Seven Come Eleven

Spring 1988 "This is the stupidest thing I have ever heard." Jake rolled his eyes and twirled a drumstick. "The devil? Are you f*****g serious?" Miles nodded. "They say the blues singer Robert Johnson did it. He was supposedly the worst guitar player ever, and then one night he stood on the crossroad playing and a black guy came by and tuned his guitar." Jake rolled his eyes before he replied. "That doesn't mean it was the devil. It was probably a dude wandering by, heard how bad he was, then stopped and showed him how to play." "It was the devil!" Dan insisted, his guitar case in his hand as they walked along the dirt road. "I've read all about it." Jake glanced at their bass player, Brian. "You in on this too?" "Yup. I mean how can I not be." Brian turned to look at Jake but he didn't look excited. "Fine." Jake stood and tossed the drumsticks against his shoulder. "Let's go meet the devil." The wind swept across the road as they approached the worn rusted signs that marked where highway 49 crossed Highway 60. It was dark, except the moon which was bright and full tonight. Jake couldn't shake the feeling they looked as if they were recreating a Cinderella video. They could have been any band from the sunset strip in the day, only that Jake's oddly light blond hair being natural and not dyed set him apart. They'd left the car on the side of the road as they walked into the crossroads. It was the loneliest place Jake had ever seen. On either side of the road lay what he assumed were cotton or corn fields. But he couldn't tell in the dark. Miles walked ahead, the lead singer and leader of the band. "I don't know if we are supposed to say anything to summon the devil." They waited for several minutes before Jake had had enough with the silence and lack of anything even remotely resembling the devil. Not that he knew what exactly the devil looked like. "This is hogwash. I'm going back to the car. Why would the devil want anything to do with us? What could we have that he'd want?" "Look!" Brian pointed down the dark north road. A man was moving towards them with deliberate and business like steps. He wore a black coat that trailed around his ankles and a hat that covered his face. The whole look was very much from the twenties or thirties. The closer he came, the stronger the smell of sulfur grew. A large, lanky, black and white dog trailed his steps. The man walked up to the four boys, observing them through narrowed eyes. He washeavyset, skin as dark as the night sky, and his eyes glinted red when he tipped his hat back to see them. "Evening, boys," said the dark man in a deep gravelly voice that resonated through them as an earthquake. "How may I be of assistance?" "We came to seek the devil to attain fame." Miles said, his eyes never leaving the mans. They were all rooted to where they stood. "Are you really the devil?" Jake asked in the pause after Miles spoke. He was the only one that wasn't frozen in terror. The dog circled them, watching as its master produced a clipboard from his coat. Then the man laughed, "Yes, boy, I am. I mean, I'm the devil for these parts, I'm not Lucifer. But I can collect your souls. The terms of the deal are, you will be famous. But I can and will collect when I feel like it, preferably at your peak fame. Well, a demon will come for you, it won't be me. But you will know. Do you agree?" Three of them nodded. Jake was still trying to figure out how they had gotten the dogs eyes to glow red. Brian jabbed the drummer with his elbow and Jake nodded just so they could go. This lean hound loping about made him nervous. The whole situation did. "Good. Then go back to your show and good luck." The man in black turned to go. "But before you go-" They watched as he pulled a small medical bag from his inside coat pocket and removed rubber gloves and small lancets. "We have to seal this in blood?" Miles asked quickly. "I thought you would bite us or something to get it." "Oh dear no, that is unsanitary and uncivilized." He replied as he pricked each of their fingers and pressed the pad of it to the bottom of the contract. When that was done he turned without another word to them, placing the contracts into his inside pockets as well. "Come Ivan, lets go." The man called to the big dog who chased after him with long graceful strides. Las Vegas Summer, 2008 Jake hummed as he showered, lathering himself with the luxurious sponge. Outside the frosted shower door, the room was steamy; the mirror fogged over. The scent of masculinity and musk drifted out of the bathroom on the wisps of steam that escaped under the door. When he finished, he stepped out onto the fluffy soft rug by the tub. His wet platinum hair hung down his back, well below his shoulders, in a white cascade that was nothing short of majestic. Ignoring the steam and fog, Jake wrapped himself in a plush robe and stepped out into the bedroom of his penthouse suite on the seventh floor of the casino he owned. His bed was empty, which it had most definitely not been when he went for the shower. Pursing his lips, he looked out into the front room, which was also empty. He peered past the bar into the kitchen on the other side of the room and sighed. The rich smell of coffee brewing caught his attention. "At least she made coffee this time," he muttered as he went into the small kitchen to procure a cup. Jake put in two sugar cubes and some creamer before tasting the life-giving liquid. Sipping the hot cup of coffee, Jake went back into the bedroom where the window looked out over the street below. In the cold, gray dawn, taxis lined the street outside, picking up guests from the casino that had gambled the night away and were too inebriated to drive. He hoped he would see her among them, but he didn't. He never did. He thought of her as some nocturnal animal, not unlike a raccoon, that vanished in the daytime and reappeared at night as if they had always been there. Nadia and Jake had met in the casino downstairs. She was a terrible gambler, and Jake had bailed her out of a tight spot at the blackjack table one night. He hadn't asked for favors in return; he had merely been trying to help a lady out. But somehow they had clicked, and after a few drinks, she made it to Jake's penthouse a few hours before sunrise. She came almost nightly then after dinner and a few drinks they ended up here in his bed. By morning she would be gone. Sometimes she made him coffee, like this morning. Sometimes she left him asleep or showering. It suited Jake though, he wasn't looking to get into serious relationships with his problems. Jake turned away from the window and his curiosity of Nadia's whereabouts. His phone jangled from the night stand, drawing his attention to what he was sure was business. Jake answered, sipping his coffee as he checked out his reflection in the mirror. He needed to hit the gym, this week, he thought. "Hello?" "Jake? You need to come down to the office as soon as possible. Someone killed Marshall last night." The voice on the other end, which Jake identified as Alan the security guard, said in a tight and serious tone. "What do you mean? Why are we just now discussing it this morning?" Jake's good mood slipped away quickly. "I've only just now found his body between the dumpster and the parking lot." Jake nearly choked on his coffee, he sputtered on the warm liquid as he struggled to form words. "Have you called the police?" "Of course not," Alan replied casually. "I wanted to call you first. It's your casino." Jake rolled his eyes. If this had been anyone else, he would have thought they were joking. Alan had seen some things in his time in Vegas, in jail, and even briefly in the military. He didn't react to things as normal people would. "Close the back parking lot and don't let anyone out the back door. I'll be right down." In fifteen minutes, Jake stepped off the elevator into the casino hotel lobby. Dressed in faded jeans and a tee-shirt, hair neatly tied back, he made his way towards the back door, nodding good morning to his staff. They were the only people who would recognize him as the owner of the casino. While they knew him to wear designer brands, he was not nearly as well-dressed as other casino owners were. Suits and ties just weren't his thing. In the parking lot, Jake had to let his eyes adjust to the bright morning sun. Alan was waiting for him by the building, calmly smoking a cigarette. Alan tossed the butt on the ground and crushed it under his shoe when he saw Jake. He nodded towards the dumpster. "Over there." Sure enough, Marshall's shoes were visible from behind the large blue dumpster. Jake walked closer, peering at Marshall with a grimace. He looked as if he had passed out drunk. But flies were already starting to buzz around the body, leaving no doubt he was dead. Jake could see no obvious reason for the death yet. With a deep frown he called the police himself from his cell phone. Within the hour, the body was being carried away in a coroner van; they roped the area off, and detectives were rifling through the dumpster and the parking lot. They were the last business in town, still using CCTV and VCR for security; there were a few chuckles when Alan provided copies of the security tapes to the confused officers. The officers seemed content it was a robbery gone wrong. When they left, Jake turned to go back inside. He was sorry for Marshall's loss, but there would need to be damage control to keep customers from being frightened, or unsafe. "Jake?" Alan followed him. "What do you plan to do now?" "I will pay for his funeral and see if his family needs help, if he had any family. I never knew him that well. But otherwise I need more security around the perimeter and a replacement." Jake stepped onto the elevator to head up to the next floor where his office was. Alan followed. "I have something you should see." Alan pulled a tape from the pocket of his blue silk jacket that was emblazoned with the Rock Star logo across the back and in miniature on the front. "This is no time to be watching porn, Alan." Jake said with a weak smile. He opened his office with a key from a ring of many keys in his pocket. "This isn't porn." Alan chuckled and followed Jake in, flipping on the light as they entered. Jake took off his coat and hung it on the rack by the door before moving to his desk and sitting. He watched Alan put the tape into the ancient VCR and made a note he needed to upgrade this casino's security. On the black and white tape, Jake watched Marshall walk across the back parking lot with trash in hand. He walked just out of the camera's path. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary until a bright light swept across the parking lot, under where the camera was mounted. But that could have easily been a car headlight, Jake thought. There was no sound. A large black dog trotted by just as a wave of static cut the camera off. "Jake sat back in his chair and sipped his now cold cup of coffee. He made a face of disgust and set the cup aside. "I will not be surprised if his autopsy says there's not a mark on him." "The police have roped off the whole back to investigate." Alan said as he looked out the big window behind Jake's desk. "Fat lot of good that'll do 'em," Jake sighed when he stood. "They won't catch this person. I am going out for coffee and donuts. Want anything?" "Our roulette operator gets killed and you are going out for coffee and donuts?" Alan turned to Jake, surprised. "What would you have me do? The man is dead. I am still very much alive and I'm hungry. Do you want donuts or not?" Jake repeated. "Fine, yes. But what about Marshall?" Alan followed his boss. They stepped into the elevator and turned to watch the doors close. Alan glanced at Jake as the elevator went down. "Did you not like Marshall?" "I didn't know him well. He was stealing a grand a week from me, I knew that much. I figured he needed it pretty bad to take such a brazen risk. Addiction, child support, God only knows. But I didn't kill him, if that's what you think." Jake raised a brow at Alan. "You said they would never catch the killer. Do you know who did it?" Alan followed Jake outside the casino into the street. The morning sun was bright overhead, only a few wispy clouds marred an otherwise perfect sky. "Was it a mafia hit, you think?" Jake didn't look at Alan, he walked straight through the growing crowds of tourists coming in for the days activities. When they reached the coffee shop on the corner, Jake still hadn't spoken. Once his order for coffee and a doughnut were filled, he stood by the bar waiting on Alan to receive his food as well. "I was in a rock band back in the late eighties." Jake confessed as he sipped the delicious coffee. It was well worth the five bucks. "Like a hair band?" Alan asked, eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't know why he was surprised at all. Jake grumbled in annoyance. "We had hair, yes. But not a hair band. I hate that term. We were just plain heavy metal. But it was a weird time, glam rock was dying, grunge was rising, and then there were the few of us who were sticking to our roots. We were competing with some big names. Our singer was into the occult and all that jazz. He talked us into going to Mississippi and selling our soul at the crossroad." "The crossroads?" Alan followed Jake to a small table by the window. Jake bumped his head on the low hanging light that looked more suited to an Italian cafe than a coffee shop. Jake steadied the swinging light and sighed. "In Clarksdale, Mississippi, there's a junction to highways 49 and 61. If you stand out there at midnight, the devil comes and makes a deal with you. Fame for your soul." Alan raised a brow, "You did that?" "I was young. Stupid." Jake bit into his doughnut and took his time eating it. "But yeah, we did." Alan leaned closer, on edge and eager for more. "Is that stuff real? Was it really the devil?" "You know at the time I didn't believe it. But a year later we hit it big on a song that I had never liked and thought would flop, and then we lost our singer in a freak accident. Electrocuted by his microphone on stage." Jake looked around, crumpling the paper wrapper his doughnut had been handed to him in. "I had been reading up on the ones who had done this before us and it seemed they were all dying as they hit their peak of fame. Our guitarist and my friend died in a freak accident recently. He was hit by a bus. You remember Dan, right? That's why I live there at the casino. I could afford to live anywhere but I choose not to flaunt any of my money. But I guess the time has come for him to collect." "Who?" "Weren't you listening? The goddamn devil." Jake drank the rest of his coffee. "What does this have to do with the murder of our roulette dealer?" Alan rubbed his beard, puzzled. "It was a warning they are here." Jake stood up. "We should get back." Alan tossed his trash and followed Jake back to the casino. "Here I was thinking you were involved in some mafia bullshit." "Maybe I am." Jake quickened his pace as the wind picked up, bringing the smell of rain to the desert. "Get on the phone, Alan, and find out Marshall's burial arrangement, his family, all that. I'll cut the checks." Back in the office, finally alone with his thoughts, Jake stared out the window at the parking lot. He could see his own car from here and it never failed to make him smile when he saw his bright orange mustang waiting for him, inviting him to let the top back and feel the wind. Not today though. He didn't feel much like leaving and going anywhere. Turning, his eyes fell on the old band poster he kept in here as a memento. He hadn't picked up a guitar or drumsticks in years. They packed all of that in the casino's basement in a dark corner. He couldn't help a chuckle at how young and naïve they had been back then, stupid teenage runaways in California when the Sunset Strip was the place to be and make a name. Jake decided maybe a visit to the pool was in order. He literally had no idea what else to do. He needed to relax and pull his mind together. When his phone vibrated in his pocket, he vowed that he was leaving this in his room. "Hello?" "Jake?" A voice on the other end said, a voice he vaguely recognized but could not place. The voice was shaky with panic. "Yes, who is this?" Jake's face clouded with confusion, his brain racing to recognize the voice, but it was little more than a strained whisper backed by heavy breathing. "Brian. Don't you remember me?" The reply came softly. Jake's eyes widened, his eyes shooting back to the poster and Brian's slim face, his goofy grin. No one had heard from him since Miles died. "Yes, I remember you but how did you get my number? What's wrong?" "Your secretary gave it to me. I told her it was an emergency." Brian turned to look at himself in the broken motel mirror. His face, once handsome and sharp, was now scruffy and swollen. His eyes were hollow with fatigue, both mental and physical. He thought briefly that he looked like one of those serial killers you see on the news, much older than his barely forty years of life. "I—wanted to warn you." "Warn me?" Jake asked, but he already knew what it was. "Warn me about what?" "You remember that night in Mississippi, don't you?" Brian wheezed. "Yes. Where are you going with this, Brian?" Jake stepped out of his office and entered his suite. He could still smell the faint essence of Nadia's perfume from last night, and he smiled. "They're coming." Brian turned towards the bathroom door. The bathroom was just inside the motel room door and he could hear the footsteps and sniffing in the main hallway outside. He heard a faint scratching on the door. He hissed into the small cell phone. "The hell hounds. They're coming!" A wave of coldness passed over Jake when he heard those words. "Are you certain you aren't just tripping acid again? I hear that stuff has some horrible flashbacks." "No, Jake. This thing has pursued me from California to Missouri. I am in a motel now near Springfield, and it still found me. I'm out of time, Jake. I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch. I heard about Dan, I'm so sorry. I just wanted you to know that before--" Brian whispered frantically, fumbling the handgun from his coat pocket and slipping a bullet into the chamber. The scratching became more frantic at the door. Quickly, Brian began reciting the Lord's prayer into the phone. "The hell is going on? Brian? Brian?" Jake tried to get his former band-mate's attention, but there was a sudden whoosh of air as the door gave way to the giant black hound. Jake heard the strangled snarl and a sudden pop of what sounded like firecrackers just as the line died. Jake realized with a chill that it had not been fireworks at all. It had been a firearm. Brian had killed himself reciting the Lord's prayer, hoping that would save him. Jake tossed the phone down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. There was no way to know if it had worked for Brian, and no way to know when they would come for him. "Dammit." Jake stared across the boulevard at the other casino's across the way. As he watched the bustling crowds below vanishing into the doors of the other establishments, a chill came over him. Since that thing had gone after Marshall, would it go after anyone else here? Possibly Alan or Nadia? Jake turned from the window and went into his closet to find his swim trunks. Perhaps it wasn't the time for a swim, he thought, but he was determined to not to panic. He had to act like nothing happened at all.