Private Screening (12 page)

“Sta-cee.…”

They followed the beam of light. At its edge, she noticed a form slumped beneath the telephone. Was somebody else sick, she wondered, but had no time to ask. As they reached the dressing rooms a door closed behind them, muffling the sound.

In the tuning room, Greg Loughery, her bass guitarist, was squinting at his instrument. The keyboard player, Leon Brennis, grinned at them. “I was getting ready to stand in for the senator,” he told her. “John's in your dressing room.”

Jamie shook his hand; Stacy thought he had the bemused air of a grown-up playing with kids. She hurried to the next room.

“Sta-
cee
.…”

She closed the door behind her.

Damone turned from the mirror. “Trying to remember how I looked without a beard,” he said dryly. “How're you feeling?”

“I can feel them in my stomach.”

“At least they're out there.” His smile was teasing. “Remember that club you played in Oakland?”

“Sure.”

“You've put more than years between then and now.” He pointed to the adjoining bathroom; a blue silk blouse hung from the door. “I figured no tank top tonight. So I ran the shower till the wrinkles steamed out.”

For all of his sardonic toughness, Stacy thought, the almost feminine sensitivity was more remarkable. “What would I do without you, John?”

“Your own blouses.” Walking over, he touched two fingers to her face. “Do good, Stacy.”

As the door closed, she saw that he had opened her suitcase and makeup kit and placed them on her dressing table.

She'd be all right—she wouldn't think about it.

Hastily, she undressed; standing naked in front of the mirror, she wondered if she looked too thin. She felt the crowd on her skin now, their vibration through the floor and walls, like the tremor of a distant earthquake.

“Sta-cee.…”

She could hear it again, faint but clear. She forced herself to sit. Carefully, ritualistically, she touched her lips with Vaseline so that they glistened and then traced the outline of both eyes with kohl, until the young boy she imagined sitting in the most distant row could see them.

“Sta-cee.…”

Standing, she slid her jeans on. They were tight; the blouse was satin cool on her skin. She had the taut, explosive feeling of facing a new lover.

Opening the door, she beckoned to Jamie.

He looked tired. “What's up?”

“Forgot to tell you which song's your cue. Do you know ‘Love Me Now'?”

“Uh-huh.” For the first time in hours, he grinned at her. “It's time for a confession—I've got the tape. See, I really
did
like your concert.”

She kissed him.

“‘Miles to go,'” he murmured, “‘before we sleep.'”

Turning to the band, Stacy said, “Let's do it.” They ambled toward the stage.

Stacy turned in the door of the tuning room, quickly smiling at him. Then she was moving back down the corridor, between the guards who lined each wall.

“Sta-cee.…”

The stage was dark. Seeing her, Jesus pulled some light switches on the wall.

On the other side of the curtain there was a hush, as if the crowd had swallowed its own sound.

Curtis appeared with the flashlight. Single file, the band moved ahead of her to the platforms for their keyboard, drums, the two guitars. They stood behind their instruments like figures in a wax museum.

“Okay,” Curtis whispered.

Stacy noticed the same slumped figure standing, as if she had awakened him. Then Curtis was leading her forward, flashlight moving across the wires and wooden floor to the curtain, until she stood behind it. Handing her the microphone, he whispered again, “Good luck.”

She heard his footsteps retreating across the stage. Then the only sound came from the other side of the curtain, low and expectant and immense.

Together, Stacy thought, they might make a president.

She closed her eyes, breathing in. For a moment, familiar yet more frightening, she wished she did not do this. Then she burst onto the stage.

Spotlights cut into her eyes. She froze, stunned and almost blinded, engulfed in their animal roar. Arms raised like pistons from the crowd; mouths screamed for her; streams of colored light darted through the smoke and haze and black, intersecting in split-second rainbows, then flashing to the far corners of the arena where more people stood, caught in their beam. It was dark and vast. The crowd on the floor, oozing and colloidal, stretched until she could not see it; a two-tiered oval of seats surrounded her, more people standing, shouting, screaming so the rafters echoed. Projecting downward, suspended above the crowd on a four-sided screen, was the giant image of her face. Her lips glistened; her eyes were large and round. Stacy saw that she was smiling.

“Sta-
cee
.…”

The curtain split behind her.

The stage was a sudden blaze of light. The band tore into the metallic opening snarl of “Equal Nights”; the crowd screamed its recognition; Stacy sucked air deep into her lungs.

She began singing:

“I'll take freedom

You take my nights

Long as you can face me

When I turn out the lights.…”

The answering cry, frenzied and primal, drew her to the front, whipping the cord of the microphone as hands reached out for her. She felt the power of the music in her lungs, felt it course through the sound system and echo back to her until she was part of it, changing her nervousness to a surge of crazy energy she loved them for. As if drawn by some magnet, she began to stalk back and forth across the stage. It vibrated with the crowd and amplifiers, like a current running through her. At the corner of her vision, she saw the TV cameras, Jamie's cameras, following her as she moved. High above the outstretched hands, her four-sided image moved with her. Her song cut the dark like a laser.

She stopped moving.

Utterly still, voice now pure and high and solitary, she slid into the plaintive beginning of “Reruns at Midnight.”

“Slivers of fantasy

On childhood's screen

Scared for believing

What I've already seen.…”

The crowd was hushed.

She felt close to them now; their faces, upturned and silent, watched hers. Her eyes shut.

In the song, a city-worn woman watches television with a man who once had left her. It is night; the screen is silver; the man asks to be her lover again. She does not trust him, or wish to be alone. At last, as a romantic TV series from her childhood flickers on the television, she gives in to promises she's heard before. Stacy could see and feel it.

She finished.

In their silence, caught like a breath, she eased into the opening of “Love Me Right.” Her eyes were still closed.

The only instrument was the keyboard, a soft, hesitant few notes. Slowly, in the crystalline voice of a girl, Stacy began:

“Darling, love me, if you can

I can't wait, can you understand

Ash is the fire of yesterdays

You've got to play me as it lays.…”

The band broke loose.

There was a trip-hammer drumbeat; then Stacy's voice took off with the pounding rhythm of both guitars:

“Learn that the fire

Lives through lovers

Before the fire

Turns to dust.

Don't make the fire

Give me others.

We'll make the fire

Burn for
us
.…”

They screamed for her.

Now they were undulating, needful, pushing toward the stage. Stacy paced, wheeling, shouting into their faces, then imploring them closer, barely conscious of being just beyond their reach. The crowd was clapping, dancing, transported. From the rear, it thrust a dark young man on its shoulders, ever closer to the stage, as if as a sacrifice to Stacy. The fetor of sweat and dope and bodies mingled; the arena smelled like sex.

“Learn that the fire

Lives through lovers.…

We'll make the fire

Burn for
us
.…”

Her blouse was soaked through. The dark-haired boy was thrown shoulder to shoulder, reaching toward her, crying out until she heard him, “
Fuck me, Stacy
.…”

Stacy grinned at him.

He threw up his arms, laughing and ecstatic, and fell into the crowd. Waving, jumping, screaming, they seemed to pass beyond control. For a moment Stacy wanted to be part of them.

Then, as suddenly as the muted opening had become a shouted cry for love, her voice fell. Only the keyboard stayed with her. In a smoky, soft near-whisper, she finished:

“You know the fire

Lives through lovers.

This night the fire

Burns in
us
.”

There was silence, a hush. They were hers.

“Sta-cee.…” A lone voice, calling from the rafters. Stacy shaded her eyes. “Hi,” she said.

Laughter, then cheers.

“Sta-
cee
.…” More voices shouting now, until they came together.

“Sta-
cee-e-e
.…”

She stood, still and alone, the focus of their energies. Her heart pounded. Behind her, Damone darkened the stage.

In the circle of light, she held up one hand.

“Kilcannon,” she said softly.

There were scattered murmurs of his name.

“Kilcannon,” she repeated.

They picked up the cry. “Kilcannon.…”

Her voice grew louder, more insistent. “Kilcannon.”

“Kill-cannon.…”

Stacy looked up at the screen. On the stage behind her, walking from a cluster of bodyguards, was Jamie.

“Kill-
cannon
.…”

Jamie moved forward. Their cry rose to greet him.

“
Kill-cannon
.…”

As Jamie reached her side, she raised her hand again. In a soft, clear voice, she said, “United States Senator James Kilcannon.”

Their fingers touched.

From the curtain's shadow, Carson watched them.

With a dazzling smile, Stacy turned to Kilcannon. They stood in an intersection of two spotlights, as if suspended above the dark. The crowd blessed them with its cheers.

Carson's hand tremored.

The bodyguards could not see him; he could not see Damone.

“Kill-can-non.…”

As Kilcannon stepped forward, Carson closed his eyes. In her bed, in a house that he would never see, Cathy was sleeping. The stage shook beneath his feet.

“Kill-can-non.…”

On the other side, Carson heard the whine of a cameraman filming.

“Kill-can-non.…”

There was blood on his hands; the camera kept whining. Over and over, they repeated it, banks of sound rolling over him, echoing, merging into each other: “Kill-cannon.… Kill-cannon.… Kill-cannon.…”

Carson's eyes opened.

Kilcannon raised his head, smiling as they called for him. His hair seemed golden.

Stacy stepped aside, giving him the crowd. Beneath their roar, Carson heard more cameras.

“
Kill-cannon
.…”

He took one step forward, the Mauser slack at his side.

The cheers became a shriek.

He did not hear them; his eyes fixed on the target, twenty feet away. Like an automaton, he moved forward to complete his mission.

One clear shot.

Fifteen feet now. The escape route opened in his mind: thirty seconds down the catwalk to the motorcycle, into the night. He raised the Mauser, bracing his wrist with the other arm.

His target turned, mouth falling open.

Carson froze.

In the periphery of his vision, Secret Service leapt onto the stage. Five more seconds. He stared into Kilcannon's face.

Three seconds.

A flashbulb exploded. Kilcannon's face became a faceless head, crowned by a blond nimbus.

Time circles back to you

A bullet through the head.…

Carson took one last step forward, and fired.

The gun recoiled in his hand. The head snapped back; the screams that followed were white noise to him.

He turned to the catwalk, guards running behind him. His route was still open.

He started toward it.

Sliding onto the stage, a cameraman aimed at Carson.

As if from muscle memory, Carson knelt and pumped three bullets into the camera.

The cameraman fell sideways, unhurt. Carson could not recognize him.

He could not remember his escape route.

Turning, he stared back at the stage.

The guards were about to reach him; Stacy Tarrant knelt over his target.

Kilcannon, he thought dazedly, and heard the shrieks.

As Carson dropped the Mauser, they hit him from both sides.

It had happened so fast.

The touch of Jamie's fingers was cool, electric. He stepped forward; she gave him her microphone; cheers washed over him.

She looked up at the screen.

Head cocked back, Jamie smiled as if at her. As the picture widened to show her answering smile, she saw the man behind them.

He raised his gun.

The crowd shrieked. It was as if she were watching a movie; she could not turn, and make him real.

Jamie spun.

As she cried out to him, the hair on his crown seemed to rise.

He crumbled, falling on his side, then his back.

Stacy dived to shield his body.

Skidding on the stage, she sprawled across him. Cries split the air; she closed her eyes, waiting to be shot. Beneath her, his chest rose and fell. As she touched his head, she felt warm dampness on her fingers, his breath against her cheek. There was no second shot.

She looked at him.

His face was unmarked. His eyes fluttered, then opened.

With her fingertips, she brushed the forelock of hair away from his eyes.

His lips parted. Weakly, he murmured, “Is everyone all right?”

Oh, God, Jamie, she thought. But she nodded for him. “I think so.”

His eyes moved toward the top of his head; Stacy could not be sure whether he had seen or heard her.