Nightchild

Chapter 7

Dallas Auditorium

December 31, 1989

The dressing room door was thrown open with a reverberating crash as Eddie Vega burst in, jarring Nate back to the present. Only then was he conscious of the rain splattering through the open window onto the sill. Drops ran along and between his fingers as he swung around to face the intruder. Seeing who it was Nate calmly turned back, taking one last deep breath of heavy damp air before closing the window, bracing himself for the confrontation as Eddie started in.

"What the hell? Look at you! You're wet! You're gonna get sick and not be able to go on tonight. That's just perfect! It really is! You'd like that wouldn't ya? Everyone's been looking for you. Chance was freaked when he found you gone this morning. Shit, Nate...I know we've had our differences, but come on, buddy, you're not gonna fuck this concert up, are you? Damn it, say something! You'll shit on a lot more people than just me, not to mention your career!"

Silently, Nate watched his manager, his insides churning with involuntary waves of repulsion. He wondered how he could have been so blind. How could he have trusted and cared about this pitiful excuse of a man which stood before him now, his small wiry limbs fidgeting, sweat beading on his forehead and chest where several layers of chain spun golden webs across overly tan skin, filling the triangular gap left by a silk shirt unbuttoned down to his soft stomach.

Eddie's thin tense mouth twitched nervously as he calculated what to say next. The dark eyes were dilated, creating almost totally black orbs in the pinched face. Nate couldn't see the man's soul through his eyes and realized sadly that he had none, only a jet abyss where the spirit should have resided and shone through. A faint smudge of white powder dusted part of the left nostril of his beak-like nose and Nate was suddenly reminded of a bird, a scavenger...that was it...a big black crow, ready to pick his bones clean at the first sign of weakness and he smiled at the veracity of his analogy.

Foolishly, the manager mistook Nate's amused expression and silence as a show of contrition. "Hey, buddy, I knew you couldn't stay pissed at ol' Eddie. I knew nothing', specially no bitch could come..." His oration was stopped short by the scowl that darkened his boss's face and drew together the heavy brows.

Not now, Nate thought. I can't deal with it, not yet. Unhurriedly, he stepped over his jacket on the floor where it had fallen, retrieved his cigarettes and lighter from the table next to Eddie and calmly walking from the room, broke his own silence. "I will show. But after tonight, it's over. All of it!"

He could hear Eddie screaming after him as he made his way down the hall. "This thing's gonna be recorded live, buddy! You can't afford any goddamn screw-ups! You understand me? It's your career!"

Nate wandered about in the shadows back-stage, looking for a place he could sit and not be noticed. He was surprised at how comfortable he felt there in the uninhabited gloom as he stalked about, following steps downward to a small area below the stage that led in one direction to a group of what had been at one time several small dressing rooms. In the other direction was an unobtrusive alcove used for storage and it was there he went. Pulling a crate over, he sat and swung his feet up to rest on a low box. Leaning his head back against a dank and dusty wall, he closed his eyes and put fingers to his temples and pressed, as if he could force the pain to go away, crush the memories so they would no longer hurt. With a long sigh, he dropped his hands to his lap. There would be no escape. He hadn't begun to lay his ghosts to rest.

Eddie's words "it's your career" echoed in his mind. His career, it was almost an apparition in itself. Nate had, a long time ago, considered any chance of a music career dead and buried. One moment it was nonexistent, the next it was alive and thriving. His career, he had never really been at ease with it. It had happened much too fast.