BLACK to Reality (17 page)

That night he’d overindulged in tequila while in the hot tub with Ed and Christina. The resultant footage had been prominently featured on the next segment as Christina, wearing a thong and the most microscopic bikini top Black had ever seen, had done an impromptu wiggle dance for the cameras that would have been the envy of any stripper. Ratings had surged, as had her fan mail, although Mugsy was still more popular. Black could only imagine what Sylvia thought upon seeing the spectacle, and he’d stopped calling her after that episode, his protestations of chastity laughable, even if they were true.

Christina moved to where Black was standing, watching the gear being loaded onto the stage. She was carrying a small bottle of water, her black Harley Davidson top molded to her breasts, a pair of distressed, torn jeans struggling to contain a walk that would have been at home at the Playboy mansion.

“How’re you feeling?” she asked.

“Good. I feel like this is the first real chance we have to show what we’re made of. Not you. You’re always spot on. I mean as a band – as a unit, not four separate personalities stuck on a stage together.”

“I know what you mean. Rehearsals have been really good lately, haven’t they?”

“Better than good. I’d say we’re ready for prime time.”

The song they’d been assigned was Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way”, a tune Black had grown up on and could nail in his sleep. But his approach to the solo was more Stevie Ray Vaughn than Joe Perry, making for a hypnotic juxtaposition over Christina’s rhythm guitar – something she hadn’t felt comfortable playing live, but which Black had helped her gain confidence with. He’d shown her a few moves that she could use the guitar for that would accentuate her persona for the song, and even Rooster had been impressed when he’d watched the band play the night before.

“We better be. Bend in the Creek’s a big favorite right now, and they have their act down pat. We’ll need to be amazing to give them a run for their money,” she said.

“They’re really good, but they don’t have our secret weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

She looked at him with a small smile. “Why, Black, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe you’ve forgiven me for being such an insufferable ass those first weeks.”

“Well, I’m all about forgiveness. And frankly, this is starting to get fun again. I’d forgotten how cool it is to be onstage in front of thousands of people.” He eyed her. “You nervous?”

“I don’t get nervous anymore. I get psyched.”

“That’s the way to be. This is your show. You own the crowd.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“Hey, at least we drew the last slot for the night. That’ll leave the audience with a good impression leading into the next round.”

“One in five chance. But I’ll take it as a win.”

Rooster swaggered over, looking fresh in a mint green silk shirt and cream linen slacks. They shot the breeze as they watched the final preparations, and Black noted that the soundman running the monitor system was a different one from the last show. For all Sarah’s faults, perhaps she’d taken his observations to heart and arranged for someone new?

Shooting wouldn’t start until dusk so that the elaborate light show would have maximum impact on camera. When the show began, Holly and David did their customary routine, recapping the last week’s performances for the audience, shots from that show to splice in during post-production the following day, and then the first band took the stage: On Top, the boy band from Louisiana.

The five youths bumped and ground their way through a rendition of “Papa Was a Rolling Stone” that had Black’s teeth on edge, but the audience response was good, and he couldn’t fault either the vocals or the choreography. Next came their nemesis, Bend in the Creek, with a blistering version of ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” that brought cheers when the last note died. Black and Christina exchanged glances as Simon smiled and nodded from his seat next to the judges.

“We should have gotten that song. You would have torn the lead up,” she said.

He nodded. “It was good. But it doesn’t stand a chance against Aerosmith.”

Their housemates BrandX followed the country-tinged band and seemed shoe-ins to win because of the rowdy youth of the audience, but when they were ready to start, their DJ signaled to the rappers, frantic. Black struggled to hear and could make out hurried back and forth about their samples not triggering.

“What? They were fine at sound check,” Lavon growled.

“That was then. Memory says they ain’t here no more,” shot back the DJ, a lanky street tough with two gold front teeth and a baseball cap on sideways.

A bead of sweat rolled down SnM’s face. He wiped it away with a swipe of his NY Yankees Jersey. “Well, do something, man.”

“Nuthin’ to be done. The sounds ain’t here.”

Their coach had a terse discussion with Holly and David. Sarah got on her radio as the crowd began booing. When the word came back, it wasn’t good.

“I don’t know what to tell you guys. Figure something out. You’ve got five minutes. You’ll have to do it without the samples if you can’t make them work. Just like breaking a guitar string. The show must go on.”

“That’s bullshit. This is equipment failure. It isn’t our fault.”

“Not my call. Five minutes.” She turned away from the rappers and held her two-way to her mouth. “Doug, crank the house music,” she ordered the soundman.

Black and Christina remained where they were, every performer’s worst nightmare unfolding for the rappers – having to wing a show with no preparation. To their credit, they gave it a game try, choosing to tackle their rendition of “Heard it Through The Grapevine” a cappella, but it was no good, and by the time they were done, the booing had sealed their fate.

Strobe delivered a typically effete performance that got commendable scores, and then it was time for Last Call. Peter and Black exchanged glances after Holly announced them, and Black played the famous riff, putting a unique spin on it by using a wah-wah pedal to coax a new slant from the standard. Christina was in her element, shucking and jiving while playing her black Les Paul and giving the vocals her all, but it was Black’s solo that was the highlight of the song. When it was over, the roar of the crowd sounded like an avalanche, and Christina and Black held their guitars up next to each other, sharing the spotlight. The judges took a minute to gather their thoughts, and then Alex led off with his critique and score – a ten. Nina followed suit with a ten of her own, and BT Slim rounded it out with another ten – the first perfect score of the season.

Rooster was waiting offstage as the cheering died down. He hugged everyone multiple times, congratulating them on an incredible performance – which it was, and which everyone in the band knew. Black enjoyed his moment of attention, but excused himself when he saw Lavon arguing with his coach. Black sympathized with him – it was a horrible way to end a great run, and over the six weeks they’d been together at the house, he’d grown to like the young rapper, who was wickedly funny in a self-deprecating way.

“Lousy break, Lavon,” Black said, extending his hand.

Lavon took it and shook. “Yeah, well, every show got to have a loser, you know?”

“What do you think happened?”

“Some equipment shit. Nothing’s where it’s supposed to be except the beat. The music, the samples…gone.”

“How?”

“Nobody knows. Just one of them things. Can’t let it get you down. It’s cool,” Lavon said in a tone that made it clear it was anything but.

“Who was watching your stuff after rehearsal?”

“House security and the sound crew. You was up here. You see anything?”

Black tried to remember. With all the crew hurrying around to get things set up, nothing sprang to mind. Except…

“There was a guy. Latino looking. Skinny dude. Goatee, like a vato. I thought I remembered him hanging around and thought it was weird he wasn’t busy,” Black said, his words carefully chosen as he tried to clarify the image that was in his head.

“Yeah? You see that punkass here?”

Black watched the road crew breaking down the gear and rolling it off stage for several minutes, scanning the faces, and shook his head. “No, I don’t. Maybe he’s outside loading.”

“I got to tell our people about this. This ain’t right,” Lavon said, returning to his dejected coach.

Black moved to the new soundman and thanked him for a great job. The man grinned behind his bushy red beard. “That’s nice of you, man. Nobody ever says anything to me unless it’s to complain they didn’t like their sound.”

Black described the crew member he’d seen. “Is that anyone you know?”

The soundman shook his head. “No. But there are a lot of new guys here. On a big production like this, there’ll be dozens of local talent to lug stuff.”

Lavon was asking the stage manager the same sort of questions, and Black left him to his task, cringing when Lavon pointed at Black and continued talking, obviously agitated. The last thing he wanted to be accused of was instigating another disturbance, and he couldn’t get back to his band’s dressing room fast enough. The incident receded in his mind as celebratory beers were cracked and swigged, and within an hour it was just a hazy blur as another round of cold brews were consumed to keep the desert heat at bay.

Chapter 21

Dinner was at one of the restaurants on the lake that jutted on pilings over the water, whose surface was inky black except for where the spring moon glinted off the small waves stirred by the eastern wind. Everyone was in a festive mood, the performance’s perfect score validation of the many hours they’d invested practicing. Heaping platters of pork ribs and barbecued chicken, along with an ocean of beer and Jack Daniel’s, seemed a fitting reward.

By the time they finished eating, Black’s head was beginning to spin, and against his better judgment he asked Peter for a cigarette. After all, he was a guitar hero, and a lousy smoke or two wasn’t going to put him into an early grave. Peter slid his pack across the table, and Black removed one, along with the matches stuck in the cellophane wrapping. He stood somewhat unsteadily as Rooster held another shot of Jack in the air and toasted. Black waved the drink off – Ed could knock back enough for them both without any help from Black.

The waitress waggled a cautionary finger at him as he looked around for someplace to smoke and pointed at the deck over the water. He nodded his thanks and slid the door open, taking in the dry air like it was his last breath, and fumbled to light his cigarette, his fingers clumsy from the booze. He cursed under his breath as the match fizzled out and was striking a second one when a voice spoke from behind him.

“Hey, pal, you need help with that?”

Black was turning around when two pairs of powerful hands gripped him under his arms and hurled him over the wooden railing into the water fifteen feet below. Black struck the surface with his back, and the impact knocked the wind out of him. The assault had been so sudden he hadn’t had time to register what was happening – one moment he was on the deck, the next doing an ungainly swan dive.

Water rushed into his nose and mouth as he went under. Tiny pinpoints of light danced behind his eyes, and then instinct took over and he kicked to the surface, his lungs burning for air. His head broke the surface, and he sputtered out a coughing blast as he struggled to breathe. He was finally able to draw air as he treaded water, his boots pulling at him, and he glared up at the restaurant lights above him. The same voice that had asked whether he wanted a light echoed off the water.

“You like asking questions, huh, tough guy? Sticking your nose where it don’t belong? This is your only warning. Knock it off, or next time we’ll start off with breaking all your fingers. How does that sound?”

Black was mustering a response in his alcohol-addled brain when he heard the footsteps departing on the plank deck. He listened intently, but didn’t hear anything else. The smoking area was empty.

He peered into the gloom at the side of the restaurant and resigned himself to having to swim to shore – no small feat when drunk and wearing skinny jeans and cowboy boots. As he paddled around the pilings, another, darker thought occurred to him: what if his attackers were waiting for him in the dark?

The idea stayed with him as he stroked for the bank, huffing like he’d run a marathon, water in his eyes and nose, a vague odor of petroleum in his hair. Off in the distance a line of boats was lit up like a parade float. Music boomed across the lake, accompanied by female squeals and male whoops that reverberated like sirens.

When he finally reached the water’s edge, there were no goons lying in wait. Black pulled himself onto a flat area of the gravel beach and lay staring at the moon peeking through the clouds, wondering how he’d gotten himself attacked in the middle of a restaurant. Even for him, that was a record – in a night of them, he thought grimly. Obviously whoever had tossed him in had followed him and waited for their opportunity. His probing about the mystery roadie had triggered a response he hadn’t expected, and the only lucky thing about it had been that they’d only thrown him in the water and not tailed him to the hotel and worked him over with pipes.

The voice had sounded East Coast. Not Latino at all. No, more like New Jersey or New York – he wasn’t great with accents, but it wasn’t L.A., that was for sure. As his heart rate returned to normal, he wondered just what he’d tripped onto. It was one thing to try to nudge bands out of the running, and another to assault someone overtly.

He retrieved his wallet and shook a stream from it, tilting his head to clear the water from his ears. From here on out he’d have to be much more stealthy about his behavior and play the part of the oblivious guitar player better.

Black pulled his boots off and dumped them out before removing his socks and wringing them. He was cold from the nocturnal bath, but stayed where he was for ten minutes before standing and moving back to the restaurant. Inside, the party was in full roar, and nobody had noticed his absence. Peter saw him first, followed almost immediately by Ed, who put his beer down and shook his head.