“Here it is,” whispered Joey, drawing away the veil.
Unconsciously, Jimmy kept several paces distant, as if what he expected to see in the big jar was one of those hand-like crab creatures from Aliens, which would fling itself out to seize his face.
Well, it was a hand, but not very lethal-looking. It lay on its stump at the bottom of a jar filled with formaldehyde, despite the fact that the thing was clearly mummified. Its bones were delicate and small; it might have been the hand of a child. The fingers were rather elongated, but maybe just because the flesh had withered. And that black glistening color could be paint or even a natural occurrence. All in all, Jimmy was less than awed by the idol.
“They pass it around and let the spirit of the owner communicate to them through it…send them prophecies,” Joey explained.
“You?”
“Not fully initiated yet. I’m still being prepared.”
Jimmy drew close to the container. “Well, if Ricky wants to puree this thing and make it into a chocolate and formaldehyde milkshake, that’s his problem, right, Joe? But what say we take their god and go get us a real drink somewhere, huh?”
Joey nodded vigorously, glad his mission was over.
“What is going on out here, Joe—hey!”
Joey whipped around with a gasp. In the doorway leading into the house stood Warren, the leader of the People, wearing rumpled pajamas and a rumpled expression of confusion.
“Oh, ah, Warren, this is my friend…”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, lifting the silenced Beretta from under his coat and pointing it. Poof…poof!
“Christ, man!” Joey hissed. “Christ!”
Warren grunted at the impacts and slumped in the threshold. Jimmy went to him, took him by the arm and helped him half up, dragged him into the temple and closed the door into the house. Then he let go of Warren’s arm and shot him once more in the back of the skull.
Jimmy turned to Joey. “Can’t let little Ricky down, Joe. C’mon, we’re outta here.”
* * *
“You did well, boys…I’m so proud of you.” Ricky hugged Jimmy, then Joey, who was swaying. Ricky smelled Joey’s breath and held him away by the arms. Joey didn’t look well.
“It was a tough mission for Joe.” Jimmy spoke up quickly in his defense.
“Of course it was.” Ricky patted Joey’s arms. “Go get some sleep in the green guest room, Joe.”
“Thanks, Ricky…thanks.” Joey staggered off.
“Well…here’s someone else who’s imbibed a bit too heavily tonight, though I told him not to.” Ricky moved further down the conference table to where Kolosimo was slumped, more disheveled than ever. Abruptly, Ricky snatched hold of Kolosimo’s hair and yanked him half out of his seat. Through gritted teeth, the satin-robed diminutive star hissed, “Look, you sorry son of a bitch, I want you to make this shake tonight and I want you to do it right! You understand me, you puke?” With his high-pitched voice, Ricky sounded like an infuriated Mickey Mouse.
“Yes…yes,” the old man groaned. Ricky let him go, dragged the heavy jar across the table toward him, unscrewed the lid. Jimmy smelled the released stink. Rolling back his sleeve, Ricky glanced up into Jimmy’s eyes, then plunged his own delicate hand into the fluid.
The gnarled black hand dripped. Ricky pushed it into the fleshy hands of Kolosimo. “What do you feel, Kol?” he demanded.
The psychometrist held the dripping hand against his forehead. The other two stood over him staring.
“Oh…uhhh,” mumbled Kolosimo. Then: “Uhhhh…” He let the hand drop to the table and his heavy paws trembled as they smoothed back his hair, smearing it with formaldehyde.
This seemed to please Ricky, however. He nodded for Strappado and Bastinado to emerge from the shadows. They lifted Kolosimo under the arms, took him and the hand away.
Ricky invited Jimmy to join him for a midnight snack while they waited. They had hamburgers and fries brought to them right there at the gothic conference table. Jimmy didn’t like being alone with Ricky, but they mostly ate in silence. Just as they were finishing, the handsome and mime-silent teen age boy who had served them their meal reentered with two metal tumblers on a tray. They were frappes, and one was set down in front of Jimmy. His stomach churned.
Ricky saw Jimmy’s barely checked revulsion and giggled. “Don’t worry, Jimbo, yours is vanilla. I get the chocolate.” And with that, Ricky Concertina lifted the tumbler to his lips and began swallowing the thick chocolate-flavored concoction. Jimmy couldn’t help but openly stare.
“Ahh,” breathed Ricky, setting the cup down and smiling at Jimmy. He popped a few fries in his mouth before he polished off the rest of his drink.
Vanilla or not, Jimmy barely tasted his shake.
* * *
The next several months abounded with activity as a heavily inspired Ricky Concertina not only finished up his album, but rushed it into its advertisement, promotion and sales strategies, consulted with his makeup and wardrobe people to establish an updated look, shot videos, and even mapped out his initial tour agenda. Those unable to keep up with the hectic pace were unceremoniously axed.
To achieve greater inspiration, Ricky kept handing lists over to Jimmy—shopping lists from hell. Ricky wanted something from Elvis. Not too surprising—Jimmy had been expecting that one. But requesting items from Jim Jones, Charles Manson and Grigori Rasputin? “For their mesmeric powers,” Ricky had explained. And what of the objects belonging to Al Capone, Joseph Stalin and Adolph Hitler? Jimmy had a lot of trouble with these last two, but thank God he acquired a signature of Hitler’s. Ricky was satisfied enough to drop Stalin. Ricky explained, “They’ll give me unflinching power to forge ahead with my vision unhampered by any.” Four people were axed the day after the Hitler shake.
Kolosimo had vanished shortly after the night Jimmy delivered the mummified hand. He never asked Ricky about it, but he did notice that Ricky now made his own milk shakes. And whenever Jimmy brought him a new acquisition, Ricky would hold it to his own forehead to test its powers first, as if he had stolen this ability from his former mentor.
* * *
The opening night of the concert tour was a zoo. Utter, unheard of madness. A phenomenon. The press was so abundant that a lesser artist would have exalted at their number of bodies alone. For all his efforts, Jimmy was invited to be amongst those backstage, though his talents were not required tonight.
Ricky’s eyes were so bright and yet so glazed, Jimmy might have thought he was on drugs if he didn’t know how much Ricky abhorred drugs. They didn’t talk; Ricky kept himself sequestered for the most part. Jimmy wasn’t sure what form the mummified hand’s inspiration had taken exactly, but Ricky had been keeping to himself like never before. Jimmy no longer dared to mock or doubt Ricky behind his back for fear of it reaching his pierced ears. Only the money kept Jimmy on this ship.
Rick-ee…Rick-ee…the crowd was out there chanting. Stomping. As chilling a sight as a storm-churned ocean. Jimmy felt that if Ricky were to announce that he wasn’t performing tonight, they would surge forward in a tidal wave and tear the whole town down around them. Was it true after all? Kolosimo’s talk of the power in objects…his ability to harness the energy of others? How else could one frail scarecrow of a man hold so many people so utterly in his thrall?
Nah, Jimmy thought, peeking out at them. Just sheep. A shepherd doesn’t have to be muscular. And I’m one of his sheep dogs.