Nelson, the pencil man, gave a quiet reply that didn’t please Karney, who ordered him to shut the fuck up and find a fucking handkerchief, which Nelson did after some dashing around. Karney then had the blonde drench the handkerchief in her designer perfume and hold it over his nose and mouth for him (even if the sickly sweet scent had already permeated the room). He was dressed in his requisite leather pants and black top hat, slanted low to hide what, up close, appeared to be hideously rendered features—beady eyes and a twisted little rat face that could make even the most loving mother question her power of creation. The stripper/centerfold clinging to him was a testament to the transformative, sexying powers of rock celebrity. Yet, overcoming harsh genetics and having a Penthouse Pet on his arm didn’t seem quite enough for the man. Over the hanky, his eyes were slits of pure rage, fixed on the ceiling and nothing else. He refused to laugh at any of the jokes his underlings attempted or even to sit on the velvet furniture that had been provided for the occasion; and when a few of The Physical Jerks approached him after their set, Karney made it clear he had no interest. “Tell Ricky-Ticky he owes me his second-born,” he yelled at no one in particular. “I’m getting three nights at the Hollywood Bowl next summer!”
“Well, that’s supremely disappointing,” Spider mumbled. In lieu of Karney’s hatred of the backstage furniture, Clay and his band had taken up residence on a purple settee that was, in Clay’s opinion, pure joy on the glutes. The foreman’s office was growing hotter and more crowded by the minute, and Nelson was taking it upon himself to clear the room, using the bodyguard as muscle, when the door opened and a harried stage manager shouted, like Scooter in so many Muppet Shows, “Farewell Ghost. Two minutes to show, Farewell Ghost!”
“Who the fuck is Farewell Ghost?” Karney wanted to know.
“Don’t bother illuminating him, boys,” Savy said. She stood with her guitar case and led the way out the door.
Clearly the crowd was expecting Karney and the Demons. Clay could hear them chanting, “Kar-ney! Kar-ney!” as he descended the metal stairs to the stage wings. But when the house lights darkened and the stage lights described a ghoulish green hue around the master of ceremonies—some hotshot KROQ personality—their hopes were collectively dashed. “They’re still about a half-hour away, you animals.”
There was a general groan, and a few murderous threats, and as Clay followed his band across the factory floor he figured they would be hearing a lot more of that soon. His hands were numb and his feet were numb, and he couldn’t remember a single note or lyric from any of the songs they were about to play. If only he’d known about the buzzsaw they were walking into, he could have faked the flu. Laryngitis. Throat cancer. Whatever it took to elude this oncoming hell.
Savy and Fiasco and Spider walked ahead in silence, on their own anxious trips. Clay wished they could have had some last-minute ritual—a huddle, a band mantra, something—but there was no time. Spider was already jogging up the stage steps.
Just ahead, someone emerged from the dark under the risers. In the periphery of the emerald glow, Clay saw it was Barrett Roethke, accompanied by a bottle of Seagram’s Seven. Savy was in some kind of zone, psyching herself up, but she still had the sense to slow in Roethke’s presence. They traded greetings and in those seconds, Clay saw that it wasn’t their first words together. The drummer gave her a flirtatious wave and watched her backside flex as she ascended the stairs. Then his bloodshot eyes fell on Clay and Clay’s face confessed all. “Oh, doctor.” Roethke offered his bottle right away. “Better dull the edge, bub.”
Clay took a hard swig and winced at the esophageal burn that ran to the pit of his stomach. Roethke grinned and Clay took a deeper, harder swig. “You probably hear this a thousand times a day,” he told the former Throne drummer, “but I’ve been a fan of yours since I could walk. Any advice?”
“Just keep the beat. Keep everyone else in time and sounding good. Otherwise, fear not—no one’s looking at you back there.”
“But”—Clay lifted his guitar case—“I’m not the drummer, I’m the frontman.”
It took Roethke a moment to process this. He was looking weathered these days, aged by decades, even if it had been less than seven years since Throne’s untimely demise. Finally, a grim understanding dawned on his features. “Shhhheeeeeeet,” he moaned. “In that case, suck it up, sister.” Roethke grabbed the Seagram’s away from Clay like it was a loaded weapon. “You volunteered for center stage, right? Better play your heart out. Or these people? They will eat you alive. And shit you out. And eat you again.”
Clay nodded and climbed toward the stage. “Don’t let your guitarist down,” Roethke called after him, “you’ll never see the blue tigress if you do.”
He had more wisdom to bestow, but Clay heard none of it. Terror had a way of making you deaf.
Suicide. Psychotic fans. Plane crashes. Bus crashes. Motorcycle accidents. Mental illness. Drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs. Of all the things that had killed his favorite musicians through the years, Clay had never heard of anyone dropping dead of stage fright. Not once. But it seemed inevitable sooner or later—between the adrenaline, nerves, and pressure—that someone’s heart would just up and burst. They would pitch face-first into the crowd and their corpse would get floated around and abused for several minutes before anyone caught on. Maybe I’ll be the first. Make history. Clay Harper. Know how he went? No, but I never heard of him—so who gives a shit?
Ten seconds under the stage lights and the sweat was already sending rivers down his face and sides. Clay
