"No thanks," Katherine said. "I'm already flyin'."
"Suit yourself," the woman replied, and she shrugged her shoulders vaguely.
Spann said: "We missed the first act. Were they any good?''
"You like voodoo rockabilly? The Cramps? That sorta thing?"
"Some," the cop said.
"Then you might like Voodoo Chile. They use two drummers and a standup bass. Not my cup of…”
The lights were killed suddenly and she cut off the sentence. Around the club, people began to stomp their feet. There was hooting. There was yelling. There was whistling. Then a single spotlight lit up a high-school blackboard up on the stage. Scrawled in chalk across its surface were the words: "Erase the Blackboard Jungle!"
An announcer's voice cut in. "Tonight, live from London, England by way of the USA. May we have a warm Vancouver welcome for the one and only… RAW-T!"
With the shout that delivered his last word, a man's arm burst out of the dark onstage and into the stab of the spotlight where — before anyone could cover their ears — four black-painted fingernails scraped across the surface of the blackboard. The amplified screech that followed shredded a nerve or two. A microphone nearby magnified the noise about seven trillion times. As Scarlett gritted his teeth and Spann's neck-hairs stood on end, the lights onstage exploded and a born-again Buddy Holly ripped into There's Good Rockin' Tonight.
"Let's go!" Scarlett shouted.
They abandoned their beer and the table and made for the far left wall.
As they approached the door to the left of the stage, Spann began to play the drunk and leaned on Scarlett's shoulder. As soon as she was within distance the woman fell into the arms of the guard. For a second or two the man took a peek down her neckline and in that moment of distraction Scarlett dashed for the door. With a crash he swung it open — and interrupted a party.
In the center of the small room a black man and a white man were leaning over a tabletop mirror covered with chopped cocaine. As one man took a snort from a spoon Scarlett said: "It's the police." Involuntarily, in surprise, the man inhaled the powder into his lungs by mistake and abruptly began choking and coughing and wheezing. The cocaine on the tabletop rose like a cloud into the air.
"Hey, what's this shit?" Yellow Suit said as Spann also moved in through the door.
He snapped a glance at the worried guard who came running in behind her. Turning, the woman kneed the man in the groin and dropped him to his knees. As she kicked the door shut RAW-T was just beginning the Big Bopper's Chantilly Lace.
"Let's all take it easy," Scarlett said calmly, "so no one else gets hurt."
Apart from the two cops there were six black men in the room along with the single white. All the blacks wore leather jackets and had their hair straightened, swept back in pompadours like Little Richard. The white looked like an extra from Rebel Without a Cause. Yellow Suit didn't fit in. He was standing over near a bench along which several voodoo masks were set out. The blank faces of the masks seemed to stare up at him as if waiting in anticipation for the confrontation that was coming. There were guitars and drums scattered everywhere.
"What do you want?" Yellow Suit asked as cocaine settled like snow throughout the room.
"We're looking for John Lincoln Hardy." Scarlett took out his shield.
"Well, he ain't here. That's obvious."
"Who are you?"
Yellow Suit paused a moment, then said: "Rackstraw. Steve Rackstraw."
"Who's he?" Scarlett asked, indicating the coughing man.
"Ask him."
"I said, who is he? And I expect an answer."
"One of the drummers," Rackstraw said. "Didn't you catch the show?"
"Where's Hardy?"
"I've no idea. I'm not the man's keeper."
"Would you rather talk about the dope?"
Rackstraw didn't answer.
"Kathy, how much stuff do you think is floating about the room?" "Perhaps an ounce and a half."
"That's PPT, Rackstraw. And trafficking's the big one."
"You got nothin' on me, man. I'm leaving to call a lawyer,"
"The coke's in the room. You're in the room. That's enough for me. You can make your call downtown."
"That ain't sufficient evidence."
"You tell that to the judge."
For several seconds the man stood still, contemplating his position. Rackstraw wore his hair in a tight Afro and sported rings on every finger. His cafe-au-lait complexion contrasted with the suit. It was hand-tailored and pulled in at the waist. Beneath the concern that showed in his eyes he had a pencil-thin moustache tailored to his lip.
"Okay," Rackstraw said finally. "Can you and I talk in private?"
"Where?" Scarlett asked.
The man indicated a washroom off to the right. They left the room. Once inside the toilet, the black man closed the door and the white man leaned on the wall. Rick Scarlett waited.
"What do you want Johnnie for? You know the man's my cousin?"
"I know," the policeman said.
"So what's goin' down?" Rackstraw sat on the edge of the sink with one foot on the floor.
"One of his girlfriends got herself iced by a psychotic killer. We're trying to trace her movements. We think Hardy was her pimp. Perhaps he lined up a john."
"I see. You open to a suggestion?"
"Try me," Scarlett said.
"Okay. You leave me alone, and the boys alone, and I'll put you in touch with Hardy. But it'll take a couple of days."
"Where is he now?"
"Not till we got a deal."
The policeman thought a moment. In effect this was the exact same trip as Winalagilis and his fix. Same game, different players.
"All right," Scarlett said, "here's what I can do. We'll take the two on the mirror plus the stash of cocaine. You we let go. You produce Hardy and we'll reconsider the charge. If not we pick you up."
"Come on, man. Have a bit o' heart. I own these niggers and honky, lock stock and barrel. Next month we start a tour of over forty cities. They gotta practice. They can't be in the can." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a tour schedule. "Here, look at this. Even John my cousin ain't worth a forty-city circuit. How am I gonna welsh if you know where I am?"
Scarlett glanced at the paper. "Okay, a compromise. No arrests now but we take the powder. And I want a ransom. Give me one of those masks."
Rackstraw frowned. He was puzzled by the suggestion. "You don't know what you're askin'," he said. "Those masks are antiques. Each one is more than a hundred years old."
"Good. Then I'll take two. You see, my man, I want to check if you got customs clearance. Those masks are not from here."
"I don't need customs clearance. They're antiques."
"That means you don't pay duty. They still got to clear."
Rackstraw sighed.
"Where's Hardy?"
"LA."
"What for?"
"Scoutin" a record deal."
"When's he back?"
"Don't know. Depends how long it takes."
"Okay, you produce Hardy and we kill the charges and give you back the masks. You don't produce Hardy and we drag both you and your band off stage on a warrant. A deal?"
"Shit," Rackstraw said. "Yeah, it's a deal."
The two men left the washroom and returned to the larger room. Scarlett and Spann took down the names of all those present and as best they could collected up the scattered powder. Scarlett then found an empty box and walked along the row of masks set out on the bench. He stopped beside a black Demon's Face with a curled protruding tongue. As he picked it up, the voodoo mask slipped from his fingers and tumbled toward the floor. Scarlett managed to catch it just before it smashed.