In the Dead of Night (43 page)

It caught me off guard, too. From the looks on Tony and Ricky’s faces, it was ditto for them, as well. Hard to say for Fiona, but the same unsurprised expression on Jackie and Michelle’s faces matched the knowing smirk on Tom’s pompous mug. Had they secretly made a pact with the suit devils to override everyone else’s rights to include or exclude other ghost hunters by unanimous group vote? Or, worse, had our so-called leaders decided what was best for the rest of us, and then made the decision to promote the Thomas brothers as co-hosts on their own?

Not a pleasant scene, and a shitty way to end the night’s program. Unfortunately, when I sought to gauge our station manager’s expression, Mr. Powers had already exited the studio. But I imagine he shares the same invisible giant dollar signs pushing up Lisa’s delicate cheekbones. Anything for ratings, and a surefire way to keep the big decision makers in New York happy…at least that’s my assumption.

As the curtain closed to separate us from our audience once more, I braced myself for the certain confrontation to come between Justin and at least Tom. This would surely bring a swift and bitter end to their budding chumminess. And the way Tony and Ricky stormed off the stage without so much as a word to anyone else pointed to an even bigger rift that had formed. The little irritant ‘cracks’ in our group’s five year foundation had always seemed easy enough to soothe over by the power of our camaraderie. But now they were in danger of growing into serious fractures. Hell, that had likely already happened.

It would make for a long ride home…one that promised to be a sullen affair if Fiona and I couldn’t talk openly about it. As I moved over to where she stood with Jackie, Michelle, and Tom—three people that were on my A-shit list at the moment, I offered the love of my life a forced, and unfortunately, tense smile. I also sent a silent, fervent prayer heavenward that she hadn’t been complicit in what had just gone down.

Chapter Six

Thank God Fiona wasn’t part of the conspiracy to incorporate two inexperienced ghost hunters strictly on the kids’ undeniable charisma and good looks. But, she was powerless to stop it…not unless she was willing to give up her position as host for
Paranormal This Week
.

Unlike some, she sees the value in kissing a little ass to get what she wants, which is to maintain a viable platform to keep NVP in the forefront of the plethora of paranormal investigative groups. Not only that, but the chance for national exposure would mean enough money for us all to eventually do what we love fulltime. No, she’s not completely selling out…and she would’ve never handled things as shitty as what went down Monday night. But she’s right. Even TAPS had to make similar concessions along the way to their status as the primo ghost-hunting outfit in the land. So, maybe there is a little benefit to sharing one’s bed with the enemy. Just a peck on the cheek sort of thing, and not getting down n’ dirty naked under the sheets. So, don’t go thinking I’m going soft on my convictions. Far from it…I’m still seething inside, although none of it is directed at Fiona.

As for my darling wife, she assured me that she intends for the ‘kissing up’ bullshit to be a very temporary thing, and certainly not at all costs. Unfortunately, the smugness I detected from Tom appears to be genuine, and disappointingly from Jackie and Michelle, as well. I’m trying to understand why they were the ones who actually pushed for the Thomas brothers to take over as our co-hosts for George and Melissa Peters. It can’t be Jason and Jerry’s sex appeal, since neither girl has ever swung that way. Then again, admiration of the opposite sex doesn’t have to be about the sexual function aspect.

But the timing for this decision, as well as the actual announcement as we closed our show, seemed especially crass and insensitive to both my wife and me. After all, we had just attended the Peters’ funeral two days prior, and then encountered four more brutal slayings in Columbia that night. Granted, a moment of silence took place before the Carter House footage was revealed. Yet, it seemed superficial and insincere to both of us—even though Fiona was forced to follow the script set before her by Lisa, with no wriggle room to linger for a moment longer in remembrance of our Mount Juliet friends, as well as our acquaintances further south.

I honestly don’t know what to think. Perhaps Jackie and Michelle fell victim to Tom’s desire for a meal ticket at any cost, since he’s been in mid-life crisis mode from the night Angie clubbed him over the noggin when she intended to send us all off into the afterlife in bloody style. Sort of a near death, spiritual experience for him, I guess. But I would’ve thought that meant something much more altruistic from him.

There was no other way to view his throwing Justin, Tony, and Ricky’s opinions under the bus for what it truly was. And, these guys’ feelings had been hurt. Hurt badly, and enough to where all three announced their intent to leave NashVegas Paranormal. This is especially painful coming from our vets, since I really like being around Justin, and Tony is one of the original four founders of our group, along with Fiona and Jackie.

Needless to say, I’ve been pretty bummed these past two days, and it’s been all that I could think about. I’ve desperately needed a distraction, and believe it or not, getting together with my just as dysfunctional band mates seemed like it might be the perfect cure.

It’s Wednesday night. A bitterly cold Wednesday night, I might add, where the current temperature of seventeen degrees is supposed to drop down to the low single digits in the wee hours after midnight. Now that’s frigging cold for Nashville, and y’all can join me in shivering. Brrrrr, indeed.

We had planned to get together on Thursday, instead of our normal Wednesday night rehearsal time, since Ricky was picking some overtime hours at his machinist day gig. But, thankfully, the guys were able and willing to meet up at our Madison hideout to run through some new tunes a half hour later than our usual starting time. The new songs are actually older ones being reworked as we seek to reinvent ourselves once again. Plus, it gives us our first full practice with Melvin Schoels, the new bassist I mentioned a while back. Great player, whose only glaring flaws are his severe seriousness that I worry might limit his stage presence, and the sad fact that the Thomas twins come from the same town as him. Could this be
Sleeping with the Enemy,
part two?

Such were my thoughts when I pulled the Camaro up to where Ricky Chamberlain—my oldest standing friend in Nashville—waited for me.

“We’re just waiting on Mongo,” he announced as I climbed out of the car. Coatless, he bounced from foot to foot, and his long dark locks were pushed across his face by the wind. But, at least the intensity in his warm brown eyes was back. “Grab your shit and lets get inside!”

Normally, I might’ve made him suffer a moment for being such an idiot for waiting out here like this. But, not knowing how many friends I’d still have by this weekend, I kept it to a playful snicker and grabbed my Fender out of the back seat.

“You might not need your bass, since Melvin’s already figured out your parts.”

He swung open the door to the warehouse that shelters our home away from home, and didn’t wait to see if I’d catch the door before it closed and locked. In fact, I had to run after him. It surprised me to see his Jim Morrison strut cover so much ground that quickly.

I soon heard Max Racine’s screaming Les Paul along with some pretty sweet bass arpeggios, ala Stanley Clarke. I couldn’t help but smile at the possibilities Melvin would bring with his apparent virtuosity—something I hadn’t pictured when he laid down basic grooves in our earlier meetings. Dude sounded inspired.

“Yo, Alea…get out your pen and paper for some lyrics and hash out a melody line with Ricky for this!” shouted Max, as I entered our room. Quagmire’s surliest member was wearing a smile that lit up his face—something we rarely get to see. Max gets a lot of comparisons to a young Rod Stewart, and even likes to wear his hair spiked up like the famed rocker in his earlier years. Well, maybe Max’s doo is a bit more ragged than Mr. Stewart’s, but it fits him.

“Sure thing,” I said, sounding nonchalant, even though I was really liking how our rehearsal night was starting. Max isn’t one for
Kumbaya
moments, so the high-five I was dying to give Ricky would have to wait until after Max left our presence. “I’m hearing a little Van Halen in this…maybe with an Alice in Chains edge for the vocal lines. Might be cool.”

“Sounds good…as long as it’s heavier like DLR and none of that Sammy sentimental shit,” he said, muting his strings while mimicking Melvin’s groove.

“Hey, Melvin. You sound killer, man,” I said, nodding to our latest member. Again, without much excitement in the tone…gotta hide the admiration.

Apparently, Ricky had decided to go all out with the fun that night, as the stage was lit up in crisscrossing colored lights. All that was missing was the frigging dry ice. Maybe that’s what inspired the fierce energy and creativity.

“Hey, Jimmy. Thanks.”

Melvin suddenly stopped playing, much to the chagrin of Max. He regarded me with a slight smile—the first I’d ever seen from him. I could even see his pearly whites. I had wondered if he had any teeth. Hell, if you never see ‘em, you’ve got to wonder if they exist. Right?

I could imagine Melvin as a decent looking guy, although maybe not what most would consider strikingly handsome. He’s got smooth Anglo features that are largely obscured by a black bolero hat and dark glasses to go with a full beard—although the beard is closely cropped to where you can see a dimpled chin and cheeks. Perhaps he’s a little Hank Williams Jr. in the younger days of Bocephus. It would largely depend on Melvin’s eyes, as Fiona would say. Without seeing his eyes, I can only picture them as if they are as dark as his shoulder length hair.

“I still prefer holding down a groove, but letting it out can be fun sometimes,” he said, pausing to offer a nod to Max, who returned the gesture with a look of appreciation that up until then had only been reserved for Chris in their shared heyday together. “If you really want to hear me tear it up, we’ll need to perform a bluegrass number.”

He set his bass down next to his amp and stepped off the stage to join Ricky and me as we stood by our mixing console.
To my surprise he came over and extended his hand for me to shake. I took it, for a moment wondering if there was a toy buzzer hidden within his large palm. His hands dwarf mine, which certainly explains the ease with which he had raced his long fingers across his instrument’s smooth fret board. His grip is strong, too, which didn’t surprise me as much, given his six-foot-four frame that’s as well muscled as an NFL linebacker.

“So what’s up?” I asked him.

“Ricky gave me the latest CD with the rough ideas y’all had worked up in New York before your buddy Chris left the band,” he said.

“Chris is no friend of mine,” I said, evenly, before I could prevent the venom from leaving my mouth.

“Yeah, I know…just a joke, son,” said Melvin, chuckling. “That song ‘
Dragging the River
’?... Man that’s so messed up.”

I was confused. Did Melvin interrupt his excellent jam with Max, shake my hand, and smile for the first time in my presence—just to diss a tune I wrote?

“Chill, Jimmy…the song is awesome, and it’s the first thing I’ve heard that is a sure fire hit.”

Well, I guess he hadn’t…sort of a back handed compliment, which in this part of the country can sometimes be more genuine than the flowery kind. I’d take it—especially from a guy that seemed to glower quite a bit. I guess this quiet giant is just selective with his praise.

“I like
Lady Jade
better,” Ricky chimed in, just as David Harris—alias ‘Mongo’—stepped into the room. The cropped trench coat David likes to wear bore a light layer of snowflakes. “It’s the tune the label people like best.”

A little defensive perhaps, but that’s to be expected when it has been our most championed tune for the past four months. Not to mention, Ricky relates more to a song about suicide than somebody simply running away from their problems, as is the theme in
Dragging the River
.

“
Lady Jade
is a chick tune, bro,” said Melvin, with his usual emotionless delivery. “Just a cigarette lighter song…and not something you can build a serious legacy on.”

I could feel Ricky’s annoyance as he stood next to me, and I wanted to tell him right then I didn’t share Melvin’s opinion. But it would be worse to come across as a sensitive pussy, since Max had long held the same opinion for
Lady Jade
until Chris convinced him otherwise. Meanwhile, Melvin turned his attention to David, offering him a similar handshake.

“Is the snow sticking out there, Mongo?”

“Nah…it’s just a dusting so far,” said David, nodding to Ricky and me. “Just for the record, I like
Dragging the River
better, too.”

Great. If it didn’t bother my buddy as much as I knew it did, I’d be all for the loving feedback for another tune of mine. After all the bullshit from the past week, I needed the boost… but not at the expense of another pal’s feelings. I’d had enough of that crap since Sunday.

Fortunately, though, Ricky hates to brood about stuff as much as I do. He eyed his Strat, but then grabbed his Telecaster instead before climbing onto the stage.