.” The doorman spoke in robot monotone.
Joe acquiesced, diving in his pockets and forking over the aforementioned things. Brian plunked his items on the tray. The butler walked to some sort of cubby underneath a carpeted staircase, ducked inside, and came out with an empty tray. Good to know where they stashed the personal effects, in case a quick getaway was warranted.
With a scoop of his hand, Joe moved in front of Brian and beckoned him to follow.
Brian stepped inside. Masked, suited-up men and unmasked women in skimpy dresses and sexy heels filled an opulent parlor room.
The space dripped with accoutrements of wealth: velvet furniture, artifacts from around the world. Turkish rugs. A crystal chandelier burdened the ceiling, and oil portraits of monarchial subjects hung on the walls. Mellow classical music played, complemented by a soft din of polite chat
