Read Online The Devil of Echo Lake by Douglas Wynne - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Wynne
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stained glass mosaic through the tears.
And then there was New York, all lit up and glittering like ice chips in the black fur of some beast under the moon. Billy wondered if the rum was spiked with something. It didn’t matter anymore. He felt good. The road was broken at intervals by sections of steel plates that made the car bounce on its shocks. Soon, taxicabs flocked around the limo like a swarm of bees.
Rail’s driver was aggressive enough to run with the best New York engine jockeys, maneuvering the unwieldy vehicle with precision, if not grace. Billy was thrown into the air above his seat a few times, hitting his head on the plush ceiling, feeling the steel frame through the fabric.
Rail stowed the empty glasses and laid a sheaf of legal-size papers on the little table beside the lava lamp. Densely printed small type.
“What’s this?” Billy asked. He had to raise his voice to cut through the noise of the engine, now working harder, and the background cacophony of taxi horns and hydraulic truck brakes compressed by the channel of tall buildings they were moving through.
Rail leaned in, close to his ear. When he spoke, Billy could feel hot breath in his hair. “It’s a production contract. It grants me the privilege of recording your first album. If I secure a deal for you, I retain points on the record and a modest percentage of the publishing. You will find it’s quite fair.” He drew a black felt tipped pen from his breast pocket, uncapped it and moistened the tip by placing it on his tongue for just a second—a quick gesture that was at once predatory and erotic.
Two conflicting voices arose within Billy simultaneously. One was a piece of advice he’d heard from several sources over the years: Don’t ever give up your publishing rights. The other was just a victory cry. I’m getting signed! I’m finally getting signed! His heart pounded so hard that he looked down to see if his shirt was moving. He took the pen in his clammy hand and unconsciously placed the cap in his teeth, clamping down on it like a nipple as he scanned the blocks of obscure legalese in the wavering bloody light. The car continued to rock and sway through the urban canyons of Manhattan.
In a flash, Billy saw the walls of the car disappear around him, the profusion of sparkling lights from the skyscraper windows replaced by stars above a dark sea. There was no land in sight. He was riding the back of a mammoth black wave from towering crest to bottomless trough, his stomach left somewhere high above and behind him in the plunge. Trevor Rail still sat across from him, not in the jostling white leather cabin of a limo now, but in a mouldering rowboat, holding the dripping oars above the water, teeth flashing like rubies from deep within a black hood. The image was vividly present, but gone in an instant.
Billy looked down at the papers and tried to focus. It was hard to read—the motion of the car, the alcohol, and his ignorance all conspiring against comprehension. He remembered how quickly he’d been kicked to the curb in Hartford for asking to call Kate. What was he going to do now, ask to call a lawyer?
I’m getting signed . The words were an incantation against all misery. They would have a powerful effect on everyone in Billy’s life. He imagined how their faces would look when he told them the news—his father, his boss, his band mates. Everyone who had ever politely encouraged him while privately scorning his chances. He would be vindicated. For every time he’d taken a song to the band that they had turned down, he would be vindicated.
But he could see Jim’s face a little too clearly. Could he really look Jim in the eye and admit that he had signed away any rights to the songs they’d written together? Could he really walk out on the band?
A new voice arose in his crowded mind, dressed in the tone and inflections of the man seated before him. At midnight, you were ready to throw your life away, your flesh
And then there was New York, all lit up and glittering like ice chips in the black fur of some beast under the moon. Billy wondered if the rum was spiked with something. It didn’t matter anymore. He felt good. The road was broken at intervals by sections of steel plates that made the car bounce on its shocks. Soon, taxicabs flocked around the limo like a swarm of bees.
Rail’s driver was aggressive enough to run with the best New York engine jockeys, maneuvering the unwieldy vehicle with precision, if not grace. Billy was thrown into the air above his seat a few times, hitting his head on the plush ceiling, feeling the steel frame through the fabric.
Rail stowed the empty glasses and laid a sheaf of legal-size papers on the little table beside the lava lamp. Densely printed small type.
“What’s this?” Billy asked. He had to raise his voice to cut through the noise of the engine, now working harder, and the background cacophony of taxi horns and hydraulic truck brakes compressed by the channel of tall buildings they were moving through.
Rail leaned in, close to his ear. When he spoke, Billy could feel hot breath in his hair. “It’s a production contract. It grants me the privilege of recording your first album. If I secure a deal for you, I retain points on the record and a modest percentage of the publishing. You will find it’s quite fair.” He drew a black felt tipped pen from his breast pocket, uncapped it and moistened the tip by placing it on his tongue for just a second—a quick gesture that was at once predatory and erotic.
Two conflicting voices arose within Billy simultaneously. One was a piece of advice he’d heard from several sources over the years: Don’t ever give up your publishing rights. The other was just a victory cry. I’m getting signed! I’m finally getting signed! His heart pounded so hard that he looked down to see if his shirt was moving. He took the pen in his clammy hand and unconsciously placed the cap in his teeth, clamping down on it like a nipple as he scanned the blocks of obscure legalese in the wavering bloody light. The car continued to rock and sway through the urban canyons of Manhattan.
In a flash, Billy saw the walls of the car disappear around him, the profusion of sparkling lights from the skyscraper windows replaced by stars above a dark sea. There was no land in sight. He was riding the back of a mammoth black wave from towering crest to bottomless trough, his stomach left somewhere high above and behind him in the plunge. Trevor Rail still sat across from him, not in the jostling white leather cabin of a limo now, but in a mouldering rowboat, holding the dripping oars above the water, teeth flashing like rubies from deep within a black hood. The image was vividly present, but gone in an instant.
Billy looked down at the papers and tried to focus. It was hard to read—the motion of the car, the alcohol, and his ignorance all conspiring against comprehension. He remembered how quickly he’d been kicked to the curb in Hartford for asking to call Kate. What was he going to do now, ask to call a lawyer?
I’m getting signed . The words were an incantation against all misery. They would have a powerful effect on everyone in Billy’s life. He imagined how their faces would look when he told them the news—his father, his boss, his band mates. Everyone who had ever politely encouraged him while privately scorning his chances. He would be vindicated. For every time he’d taken a song to the band that they had turned down, he would be vindicated.
But he could see Jim’s face a little too clearly. Could he really look Jim in the eye and admit that he had signed away any rights to the songs they’d written together? Could he really walk out on the band?
A new voice arose in his crowded mind, dressed in the tone and inflections of the man seated before him. At midnight, you were ready to throw your life away, your flesh
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