Voice (21 page)

“See you at home,” she said, and she got in the car.

Danny stood in the dark lot and watched her drive away.

Johnny pounded the stapler with his fist and got a nice, satisfying
chunk!
out of it. It was two days since the last show, more than three weeks before the next, and he knew it was mostly a waste of time to put up flyers this soon, but it gave him something to do while he wandered up and down Commerce Street, searching. Waiting.

Whatcha waiting for, John?
the voice in his head asked.

“Please be quiet, Johnny
,”
he told it. “I don’t feel well.”
It insisted that he call it Johnny, for whatever reason. He’d messed with it a couple of times since it had announced itself, addressing it first as Tony and then later as Captain Howdy, and each time it had sulked for hours. If sulking had simply meant that it shut up and left him in peace, that would have been okay, but instead it had felt like there was a pressurized thundercloud in his head, threatening to storm and rage. He tried to avoid pissing it off now.

Negotiating a truce with the voice in his head.
I’m cracking up,
he thought. It didn’t
feel
like he was cracking up, though.
Maybe that’s how it is for everyone who cracks up, did you ever think of that?
Who the hell knew? And, anyway, he couldn’t do anything about it.

Come on, John,
it said.
What are we doing here?

Johnny sighed. Best to just humor the damn thing. “We’re looking for Douglas.” He reached another bulletin post, covered in the tattered remains of half a hundred posters, and came around it, out of the shadow to where the streetlight shone. He tacked another flyer up.

In his head, “Johnny” chuckled.
Douglas. Is that what he’s calling himself now? Cute. What do you need him for?

Johnny looked down the street. This part of town was dead on a Monday night, and it was a good thing, too. The last thing he wanted was for random strangers to see the deranged man running around downtown with a stapler, talking to himself. It was a good thing, but not a comforting one. Johnny didn’t like this area on an off-night. It was partly that he felt like a target for a mugging or a festive, unmotivated drive-by shooting, but that wasn’t all. Seeing this place without the crowds and the noise, the neon in the windows and the thump of bass from every third building, was like seeing the back of a stage set. No, it was worse than that, more of a . . . a transgression. It was like seeing your mother naked—you knew it had to exist in this state sometimes, but witnessing it crossed some boundary that shouldn’t be crossed.

He slammed home another couple of staples. “I’m hoping he can tell me about
you.
Maybe he can tell me if I’m losing my mind.”

He’s a has-been. A miserable old failure, trying to make his amends before the end. Talk to him if you want, but he’s got nothing for you.

“Great.”

Anything I can help you with?

“You can tell me what the fuck you are.” Johnny crossed the street, heading through an alley over to Elm. Even the graffiti looked bored tonight.

I told you. Think of me as your guardian angel.

“Right.” They’d covered this ground a few times, and so far “Johnny” had claimed to be his guardian angel, the Ghost of Christmas Past, the voice of God, and even his conscience. That last was sort of bleakly funny, considering, but Johnny didn’t laugh. He didn’t want to give the voice the satisfaction, particularly considering that its sense of humor worked in only one direction.

Another corner, another couple of flyers tacked up at haphazard angles. He heard the footsteps as he stapled the last corner in place, and he turned.

Douglas stood there in his faded jeans and a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He squinted in the streetlight.

“Hey, Johnny,” he whispered. “Sounded good the other night.”

“Thanks,” Johnny said. His questions had gone from his head, and he stood stupidly, staring at the old man.

Ask him about the whore,
the voice said.
Ask him about the heroin—see how he likes that one!

“Shut up,” Johnny said. “Jesus.”

Douglas gave him a half-grin, but the swagger had gone out of his face, replaced by something like melancholy. “You hear him, huh?”

“Loud and clear.” Johnny stuck his finger in his ear as if to clear it. “You knew about this.”

A nod.

Johnny wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not. At least he wasn’t losing his mind. “What—what the fuck is it?”

Transmissions from Jupiter!
the goddamn thing yelled inside his head, loud enough that he flinched.

“Does it matter, Johnny?”

“Huh?”

Douglas walked around Johnny, putting his back to the light. Dark hair fell over half his face. “It’s your voice, Johnny. The one that does the singing.”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Johnny protested.

“No?” Douglas’s voice was the sound of bricks sliding together. “Did you check the fine print? How about we get out a copy of the contract and have a look?”

“There is no contract. You know that.”
You get what you pay for doesn’t mean a damn thing,
Johnny thought, the words of the song dragged up from wherever he’d shut them away. He shivered.

“Ah. Well, near as I can tell, you got everything you wanted out of the deal, so I don’t know what you’re bitching about.”

The voice in Johnny’s head laughed.
I guess he told you, huh John? Not bad for an old fucking FAILURE!

“I didn’t get everything I wanted. Do I look famous to you?”

Douglas’s eyes, black and depthless in the shadows, never wavered from Johnny’s. “Not yet,” he said, and there was that faint melancholy again, “but give it time. You will be.”

You think he might cry?
the voice asked.
I think he might cry.

“Yeah, sure. Okay. But what about the crazy fucker that followed me home the other night?”

“Get used to crazy,” Douglas said. “It’s all part of the fame trip. That’ll just keep getting worse.” He stepped forward and, to Johnny’s surprise, put his hands on Johnny’s shoulders. He leaned in close. “They’ll love you, Johnny, and they’ll do anything for you—as long as you keep giving them what they want. Don’t ever forget that.”

He pulled his hands away with jerk, holding his palms open, and then he walked away.

“Hey!” Johnny said. “What about this goddamn thing in my head? What
is
it? Some kind of—of demon? What?”

“Does it matter, Johnny?” Douglas said without turning around, and the words were so faint they barely reached Johnny’s ears. “Does it even matter, as long as you get what you want?”

Johnny stopped in midstep, ready to follow Douglas and harangue the answers out of him if necessary, but the question drew him up short. Did it matter? Really?

He wasn’t sure.

He stood on Elm Street at the mouth of some wretched, trash-strewn alley and watched Douglas walk away.

That was terrifically productive,
“Johnny” said.
Shall we put up some more flyers?

***

The next evening, Case walked into the practice room and slammed the door behind her. She knew she wore a mean scowl on her face, but she didn’t have the energy to pretend to be in even a neutral mood, let alone cheery. Sleep had been long in coming the past couple of nights, thanks to Danny and that stupidity with Brad.
It’s not Danny’s fault you’re a fucking idiot,
she reminded herself.
He went home with his wife, and do you suppose he declined to put it to her because he was mooning over you?
Of course not. That would be stupid.

It didn’t matter, though. It wasn’t Danny’s fault, no, but he wasn’t exactly blameless, either. As long as she was pissed at herself, Danny was going to get the overflow.

Getting her head straight, though, seemed to be taking an inordinate number of sleepless hours.

Danny and Johnny hadn’t arrived yet, which was just as well. Quentin was there, though, sitting on his amplifier, bass laid flat across his lap. His eyes were pointed at the floor, and his hands were draped over his instrument as if he had no real intention of playing.

“You okay?” Case asked, stifling a yawn.

He chewed his bottom lip. “I guess.”

She dredged up half a smile from somewhere. “I gotta admit, you surprised the hell out of me when you went after that guy the other night. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Quentin shrugged.

“That guy was older than dirt, but he looked tough. You’re lucky you didn’t get your head kicked in.”

“Yeah.” He scratched at a smudge on his fretboard, then finally looked up at Case. “That guy is bad news. I don’t like the way he hangs around Johnny, and I don’t like the way Johnny’s been acting since he started hanging around.”

“It’s a free country.”

“What about that kid, the one who was wasted out of his mind that night, staggering all over the place?”

Case took her time answering. She plugged in her amp and switched it on to warm up, then got out her guitar. The truth was, she remembered that guy a little too well. That eerie gaze, the crafty grin, and most of all the way he’d tried to bite that woman, had stuck with her. That last image in particular had been popping up from her subconscious for the last couple of days like an evil jack-in-the-box. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“Well, the old guy was looking for him before things got weird. He spent half the night searching the crowd, and you should have seen him smile when he saw that poor kid. He was going over to meet him when you came over.”

“You think he’s a dealer?” That seemed possible. Hadn’t she wondered if the kid was wasted on something at the time?

“Yeah. Or something.” Quentin made a fist, then relaxed his hand. “All I know is, Johnny’s my friend. Yeah, he’s a dick sometimes—more lately—but I’ve been playing with him for over a year. One of my uncles got hooked on meth, and I don’t want Johnny to get caught up in anything like that.”

“How’d you get your uncle clean?”

Quentin stared at her, his eyes glassy. “He’s fucking dead.”

Case plugged in her guitar. “I’ll keep an eye out. This is a good band, and the last thing I want is for Johnny to do a Sid Vicious on us.”

“You’re all heart,” Quentin mumbled, just as the door swung open and Danny and Johnny walked in.

***

Gina was on the couch when Danny got home, absorbed as usual in a legal brief. She didn’t look up when he came in. Danny wasn’t surprised. Ever since the show, she had barely spoken to him. She hadn’t seemed angry, exactly, only distant.
Very
distant. Danny felt guilty just being in the same room with her.

 
For what? I didn’t
do
anything.
Except he sort of had. Wasn’t there a Bible verse about that?
He who looks at a woman with lust in his heart has already committed adultery,
or something equally uplifting and forgiving of human frailty.

“Good night,” he said, walking toward the hall. It was late, he was tired, and waiting around for Gina to pay attention to him—happy, sad, angry, or otherwise—was stupid, and it would only make him feel worse.

“Danny, can you come sit with me for a minute?”

He stopped. He hadn’t expected a reply at all, and now she was looking up at him, eyes inscrutable behind her glasses, beckoning him over. Perhaps more amazing than that, the folder and stack of paper she’d been holding was lying on the floor, almost out of arm’s reach.

Danny was seized with same feeling he got whenever the phone rang in the middle of the night.
Something is bad here. This is not normal. Whatever comes next, I don’t want to hear it.

He walked over with small, hesitant steps and sat down on the opposite end of the couch. A memory sparked in his mind of the interminable afternoon they’d spent shopping for this damn thing, combing every furniture store in Dallas. Gina wasn’t particular about much, but she had taken to furniture shopping like a holy calling. He remembered when she had, at long last, finally decreed that this couch—yea, verily, this very couch!—was the one that would grace their home. He had wrapped his arms around her and collapsed onto it with her right in the middle of the store while the sales guy had stood there with a dry smile and impatience reflecting from his darting eyes.

“How was practice?” Gina asked.

“It was okay,” he answered warily.

Gina sucked in her lips and looked at her hands. Silence settled in between them like it had packed a lunch and was planning to stay awhile. The ice maker in the kitchen spat out another cube with a clunking noise.
Am I supposed to say something?
Danny wondered. If so, he had no idea what. This was the apotheosis of minefield conversations, and he didn’t dare put a foot in it.

“This is hard for me,” Gina said, and Danny’s heart rate doubled instantly. “Did you have a good time?” she asked, sincerely, and the words and tone were so out of place that Danny actually heard her say
I want a divorce
before his mind rewound and played her statement back.