Anthology.The.Mammoth.Book.of.Angels.And.Demons.2013.Paula.Guran by Anthology Read Free Book Online Page B
Book: Anthology.The.Mammoth.Book.of.Angels.And.Demons.2013.Paula.Guran by Anthology Read Free Book Online
Authors: Anthology
got a guy called Billy Lyons in it, just like our Billy.”
Iron Box shook his head. “That’s ’xactly why. Boy name of Billy Lyons shouldn’t even be thinkin’ ’bout Stackalee, let alone singing ’bout him. Man, don’t you know about Stack? Don’t you know that old Scratch give him a magic oxblood Stetson that allow him to do all kind of devilment? Don’t you know how he shot Billy Lyons on account of he thought Billy stole his magic hat?” The old man looked straight at Billy. “You don’t want to sing that one. Stack’s a trickster, Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.”
Billy laughed. Alan shook his head.
“Iron Box, they don’t believe you,” a wizened bass player said. “Why, just look at ’em. They ain’t got no knowledge of that stuff.”
“Guys, guys, it’s just a song,” Alan began, but the conciliatory coaxing routine didn’t work with this crew. The bluesmen flat-out refused to record “Stackalee” with a singer named Billy Lyons, contract or no. So Billy did the only thing possible to please Alan – he strapped on an old acoustic and went into the studio alone, where he made a hit record that put anything Springsteen did on Nebraska to shame.
Thinking about that, Billy smiled in spite of himself, and in spite of the damn song blaring in his ears. He’d shown those old bastards, even with all the shit he was taking about it now. He’d shown them. He’d recorded the song on his own, without their help, and the fact that it was an unexpected hit was just icing on the fucking—
Billy’s head snapped back, slamming against the crown of the driver’s seat. Sharp pain bloomed at the tip of his spinal column. The Testarossa shuddered, Billy managed to pull out of a skid, and then his head snapped back once more. Black spots of agony danced before his eyes; he squinted around them and focused on the rear-view mirror.
The Caddy sat on his tail, its angry headlights blinking like wild strobes.
Stackalee got his gun. Boy, he got it fast!
He shot poor Billy through and through: the bullet broke a lookin’ glass.
A bullet exploded the Testarossa’s back window, ricocheted, and shattered the rear-view mirror before its power was spent. Billy ducked low, his neck muscles twitching spasmodically. The Caddy rammed the Testarossa a third time. Billy lost control of the car, skidded across three lanes and raced along the dirt shoulder, the Testarossa’s thick wheels kicking up beer cans and garbage. He screamed, braking just short of a chain-link fence that separated the freeway from a shadowy embankment.
The Caddy roared through a cloud of dust, its wheels spitting gravel that pelted the Testarossa, then pulled back onto the blacktop and sped away into the night.
* * *
The dust died down. Traffic whispered past Billy, the drivers unaware that the nation’s number one singing sensation sat locked in his fancy car at the side of the road, shivering, fearful of losing his dinner.
The worst part was not knowing who was after him. So many people had made threats. A headline-grabbing Muslim minister had called him a white devil, and a rap group from Chicago had threatened to kill him. It had been in all the papers. The rappers had called him “Massa Billy” and used his album for target practice. And they weren’t the only ones calling for his head; the critics were after him too. Rolling Stone had done an article claiming, not too subtly, that Billy Lyons had climbed to the top of the charts on the backs of a bunch of poor, old black men.
Okay, maybe he had, but who hadn’t? Had the critics forgotten about the Rolling Stones? Had they forgotten about Elvis?
He says Billy. “I always treated you like a man.
’Tain’t nothin’ to that old Stetson but the greasy band.”
Billy shifted into first gear and pulled onto the freeway. He was going to make it through this. He’d just recorded a song, that was all. He hadn’t done anything wrong
Iron Box shook his head. “That’s ’xactly why. Boy name of Billy Lyons shouldn’t even be thinkin’ ’bout Stackalee, let alone singing ’bout him. Man, don’t you know about Stack? Don’t you know that old Scratch give him a magic oxblood Stetson that allow him to do all kind of devilment? Don’t you know how he shot Billy Lyons on account of he thought Billy stole his magic hat?” The old man looked straight at Billy. “You don’t want to sing that one. Stack’s a trickster, Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.”
Billy laughed. Alan shook his head.
“Iron Box, they don’t believe you,” a wizened bass player said. “Why, just look at ’em. They ain’t got no knowledge of that stuff.”
“Guys, guys, it’s just a song,” Alan began, but the conciliatory coaxing routine didn’t work with this crew. The bluesmen flat-out refused to record “Stackalee” with a singer named Billy Lyons, contract or no. So Billy did the only thing possible to please Alan – he strapped on an old acoustic and went into the studio alone, where he made a hit record that put anything Springsteen did on Nebraska to shame.
Thinking about that, Billy smiled in spite of himself, and in spite of the damn song blaring in his ears. He’d shown those old bastards, even with all the shit he was taking about it now. He’d shown them. He’d recorded the song on his own, without their help, and the fact that it was an unexpected hit was just icing on the fucking—
Billy’s head snapped back, slamming against the crown of the driver’s seat. Sharp pain bloomed at the tip of his spinal column. The Testarossa shuddered, Billy managed to pull out of a skid, and then his head snapped back once more. Black spots of agony danced before his eyes; he squinted around them and focused on the rear-view mirror.
The Caddy sat on his tail, its angry headlights blinking like wild strobes.
Stackalee got his gun. Boy, he got it fast!
He shot poor Billy through and through: the bullet broke a lookin’ glass.
A bullet exploded the Testarossa’s back window, ricocheted, and shattered the rear-view mirror before its power was spent. Billy ducked low, his neck muscles twitching spasmodically. The Caddy rammed the Testarossa a third time. Billy lost control of the car, skidded across three lanes and raced along the dirt shoulder, the Testarossa’s thick wheels kicking up beer cans and garbage. He screamed, braking just short of a chain-link fence that separated the freeway from a shadowy embankment.
The Caddy roared through a cloud of dust, its wheels spitting gravel that pelted the Testarossa, then pulled back onto the blacktop and sped away into the night.
* * *
The dust died down. Traffic whispered past Billy, the drivers unaware that the nation’s number one singing sensation sat locked in his fancy car at the side of the road, shivering, fearful of losing his dinner.
The worst part was not knowing who was after him. So many people had made threats. A headline-grabbing Muslim minister had called him a white devil, and a rap group from Chicago had threatened to kill him. It had been in all the papers. The rappers had called him “Massa Billy” and used his album for target practice. And they weren’t the only ones calling for his head; the critics were after him too. Rolling Stone had done an article claiming, not too subtly, that Billy Lyons had climbed to the top of the charts on the backs of a bunch of poor, old black men.
Okay, maybe he had, but who hadn’t? Had the critics forgotten about the Rolling Stones? Had they forgotten about Elvis?
He says Billy. “I always treated you like a man.
’Tain’t nothin’ to that old Stetson but the greasy band.”
Billy shifted into first gear and pulled onto the freeway. He was going to make it through this. He’d just recorded a song, that was all. He hadn’t done anything wrong