Free Lords of Salem by Rob Zombie Page A

herself unless he wanted something from her.
    He was talking to Heidi, speaking over his shoulder. “I should just walk these straight to the toilet and give a good flush,” he said.
    Just what does he have in those boxes? Cerina wondered, curious. “Hold on,” she said into the phone, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand. When she spoke she was careful to look straight at Heidi, pretending that Herman wasn’t even there.
    “Sweetie,” she asked, “you need any help?”
    “No, we got it,” said Heidi.
    Fine, they don’t need me. I’ve got better things to do anyway. Cerina nodded and uncovered the phone. “Oh, speaking of bullshit,” she said, a little louder now, “I caught that bitch Jessica in a straight-up lie… Yes, sir, right to my face.”
    She took the photo of the band with the names marked on it and held it out across the desk, shaking it at Heidi as she passed. For a moment, Heidi simply ignored it and then she regarded Cerina with an inquiring look. When the latter nodded vigorously, she took the photo.
    “Uh-huh,” she said into the phone, beginning to rant now. “Then the nervy bitch tells me she’s too sick to babysit my Reggie. No, she wasn’t sick… Bitch posted pictures on Facebook of herself doing Jell-O shots at Charley T’s… Of course I said something. What am I? I’m not her mother…”
    She let her voice trail off. Heidi had stopped at the inner doors, had held them open for Herman but still hadn’t gone through herself. She was staring at the black-metal musicians. Both of them had put their magazines down and were staring back, still and unblinking. Their gaze was emotionless, but very attentive. Then Heidi put her hand against her forehead and lowered her eyes and a moment later was through the doors.
    For a long moment, the musicians continued to stare at the doors, almost as if they were willing her to come back out again. Then they both made a weird gesture, kind of like they were crossing themselves, but with the motions all wrong. Weirdos , thought Cerina.

Chapter Thirteen
    Whitey was on the far side of the break room, filing CDs on one of the racks. He nodded once at Herman as he entered and then kept on with it. Chip MacDonald was there as well, but standing at a little distance, clearly watching Whitey. Chip’s hair, the little of it that was left, was a mess, sticking straight up on the top of his head. He should just go on home , thought Herman. He don’t need to be here to watch us; we’re old pros . Man’s never gonna learn. He’s just gonna make Whitey anxious and get himself all worked up in the process.
    He’d just lowered the boxes onto the table when Chip made his move.
    “No, no,” he said, moving to the rack and plucking out a CD Whitey had just filed. “Rod Stewart goes under S, not R. Can’t you understand the concept of filing under last name first?”
    Whitey shrugged. “Eh, we hardly ever play that CD. Doesn’t really matter.”
    “That’s not the point!” said Chip. “The point is that there’s a proper way for things to be done.”
    Whitey shrugged again, seemingly confused. “But I don’t need to find it.”
    “But what if you did?”
    Herman just shook his head. “But I don’t.”
    Chip raised his voice. “What you need to find is none of my concern!”
    “Then why are we talking about it?” asked Whitey, genuinely confused.
    “Calm it down, Chip my man,” said Herman. “No need to start World War Three over a Rod Stewart CD.”
    Chip turned to him, his finger raised and pointed. “And you,” he said. “You’re worse than this guy. At least this knuckle dragger attempts to file the catalog.”
    That’s what I get for trying to help , thought Herman. Remind me never to do that again. He sniffed, raised his nose in the air. “That, my dear fellow, is intern work,” he said.
    But Chip didn’t get the joke. “Need I remind you?” said Chip. “This is a rock station. We don’t have interns. You want