The aging drummer swallowed without sipping his flask. “Rocco asked me to help you. I’m doing that—by giving the best advice I can. Don’t fight this the way your hero did.”
“But The Man isn’t going to force me into anything. Isn’t that right?”
“Do what you want,” Roethke concluded. “Just remember—‘In the battle between ants and the stomping boots of Gods, the sidewalk is never yours,’ brother.”
22
THE BACKSEAT
Gar Basserman was gone now, having drifted upstream, his spawning complete. Savy stood there, stag, looking apprehensive as Clay approached—as apprehensive as Clay felt about the black limo idling outside the Viper. “We were wondering when that slut would toss you out,” Fiasco—subtle as a hammer to the skull—shouted. Then he spotted the blood smeared on Clay’s clothes and his lips drew back. “Please tell me you didn’t go American Psycho on her.”
Clay barely heard the dig. “We have to cancel the meeting with Epiphany.”
His bandmates exchanged glances. Only Savy could, and did, grasp the significance of the tremble in Clay’s words. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Someone else wants to meet us.”
On cue, the limo’s driver—a very tall, cadaverous man with the fleshy lips of a sax player—unfolded from behind the wheel and motioned them forward.
“Are you serious?” Fiasco said. “Who’s in there, David Geffen?” The driver stooped to open the back door, and Fiasco approached, shoulders hunched like a Boy Scout nearing a bear’s den; when he poked his head in, Clay heard someone greet him. Whoever it was, they were sans horns and hooves, because Fiasco happily returned the greeting and climbed in without looking back. Spider followed, and as Clay shuffled forward, Savy fell into lockstep with him. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
And what he wanted to tell her was everything—about the girl Roethke had called a succubus, about Essie interceding and getting stabbed, then appearing in his father’s car, unharmed. About how they were out of their depth here, way out of it. But there wasn’t time. The driver’s gaze was hard and cold on them and all Clay could whisper was a quick plea: “Resist. No matter what, Sav, resist.”
The man waiting inside the limousine wasn’t the figure from Boyle’s death video, and he wasn’t the man Dave Ganek had described seeing on the roof of that Mouth House so many years ago. He was, however, quite clearly a heavyweight. With his three-piece suit and carefully arranged salt-and-pepper hair, he exuded an aura of easy success and absolute authority, slouched as he was in a purple velvet seat with his fingers folded over his belly. Challenge me, the body language said. I dare you. “My name is William Priest,” he informed them. “I don’t live under the delusion that you’ve heard of me—but rest assured, you know my work.”
“What work is that?” Clay asked, making sure to meet his eyes.
The limo lurched roughly into traffic, sending Clay and his band sideways, knocking shoulders and knees. Priest’s response was a simple one: “I discover people.”
“Did you have someone at our show?” Savy asked. “How do you know us?”
Priest appraised her with his dark and confident eyes. “Word travels in my world. Your band has been turning heads since the party for Ricky Somebody’s daughter.”
“So you’re a manager?” Spider asked.
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve heard our tape?” Fiasco asked hopefully.
Priest’s nostrils flared, as if to take in their collective scent. “I’ve heard of your tape, yes. I’ve been at this so long, that’s enough for me.” He snatched a long-stemmed crystal glass from a drink holder—red wine, deep as Essie’s blood—and held it aloft. “So enjoy yourselves, the bar’s open, and we’re cruising Hollywood on All Hallows’ Eve.”
Except it’s not Halloween, Clay thought. It was after midnight now. And he wanted to yell at Spider to drop the bottle he’d lifted from the built-in wet bar, wanted to tell them all what had happened since their set, and what was surely going to happen if they stayed in this man’s company.
“Relax, son.” Priest was watching him close. At being called son, Clay saw his own father, indignant and disturbed, staring out of the Mercedes. “I’m no devil. Just someone who’s been fortunate enough to make a living doing what he’s good at. Believe me, I didn’t leave a party at the Playboy Mansion to come dick you around.”
Everyone gave this a hearty chuckle, even Clay, and suddenly it was that much harder to jump out of the limo at the next stoplight. Not that the doors would have been unlocked anyway. No, they would need the cadaverous driver to let them free. And he wasn’t going to until Priest was good and done with them.
Glasses were circulated. Savy handed Clay one with the briefest of glances. “To cruising Hollywood on the Day of the Dead!” Clay shouted in a mock toast, and brought the crystal to his lips, let the wine touch his clenched teeth, but did not take the liquid in. “I’m relieved to hear you’re not out for blood, Mr. Priest. But, in my own blunt terms, what then do you want?”
The limo grew quiet. Fiasco gave Clay a look like he’d seen Clay shit on the carpet. If Priest took exception to the question, however, it didn’t show. He seemed more than happy to go through the motions. After all, would a shark mind circling its dinner? “I want you to sell a shitload of records, of course. I want us to go shopping for McLaren GTs together. But most of all, I want to see your music inspire millions. I know that’s important to you as an artist. And trust me, when I go to a Reading Festival or Coachella, I stand at the very
