The Gig Page 3

going nuts on the cymbals, Nick and Frank picking it double-time, before dropping it all on the last note. Nick’s great playing had almost made Mike forget the crowd, until the echo from the cymbals died to a completely silent room.

  Their audience simply turned their heads back to each other and started talking again. Now there was shifting and body language, it was as if somebody had hit a big button on the wall labeled normal.

  With no back room for them to hang out in, and no friends or family to go sit by out in the crowd, they hovered around on the stage. Nick was the first to speak, for once. “Something wrong, Frank?”

  The bassist’s jaw dropped, and he looked over at Mike and pointed at the guitarist. Mike just shrugged; Nick was Nick, after all.

  “You, ah, didn’t notice anything strange about the crowd?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Nick said, nodding, an easy smile lighting up his face, “like how everyone’s got black hair, just like Mister Twinkles over behind the bar. Maybe there’s a special on hair dye at the local Walgreen’s or something.”

  Frank closed his jaw and abruptly looked at the people sitting around the room, and Mike did the same. Not only did they have the exact same hair color, but it appeared they’d all been to the same tanning booth as well. But it was more than that; they all had the same skin, no freckles, no variation in texture, nothing. He was either looking at the reunion of a very strange family, or the result of a multiple birth that shattered the previous world record by a factor of ten.

  He was going to ask the others what they made of it when he saw Stephenson approaching, clapping his hands briskly in front of him. “Excellent, excellent, gentlemen. Exactly what I was hoping for, and it seems that everyone adores it!”

  Frank’s mouth popped open and shut. Before the silence became too unnerving, Mike got up from his drummer’s throne. “We’re glad you think so, Mr. Stephenson. Uh, tell me, has this place been open a while? Looks like you’ve got a pretty good sized group of regulars.”

  Stephenson narrowed his eyes for a moment, maybe looking for a hidden meaning in the question. “Oh, we’ve not been open all that long. It takes a while for the word to get out to the, ah, general public. But you know how new places can attract so many, simply because they’re new. Hopefully these people”—he swept a hand across the audience in grandiose fashion—“will bring more into the fold in the coming months. In the meantime, you gentlemen must have worked up a thirst. Would you care for anything from the bar? On the house, of course.”

  Frank shook his head while Nick asked for ‘just a Coke, please’. Mike was a Pepsi drinker, but it seemed like all bars had was Coke, since ‘rum-and-Pepsi’ just didn’t roll off the tongue. After a moment’s hesitation, he went ahead and asked for whatever was on tap. It wasn’t like he actually had to drink it.

  Stephenson eyed Frank, and looked ready to act hurt at his rejection, but instead he favored the other two with a wink. “I’ll have Thomas bring them to you.” He motioned to a tall, solidly-built bartender, much larger than the others but certainly cut from the same genetic cloth, standing at attention in front of a row of liquor bottles. “Will you be going back on soon?”

  Mike stepped in again. “Another four or five minutes.”

  Frank shot him a look, but what else could they do? Walk out on a thousand bucks just because the patrons creeped them out? To their host’s back he said: “We’re just going to step out for a couple of minutes for some fresh air and a smoke.”

  Mike didn’t try to remind him that none of them smoked, but leaned in the general direction of the door, as if waiting for the odd man’s permission.

  Instead of being perturbed, like they expected, Stephenson flashed them a broad emcee smile and told them certainly, just don’t wander too far.

  Frank led them on a zigzag course through heavily populated tables, while the hive-swarm noise of conversation surrounded them, the patrons oblivious to their passing.

  The doors, massive slabs of hardwood, were exquisitely balanced and softly whispered open at the slightest touch. The fresh air seemed afraid to enter the club, and they didn’t get a good lungful of it until they were well outside.

  Frank, stealing a glance over his shoulder, was the first to speak. “I vote for telling that goofball to stuff it for the rest of the night. I know it’s a grand, but I get the feeling that this little clique we’re playing for will still all be here at One and won’t want to let us stop.”

  Even Nick, impossible to rattle, wasn’t voting against leaving. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m pretty gassed already. I must be coming down with something.”

  That lit up the bassist, who stabbed a finger at him in triumph. “Yeah, that’s it! You’re getting sick, so we’re gonna have to bag it! Mike, why don’t you go unlock the van, and I’ll break the news to Pretty Boy Floyd back in there, maybe even see if we can get a hundred or so to cover gas, then we pop the back door and shove our stuff in—”

  They had been walking toward the van, the vessel that could convey them back to normalcy, and Frank had been laying out the plan as they rounded the corner of the building. When they saw their vehicle, they all slumped a little in defeat.

  There were six of them, a couple leaning on the van, a couple more against the building, two others, trying to look casual, not leaning on anything. Instead of a really good tough-guy slouch, the best any of them could manage was an arm-crossed, Michael Jackson I’m Bad kind of lean.

  All six looked up, slowly, like they had at the beginning of Mama Kin, except their grins were wider, raptorlike.

  Mike managed a little wave, and a slightly-above-feeble enjoying the show? before they turned around and retreated back into the bar.

  The second set was where they were supposed to really get things rolling, but this crowd displayed no interest in getting up and dancing. Nobody took a drink or moved. On top of it all, Mike had realized he hadn’t seen anybody leave, or arrive, or even get up to use the can. He himself understood how you didn’t break the seal until the last possible moment on a drinking night, but surely somebody should have hit their pain threshold by now.

  Come to think of it, where were the bathrooms?

  He normally didn’t look into the crowd at all during performances, just alternating his glance from the drums to his bandmates, but now he couldn’t help but look. The placid, pleased-but-not-satisfied looks on their faces had transformed, slightly, to one of anticipation, or hunger, or something…

  It reminded him of the look on Frank’s face as they sat down back at Runza, unwrapping that double-cheeseburger with bacon, ready to have the first big meal he’d had in days.

  He hit a tom sideways, wrenching the stick from his right hand, jarring him out of his fugue. Fighting to keep a beat, Mike lamely finished the song with his feet and left hand like that Def Leppard dude. Before starting the next song, he tried the beer that the bartender—Thomas? He didn’t look like a ‘Thomas’—had brought over. It was a little too bitter, even for him, and he normally liked Porters and IPA’s.

  A few bars into the next song, he seemed to be feeling the swallow of beer more than he should have; he was buzzing a little, like he’d just done a Jaeger bomb on an empty stomach.

  He looked over to Nick, who continued to put out an air that he was oblivious to it all; he’d downed his Coke, then the next one, which Thomas had quietly replaced during the first song. He had time: it wasn’t like people were swarming the bar while they played, now, was it? Normally Nick didn’t hit his version of ‘the sauce’ so hard, except on three hours’ sleep or when he was really tired. And he was slumping; maybe he really was coming down with something…

  Or maybe they’ve doped his Cokes.

  Nick’s posture was a weary one, for certain, but his eyes were focused. It probably was just germs.

  By the second break, Frank couldn’t take it anymore. When their patron came over to offer a fresh round of platitudes, he blurt
ed it out: “Stephenson – what is wrong with these people?”

  Mike held his breath, but the dapper manager didn’t appear offended in the slightest. “Why, young man, I understand you usually play clubs for different people in a different area. Around here, people enjoy just listening to good music.”

  Smartass Frank had come out to play, and he wasn’t going back so easily. “Come on, man, let’s cut the crap already! Your place is full of zombies”—Mike looked around at the occupants of a nearby table, who were sure to have heard the crack, but chose to ignore it—“or some sort of juju-addled freaks, so don’t go making like it’s just a polite group of country-clubbers. Nobody sits that still for that long. And the looks on their faces! Like ooh ooh ooh”— he made a comical parody of ecstasy as he changed his voice to a sullen drone—“we… are… listening… to… such… wonderful… music…”

  Stephenson merely watched Frank throughout this tirade, not showing a trace of emotion, his vinyl smile quite possibly getting wider. “Mister Patten, it’s most unfortunate you feel this way, but I can assure you that your discomfort is not having an effect on your performance, which is still top-notch. I’m certain it will be even more so,”—he looked briefly at his watch—“in several minutes when you begin the third set.”

  He did his