Free Endgame by Jeffrey Round Page B

Stabber showed up, his face captured in a youthful grimace, though he went uncredited.
    â€œPoor bastard,” Spike said, shaking his head.
    The scene cut to a live performance at a cavernous club. The grinding of Max’s electric guitar was undercut by the throbbing of Pete’s bass and the late drummer’s energetic rhythms. The camera turned to Spike, hands wrapped around a microphone as he snarled out the barely comprehensible lyrics of a song that seemed to be about police and guns and riots.
    â€œThat’s the Purple Institution,” Spike called out over the sound.
    â€œYeah. It was that Christmas Eve concert we played. God, were we young then,” Max said, sounding wistful.
    The music pounded on as Sami Lee suddenly appeared along with her name. She looked much the same then, vampirish and seductive, her face hidden beneath garish makeup.
    â€œBeautiful, darling!” Max called out to the screen.
    How old is she, anyway? Peter wondered, though he didn’t say it out loud. She must be about a million.
    The song ended as a Ladykillers classic started up: “The Twelve Days of Shagging,” sung to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Another joke tune Harvey persuaded them to record, though it had caught on quickly in the clubs to everyone’s surprise.
    Spike sang along to his recorded voice: “On the first day of shagging, my true love gave to me a love song full of hate. On the second day of shagging, my true love gave to me two silver bullets, and a love song full of hate. On the third day of shagging, my true love gave to me …”
    The music continued as faces flashed across the screen. Suddenly it was like the old days again: there was Harvey Keill, stoned on something and smiling deliriously, followed by a clip of Crispin LaFey talking to someone off-camera, obviously unaware he was being filmed. Their names appeared in dark script beneath the shots.
    â€œIt’s you, Crispin,” Max called out. “Good old Crispin.”
    â€œReally?” Crispin seemed a little awestruck to hear this. “What am I doing in this video?”
    â€œHaven’t a clue,” Spike said. “Still don’t know what the point of it all is.”
    More faces crowded the screen. Next came Janice, a thinner version of her more fleshy counterpart today. The on-screen legend identified her as “Sarah Wynberg.” A shot of Noni Embrem followed, standing in a courtroom. His name, too, flashed onscreen.”
    â€œWhere did that come from?” Noni wondered aloud, without expecting an answer. In fact, he was more worried about containing the contents of his bowels, whose gurgling was becoming a little too insistent to ignore.
    A party scene followed. A scrawny young man with a ten-inch Mohawk and safety pins piercing his eyebrows looked out from the screen as he tapped lines of cocaine onto a mirror. The lens zoomed in and he broke into laugher. He spoke to the camera operator, though his words went unrecorded.
    â€œI think he just told us all to fuck off,” Janice said, laughing.
    David shrank into his seat as the name “Newt Merton” faded in and out on-screen.
    â€œNewt was our supplier,” Spike said. “That’s the guy who went to prison. I haven’t seen him in years. What’s going on here?”
    But no one had an answer.
    The song continued as a much younger-looking Edwards appeared, serious and unsmiling, his thick black hair gelled and combed straight back.
    â€œHey, Edwards! Isn’t that you?” Spike called out.
    â€œI … yes, it is. What in the world …?” Edwards’s real-life counterpart watched his former self in mute silence before slumping into one of the empty chairs. He sat there, shaking his head in bafflement as his name, “Jack Edwards” appeared.
    Sandra entered the room with a tray of coffee and tea. She’d just begun to pour the first cup when she