Ashe, Smalls and Cybil stopped at the entrance to the Bayside Bar. She pulled her coat off and handed it to Ashe. Underneath she wore a low V-neck shirt that would have shown most of her small boobs if she didn’t have so many beads around her neck.
“Aren’t you cold?” Ashe asked.
“Listen. I agreed to meet this guy. He’s not going to get anything else so I thought he at least deserved a good look,” she said. “At least I’m dressed for a bar unlike our friend here.”
Ashe looked at Smalls, who still wore his priestly vestments. The white tab of a collar was mostly covered with Mardi Gras beads, but it was still noticeable. He nodded his agreement.
“It would have been more appropriate if you had dressed down,” Ashe said.
“What does it matter? I’m not here for a good time,” Smalls said. “I’m here to investigate strange happenings.”
“I’m going in,” Cybil said. “Follow up in a few seconds so it doesn’t seem like we’re together.”
“If you don’t intend anything with this guy, what does it matter?” Ashe asked.
“That’s not the reason. I just don’t want to be seen going into a bar with a priest. It’s like some kind of bad joke.”
“That’s only if a minister and rabbi came along,” Smalls said. “I’ve heard a million of them.”
Cybil shook her head and went inside the bar. Ashe counted off in his head until he reached two hundred and followed her in. This bar was different from the one they had gone to the night before. It stank of old beer and new whiskey. The smoke that permeated the place wasn’t the sweet spice of clove cigarettes, but the harsh funk of cheap cigars. The clientele looked a bit different too. There were a few biker types, and some guys that looked like they’d just gotten off of the barges that came down the Tensaw River.
Ashe and Smalls started to get stares as soon as they walked in. One older-looking man with a long braided beard slammed his glass on the bar, tossed down a few bills and left.
“We don’t serve your kind here,” the bartender said.
“We’re not gay,” Ashe said.
“Ain’t what I mean. We don’t serve the clergy.”
“I promise I’m not here for the booze,” Smalls said.
“You certainly ain’t come for the ambiance.” The bartender laughed.
“We’re here to see the band. We need to talk to them about something,” Ashe said.
“That’s fine but there’s still a two drink minimum, for you and the padre.”
Smalls dug into his pocket and slammed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “One shot of Wild Turkey and another of your finest, cheapest vodka.”
The bartender snatched up the money. He sat a shot glass on the counter and poured the whiskey. Smalls snatched it up and sank it. He banged the empty glass down on the countertop. The barkeep flipped it and filled it with poor vodka. Smalls slammed this one too. He whistled against the burn.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
“Didn’t even flinch,” the bartender said. “Damned priests are always the best drinkers.” He looked at Ashe. “Don’t worry about the minimum, kid. My man right there gave me a good enough laugh that I’ll comp you.” He handed Smalls his change. “The band’ll be out in a minute. By the way, they suck.”
“We know,” Smalls said. “That’s why we like them.”
Ashe and Smalls walked away from the bar toward the small stage at the other end of the establishment. No one in the place seemed interested in getting up close to the band. Most of the patrons left the closest tables empty. Ashe and Smalls sat at the table closest to the steps up to the stage. As soon as they had settled in, Ashe looked around the room trying to find Cybil. He spotted her in the far corner at a tall round table, alone. She sipped from a glass, but across the room and in the dim light, he couldn’t tell what she was drinking.
“Let’s talk to these guys as soon as they step out to get onstage.” Ashe turned back to Smalls.
“Sounds good to me. I don’t like hanging out in places like this for too long.”
“Are you afraid of sinners?” Ashe made sure the question sounded like a joke.
Smalls shook his head. “My business is dealing with sinners. I just don’t like being in this much cigarette smoke. It makes me want to take it up again.”
“You smoked?”
“Yeah, I’ve always been amazed at how many people think that because you wear a black suit with a white collar and read the Bible that you don’t have vices. I am a human too,” Smalls said.
Ashe pointed to a door at the edge of the stage. The band started in. Although the drum kit and amps were set up on stage, the bassist and guitar player carried their instruments in with them. They led the way in and up to the stage. Another man with a spiked dog collar around his neck and a hot pink do-rag on his head bounded onto the stage and took his place behind the drums. Then the singer walked in. Ashe recognized her from the other bar.
“Excuse me, miss.” Ashe rose from the table and moved toward the singer.
“I’m sorry, I don’t give autographs until after the show,” she said.
“That’s not what I want,” Ashe said. “I just need to talk to you about a recording.”
“Dude, you can talk to my manager about any recording. We don’t make the deals ourselves,” she said.
Smalls got up and came toward them. “He doesn’t want to give you a record deal. We want to talk to you about an MP3 recording of a song called ‘Pink-Striped Hair’. Who did the recording for you?”
The singer looked Smalls up and down. “This is the first time I’ve had a priest interested in our music.”
“We don’t care about your music,” Ashe said. Frustration came out with every syllable. “We want to know about that particular recording.”
“Hey, are these guys hassling, you, Hortense?”
Ashe looked up to the edge of the stage. The guitarist stood there holding his ax like he might club them with it.
“Just stay cool,” Smalls said. “Who did the recording?”
“Why?” Hortense asked.
“We found something on one of the copies of it that my fiancée had downloaded,” Ashe said. “The file was corrupted or something. It played two versions of the song a little out of sync and had a piggyback recording underneath.”
“You mean like that Beatles song that had a message if played backwards?” The guitarist sounded a little excited.
“More like what people used to claim ‘Stairway to Heaven’ did if played backward,” Smalls said.
“Dude, seriously?” Hortense asked. “It had a satanic thing on it.”
“More serious than you can imagine,” Smalls said. “There seems to be a reverse Latin incantation impregnated into the song.”
“Did you guys do that on purpose?” Ashe asked.
“Seriously, dude?” the guitarist asked.
“I’m a good Catholic girl,” Hortense said. “That freaks me out just a little bit.”
The lead singer crossed herself, then kissed her hand and lifted it to the sky. Smalls did the same. Ashe figured it was something priests did for followers out of respect.
“So who recorded the track for you?” Ashe asked.
“He’s here tonight,” the guitarist said. He looked across the bar and pointed. “He’s over there close to the door. Guy’s name is Francisco San Roman. He said he was a scout for Warner Records.”
Ashe looked to where the guitarist pointed. The man near the door was big. His broad shoulders framed his muscular body. The light hanging above his head set off the orange color of his hair, making his head appear to be on fire. Even across the room, Ashe could see the deep brown freckles on his skin.
“Does that guy look like a Francisco to you?” Ashe asked.
Smalls turned and looked at San Roman. “He looks like a Seamus O’Connell I once knew in Boston.”
“Maybe it’s a stage name,” Hortense said.
“Strange stage name,” Ashe said. “It doesn’t really roll off the tongue.”
“I guess we need to talk to him,” Smalls said.
Ashe nodded. “Thank you for your help, and break a leg.”
“If you find out anything about that spell or whatever, let us know.” Hortense twisted the fabric at the bottom of her shirt around her finger. “I’m going to be freaked out until I get an explanation.”
“We will,” the priest said.
Ashe and Smalls walked toward the man identified by the band. Ashe glanced over at Cybil. She remained alone. She tipped her drink toward him and smiled. It was almost gone, and she looked bored. He waved at her when he caught her eye. He looked back to the way he was going after bumping into someone’s chair. The last thing they needed was a fight in this kind of a dive. As soon as he and Smalls stepped up to the large man’s table the band started playing a loud and too fast version of “Season of the Witch”.
“Are you Francisco?” Smalls asked.
The red-haired man looked the priest up and down. “Who wants to know?” His words sounded mechanical.
“My name is Peter Smalls. The band told me that you work for Warner Records.”
“Maybe I do, but we are not interested in recording Gregorian chants, Father.”
Ashe stared at the man. His eyes were an amber color. The same shade as the woman he later found out was Carol Heinz. That made him more nervous than he had been.
“I don’t want to record with your company,” Smalls said. “I want to know about a recording you did for this band.”
“Are you interested in buying them out from under my contract?” he asked.
“We didn’t know you had a contract with them,” Ashe said. “They didn’t mention that.”
“The whole band is not aware of this contract. I signed it with their manager only.”
“That’s interesting. Can you have a contract for them with just their manager’s knowledge, Mr. San Roman?” Smalls asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “How did you find out my name?”
“The band told us,” Ashe said. “Strange you don’t really look like a Francisco.”
“You do not look like a man who would like a band like them,” San Roman said.
“I don’t. I’m trying to find out why my fiancée died,” Ashe said.
“What is the priest here for?”
“I’m trying to figure out if there is something sinister involved in her death,” Smalls said.
San Roman laughed. It sounded forced. “When it comes to death and rock ‘n’ roll, it is always sinister.”
“An nescit mali?” Smalls asked.
San Roman smiled. “I do not speak Latin.”
“Es usted consciente del mal?” Smalls asked.
“Good night, gentlemen. I just realized that I have an appointment.” San Roman stood up and started to leave the bar.
His movements were stiff and looked artificial. Everything about him reminded Ashe of his encounter with the Heinz woman.
“Do you know Carol Heinz, Mr. San Roman?” Ashe asked.
San Roman turned and stared at Ashe. His eyes narrowed to slits, and it appeared that the amber-colored irises had changed to black. “I do not know who you are talking about, Dr. Shrove. Good night.”
The large man turned again and left. Ashe and Smalls looked at each other.
“That was strange,” Smalls said, “and in a joint like this that’s saying something.”
“He knew my name,” Ashe said. “I didn’t tell it to him.”
Smalls thought for a moment. “Maybe I introduced you.”
“No, you didn’t. He just knew it.”
“I’m not too surprised. He also knew I was speaking Latin to him, but didn’t seem to know Spanish, although his name would suggest Hispanic origins.”
“Well, guys, I got stood up,” Cybil said as she walked up. “It looks like your date left in a hurry too.”
“Yes,” Smalls said. “I think we upset him.”
“He was a scary-looking dude,” she said. “I wouldn’t have wanted to meet him alone.”
“He reminded me a lot of the woman we met the other night at the parade,” Ashe said. “He talked like her and moved stiffly. His eyes were even amber like hers.”
“Maybe they were related,” Cybil said.
“Maybe so,” Smalls said. “I think we need to leave. I have something I need to research.”
“Fine by me,” Cybil said. “Without my cop date, I don’t like my prospects.”
“What do you need to research?” Ashe wanted to know what the priest thought.
“For some reason the name Francisco San Roman is familiar to me. I can’t remember why, but something tells me it’s important.”
“That guy was named Francisco?” Cybil asked. “He didn’t look like one.”
“No he didn’t,” Smalls said. “That’s why I think I need to get to this research as soon as possible.”
Cybil sat in the passenger seat of Ashe’s car. He’d brought her back to her apartment complex. She’d decided to leave her Vespa on campus. It was too cold to ride it back home in what she wore.
“Thanks for the ride.” She fumbled for the door handle. “I’ve got no idea how I’m going to get to school tomorrow, but I’ll figure it out.”
“I’m sorry you were stood up,” Ashe said.
“I’m not.” She wasn’t. “He was a meathead. I told you I just agreed to meet him to get the laptop. If he’d shown up, I’d have to fake interest in his cop talk. He’d try to get lucky. I’d slap him and would’ve ended up in jail for striking an officer.”
“Before you go, I need to tell you something.”
To her, his eyes looked worried. She hoped he wasn’t going to fire her from being his assistant. The other professors would keep her on, but they were all too old to be fun.
“Okay.”
“You remember the woman that told us about the new parading society the other night?”
“Of course, how could I forget her? She was so strange.”
“I think she was the woman from Birmingham that I went to see the video of,” he said.
“The dead woman who walked out of the morgue?” Cybil said.
“Yes.”
“Come on. That’s not a funny joke. Marianne did the same thing,” she said.
“You act like I don’t know that. I’m not joking. They showed me a family photograph of the woman. It looked exactly like the woman from the parade.”
“That’s creepy,” Cybil said. “Is the detective doing anything about it?”
“I couldn’t remember the exact name of the society she said she worked with, but I got as close as I could. I think he was going to investigate it.”
She shivered not from being cold but from the gooseflesh that popped up from the thought that she’d made jokes about a dead woman. Speaking ill of the dead was bad karma. If the dead were walking around, she couldn’t imagine what the results might be if she chose to speak ill of one of them. Her apartment was on the back side of the building. She didn’t feel much like walking around to it alone.
“Walk me to my door, please.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Ashe said. “I just felt that you needed to know about it.”
“I’m glad you did, and maybe I shouldn’t be afraid, but this is like some kind of weird horror movie and right now I’m feeling a little bit like one of those bimbos that the monster gets.”
She reached out and touched his hand as it gripped the steering wheel. It felt warm and comforting. Her fingers were so cold that she welcomed this. Ashe looked at her. She felt the understanding in that glance.
“All right, but no good night kiss,” he said.
She removed her hand and smiled. “I promise.”
They both got out of the car. The headlights flashed as Ashe locked the doors with his remote. They met on the sidewalk in front of the car. Cybil took Ashe’s hand and led him down the sidewalk that disappeared into the shadows cast by the building. To her, their handclasp felt nice, but the kind of nice that occurred with children who were afraid of something and held to each other for strength and comfort. They walked up three short steps at the corner where two sidewalks intersected. The light from her stoop lamp spilled out onto the sidewalk. She let go of Ashe’s hand so that she could dig her keys out of her pocket. When she looked up, the door to her apartment was open.
“Ashe,” she said..
“I see it. Let me go in first.”
He pushed past her and into her apartment. She followed close behind. Staying outside didn’t appeal to her any more than going into her apartment first.
The lamp she always kept on shined its light from the floor where it had been knocked. Stuffing poured from large slashes in the couch that sat near the door. All the pictures she had put on the walls lay on the floor torn and tattered. Cybil looked over the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. All the contents of her refrigerator were poured on the floor. Streaks of mustard and ketchup clung to the walls. She walked toward her bedroom, but Ashe stopped her.
“We need to go back to my car, call the police, and wait on them there,” he said.
“I want to see what they’ve done to my bedroom.” Her voice quivered, making the volume of it low.
“We need to get out,” Ashe said. His voice was firm.
Cybil looked at him, but he stared at the door to her bedroom. She looked at it now for the first time with clear vision. A long piece of paper was tacked to it. There was a message written there in dark, runny letters as if it were written in blood. She couldn’t make out what was written there, but the language was different from anything she’d ever seen.
“You’re right,” she said. “The car is the best place to wait.”
Without another word they turned and hurried back to Ashe’s car.