Nightingale lament n-3 Page 14

We finally stopped and studied Caliban's Cavern from a discreet distance. The exterior of the nightclub had been thoroughly trashed during the riot, and a team of specialist restorers were on the scene, clearing up the mess and making good with style and speed and un­canny precision. The Nightside has always had a ten­dency to mayhem and mass destruction, so there's never any shortage of firms ready and willing to under­take quick repairs and restoration, for the usual exorbi­tant prices. Most of the big concerns were still busy dealing with the chaos and devastation left behind after the recent Angel War, but it seemed the Cavendishes had been able to raise enough cash-in-hand to get some firm on the job straight away. Three builder magicians were using unification spells to put the facia back together. It was quite fun watching the broken and shat­tered pieces leaping up from the pavement to fit them­selves neatly together again like a complex jigsaw. Some other poor sod had the unenviable task of putting the front door back on its hinges, while the simulacrum in the wood cursed him steadily as an unfeeling incom­petent, in between lengthy crying jags.

  A crowd had gathered to watch, Nightsiders always being interested in free entertainment, and other people had arrived to sell the crowd things it didn't need, like T-shirts, free passes to clubs no-one in their right mind would visit anyway, and various forms of hot food. This usually consisted of something nasty and over­priced in a bun, that only the most newly arrived tourists would be dumb enough actually to eat.

  Dead Boy sniffed loudly as some fool in a grubby dressing gown handed over good money in return for something allegedly meat-based in a tortilla. "Proof if proof were needed," he said loudly, "that tourists will eat absolutely anything. Truth in advertising, that's what's needed here. See how well that stuff would sell if the vendors were obliged to shout the truth. Some­thing wriggling on a stick! Pies containing creatures whose name you couldn't even spell! Food so fast it will be out your backside before you know it!"

  "Buyer beware," I said easily. "That should be the Nightside's motto. Nothing's ever what it seems . . ."

  We watched interestedly as one of the builder magi­cians used a temporal reverse spell to restore some damaged woodwork, then joined in the general jeering as he let the spell get away from him, and time sped back too far, so that the wood started sprouting branches and leaves again. Dead Boy looked the night­club over with his professionally deceased eyes.

  "There are new and really nasty magical wards all over the place," he said quietly. "They're well disguised, but there's not much you can hide from the dead. It's mostly shaped curses and proximity hexes, an awful lot of them keyed specifically to your presence, John. We're only just out of range here. The Cavendishes really don't want you anywhere near their club again."

  "How nasty are we talking?" I said.

  "Put it this way - if you were to trigger even one of these quite appalling little bear-traps, they'll be scraping your remains off the surroundings with a palette knife."

  "Ouch," I said. "I still have to get in to see Rossignol. Any ideas?"

  Dead Boy considered the matter. People saw him frowning and moved even further away, just in case. "I could walk in," he said finally. "Those defences are only dangerous to the living."

  "No," I said. "First, Rossignol wouldn't talk to you, only me. And second, you'd be bound to set off all kinds of alarms. I really don't want to attract the Cavendishes' attention if I can help it. They've got a Power on their side. The Jonah."

  "Ah yes, young Billy. Nasty piece of work. If he ever grew a pair, he could be really dangerous."

  "The odds are, Rossignol is still in her room over the club, guarded by a couple of heavy-duty combat magi­cians. I bluffed them once, but twice would definitely be pushing it. And who knows what other surprises they've got set up in there . . ."

  "So what do you want to do, John?" said Dead Boy, just a little impatiently. "We can't just stand around out there. Word will get around. How are we going to get to your deadly little songbird? Come on, think devious. It'swhat you do best."

  "If we can't get in to her," I said slowly, "she'll have to come out to us. We'll send her a message. Most of theclub's staff will be kicking their heels somewhere close at hand, keeping out of the way and waiting for therepairs to be finished. All we have to do is track themdown and find someone we can bribe, convince, or intimidate into passing Rossignol our message."

  "They could be anywhere," Dead Boy said doubt­fully. "What are you going to do, use your gift to locate them?"

  "No," I said. "I don't think so. I've been using my gift too much, too often, lately. And every time I open up my mind, my thoughts blaze like a beacon in the night. My enemies can use that to find me. And you know some of the things they've sent after me. No, I've pushed my luck as far as I dare. It's time to be sensible and stick to simple deduction. All we have to do is check out the local bars, cafes, and diners, and we'll find the club. Theatricals never can go for long without their creature comforts."

  We found them all just a short walk further up the street, at the Honey Bee, an overly lit but very clean theme coffee bar, where all the waitresses were obliged to wear puffy black-and-yellow-striped bee outfits, to­gether with bobbly antennae and spiked heel stilettos. They didn't look too happy about it as they tottered unsteadily between the tables, reeling off the specials through practiced smiles. The chorus girls from Cal­iban's Cavern had wedged themselves into a corner, nursing their cups of distressed coffee, chattering loudly and smoking up a storm. Also present was one Ian Auger, roadie and musician, and the only one who seemed at all pleased to see me as Dead Boy and I ap­proached their table.

  "Oh it's you again, is it?" said the platinum blonde backing singer, flicking her ash disdainfully onto the floor. "Trouble on legs and twice as unfortunate. Everything was fine until you turned up. Then you show your face, and we get a suicide in the front row and a riot in the house. The Authorities should ban you, on general principles."

  "It's been tried," I said calmly. "And I'm still here. I need someone to take a message to Rossignol." 1 looked around, hoping for a sympathetic smile, but it was all glowering faces and curled lips. I couldn't really blame them. One of the problems of having a carefully cultivated bad reputation like mine is that I tend to get the blame for everything that goes wrong around me.

  "Who's your pale friend with no fashion sense?" said the blonde.

  "This is Dead Boy," I said, and the whole coffee­house went suddenly quiet. Ian Auger pushed back his chair and stood up.

  "Let's talk outside," he said resignedly. "You mustn't mind the girls. They're never keen on anything that might put their jobs at risk." We moved over to stand in the doorway, while the other customers and staff stud­ied us warily. Ian Auger looked at me, frowning. "I'm worried about Ross. The Cavendishes have been all over her since the suicide, telling her what to do, what to say, what to think. All they seem to care about is what spin they can put on the suicide for the music media. Ross is practically a prisoner at the moment, under armed guard. Are you still interested in helping her?"

  "Of course," I said. "Can you get a message to her?"

  "Maybe," said Ian. "At least, one of me might be able to."

  "Which one of them are you?" I said.

  "All of them," Ian Auger said cheerfully. "I'm a temporal triplet. One soul, three bodies, no waiting. Close-part harmonies a speciality. Me mum always said Destiny stuttered when I was born. Right now my other two selves are busy inside the club, putting the stage set back together again. They're listening to you through me. What's the message?"

  "Nothing good," I said. "The Cavendishes tried to make one of their singers into a superstar before. They had a young girl called Sylvia Sin magically aug­mented, to make her even more popular, and it turned her into a monster. Quite literally. I've seen what they did to her, what she became, and I don't want anything likethat to happen to Ross. I need her to sneak out of the club and join me somewhere safe, so we can work out what to do for the best. I don't trust the Caven­dishes
to have her best interests at heart. It shouldn't be too difficult for Ross to get out. Bodyguards are usually more interested in watching for people trying to sneak in."

  Ian scowled fiercely. "Sylvia Sin. There's a name I haven't thought of in a while. Always wondered what

  happened to her. All right, one of me will talk to Ross. She might listen, now the Cavendishes have left the club. She always seems brighter and more independent when they're not around."

  "They do seem to have an unhealthy hold over her," I said. "Could they already have done something to her?"

  "I don't know," said Ian. "No-one's allowed to get too close when the Cavendishes are in private conference with Ross. And there's no denying she's not been acting like herself since she came to live in that room over the club. You think if the Cavendishes have done something, that's what's causing the suicides?"

  "Could be," I said.

  "All right," said Ian. "If I can get a message to her, and if I can get her out of the club, where do you want to meet? It has to be somewhere secure, somewhere she can feel safe, and somewhere she won't be noticed. She has got a pretty famous face now, you know."

  "I know the perfect place to hide a famous face," said Dead Boy. "Hide her in a whole crowd of famous faces. Tell Rossignol to meet us at Divas!"

  Divas! is one of the more famous, or possibly infa­mous, nightclubs in Uptown, where you can go to see and hear all the most famous female singers in the his­tory of entertainment. Of course, none of them are real. They're not even female. The famous faces are in fact transvestites, men dressed up as the women they adore. But dressed in style and made up to the nines, the illu­sion is more than perfect, for these trannies have taken their obsession one step further than most - they have learned to channel the talents and sometimes the per­sonalities of the divas concerned. Dead or alive, the greatest stars of show business all come to Divas!, in proxy at least.

  Dead Boy had clearly been there before. The door­man held the door to the club open and bowed very low, and no-one asked us if we were members, or even to pay the cover charge. The hatcheck girl was a 1960s Cilia Black in a black bustier, and from the wink she dropped Dead Boy it was clear he was a regular. Cilia did her best to ignore me, but I'm used to that. Dead Boy is one of the Nightside's celebrities. I'm more of an anti-celebrity. We made our way into the club itself, which was all silks and flowers and bright colours. The furniture was all art deco, and everywhere you looked was every kind of kitsh fashion you ever shuddered at in disbelief. Chandeliers and disco balls hung side by side from the ceiling.

  The main floor was crowded, and the noise level was appalling. The night is always jumping at Divas! Dead Boy and I edged between the tightly packed ta­bles, following a waitress. All the waitresses were channeling Liza Minnelli tonight, dressed in her Cabaret outfit. We ended up at a table tucked away in a corner and ordered over-priced drinks from the Liza. I asked for a glass of Coke, and then had to go through my usual routine of No, I don't want a Diet Coke! I want a real Coke! A man's Coke! And I don't want a bloody straw either! Dead Boy ordered a bottle of gin and the best cigar they had. I made a note of the prices for my expenses sheet. You have to keep track of things like that, or you can go broke on some cases.

  "What if Rossignol doesn't turn up?" said Dead Boy, raising his voice to be heard over the general clamour. "What if she can't get away?"

  "Then we'll think of something else," I said. "Relax. Enjoy the show. It's costing us enough."

  "What do you mean us, white man?"

  Up on the stage at the far end of the room, an Elaine and a Barbara were dueting on a pretty accurate rendi­tion of "I Know Him So Well." The channelling must be going well tonight. Other famous faces paraded across the floor of the club, there to see and be seen, stopping at tables to chat and gossip and show them­selves off. Marilyn and Dolly, Barbra and Dusty. Elaine and Barbara were replaced on stage by a Nico, who favoured us with her mournful voice and presence as she husked "It Took More Than One Man to Change My Name to Shanghai Lily" into the microphone, ac­companying herself on the accordion. I just hoped she wouldn't do the Doors's "The End." There's only so much existential angst I can take before my ears start bleeding.

  A few tables away, two Judys were having a vicious wig-pulling fight. Spectators cheered them on and laid bets.

  And then Ian Auger came in, with Rossignol on his arm, and no-one in Divas! paid her any attention, because everyone assumed she was another trannie, per­haps a little more convincing than some. Ian escorted her over to our table, pulled out her chair for her, intro­duced her to Dead Boy, and politely but firmly refused to sit down himself.

  "I can't hang about here. I've got to get back. There's still a lot of work to do in the club, and I don't want to be missed."

  "Any trouble getting Ross here?" I asked.

  "Surprisingly, no. I just told the bodyguards that John Taylor was somewhere on the loose in the build­ing, and they all went running off to look for you. We strolled right out. Look, I really do have to go. Ross, remember you're due to go on again in just under an hour."

  Rossignol let him kiss her on the cheek, and he hur­ried away, his hunchback giving him a weird rolling gait. The waitress Liza came back to take Rossignol's order. I looked Rossignol over as she studied the wine list. She looked different. Same pale face, dark hair, lit­tle black dress. But she seemed somehow sharper, brighter, more focused. She looked up, caught me watching, and smiled broadly.

  "Ah, John, it is so good to be out and about for a change. You know what I want? I want five whiskey sours. I want them all at once, all lined up in front of me so I can look at them while I'm drinking them. I'm never allowed to drink in Caliban's Cavern, by order of the Cavendishes, though strangely, mostly I don't want to. I stick to the healthy diet they provide, and I never complain, both of which are also very unlike me. Cake! I want cake! Bring me the biggest, gooiest chocolate gateau you have, and a big spoon! I want everything that's bad for me, and I want it right now!"

  The waitress whooped with glee. "You go, girl!"

  I indicated for the waitress to bring Rossignol what she wanted, and the Liza tottered away on her high heels. Rossignol beamed happily.

  "The Cavendishes are always very strict about what I'm allowed to have, and do. They act more like my mother than my managers."

  "I notice they didn't stop you smoking," I said.

  She snorted loudly. "I'd like to see them try." She stopped smiling suddenly and gave me a hard look. "Ian tells me that you've been out and about on my behalf, speaking to people. And that you found out something concerning my predecessor with the Cavendishes. I re­member her face being on all the magazine covers, then . . . nothing. What did happen to her, John? What did the Cavendishes do to her?"

  I told her enough of the story to scare her, without dwelling on some of the nastier details. Dead Boy shot me the occasional glance as he realised what I was doing, but he kept his peace. He'd already drunk half his bottle of gin and had started eating his cigar. When I finally finished, Ross let out a long sigh.

  "I had no idea. The poor thing. And the Cavendishes did that to her?"

  "More likely had it done," I said. "Have they ever offered to ... do anything for you?"

  "No. Never." Rossignol's voice was firm and sharp. "I'd have told them where they could stick their magic. I don't need any of that shit to be a success. I'm a singer, and all I've ever needed are my songs and my voice." And then she stopped and frowned suddenly. "And yet, having said that. . . things have changed since I came to live in my little room over the club. My songs are always sad songs now. And there are some odd gaps in my memory. I feel cold, and tired, all of the time. And the way I act when the Cavendishes are around . . . doesn't feel like me at all. Could they have worked a magic on me, without my knowing?"

  "It's possible," I said carefully. "They could have done something, then made you forget it. The Cavendishes don't strike me as being particularly bur­dened with professional ethics."r />
  The waitress arrived with the five whiskey sours on a tray. Rossignol cooed happily as they were lined up in front of her, then knocked back the first two, one after the other. She breathed heavily for a moment, then giggled happily, like a small child who's just done something naughty and doesn't give a damn. "Yes! Oh yes! That hit the spot!" She smiled charmingly at me, then at Dead Boy. "So, what's it like, being dead?"

  "Don't tell her!" I said sharply, then looked apolo­getically at the startled singer. "Sorry about that, but some questions are best left unanswered. Especially when it concerns him."

  "Like why he's eating that cigar instead of smoking it?"

  "Very probably."

  She smiled at me again, a warm and embracing mo­ment quite at odds with her earlier, somewhat distanced personality. "You've been known to avoid answering questions yourself on occasion, monsieur mystery man." Her French accent had become slightly more pronounced after the third whiskey sour. I couldn't get over how alive she seemed. She looked at me thought­fully. "You don't really think the Cavendishes would do anything to harm me, do you? I mean, they're rely­ing on me to make them a great deal of money."

  "Maybe they thought they were helping Sylvia," I said. "But there's the suicides, Ross. The Cavendishes have to be connected to that somehow. I don't trust them, and you shouldn't either. You say the word, and Dead Boy and I will take you away from them right now. We'll find you somewhere safe to lie low while

  we get some lawyers in to check out your contract, and maybe a few experts to make sure you haven't been messed about with magically. You don't have to worry. I can guarantee your safety. I know any number of peo­ple who'd be only too happy to bodyguard you. Not very nice people, perhaps, but. . ."

  "No," said Rossignol, kindly but firmly. "It's a very generous offer, John, and I do appreciate you're only trying to help, but..."

  "But?"

  "But this is my big break. My chance to be a star. No-one has connections like the Cavendishes. They really can get me a contract with a major recording studio. I have to do this. I have to sing. It's all I've ever wanted, all I've ever cared about. I can't back out now. I won't back out over what could be just a case of nerves. You don't have any proof they've done anything wrong, do you?"