Gossamer Axe (26 page)

Lisa checked her watch and crashed a cymbal with an angry flick of her wrist. “Forty-five minutes late. This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Give her time,” said Christa. She tried to occupy herself with her equipment, but she knew that the rest of the band was fuming.

“Look,” the drummer persisted, “it’s enough that we hear her mistakes, but if she starts flaking out on rehearsals, it’ll get to the point where the audience hears it too.”

“Give her time, Boo-boo.”

“You’ve got to talk to her, Chris. I can’t. I’ve tried. She just gets mad and tells me to shut the fuck up. I swear I’m gonna move out and find my own place. I can’t take it.”

Across the basement, Devi looked up. “Boo-boo’s right, Chris.” Her microphone caught a little of her voice and piped it through the monitors, spreading her sentiments, echoed and flanged, throughout the room. “We’ve had something pretty good going here, but Melinda’s screwing it up. You need to talk to her. You’re the leader.”

“I thought we worked by consensus.”

Monica burst out: “Oh, come on, Chris. You’re the brains in this outfit. We wouldn’t be playing if it wasn’t for you.”

Monica was right: the task rightly belonged to Christa. She had delayed this long because she had not wanted to admit that her unspoken and unrevealed plans were in jeopardy. Judith was possibly within reach, but Christa need a fully functioning band to win her. Melinda’s problems hinted at the potential failure of the whole endeavor.

The bass player had become erratic and irresponsible, with violent mood shifts and bouts of unprovoked hostility. perhaps more tellingly for Christa, she had terminated her harp lessons, a decision that had nothing to do with her teacher’s tastes in music. Slowly, Melinda was closing herself off from her friends, rejecting the intimacy of the band and its music, dwelling more and more in a separate world of drugs, late-night rendezvous, and sex that bordered on sadism. If her insomnia had not returned, it was only because she was beating it down with pills.

“All right.” Christa’s voice was soft, almost drowned in the hiss and whine of electronics that filled the basement. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Hey, anyone here?” came Melinda’s voice from upstairs.

Devi leaned toward her microphone. “In the basement, Mel. Get your ass down here.”

Melinda’s playing was passable, but the rehearsal was tedious. Christa found it difficult to keep her mind on the music, and she sensed that the other women were only holding their anger in check because they were counting on their leader to handle the situation.

But the band was slipping away. No longer a cohesive unit, no longer sharing music as though it were the medium of a subtle lovemaking, Gossamer Axe was turning into an uneasy mix of hidden emotions, masks, and psychological games.

Monica’s vocals were more raw than usual, and the tone of her voice made Christa wince. She was channeling her anger through her throat.

“Let’s take that once again,” said Christa when the song was finished. “I’d like a little more definition on your bass riff, Melinda.”

“It sounds good enough for metal.”

Christa took a deep breath. “Once more,” she said. “Judas Priest is, if nothing else, precise. Please, Melinda. Try to stay with me.”

“Okay. You say so.”

With an effort, Christa pushed everyone through the practice, but the magic was not there. It was just a band rehearsal, no different from many she had had with Dark Power: something to be endured, like a hangover, or a drug overdose.

They were just finishing up, snapping off equipment and casing instruments, when Bill Sarah plunked down the stairs. “I let myself in, Christa,” he apologized. “I hope it was all right.”

Ceis would have warned her had a stranger intruded. Bill was a part of the band, and the harp knew that. “Fine, Bill.”

Melinda eyed him suspiciously. “Something going on?”

“I’d like to talk with you all. Are you up for it?”

“Soon as my ears stop ringing,” said Lisa. She slid her sticks into their case.

He waited until they had gathered in the living room. Christa handed him a cup of hot chocolate. “My, my,” he said. “Chocolate. I can see there’s a serious drug problem in this band.” He did not notice that everyone’s eyes flicked to Melinda. Neither did Melinda.

“Uh…” Lisa shifted on the sofa uneasily. “Yeah, sometimes we do a lot of… uh… coke, too. You know, the kind that comes in red cans.”

It was a feeble attempt at humor, but it put Bill back onto his subject. “I want to talk about the band’s future. It’s fun to work with you, but I’ve got to mix a little business in here somewhere.”

“So mix, Bill,” said Devi.

“It’s like this. You guys are doing real well here in Denver, but outside the metro area no one knows your name. Gossamer Axe? What’s that? See what I’m saying?”

*touring*

Thank you, Ceis. I guessed
. Christa blotted her forehead with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “You want us to tour.”

“You want to get anywhere, you’re going to have to.”

Silence. Bill cleared his throat.

“Listen,” he said. “You’re good. I’ve heard people comparing the Axe to Van Halen, and Christa to Eddie, Yngwie Malmsteen, and Gary Moore all rolled into one. You can definitely go places with this band. I’m asking you to untie my hands so that I can take you there. I’m talking exposure, I’m talking record contracts, I’m talking money.”

Christa shook her head. Harper, guitarist: which did she want to be? She was not ready to make that decision.

“Yeah,” said Lisa, “but we’ve been through this before. Last year I was on the road for more days than I really want to think about, and you know what I got out of it? My skin and my kit and five empty bottles of Rid. That’s all.”

“But—”

Melinda broke in: “This touring stuff is shit. If we’re gonna make it, we can make it from Denver. We don’t have to go on the road. We don’t have to do anything.”

Her tone was ugly, and Bill frowned. “What kind of fantasyland are you living in, lady?”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Devi snorted under her breath.

“Hold,” said Christa politely. “Please.”

Melinda settled down, folded her arms, crossed her legs.

“I understand what you’re saying, Bill,” said Christa. “And I agree with you. But I’ve done some wandering myself, and I know that the comfort and the money are not good. This is our home, and we’re not willing to give it up lightly.”

“Tell you what, Bill,” said Devi. Her head was up, and her eyes met Bill’s. No more hiding for Devi. “Personally, I have no problems with, say, a weekend gig up in Casper or something like that. But if someone wants us to seriously tour, they’re going to have to put some money up front. Enough to make it worth our while to give up everything for the road. They want us to trust them, they’ll have to trust us.”

Melinda sulked. “I still say it’s shit.”

Lisa gritted her teeth. “You want another manager, Mel?”

“Fuck off.”

Lisa half rose from her chair, but Christa put her back with a glance. “Are you still willing to work with us, Bill? Given the restrictions?”

“Well…” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m a damned fool for doing business with people I actually like. Why can’t you girls be the standard, unwashed metal band with delusions of grandeur? Then I could kick your cute little butts and bully you into doing what I want.” He laughed, and there was no sting in his words. “But you’re not.” He threw up his hands. “Okay. Your ball.” He rose, grabbed his coat, pulled out a notebook. “I’ll just run through this to make sure. You’re at Bonkers beginning Monday. Two weeks. Then I got you in at Journey North, and the Rock Exchange after that. Good money. They’re all fighting for a chance to book the Axe. I’m trying for a concert at the Rainbow with Allencrain: remember me in your prayers.” He stuffed the notebook back into his pocket. “I’m out of here.”

The front door closed behind him. “Think he’s pissed off?” said Lisa.

“Disappointed, more likely,” said Christa.

Melinda was twitching in her seat. “Good riddance.”

Christa’s temper slipped. “Melinda, what in the name of the Goddess is going on?”

“He’s taking twenty-five fucking percent of our earnings to do something that we can do ourselves.”

“Come on,” said Lisa. “We’d be playing Herman’s Hideaway without Bill.”

“No we wouldn’t. We got into InsideOut without him. It’s all connections, and I’ve got them. Record contracts are connections, and I’m getting them. We can go anywhere we want, once we know the right people.”

Devi had been listening, and the wall had risen behind her black eyes. “Mel, this sounds just like Tom Delany’s spiel—”

Melinda was on her feet in an instant, screaming: “
Don’t give me shit about Tom Delany
.”

In the silence left behind by her words, Christa could hear the bare branches of the trees creaking and rustling. A clump of snow fell to the ground with a soft thud. “Let’s call it for the day,” she said softly. “We’ll get together again tomorrow. I think we can have the new songs down by Monday.” Almost as an afterthought, she added: “Could I talk to you for a minute, Melinda?”

The others left, car doors slamming and engines cranking in the cold for a few extra seconds before they caught. Melinda glowered on the sofa.

“Can I ask you about the drugs, Melinda?” Christa kept her voice gentle.

In spite of her agitation, Melinda’s eyes were dull, vacant. “Nothing much to say, is there?”

“That’s up to you.”

Melinda shrugged. “I’m just trying to do you guys a favor, and you all come crawling down my throat.”

She had said the same thing before:
I’m doing this for you
. “How is getting stoned going to help us?” asked Christa.

“I can’t talk about it. Just leave it to me.”

“Melinda, you’re getting…” Christa struggled with an unfamiliar idiom. “… totally… fucked up with this stuff. It’s not helping us. It’s hurting the whole band, it is.”

Melinda lifted her head defiantly. “Back in September, you said you didn’t know a thing about the rock-and-roll business, and I pushed you into starting this band. Now you turn around and start telling me what to do. Just because you can play a goddam guitar don’t mean diddly. You’ve got to get the breaks. Lemme handle things.”

In her mind, Christa was confronting an arrogant Orfide with the present Gossamer Axe. The bard would have every reason to be scornful.
Judith
! “I’m going to leave that up to Bill. Our job is to make music.”

“Our job is to make money.”

“Melinda!”

“Look, Crissy, you can play Polly Purebred all you want as long as you’re fooling around with harps, but when you start playing with the big boys, you’re going to get eaten alive unless you’re real clear about what you want. I want bucks. I want to be up on stage someday with a million fans reaching out to me. You got it?”

Christa felt cold. Her mouth was dry, and she could barely form words. “I do indeed, Melinda.”

“You can play with Bill if you want. Just let me handle things my own way.” She laughed, stood up, punched Christa lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, one day you’ll thank me.”

Christa bowed her head. “Surely…”

Melinda went out to her car, and Christa floundered in a wash of horror. Her last chance for Judith was being destroyed by Melinda’s fantasies.

Almost staggering, she made her way to the kitchen. The pale yellow walls seemed harsh and glaring as she heated milk. “Ceis,” she said, “it might well be the two of us again this Midsummer.”

The harp did not reply. Christa heard a footstep in the hall. Monica. “Sorry,” said the singer. “I hit the bathroom and you two were already going at it when I was done. So I stayed where I was.”

Christa leaned on the counter. “It didn’t sound good, did it?”

“Aw, Chris…” Monica came up, put her arms around Christa. “This is rock and roll. It happens all the time. People get crazy and go off the deep end. If it’s not drugs, it’s boyfriends; if it’s not boyfriends, it’s motorcycle accidents or something. There are other bass players in Denver.”

“There isn’t time.”

“What are we on? A schedule?”

Christa was crying. “Indeed, Monica. We’re on a schedule. I’ve been waiting for two centuries, and I’m not letting this chance go by.”

Monica looked incredulous. “Two—”

“Just believe me. There isn’t time, and I’ve given up too much to go back.” She recalled her words to Kevin:
Some things can be done, others can’t
.

Snow thudded again outside, but this time it sounded different.

*Ron*

Monica gasped. “Who said that?”

Christa stared at Ceis through the open door to her studio. Monica? “A friend,” she said, and she turned around just in time to see Ron’s face, white and unshaven, pressed against the kitchen window.

Monica screamed. Christa threw open the back door and hit the snow running, but her foot found a patch of ice and she went down hard.

Ron was already gone. “You fucking dyke!” he shouted from the street. “Keep your lousy hands off my woman!”

If Christa had had any breath left, she would have shouted in rely, the Gaeidelg words rising up in a swift wave of angry eloquence. But she could only lie in the snow, fighting with an outraged diaphragm, as Ron drove away.

Monica helped her into the house, sat her down, and locked the doors. Christa’s breath came back eventually, and she sipped at the warm milk that Monica put into her hands.

“Is this happening often?” she said when she could speak.

The room was warm, but Monica shivered. “Often enough. I think he fucks himself up with whatever his dealer has on sale, and then he comes looking for me.” Turning away, she shoved her hands in her pockets. “You see in the paper about that woman who got shot by her husband?”

“I did.”

“She left him, and he killed her. I’m wondering… I’m wondering if that’s going to happen to me. Ron’s crazy.”

“Do you want to call the police?”

“I already called them. They took down my name, his name, and that was it. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” Her dark skin was gray when she turned back. “So when do I get my bullet?”