"Keating, T P - Blood Red Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Keating T P)
by
T. P. Keating
It sounded wrong from the moment that I stepped out of the wings and onto the darkened stage of the Scarab Beetle Club, where the usual gig-going crowd of the great unwashed benefited enormously from being hidden in semi-darkness.
The spotlight came on and a roar from the packed auditorium met my entrance. But it wasn't the familiar, happy roar of recognition. No, this was a roar of sheer surprise. Carefully I checked my costume. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in my tasteful ensemble of silver stilettos, tight blue jeans and pink blouse. I pushed my shoulder length brown curls from my sequined eyes. Then I saw the body that shared my spotlight.
He lay face down, his long hair soaked in blood. Now the audience fell into an absolute silence, which was every performer's nightmare. So what was I supposed to do? Win my audience back, of course. One death was bad enough, but I've never died on stage. I grabbed the microphone from its stand.
"Security, close all the exits. No-one is to enter or leave until this matter is resolved." The venue staff, obviously relieved to hear the clear voice of authority, quickly followed my instructions. Charlie, my regular lighting man, heightened the drama by carving the darkness with a brilliant white spotlight. Totally entranced, all eyes followed the beam from exit to exit, from one scurrying member of staff to the next.
The raising of the drama in turn increased my standing with the onlookers. Believe me, I'm a seasoned performer, I know how these things operate. In my younger days I graced several movies. But it's the same idea, you've got to attract and keep your audience. Only then I used my pneumatic figure instead of my sexy voice. You've doubtless seen my most famous work, Bikini Girls Versus The Dinosaurs Of Atlantis. I decapitate the Nazis leader at the end.
Now, like the frightened lingerie saleswoman I portrayed in the whodunit Sherlock's Secret, I was in a tight spot with only my native wits and a stunning outfit to help me. The searing spotlight swung back my way. Good.
In the interim I'd gone over and quickly glanced at the body. At which point my 4-piece backing band joined me on stage, beneath the flashing neon sign that spelt out our name, The Arlene Lynne Band. What talents they were, I couldn't ask for better. In respect of 3 of them, at least.
"Hold him!" I shouted, pointing at Bob, the rising guitar star. Two burly bouncers stepped forward and grabbed him firmly by the rather flashy silk collar. Not that he could have gone very far with a guitar dangling from a strap round his neck. "Care to explain?" he asked, in his usual drawl.
"You don't get anywhere in the entertainment business without an eye for detail, young man."
"Gee, I've told you before, lay off of the bourbon before a gig, lady."
"You're a very territorial guy. I've seen you remove stage-crashers during a show, and none too gently either." A murmur of agreement greeted this comment. He narrowed his eyes.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, before they turned the house lights down tonight, you saw him already halfway onto the stage, heading for your amplifier. Your space. So when the lights went down you acted."
"I think you've stuck your head next to a loud amplifier once too often." This got a laugh from the audience, which was bad. I needed to secure their support. After all, they'd paid to see me, with a burgeoning career, not some boy drunk on ambition.
"You hit him with your guitar. Don't tell me that a quick test won't find traces of blood on it. Let alone traces of varnish on his scalp."
I swear I could almost see the sympathies of the crowd shifting with their uncertainty. I felt semi-clad and vulnerable, like so many of my movie personas. I turned to face them, silently imploring them to understand the truth. My pleading face appeared in close up on the two giant video screens on either side of the stage.
"Guilty," shouted a lone voice from the crowd. "Yeah, guilty," added someone else. Softly a chant of "Guil-ty, guil-ty," began, that swiftly became a deafening crescendo. The bouncers dragged him off to his well-deserved fate. The audience cheered wildly. My audience.
Now at last the public might begin to see that the songs I co-wrote with that guy really owed their success to me. To my talent, experience and forethought. The same talent, experience and forethought which had had that pathetic little star-stalker murdered with Bob's guitar and dumped on the stage, then paid a true fan to shout guilty. Ah, the sheer dedication and strength of will required to succeed as an entertainer in this day and age. It's criminal.
*
But not as criminal as the way that the public drops you when your stupid record label hypes far less worthy acts. They didn't deserve me. That gig 12 months ago at the Scarab Beetle was to prove a pinnacle from which the band fell almost immediately. They must've been the most disloyal bunch of backing musicians and so-called fans in the business.
So the ball had been in the air for over a year when it landed with a crash in my backyard. The ball being the mysterious murder of star-stalker Bernie Silk, my backyard being the place where the brick wrapped in paper returned to earth. It didn't bounce. A pace to my right and it would have done me serious, perhaps even fatal, damage.
*
A snake-narrow alley lurks behind M.A.B. Autos, parallel to Parker Avenue. It smelt of gasoline. Shop units line one side, all closed and silent at this hour. The only noise came from a slow train on the track beyond them. The nearest street light makes scant impact here. Someone stepped out of the shadows. "Thank you for coming," he said, with a voice produced by either chain-smoking or possession of granite tonsils.
"Who are you?" I asked. He did the non-committal shrug thing and threw a package towards me. It may have hit the ground, but its contents hit their target. It contained some very clear photos that linked me to the murder of that creep.
Above the alley the heavens opened and I, Arlene Lynne, sometime star sometime just plain ignored, with a mouth drier than sawdust, stood soaked to the skin.
"You've read it?" he enquired.
"Bernie Silk. Probably a devoted family man, if he didn't waste his time being the mega star-bugging creepy nuisance. So an axe felled him? Let the police hunt for living vermin."
"He was my brother. My family won't rest until you've paid for your actions."
I shivered as the cold-dark of the alley reached into my heart.
"You know, many of my songs deal with love and understanding," I countered, "and your late brother was quite a fan."
We did the drawing of guns thing, with him using a door for shelter and me a pile of general junk. My backup, a former backing singer from a previous incarnation of the band, was due to arrive at any moment.
*
"What have we got, Detective Fairbrass?"
"Two dead sir. One male, one female. Multiple gunshot wounds to both. He's Brian Silk, a small-time local thug. Most of her wounds are to the head, but fortunately she was carrying personal ID. She's Arlene Lynne."
"You know, Detective, the mind is full of ghosts, which means the world is too. For some reason her name rings a bell. Didn't she appear in an advert for something once?" The only noise came from a slow train on the track beyond the shop units.
*
Very cunning, I thought to myself 24-hours later, the scheme worked superbly and my swift thinking took care of the aftermath. Except that today the newspaper headlines reminded me of one small detail - I'd succeeded in murdering myself.
At least it meant that I could be the best Arlene Lynne impersonator in the land.
*
It sounded wrong from the moment that my guitarist launched into the solo on the stage of the Southern Belle Club. Only one person in the world could craft it with such passion and skill. Suddenly he stopped playing and whipped off a long blond wig.
"Bob!" I gasped. He didn't speak, I simply felt the long thin blade sink painfully into my chest before I passed out.
*
Maybe I'm still in my hospital bed, recovering after major life-saving surgery. But the resulting publicity has given my near comatose record sales a vital new lease of life. They felt 10 years younger. I thanked Bob with all my new heart, wherever he may be. I had to confess that, as a team, we were unique.
The doctor allowed Detective Fairbrass to interview me briefly.
"Why do you think your former backing singer had your ID, but none of her own?"
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