The Mammoth Book of Angels & Demons (6 page)

Blood, he thought, and for a long moment that was the only word in his vocabulary.
Blood . . . not paint!

Billy wiped his hands on his jeans and stared at the message. Part of it had been written on the guitar, and now without the instrument mounted on the wall the red letters looked like a puzzle from some twisted game show. But Billy was a winner; he’d been clued in ahead of time and recognized the message well enough. It was the same garbage that had been eating at him for weeks, ever since his recording of “Stackalee” had hit number one.

Where’s my magic Stetson?
That’s what the message had said, just like the postcards he’d been receiving. But this was one hell of a lot worse than a postcard – this had rattled Billy to the bone. Without thinking, he’d smeared the bloody writing and touched things he should have left alone, like the guitar, and the cops would be highly pissed about that. He’d probably screwed the whole crime scene. And with his fingerprints all over everything and blood splattered on his clothes and shoes, he might be accused of setting up the scene himself, for publicity.

The phone rang and Billy snatched it up, expecting to hear the song again, figuring that his tormentors would have their cues planned perfectly. Instead, he was greeted by his agent’s voice: “Billy, where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago for the costume fitting. We’re shooting the ‘Stackalee’ video tomorrow, remember, and—”

“They’ve been here, Alan,” Billy interrupted. “They’ve been inside my house. This time they stole a page from Charlie Manson’s playbook and painted a message on the wall. It’s about the song again . . . Jesus, I don’t care if it is a hit, I wish I would have listened to those old bluesmen and left the damn tune alone.”

“Calm down. What’d they write?”

Billy looked at the wall. The blood was dripping over the mantel, dribbling down the stone hearth. The words that had stared at him from the grass cloth were nearly illegible now, just pinkish shadows. “Doesn’t matter what they wrote. It was written in blood, that’s what matters, and it just dripped away.” Billy sighed. “But it was about the hat again. Just some silly shit about magic.”

“I want you to call the cops. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

“I don’t know, Alan. I touched a lot of stuff. I got blood all over my clothes. The cops might think—”

A sharp series of clicks rippled over the line. Billy heard laughter, then the sound of a needle skating across a record.

“Alan? What’s going on?”

The answer came in Billy’s own voice, singing softly:

At midnight on that stormy night there came an awful wail –
Billy Lyons and a graveyard ghost outside the city jail.
“Jailer, jailer,” says Stack. “I can’t sleep.
For around my bedside poor Billy Lyons still creeps.
He comes in the shape of a lion with a blue steel in his hand.
For he knows I’ll stand and fight if he comes in shape of man.

“Alan, don’t pull this shit.”

“It’s not coming from my end, Billy.”

Floorboards complained in an upstairs bedroom. The receiver squawked like a wounded bird and then went quiet. A single thought hit Billy, something he should have realized long before now: if the blood on the wall was fresh enough to drip down the fireplace, the painter couldn’t be far away.

“Alan, I think someone’s in the house.”

“Get out of there. Get the hell out. If you won’t go to the cops, come over here . . .”

Billy dropped the receiver and ran for the door. He twisted the knob as his own voice roared at him from somewhere upstairs:

Red devil was sayin’, “You better hunt your hole;
I’ve hurried here from hell just to get your soul.”

Billy hit the brakes and the Testarossa screeched to a stop just inches away from a Pinto’s rusty bumper. Music slammed at him from six speakers, and he stared at the red light and tried to stop thinking about the blood on his Fender Stratocaster. He popped the clutch when the light turned green and the Testarossa peeled out, whipped up an on-ramp, and roared onto the freeway.

Yes, Stackalee, the gambler, everybody knowed his name:
Made his livin’ hollerin’ high, low, jack and the game.

Once more, Billy slapped at the tape deck controls, but his effort was useless. In the short time that he’d been in the house, someone had screwed with the deck. The knobs wouldn’t turn. The eject button wouldn’t work. The deck was caked with some kind of superglue, and the only song that Billy was going to hear tonight was his newest hit, his own version of “Stackalee” cranked up to full volume, over and over—

A horn blared from the right. Billy jerked the wheel and brought the Testarossa back into the fast lane. He glanced at the rear-view mirror and spotted the car he’d nearly sideswiped. A big lemon-yellow Cadillac. The Caddy flipped its brights and pulled behind him.

Shit. Billy eyed the pimpmobile’s smoked windows and angry lights, and then he eyed himself in the Testarossa’s rearview mirror. His long blond hair was stringy with sweat (the same hair that
Tiger Beat
always referred to as “Lyons’ mane”), and his eyes were swimming with fear.

Billy looked away. He rolled down the window and gulped a deep breath of winter air as he hit the gas, leaving the Caddy behind.

It was on one cold and frosty night
When Stackalee and Billy Lyons had one awful fight.
All about an old Stetson hat.

Billy stared at the tape deck, his lips curling in disgust. “It’ll be a great record, Billy,” he said, his voice a lisping imitation of his agent’s. “Folk music’s in. Ethnic music too. We can hire these Delta blues boys for next to nothing. It worked for Paul Simon, didn’t it? He gave those African singers a hit record, and you can do the same thing for these old boys.”

Billy gripped the wheel and thought about that. The Delta bluesmen hadn’t even cared about having a hit. They’d only wanted the money. All through the session they’d treated Billy like a plantation overseer who was pushing for an extra bag of cotton. Oh, they’d been polite about it, but they’d never gone out of their way to influence the project. Until Alan said that they should record “Stackalee”, that is.

The old men wouldn’t touch it. “You shouldn’t ought to sing that one,” said a guitar player called Iron Box Jack.

“Why not?” Alan asked. “It’s too perfect to pass up. It’s got a guy called Billy Lyons in it, just like our Billy.”

Iron Box shook his head. “That’s ’xactly why. Boy name of Billy Lyons shouldn’t even be thinkin’ ’bout Stackalee, let alone singing ’bout him. Man, don’t you know about Stack? Don’t you know that old Scratch give him a magic oxblood Stetson that allow him to do all kind of devilment? Don’t you know how he shot Billy Lyons on account of he thought Billy stole his magic hat?” The old man looked straight at Billy. “You don’t want to sing that one. Stack’s a trickster, Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.”

Billy laughed. Alan shook his head.

“Iron Box, they don’t believe you,” a wizened bass player said. “Why, just look at ’em. They ain’t got no knowledge of that stuff.”

“Guys, guys, it’s just a song,” Alan began, but the conciliatory coaxing routine didn’t work with this crew. The bluesmen flat-out refused to record “Stackalee” with a singer named Billy Lyons, contract or no. So Billy did the only thing possible to please Alan – he strapped on an old acoustic and went into the studio alone, where he made a hit record that put anything Springsteen did on
Nebraska
to shame.

Thinking about that, Billy smiled in spite of himself, and in spite of the damn song blaring in his ears. He’d shown those old bastards, even with all the shit he was taking about it now. He’d shown them. He’d recorded the song on his own, without their help, and the fact that it was an unexpected hit was just icing on the fucking—

Billy’s head snapped back, slamming against the crown of the driver’s seat. Sharp pain bloomed at the tip of his spinal column. The Testarossa shuddered, Billy managed to pull out of a skid, and then his head snapped back once more. Black spots of agony danced before his eyes; he squinted around them and focused on the rear-view mirror.

The Caddy sat on his tail, its angry headlights blinking like wild strobes.

Stackalee got his gun. Boy, he got it fast!

He shot poor Billy through and through: the bullet broke a lookin’ glass.

A bullet exploded the Testarossa’s back window, ricocheted, and shattered the rear-view mirror before its power was spent. Billy ducked low, his neck muscles twitching spasmodically. The Caddy rammed the Testarossa a third time. Billy lost control of the car, skidded across three lanes and raced along the dirt shoulder, the Testarossa’s thick wheels kicking up beer cans and garbage. He screamed, braking just short of a chain-link fence that separated the freeway from a shadowy embankment.

The Caddy roared through a cloud of dust, its wheels spitting gravel that pelted the Testarossa, then pulled back onto the blacktop and sped away into the night.

* * *

The dust died down. Traffic whispered past Billy, the drivers unaware that the nation’s number one singing sensation sat locked in his fancy car at the side of the road, shivering, fearful of losing his dinner.

The worst part was not knowing who was after him. So many people had made threats. A headline-grabbing Muslim minister had called him a white devil, and a rap group from Chicago had threatened to kill him. It had been in all the papers. The rappers had called him “Massa Billy” and used his album for target practice. And they weren’t the only ones calling for his head; the critics were after him too.
Rolling Stone
had done an article claiming, not too subtly, that Billy Lyons had climbed to the top of the charts on the backs of a bunch of poor, old black men.

Okay, maybe he had, but who hadn’t? Had the critics forgotten about the Rolling Stones? Had they forgotten about Elvis?

He says Billy. “I always treated you like a man.
’Tain’t nothin’ to that old Stetson but the greasy band.”

Billy shifted into first gear and pulled onto the freeway. He was going to make it through this. He’d just recorded a song, that was all. He hadn’t done anything wrong or broken any laws. He listened to his singing, heard the pain and energy there. “I’m not Salman Rushdie,” he whispered, “and I’m not Pat fucking Boone, either.”

“
Have mercy,” Billy groaned. “Oh, please spare my life;
I’ve got two little babies and an innocent wife.”

Billy entered Alan’s house through the unlocked front door. After spending an hour at the mercy of the Testarossa’s blaring speakers, his ears rang as if he had two enormous seashells jammed against his head. The whispering sound was worse than any shellshock he’d ever suffered after performing in front of the towering speakers he used at stadium shows. It didn’t hurt as much, but it was twice as haunting.

Billy flipped on lights as he moved from room to room. He covered the downstairs – all clear – and then started toward the stairway that led to Alan’s bedroom.

Billy paused at the foot of the staircase. Quiet. No music upstairs. No voices. He climbed into the shadows and found a light switch at the top of the stairs.

And then, standing alone in the dark, he noticed a knocking sound. Not anything with a solid beat, but measured, insistent. Definitely there.

Billy turned on the lights and almost fell backward. A man stood ramrod straight at the far end of the hallway. Big shoulders and an ankle-length black leather duster. An oxblood Stetson hat. No face.

A mannequin. Jesus. Suddenly Billy remembered the costume fitting for the “Stackalee” video. This was his outfit. Had to be.

“Alan,” Billy said, “this isn’t funny.”

Billy moved down the hallway, following the knocking sound that seemed to be coming from Alan’s bedroom. He pushed against the bedroom door, but it wouldn’t give. He pushed harder, the knocking stopped for a moment, and he managed to squeeze into the room.

The door fell closed immediately, pushed by Alan’s weight. The agent was still alive, but Billy could tell that there wasn’t anything left of him. There was a small black hole on one side of his forehead and a bigger hole on the other, and his white sideburns were sticky with blood. Part of his brain lay in a glob on the carpet, but there was enough left in his skull to control his right hand, which tapped a measured beat on the bedroom door.

The costume designer was on the bed. He had a similar wound, but he wasn’t moving. On the wall above the bed, four words were scrawled in blood: WHERE’S MY MAGIC STETSON?

Billy pulled the bedcovers over the designer’s corpse. A silver-plated Colt .45 tumbled out of the tangled blankets and landed at his feet. He scooped up the weapon and checked for ammunition. Four bullets remained. Billy clicked the cylinder closed.

And then he realized that the whispering ringing in his ears was gone.

Alan’s meaningless Morse code suddenly took on a steady beat, like one of the old bluesmen pounding a guitar to keep the rhythm. A gold bracelet on the agent’s wrist made a shivery sound like a tiny cymbal. Billy cocked the pistol. Involuntarily, his foot began to tap.

Billy licked his lips. He stared at Alan’s wrist, at the gold bracelet. And then he sang, his voice quavering with horror as the words spilled out of his mouth, unbidden.

The White Elephant Barrel House was wrecked that night;
Gutters full of beer and whiskey; it was an awful sight.
Jewelry and rings of the purest solid gold
Scattered over the dance and gamblin’ hall.