Endgame (5 page)

E
dwards
led the newcomers up two flights of stairs and down a hallway. Each door and adjacent wall panel was a different colour, almost like being in a box of M&Ms. He led Max and Sami Lee to a green door sandwiched between two others, purple and red. Producing a set of keys on a gold ring, Edwards unlocked the room and let them in.

A window faced them directly across the room, offering a panoramic view of the ocean. White caps crested the waves. Sami Lee looked out briefly then turned to Max.

“I wonder what the other rooms are like,” she said with a pout.

“Pretty much the same, I'd bet,” Max replied.

“I wonder if they are,” she said, as though undecided whether to stay.

“This is the room Mr. Keill asked me to put you in,” Edwards said apologetically. “The others have all been assigned.”

Sami Lee's eyes flashed. “Is that so? You mean we don't have a choice?”

“This one's fine, hon,” Max told her. “If you don't like it, we can take it up with Harvey when he gets here.”

“Whatever.” Sami Lee shrugged. Her hand tugged through her hair, scattering the purple tendrils.

Edwards left Sami Lee and Max alone. Pete and Noni waited for him in the hallway. Checking his list, Edwards directed them to a yellow door and a pink one.

“Quite the colour scheme,” Noni joked. “Like modern art.”

“In fact, I'm told Mr. Keill had the design based on a famous contemporary painting,” Edwards said, “though I'm not sure which work he had in mind.”

Noni stood back to regard the hallway. “Probably a Mondrian,” he said. “At least, it looks like it could be.”

“Listen to Mr. Culture,” Max said, from inside the doorway to his room.

“I can afford to sound rich,” Noni joked.

The door to Noni's room opened onto a view even more impressive than Max and Sami Lee's. The suite was decorated in a sleek, contemporary style. A two-tone duvet lay across the bed. Pictures adorned the walls. There was nothing of the humble cottage retreat about the place. The influence of an accomplished designer was evident at every turn.

Noni put down his bags and looked around. The place was a top-dollar pad, all right, but he'd seen just as good before. It was a long way from the edge of the jungles in Guyana to the big cities of the world, but one by one they'd all opened their doors to him: Paris, London, Vienna … anywhere he hung his hat was home now. He'd played the colour card when it worked for him, but he quickly dropped the guise when it relegated him to anything with “minority” written on it. Civil rights cases might look impressive on a resume, but they sucked when it came to paying the bills. Noni Embrem didn't do minority. Not anymore.

He glanced out the window. He was a true citizen of the world now, and if he' d bent a few laws and played false with a few abstract concepts like justice to get where he was today … well, it had been more than worth it. If anyone asked, he'd gladly do it all over again, whatever the cost.

Pete's room lay at the far end of the hall overlooking the small cove where they'd landed. The boat sat beached, front end thrust up on shore. In the distance, the water had grown rougher, but inside the cove the waves broke softly against the rocks, as though exhausted by their journey to the island.

On the ride over, Pete had worried the Voice wouldn't like the accommodations he was given, though he knew he might have little say in the matter. But the Voice didn't speak when he entered the room, which was a relief. Pete didn't want to deal with the anxiety it would cause him if the Voice disapproved.

He turned to see Edwards watching him. Was he supposed to tip the man? Apprehension welled up inside him. He fished around in his pocket and drew out a few coins, but Edwards turned them down.

“No need,” he said.

Pete put the coins back in his pocket and placed his cellphone on the table beside the bed.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour. Feel free to join us for a drink before that,” Edwards said as he turned and left. He quietly conveyed the same message to Noni and Max and Sami Lee as he went back down the hall.

“Are you the bloody cook, too?” Max called out.

“Captain, cook, and chief bottle washer,” Edwards replied.

“Mind what you make then,” Max told him. “I'm allergic to all forms of shellfish.”

“Yes, sir. I've been fully apprised of that. Mr. Keill has asked me to ensure that there's no shellfish on the menu for the entire week. And as Mr. Anthrax's digestion is delicate, I've decided against making any spicy dishes.”

“What's that? Spike's gone all delicate on us?” Max laughed.

“So I've been told,” Edwards said. “I'll do my best to cater to everyone's appetites, at least as much as I can with the ingredients on hand, of course.”

Edwards then headed back downstairs to the kitchen to prepare the evening's meal. He didn't like to admit it, but he was rattled to learn the identities of his guests on the island retreat. No one had told him about a band reunion when he applied for the job. Mr. Keill's highly detailed emails said he would be looking after his guests, but no mention had been made of the Ladykillers.

They were a vile bunch. Not just the band members, but the others, too. The women were even worse. That freakish Asian with too much makeup and the one who looked like a cartoon blonde with her breasts hanging out all over the place. The other one in the V-neck sweater — Sarah or Janice or whatever she called herself — had come onto him before they'd even set foot in the boat. She'd stared at him like a starving animal sighting a meal. He had no use for women like that. Desperate. Edwards preferred a little fight in his women. He didn't want anything so easy. At least Sandra was a modest sort, though anyone could see that all the fight had been beaten out of her.

As for the lawyer, Edwards had no time for the breed. They were all liars and frauds with a licence to kill. They could ruin your life, if you let them. And then there was that blind guy who stared at you till it gave you the creeps. Edwards wasn't so sure he was really blind. There was something about the man's eyes, how they seemed to follow you around the room. The only one he didn't mind was the real-estate guy, David. He seemed all right. How had he got mixed up with this bunch? Probably queer, but they usually weren't a problem. A little flirting never hurt, as long as he didn't have to put out. If Edwards got the chance, he might hint that he'd be looking for a job once this island gig was up. Real-estate agents were always well connected.

One of the reasons he'd moved to the coast was to get away from so-called “civilization.” After years of driving taxi in a big city, he wanted as little to do with crowds as possible. These days, he preferred a retreat in the wilds. The coast had been perfect for that. In fact, he knew that one of the reasons he got this job was because he'd written on his application that he enjoyed isolation. The less he had to do with people, the better. If the truth be told, he was a misanthrope at heart. He had no use for human scum like the Ladykillers or their entourage.

Edwards turned back to the counter and picked up a long-handled carving knife. He pressed the blade against the heel of an onion and pushed down, neatly stripping off the peel. He made quick work of it and tossed the shreds aside. Cooking came easily to him. He'd worked as a chef in various hotels in the evenings after taxi work. It hadn't been a problem for him, having no social life whatsoever.

As he sliced, an image of the dead girl's face came back to him. So pretty. Why should someone like that have to die when scum like the Ladykillers lived? They were users. They destroyed people. Edwards felt his face heating up as he fumed and chopped. In less than a minute, the neat white slices were sizzling in a pan of hot oil.

T
he smell of cooking drifted into the parlour where Max and Sami Lee had just come downstairs to find all the other guests assembled.

Spike looked up. “Good room?”

“Nice.” Max looked around, taking in the neatly furnished quarters. “What's next in this gig?”

“First things first — help yourself to a drink. Or if you prefer something harder” — Spike motioned to a sideboard where two small copper bowls sat propped before a mirror — “that's available, too.”

Max looked over at the bowls — one was filled with white powder, the other with an irregular line of spiked joints. “Is that real?”

Sami Lee scooted over and dipped her finger in the powder. She took a sniff and smiled. “Oh, yeah, Maxie. It's real!”

Max nodded grimly. “Harvey must be doing pretty well for himself.”

“So it would seem,” Spike said. “C'mon — I'll show you around.”

He stood and headed for a set of French doors. Max followed. In the drawing room, a guitar, bass, and drum kit waited on a small stage alongside a rank of microphones. On the far side, facing the stage, someone had mounted two high-def video cameras.

Max looked it over critically. He turned to Spike.

“It's all set up, isn't it?”

Spike nodded. “Everything's ready. It's just waiting for us.”

Max turned back to the instruments. “Fine, but I'm not playing one fucking note till Harvey gets here. There's no reunion till we talk about what kind of deal we get. And if I don't like it, I'm outta here.”

Spike smiled and shrugged. He knew better than to argue. It hadn't worked fifteen years ago. All it had done was break up the band. It was Max's way or the highway. It had always been like that. Some things never changed.

“That's okay, Maxie. We're all in this together,” Spike said carefully, making sure to keep any trace of annoyance out of his voice.

Pete stepped into the room. He registered the looks passing between his former and maybe soon-to-be-again band mates. The pair ignored him. He turned his attention to the stage. To his surprise, he saw that someone had gone to the trouble of finding him a burgundy Cobra bass. His had been packed away for years and when he practised now, which was seldom, he used a Toby Deluxe. Beside the Cobra sat a red Telecaster guitar exactly like Max's. And the drum set was a Ludwig, as Kent Stabber's had once been. Someone was clearly anxious to recreate the old days down to a
T
. It left him with a strange feeling, knowing the length they'd gone to complete the setup. The Voice still had nothing to say about it all.

“That's right,” Max said gruffly. “I wanna hear it from the fucker's mouth exactly what I'm getting for this. Till then, as far as I'm concerned, this is a fucking martini party. I'll have that drink now.”

He turned and headed back to the parlour. Just as he passed Pete, his eye caught the chessboard set up with what appeared to be a game in progress. Max stopped and looked at the scattering of pieces around the board.

“Chess, huh? That's Harvey all over, isn't it?” He gave a harsh laugh. “I guess we just have to sit and wait for him to make his next move.”

Count them!
the Voice boomed to Pete.

A
n
hour later, the nine guests were seated around the dining room table. Place cards had been set out, indicating where each was to sit. Max and Sami Lee purposely switched places, sitting in Crispin's and Noni's chairs while leaving the wrong cards in front of them.

Noni smiled and made a joke of it when he arrived, taking Sami Lee's place instead. Crispin was directed to Max's seat.

“I've always wondered how it would feel to be the great Max Hardcore,” he said, with what might have passed for irony. “Though I'm not convinced I'm any closer to knowing.”

“When you find out,” Max said. “Let me know.”

Verna entered in a low-cut velvet gown, her wrists lined with an assortment of bangles. Janice followed in a blue summer dress, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. They sat across from David and Pete, still dressed in their casual wear. Noting the place card disarrangement, the two women gleefully swapped cards with David and Pete, but keeping the seats originally assigned them.

Both Crispin and Noni had worn dinner jackets. Spike came in last wearing black jeans and T-shirt. He sat at the head of the table looking funereal and authoritarian all at once.

Edwards came out of the kitchen. He noted the seating changes, but said nothing about it.

“Hey, Edwards,” Max called out. “What's with the fucking Martha Stewart name cards? Is Harvey afraid we won't know who we are without them?”

Edwards smiled and nodded. “Just one of Mr. Keill's finishing touches. If anybody has any special drink requests, I'll be happy to see what I can do.”

Noni looked up. “How special?”

“Sir?” Edwards said.

“I have a request, but I doubt you'd stock it,” Noni said.

Edwards cocked his head. “Try me.”

“Well, I'm sure you have gin,” Noni said. “And a lemon, of course.”

Edwards nodded, listening intently.

“But you probably don't carry something called Kina Lillet.”

Edwards gave him a curious smile. “In fact, sir, we do have Kina Lillet. Mr. Keill instructed me where to find it in his cellar. There are several bottles.”

“That's astonishing,” Noni said. “In that case, the recipe is simple: an ounce of gin, stirred with half an ounce each of lemon juice and Kina Lillet.”

Edwards gave a curt nod. “I believe that is what is known as a Silver Bullet.”

“It is indeed!” Noni looked around at the others. “It really is astonishing, you know. They stopped producing the drink in the 1930s. Something to do with the quinine making it too bitter. I got a few bottles that I bid on at an auction several years ago — very expensive, I can tell you — but I've never known anyone else who had it.”

“Harvey always liked the best of the best,” Spike said with a knowing look. “Even back when he was pretending to be a prolie like the rest of us.”

“Anyone else for a glass?” Edwards asked.

“I'll stick to beer,” Max grumbled. “No prissy drinks for me.” He looked over at Noni. “No offence there, dude.”

Noni nodded at Max. “None taken.”

“And for everyone else?” Edwards asked.

“I'll have a glass of red wine,” Verna said.

“Oh. That sounds good!” Janice seconded.

“White for me,” said David. “Alsatian, if you have any.”

“Of course, sir,” Edwards assured him. “We have everything you require.”

“I'll have the same,” Crispin spoke up.

“Soda water for me,” Spike said. He saw Max grinning at him and shrugged. “Lousy digestion.”

“Beer for me,” Pete said.

“I'll have a dirty martini,” Sami Lee said, scowling. “On the rocks. Hold the junk.”

“One martini, hold the olives,” Edwards said. He turned back to the kitchen and soon returned with a tray of assorted drinks. He handed Noni a martini glass. Noni sipped it then sat back and sighed contentedly.

“Perfect,” he said. “Absolutely perfect!”

“Now that drink requests have been taken care of,” Crispin began, “I, too, have a small request.”

The others turned to face him where he sat with both hands on a small portable recording device.

“As we are all aware, this is an historic occasion. I would like to beg your indulgence in allowing me to tape the sessions while we are on the island. It would greatly help in my task of documenting everything if I might be allowed to make a recording of all our conversations — well, perhaps not all, but nearly all that goes on here this weekend.”

Faces turned to regard one another around the table. Spike spoke up first.

“I don't think anyone has any objections, Crispin,” he said.

“It's all right with me,” Max seconded.

“Most kind of you,” Crispin said. “I thank you all, as will posterity one day.” And with that, he proceeded to turn on the recorder sitting before him.

As though self-conscious at being recorded, everyone began to speak animatedly. Verna asked if anyone else had heard the rumours about Bono owning the island.

“I heard it was Madonna,” Janice piped up.

Max laughed his harsh laugh. “And all the fucking villagers think it's some crazy place for government experiments.” He made a face. “Whoo!”

“Well, whoever owns it, I hope they show up soon,” Spike cried. “They're gonna miss a damned good party!”

Pete sat and listened to them in silence. The Voice said nothing.

Enticing smells wafted in from the kitchen. Sandra emerged wearing an apron and pushing a cart laden with food. She set the dishes on the table one at a time, removing the covers to reveal an assortment of beef, chicken, veal, and vegetables. Edwards was indeed a capable chef and had turned out a veritable feast in short order.

The guests were busy passing plates and helping themselves when Noni stood and raised his glass.

“Now that we're all together, I'd like to make a toast to the reason we're here today,” he said, looking at Spike, Max, and Pete in turn.

Glasses were raised as murmurs of assent went around the room.

“While we've got a bit of work ahead of us,” Noni continued, “I intend to do my very best to get you guys whatever you want by way of an agreement from the recording companies before we leave this island. Here's to a very successful reunion of the Ladykillers!”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Spike, as they all drank.

“All I can say,” Max said, “is I'm glad it's you. You worked your magic for us last time and I have no doubt you'll do it again this time.”

Max turned to the others.

“This bastard got us out of one of the trickiest situations I've ever been in,” he continued. “I was sure we were headed for jail, but Noni convinced someone else to take the dive when we thought we were done for. Did you have to bribe the guy much?”

Noni looked uncomfortable for a moment then laughed. “I can't reveal any trade secrets,” he said. “And I can only say this in confidence, meaning none of you can pass it along to anyone else.” Here he gave a stern look over at Crispin LaFey and his recording device, though the glance went unnoticed by the critic. “And that goes for posterity, Crispin,” Noni said.

“What does?” Crispin said with a start.

“What I'm about to say,” Noni replied. “Which is that I merely brokered a deal with another party to plead no contest to the charges. I believe a sum of money may have been mentioned at the time. In fact, I was just following orders from Harvey Keill when I passed an envelope on to a certain party right before the trial. A happy ending was ordered and a happy ending was produced. That's all I can say about the incident.”

David's eyes were fixed on Noni. He watched the lawyer with a malevolent expression. At that moment, Edwards entered with a fresh bottle of wine.

“Cheers to the chef! The food is excellent,” Verna called out.

“Thank you,” Edwards said, giving an ironic bow to the room.

“Speaking of happy endings, where is the man of the hour?” Max asked. “When is Harvey coming?”

“I'm waiting for Mr. Keill to let me know when to take the boat across to pick him up.” Edwards glanced out the window where the wind blew heavily through the trees. “In fact, I'd expected to hear from him by now. I hope he calls soon. It'll be tricky getting across once the storm hits.”

“When you hear from him, tell the fucker we're all waiting for him,” Max growled.

“Will do.” Edwards smiled politely and ducked back inside the kitchen.

At that moment, a wasp buzzed around the room before landing on the table close to Verna. She shrank in horror.

“Please kill it!” she said, shivering. “I'm deathly allergic to those things.”

David reached over and crushed the insect with the bottom of a glass. Eyes were averted from the sticky yellow and black mess left on the table as he wiped it off with a napkin.

Verna looked at him gratefully. “My hero!”

“Any time at all, ma'am,” he replied in a southern drawl.

Verna looked around the room and sighed. “I certainly hope there are no more of these things inside. I brought my EpiPen, but I'd hate to have to use it. I've cheated death so many times already, I can't tell you.”

The eating resumed. Max took stock of everyone gathered around the table. “For those of you who don't know, there's more than one celebration taking place this week. Sami Lee and me met twenty years ago this coming Sunday. We decided that coming here was a great way to celebrate our — er — ongoing sinful union.”

A chorus of congratulations went around the table. Sami Lee looked gloomily at the others and stubbed out a cigarette, but said nothing.

“In fact,” Max continued, “Sami and me met through Sarah.”

He raised his bottle to the woman in blue at the far end of the table.

“It's Janice now, Max,” she corrected in a bright voice. “It was at that party, wasn't it?”

Max scowled at her. “What party would that be, Janice?”

“The party we all wished we hadn't been at,” Janice replied. “
That
party.”

“Yes, it was, now that you mention it,” Max said in a menacing tone.

Glances caught and held briefly around the table.
That
party. This was in-crowd material, though most of the group knew what she was referring to. The table lapsed into silence again.

After a moment, Spike turned to the critic. “Crispin, my friend — what magazine are you representing here?”

Crispin turned upon hearing his name. “Actually, I'm here as a freelance writer,” he said. “Once I've finished the piece, I'll sell it to the highest bidder. Perhaps
Spin
or
Rolling Stone
, though that remains to be seen, of course.”

Max looked up. “You weren't assigned to cover us by a particular publication?”

Crispin shook his head, his mouth set. “No, I'm afraid not. Most magazines don't have full-time staff writers any more. In any case, I want to keep strict control of the material. In fact, I'm really here because I've been writing a comprehensive history of punk rock. I've already got a publisher lined up. You see, I feel this reunion could turn out to be an important chapter in that history. This could be the beginning of a more generalized revival of punk music around the globe.”

Max brightened. “Really? Well, we are honoured again. Glad to hear it.”

“Truly, I am the one who is honoured,” Crispin replied.

“And in that case,” Max said, “I'd be happy to tell you a few of my war stories from back then. We met Rotten and few of the others, so there's a lot of dirt to be dished. Maybe later tonight we'll crack open a few cold ones and chat.”

“I'd be delighted,” said Crispin. “I love authenticity. Isn't that why we're all here?”

“Absolutely.” Max looked over at Verna. “What about you, hon? Apart from our real-estate man, Davie” — he nodded in David's direction — “and the hired help, Sandy and Eddie, we know just about everybody else here. How did you come to be a part of this little event?”

Verna smiled broadly, her eyes sparkling. “I won the
Noise
contest that was held last month. Someone phoned me up a few days ago and said my name had been selected from thousands of entrants. I've been a Ladykillers fan forever, so it was an absolute thrill to be chosen.”

“Lucky you,” Max said.

Verna beamed. “Absolutely!”

“Why, I won the same contest!” Janice blurted out. “That's how I got to be here. Someone phoned me last week.”

“Two big winners,” Spike chimed in. “Quite a coincidence.”

“The only things is …” Janice paused.

“What's that?” Spike asked.

She gave a little giggle. “Well, I don't remember entering any contest. Of course, I wasn't about to turn it down when they called.”