“Okay, you’re fucking with me,” I confirm, falling back into my seat with an exhausted sigh.
Eddie bursts out laughing. His throat rattles, bone shards grinding together in his neck again. Finally, Eddie raises his hands as though admitting defeat.
“Alright, I can already tell you’ll need the full story if I want tonight to run smoothly, so here it goes,” he begins, his tone settling a bit. “You’re probably wondering how I’m so fucking successful. Was it the hard work? The talent?The good looks?”
“The songs,” I add, the tiniest bit of fandom slipping out of me.
“It wasall those things,” Eddie reveals. “I’m one incredible son of a bitch, after all, but that stuff only gets you so far without a little luck. I could flounder forever in a world of second-tier piano players, or I could make a deal.”
Eddie’s eyes are glued on the road ahead. The desert has fallen away, replaced by the first hints of tract homes and strip malls as we make our return to civilization. The musician is silent, tension building as whatever he’s about to say takes on a massive helping of emotional weight.
“I made a deal with the devil,” Eddie finally reveals.
This admission should probably make me scoff, especially after his last rug pull, but I don’t. There’s aconviction to Eddie’s voice that’s undeniable, as crazy as it may seem.
Then again, is a satanic pact much crazier than chauffeuring around an undead celebrity after I blew half his brains out through the back of his skull? If anything, a deal with the devil seems a little too quaint for these circumstances.
“I don’t believe in the devil,” I reply.
Eddie flashes an odd look, seemingly impressed, then keeps going.
“I didn’t either,” he explains. “It’s that classic rock ’n’ roll story. I sold my soul for fame and fortune. Now, it’s time for the dark lord to collect, unless I perform …” He lifts a cupped hand to his ear, making the unexpected pause even more apparent. “No drumroll?”
“I’m not really in the mood,” I admit.
“Jesus Christ, I’ve got twice the spirit you do and I’m fuckin’ dead!” he erupts. “Unless I perform …a ritual!”
“What kind of ritual?” I ask.
“It’s private,” Eddie snaps, reaching into his back pocket. He extracts a folded piece of plain white office paper. “We’ve got four more stops and then you’re free to leave.”
I can’t help catching something odd about his choice of words.Four more stopscertainly makes sense on a casual first listen, but including the wordmoreis a little strange. Was I his first stop?
Maybe I’m just vastly overthinking things, caught in a web of my own detective work as I struggle to make sense of these extraordinary circumstances.
Eddie carefully unfurls the document, looking it over and then gazing into the night as if the darkness itself might tell him something. The back of the sheet is ever so faintly embossed with a mysterious seal.
If this is not actually Eddie Michaels, then whoever it is has a knack for acting his age. There are few things as aggressively “old guy” as printing out your instructions.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Eddie doesn’t answer, just folds the paper back up and returns it to his jacket pocket.
“Take a left,” he says, gesturing toward the upcoming stoplight. “Anyway, while I admit I look a littlefrighteningthese days, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need you to drive me around while I run my errands.”
“Why me?”
“Whynotyou?” he retorts. “You were there when I woke up. You expect me to spend all night holding auditions?”
Fair enough.
“Why the hell do you evenneeda driver?” I press.
“I don’t know how,” Eddie scoffs. “I’m too rich for that, sport.”
I sit with this a moment, the utter terror that’s been pumping through my veins finally subsiding a bit. I’m certainly not relaxed, but the longer I talk to Eddie, the more I can sense my fight-or-flight response dwindling.
“So I just … chauffeur you around?” I clarify.
