Little Steven and his band came on. The roadies had been fast and accurate. The musicians plugged into the house system and were off. Little Steven had a new scarf for each song in the set. The crowd loved it.
It was C.C. Ryder's time. She held the neck of her shining black twelve-string with both hands.
"Don't strangle it," said Holley. He wrapped his hands loosely around hers.
"Break a leg." Jack gave her a hug. Bagabond didn't seem to mind.
The latter hugged C.C. in turn for a few seconds and said, "You'll be great."
"If I'm not," said C.C., "I hope this time I'm an express."
Jack knew she was referring to her years-ago wild card transformation when trauma had catalyzed her into becoming a more than reasonable facsimile of a local subway car.
C.C. hit the stage running and never stopped. It was as though she was casting a net of power over the audience. There was a moment at first when she faltered. But then she seemed to gather strength. It was as though energy were flowing out into the people in their seats, then being amplified and broadcast back to the singer. The magic, Jack thought, of genuine empathy.
She started with one of her old standards, then quickly segued into her new ballads. Her twenty minutes flashed past for Jack. C.C. ended with the song she had publicly debuted at the first rehearsal.
Baby, you never have to fold
'Cause what you've got
Is a winning hand…
… Is a winning hand, came the refrain. Never forget. C.C. bowed her head. The applause had megatonnage. When she came offstage, she waited until she was past the curtains before collapsing. Jack and Bagabond both caught her. "What's the matter?" said Bagabond. "Oh,
C.C."
"Nothing," said C.C. She grinned up at them, her face lined with exhaustion. "Absolutely nothing."
"Okay," Cordelia muttered as the Jokertown Clinic spot unspooled above her. "Buddy Holley's next." In spite of what Uncle Jack said, she wondered if she should cross her fingers. Maybe toes too.
"Hold on a sec," said the floor director. She leaned toward Cordelia. "Change in plans."
Shit, thought Cordelia. "What?"
"Seems. to be a minor rebellion among the musicians. It's still getting sorted out."
"Better be quick." Cordelia glanced at the LED counting down on the director's console. "Like in about twenty-two seconds."
"But I'm supposed to go on now," said Buddy Holley stubbornly.
"The deal is," said Jack, "both the Boss and Girls With Guns have decided they want to go now and let you be the final act."
Bagabond glanced beyond them. "The Boss and that girl Tami are arm wrestling. Looks like she's winning."
"But it's my gig," said Holley.
"Shut the fuck up," said the Girls With Guns' leader, Tami, as she strutted up, rubbing her right shoulder. She uttered the words with considerable affection. "Him and I"-she gestured at the Boss, who was ruefully grinning-"we both figure we learned most all we know from you. So you're gonna be the climax. That's it, Bud." She leaned up on tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. Holley looked startled.
The stage director was signaling frantically.
The glass eyes of the SteadiCams implacably zoomed in. Girls With Guns upped the energy ante by tearing out the heart of Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart's bubblegum standard "I Wonder What She's Doing Tonight," stomping it into jam, smearing the residue on their sneering lips, and just generally raising hell. They ended up with "Proud Flesh," a razor-edged anthem of romance and nihilism.
"So," said Tami to the Boss as she led her sisters swaggering offstage, "top that."
The Boss did his best.
Oh, god, thought Cordelia as the echoes finally died. She watched the Boss raise his guitar in one hand and elevate a fist with the other. Let Buddy work out. Please. The Boss gave the audience another bow, then led his band backstage.
Cordelia blinked. She thought she'd seen St. John Latham at a table in the back of the club. Latham, Strauss's cash is as good as anyone else's, she thought. The problem was, Latham seemed to be staring directly at her.
She sighed as the penultimate PSA faded to black and the director cued in the Louma. The monitor showed a wide tracking shot sweeping back and up from the stage.
"And… go!" said the director into her mike. Please, Cordelia again mentally implored.
"Hello, Lubbock!" Buddy Holley said to the immediate audience and their five hundred million electronic shadows. The crowd smiled.
Jack smiled too from his vantage at the edge of the stage. He crouched down to avoid getting in the way of the camera dollying past on its track. The pain was gnawing regularly at his gut, and he didn't know how long he'd be able to hold this position. He realized that what he wanted now more than anything else was simply to lie down. He wanted to rest. Soon enough, he thought morbidly. I'll rest all I want. For good.
Holley hit his first note, then brushed his fingers across the chord. The magic Buddy Holley touch. Now it might be a standard technique, but three decades before, it had signaled a revolution.
Rou-ou-ou-ou-ough beast
The characteristic hiccup was still there, though no one in the paying audience had ever heard this Buddy Holley tune before.
When the moon slides low
And lo-ove rubs thin
I'll be knockin'
Askin' to be let in
To Jack it seemed a little like vintage Dylan. Maybe a dash of Lou Reed. But most of it was just pure Holley.
Rou-ou-ou-ou-ough beast-almost a wail.
Jack realized he could easily cry.
When my friends
Like my center
Cannot hold
And every feeling I got
Has just been sold
He was crying.
I'm the rough beast's prey
In the rough beast's way
Buddy Holley's Telecaster sobbed. Not in self-pity, but in honest grief.
Without friends without love Forever
Jack loved the music, but the pain was horrendous. When he could no longer withstand it, he got up and quietly left. He missed the encore.
Cordelia was already looking ahead to the final extravagant encore when every performer would come onto the stage and all would stand there with hands and arms linked. She blinked and registered a double take as she realized Buddy Holley looked about ready to fall flat on his face as he stood there taking the applause from his final song. She was close enough that she could see the flush in his face. Holley staggered. Oh, Jesus, she thought, he's sick. He's going to collapse.
But he didn't. It was as though the flush in his skin metamorphosed into a ripple of heat that ran along his body from feet to head.
What the hell? thought Cordelia.
Then it was Buddy Holley's flesh itself that rippled. A transforming nimbus of energy seemed to glow around his body. He held the Fender Telecaster out in front of him and something astonishing happened. The steel strings became ductile, melting like taffy; flashing away from the frets, stretching out and out like lines of silver sparks. They whipped around camera mounts and lights, anchoring themselves like jungle snakes.
Illusion? Cordelia thought. Maybe it was telekinesis. The guitar strings formed a kind of enormous cat's cradle. Buddy Holley looked around at this, then at his hands. He slowly raised his head and gazed upward. Holley seemed to be seeing something nobody else could comprehend. He smiled and the smile transformed into a joyous grin.
And then he danced. Slow and deliberate at first, the pace grew more rapid as Holley began to whirl around the stage. The audience stared, gaping.
She had seen this dance before-or something like it. Cordelia recalled the memory. Wyungare. She had seen the young aboriginal man dance in this manner deep within the Dreamtime, far into the desert heartland of Australia. This was a shaman's dance.
Holley's grin widened. He leaped and gyrated. Screamin' Jay Hawkins and James Brown could have done no better. Then Holley leaped into the shimmering, almost invisible webwork of silver sparks.