Southern Gods (16 page)

“My name is Grover Johnson, and I’m honored to be your emcee tonight. But of course, all you fine and beautiful people didn’t come to hear me. You came to hear the last guest of the night. Curiosity might’ve brought you, rumor might have led you, or you might even be here by chance. But the man you’ve really come to see is at the end of the night, the Tattered Man, the Rambler—” He raised his voice a bit and said louder, “Ramblin’ John! Here tonight. That’s right. So whatever brought you, sit back, listen, dance and drink and enjoy yourselves, because all of your questions are going to be answered. But for now, I’d like to invite you all to put your hands together for Jim Cannon and the Cannonballers!”

Clapping, the people in the crowd moved forward to the stage, some with drinks in hand, others hopping excitedly. Men came from the hallway by the performance area, joined it, taking up their instruments, some grinning, some serious. Couples pressed the stage, men and women dressed in their finest, holding hands. But there were a few single women going toward the stage as well.

Once some of the throng moved away from the tables, more of the audience became visible, the observers. There were people here, like him, who weren’t interested in having a good time; they were interested in Ramblin’ John. Ingram didn’t need a degree or a telescope to tell him that, he could see it written clearly on their faces. Maybe they were preachers, maybe they were folk who had brushed up against the same mystery he had.

Across the room he spied a man sitting alone, watching the stage intently.

He felt a small jolt.

The man sat in the far, shadowed corner. The man’s skin was so pale Ingram began to question whether he was white or a black man afflicted with the albinism he occasionally saw on the streets of Memphis, alabaster skin with black or pink eyes.

The band began to play, guitar, bass, and drums washing like waves into the shore of the audience, thumping and buzzing. Ingram turned away from scrutinizing the pale man across the dark room to watch the group of people between him and the band. The faces of the women seemed ecstatic, the men’s intense. Their bodies rubbed against each other rhythmically, clothes shimmying and swishing, dress hems swaying.

Rabbit sat down heavily in the chair opposite from Ingram, cigarette dangling from his lip. He was smiling. He shoved blue glass tumblers toward Ingram, each with two fingers of amber liquid swirling in the bottom. He kept two more glasses in front of himself.

“Bar’s busy tonight, there’s a press for drinks. Got us extra. They’re out of gumbo, but gonna bring round some bread.”

Ingram looked at Rabbit, raised his eyebrows, and waited.

Rabbit took a long drag of his smoke, blew the smoke at Ingram, and belted back one of the blue glasses of liquor.

“So?”

“So, what? There’s a lot of fools come to hear what Ramblin’ John got to offer. There’s one fool in particular who thinks all the ladies are gonna drop their britches and let him get on down with them, right on the dance floor. Might happen. Maybe yes, maybe no. You can’t never tell, really.”

The band moved into another number, this one upbeat, a shuffle.

Rabbit patted his hand along with the music. “There’s women here sure need me to dance with, Lord help them. Guess I better stay with you, though, so you ain’t scared? Rabbit’s gonna take care of you.” He winked at Ingram.

Ingram snorted. “Remember what I’m here for.” He picked up one of the glasses and tossed back the liquor. His throat burned, and he hitched his face in pain. After a moment, he said, “Get up. Go dance. Don’t look right now, but I want you to move over by that fellow over there, ask him something, if his seat is taken. But do it inconspicuously.”

Rabbit languidly turned in his seat, as if surveying the crowd. “Which fella, Bull? The room’s full of ’em.”

“The white one.”

It was Rabbit’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Shit. Nother white man in here?” He shook his head. “Oh, no. That means trouble. One white man is passing tolerable. Two is trouble. And
you
two is sure to get along like a house on fire.”

“That’s to say not at all?” Ingram asked.

“Exactly.”

“Right. Go on anyway. This band’ll be finished in a minute, and the crowd will start moving. You can overhear him, or see who he’s with.”

“All right, then. But I ain’t figured out what kinda hazard pay this’ll cost you.”

Rabbit stood and sauntered away from Ingram’s table. Ingram briefly regretted bringing the man along with him; Ingram had put him in danger. And judging by his jovial behavior, Rabbit wasn’t prepared for what might happen.

Ingram waited. Surrounded by revelers, he played with the burning candle, dripping red wax onto the table in front of him with his free hand, making small pools and then rolling the still warm wax puddles into balls. Nobody bothered him, though some stared.

The first band struck set and left the stage to a smattering of applause. The dancers evaporated. Rabbit was conversing with a woman easily twenty years his junior, speaking to her earnestly, holding her slim, well-formed arm, and Ingram wished he could hear the lines, at least for his own edification. The second band, Roller Winslow and the Debonnaires, quickly set up their instruments and, with only a brief word from Grover Johnson, started to play. The first outfit had played light frothy tunes that bounced and floated. But this new band was something different; the band pumped out music with a heavy beat, steady and powerful. The instruments were rooted, percussive and rotund, the bass coming through and filling out the sound to something that seemed to pull at his insides. Ingram found himself wishing he was here for something other than business, other than self-preservation.

Each song became more percussive and driving than the last. When the singer announced their new single, “Miss You When You’re Gone,” there was raucous clapping, and more people from behind Ingram rushed the stage so that he was left looking at a clothed wall of backs. Once again he was alone in a mass of people. He finished his drink and dripped wax onto the table, pushing at the warm red stuff with his fingertips.

The band worked through two more numbers, and men and women sweated freely now, clutching each other tight as they moved their bodies in time with the thumping music. Ingram, unmoving except to sip his drink or to take small glances at the Pale Man in the corner, watched the musicians. He lost Rabbit in the crowd.

The band stopped, and the emcee came onstage. Despite the loudness of the PA system, Ingram ignored him as he thanked the band and introduced the members; he scanned the far side of the venue for Rabbit.

People moved away from the stage, toward the bar, and Ingram saw Rabbit. He stood stock still in front of the Pale Man’s table, arms rigid at his sides.

Something’s not right here.

The Pale Man turned his head glacially, at first toward Rabbit, then onward. His gaze fastened on Ingram.

Ingram felt a small electric thrum and realized he couldn’t make out the man’s eyes. From across the room, the intervening space hazy with smoke, the Pale Man’s face seemed mottled with darkness, like he’d been bruised in a heavy fistfight. His eyes were lost in the paleness of his face, like shadows, except for tiny pinpricks of white, maybe the reflection of the halogen stage lights. Looking at the man transfixed Ingram; his good hand paused in raising the glass to his lips, his body went slack.

This isn’t any good. Something bad’s gonna happen.

Grover Johnson jumped up on stage and bellowed into the microphone.

“This is it, ya’ll! The man you been waiting for! The rambler, the gambler, the Tattered Man himself, John Hastur!”

As the crowd erupted in applause, pressing tighter toward the stage, Rabbit bent over in a labored, jerky manner and reached for his ankle.

Ingram stood. He kicked his chair away. Rabbit raised a small chrome-plated pistol—the Saturday Night Special. He brought it over his head as if to fire a warning shot, then lowered it to point toward the Pale Man. The Pale Man continued to stare at Ingram. The Pale Man’s mouth made strange shapes.

Eyes fixed on the Pale Man, Ingram didn’t notice the figure walking onto the stage until he was near the microphone. Finally, Ingram wrenched his gaze away from the Pale Man’s glare.

He had found who he’d been looking for.

Early Freeman took the stage.

Early looked gray, desiccated, the open sores on his arms and face oozing viscous black fluid. People in the crowd started muttering, shifting uncomfortably.

One man yelled, “What is this? Some damn hoedown?”

Other people muttered profanities. One man yelled, “What’s wrong with him? Where’s Ramblin’ John?”

“Didn’t come to see no peckerwood!”

People turned to look at Ingram, as if he had something to do with another white man taking the stage.

Ingram looked back at Rabbit and the Pale Man. He could see the man’s lips moving slowly, forming unintelligible words. Rabbit shook, and his head rolled back.

Rabbit slowly pivoted, arm holding the pistol extended, and sighted Ingram’s chest.

Early reached the microphone. He stood there motionless, arms dangling at his sides. Dark fluid dripped from his mouth, and his white, vacant eyes remained open, unblinking.

That ain’t Early anymore.

Hastur opened his mouth.

And sang.

There were landscapes contained in the noise, landscapes and strange, foreign harmonies that no human ear was meant to hear. It was music, but screaming too, black tri-tones blasting forward. Early didn’t move his lips; he kept his mouth motionless like the bell of a horn signaling the end of the world. The sound moved away from the stage like a wave, pushing the crowd before it, each person taking a step back as if warding off a blow. Ingram brought his hands up to the sides of his head, placed his splinted hand up to his ear.

A woman jittered as if electrocuted. She turned and slapped the man next to her, raking her nails across his face. The man, seemingly unsurprised, leaned forward and bit off her nose.

Ingram’s body tightened. His arms were like steel bands. He felt like a Jap Betty was strafing in over the Pacific waters, or there was invisible and silent gunfire streaming around him. His temples throbbed, and the blood rushed to his face. He felt happy and enraged all at once. He was surprised to find he had an erection. Desperately, he reached forward and grabbed at the table-top with his good hand. He stuffed the still-warm wax into his ears and the feeling subsided. Subsided, but didn’t disappear.

He turned back to Rabbit. The man looked at Ingram with a face so sorrowful it seemed distorted. He screamed in agony, tears streaking his face. His arm shook, holding the gun.

As Ingram rose from the table, Rabbit fired. Ingram’s body twisted, expecting the bullet to hit his chest; instead, Rabbit’s hand disappeared in a smoky red mist. The Saturday Night Special was gone, and it had taken Rabbit’s hand with it.

Understanding washed across Rabbit’s face, and his eyes went wide. Then a shadow passed over him, and Ingram shivered, feeling an impalpable coldness from across the room. When the shadow passed, Rabbit glared at Ingram with pure hatred. His eyes rolled back. He took a step forward. From the right, a man and woman, working in tandem, grabbed Rabbit, clawing at his face, his arms, and dragged him to the floor.

Ingram screamed, “Rabbit! No!” He lunged forward, throwing his body toward his fallen companion. A grinning man moved between them, blocking his way. It was the doorman who’d taken their cover.

Other people looked at Ingram now too. Men and women turned toward him with teeth bared, snarling. He jerked up the nearest chair and held it easily in his hand. The door man lunged for him, hands extended like claws, and Ingram smashed his face with the chair, breaking it into pieces and dropping the man to the floor.

All across the room, people tore into one another with grinning, mad faces. Ingram saw one woman jab a shard of glass into the eye of a man Ingram could have sworn she was dancing with earlier. Another pair began to fuck on the dance floor, the man driving his cock into the woman powerfully from behind, hand full of her hair, roughly shoving her into a submissive position.

Ingram snatched up another chair and started swinging it in wide arcs.

A pretty woman in a calico dress lunged at him with an open straight razor. Her eyes bled, and blood dripped from her mouth. Her dress was ripped wide and one breast swung free, giving her an aspect like a demented Amazon. She whisked the razor through the air in front of Ingram’s face. He brought the chair across her head, knocking her sideways. The chair splintered into pieces, leaving a short, lightweight leg in Ingram’s hand. The woman scrambled up, hissing like a cat. He jabbed the chair leg into her eye, filling the cavity, and she fell.

He felt an exploding pain and screamed. A slight, thin man had worked around his bad side and sunk his teeth into Ingram’s bicep. He shoved the man away, his greater weight pushing the would-be cannibal back, knocking down other combatants and giving Ingram a small clearing free of attackers. Ingram pulled out the Morley, cocked the hammer, and waited.

Everything moved as though in a nightmare, the wax in his ears making the violence play out around him like a silent movie. All over the room, people were falling. Man turned on man, woman on woman. Of the couple that had been having sex earlier, only the man was still alive, now bloodier and thrusting into the woman’s corpse. Even as Ingram watched, someone come up from behind and opened up the man’s throat with a pocket knife, then laughed and turned to look for another victim.