“Wow” was all I could get out. Too long a day to even feel indignant. “That’s just the half of it,” said Church. “Banner has also convinced the local council to bring a compulsory purchase action against the Iron
Horse, citing the economic well-being of the West End.”
Chuey leaned in. “Like eminent domain? Henry has to sell?”
Lady poked her needle through the article. “With some percentage of it all reverting to the state, no doubt. I should like to sew shut the mouths of bureaucrats.”
“Never fear,” said Church, “I’ve already petitioned the secretary to declare the Iron Horse a historical site, and I’ve filedfor an injunction concerning the rights of unregistered music. I’ll drown them in paperwork.” Jimmy curled his fingers into a fist and shook it. “Sounds like these Banner folks and the twits in P-Parliament need me to give ’em a bunch of fives.”
“You hit them while I sing to them,” Chuey added with a smile.
Henry put one arm around Lady and the other around Church. “Isn’t it a blessing, Jack, to have friends willing to do such awful things on our behalf.”
Shortly before two a.m., Angela’s band stopped playing—they’d played their set again, plus a round of covers—and the regulars began shuffling out. Church, Lady, and Chuey sat talking; Jimmy was sweeping at the far end of the bar. An empty quiet settled over the Iron Horse. I hated the quiet. Then Henry pushed through the kitchen doors. Over his shoulder he carried the little go bag that he took wherever he went. His other hand was
filled with homemade candles—he burned candles everywhere. “Ready to go?” he asked me.
“Ready.”
At the door, he called back, “You’ll lock up?” “Tight as a drum,” said Church.
Jimmy waved a hand at me. “S-see you tomorrow for our lesson.” I gave him a thumbs-up.
Then Henry and I stepped out onto Manette Street in the chill London predawn. Across Charing Cross Road, we turned onto Flitcroft Street—really just an alleyway. We passed my place, a converted set of wardrobe rooms beside the load-in dock for the Phoenix Theatre, and continued
toward Henry’s flat. He lived on Flitcroft, too, just across Stacey Street in an apartment next to St. Giles in the Fields. Ialways saw him home after close. And always on this walk, he hummed the Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes” until I joined him, the tune reverberating off the concrete and cobblestone all around us.
As we neared Stacey Street, I realized I was the only one singing and Henry was no longer beside me. I turned to find him ten feet back, pressing his free hand against the air like a mime touching a wall no one could see.
“Henry?”
“Not so fast as this,” he muttered. “Please, not so fast as this.” I took a step toward him. “What is it?”
“I’ll explain later. But I can’t sleep at home tonight.” He took a tentative step, the way a heavy metal fan might when entering a country bar, then hurried past me toward his apartment. “Help me gather some things from my flat, then walk me back to the Horse.”
I stared for a moment at the place where Henry had stopped, but saw nothing there.
When I turned to follow him, he was already several yards ahead of me. I hurried to catch up, crossing Stacey Street and cutting left. Henry was maybe twenty feet from his flat when a tall man in a peacoat emerged from the doorway. Henry jumped and pulled up short.
The guy’s face and scalp were covered with corpse paint—makeup typical of black-metal bands. His ghoulish white mug was painted with blackX’s through the eyes and stitching through the lips. But what scared me most was he had a hand deep in his left coat pocket.
Henry cleared his throat and extended a trembling hand to shake. “Good evening.”
The guy ignored Henry and flashed me a look. His lips were a flat line. His eyes cruel and unblinking. He then looked back at Henry and pulled a Smith & Wesson 500 from his pocket.
“The Iron Horse is neutral ground,” Henry said.
The stranger shook his head. “Your protections recede.”
“Put your gun away,” Henry whispered. “No matter what you’ve been told, there’s always a choice . . .”
The man extended the revolver with both hands, locked his arms, and peered through the sights.
I sprinted forward, but before I could jump in front of Henry, the muzzle flared and a crash like thunder echoed down the alley. Henry collapsed, his face pinched in pain.
“Henry!” The scream tore up from deep inside me. I turned on the stranger, but the gun was aimed at my chest, a dim glint of chrome under the piss-yellow light of a window behind him.
In that moment, I was back on the LA streets. Nearest cover was too far away. The man was closer. I rushed him. So help me, if I caught this son of a bitch . . . The muzzle flared a second time. Pain exploded in my chest, and a bright, fiery heat ripped through me.
