The main bar during the day was a completely different beast. Without the throng of bodies, the pulsing lights, and the cacophony of music and chatter, it was a vast, cavernous space. Sunlight streamed in through the tall, arched windows that lined the far wall, the same ones that were blacked out and invisible at night. The beams of light cut through the lingering haze of last night's smoke, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. The rich, dark wood of the bar and the polished floors gleamed, and the empty, high-backed barstools stood in neat, silent rows like patient sentinels. It was peaceful, almost reverent, like a cathedral after the congregation has gone home.
Kev looked at his watch. Not even ten yet. He sighed and pulled his silver cigarette case out, lighting a cigarette with a match from the pack in his pocket.
Talon had left quite quickly with Sabrina, and now he was alone. Kev sat at the bar and pulled over one of the ashtrays. He'd never really spent much time here, even though it was so close to the VIP table. His gaze drifted over the rows upon rows of bottles lining the shelves behind the bar, a glittering mosaic of colored glass and exotic labels. There really were a lot of different kinds.
Kev's curiosity got the better of him. He hopped off the stool and walked around behind the bar. The labels on the bottles were different than anything he knew, written in a sharp, angular script, but he could make a guess at a few of the different liquids. Regardless of the label that read "Emerald Essence", the stylized pine tree etched into the green glass gave it away as a gin.
He ran a hand along the cool, polished wood of the bar top, then looked down at the workspace. Three deep, stainless steel sinks were set into the counter, along with several built-in ice boxes. Rows of neatly arranged glasses of all shapes and sizes, from heavy-bottomed shot glasses to delicate champagne flutes, were stacked on rubber mats. A single, old-style cash register sat on top of a heavy-looking safe under the middle of the bar. All the numbers and buttons on the register had been worn smooth with age and use, the sliding drawer loose and unlocked.
Just as Kev took a curious peek into the cash-stuffed drawer, a voice made him jump.
"Mr. Kev?" a deep, gentle voice called.
Kev quickly pushed the overflowing drawer shut and looked up. It was Gerald, the giraffe. The tall musician looked tired as he approached the bar, his long, graceful neck bowed slightly with fatigue. He was still in his rumpled performance clothes from the night before, his bow tie hanging undone.
"Hey, Gerald," Kev said, hoping he didn't look guilty for no reason. "What are you doing here so early?"
The giraffe yawned as he took a seat at the bar. "Today's full-band practice. Got to make sure the stage is all set up."
"You have to set the whole stage up?" Kev asked. "And..." Kev looked around behind the bar before grinning. "...did you want something to drink?"
"That would be great. I came here for some water," Gerald said, his long neck allowing him to look easily over the bar at the sinks behind it. "I am section leader for the bass and percussion, so it's my responsibility if someone is not ready."
"Really? That's a lot," Kev said, reaching for a pint glass. "Do you have to set up all the percussion by yourself?"
Gerald nodded slowly. "Yes, but I just need to get things in their general location. The percussionists rearrange to their liking."
Kev filled the glass and slid it lightly down the polished bar. "Yeah, drummers can be a bit picky. If my snare wasn't the right height, I'd be playing too loud or too soft all night. Actually," Kev gave a hopeful glance, "do you want me to help you set up?"
Gerald looked a bit silly drinking his water, his neck needing to reach his outstretched arm. "I couldn't ask you to help, Mr. Kev," he said, placing the empty glass down on the bar.
"I'd like to help," Kev said, taking the glass and refilling it. "Gives me something to do, and I can see what sort of instruments Asmodeus has hiding back there."
"If you don't mind," Gerald yawned again, "it should be quick with two of us. I'll be able to take a nap before everyone else gets here."
After taking the glass and washing it out in the sink, Kev followed Gerald to the theater. The massive, heavy doors swung open with a soft groan, revealing the cavernous space within. It was hushed and still, a stark contrast to the vibrant, music-filled room it became at night. The high, arched windows, usually shrouded in darkness, were now letting in shafts of dusty morning sunlight that cut through the gloom, illuminating the rows of empty, plush velvet seats. The stage was bare, its dark wood floor polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the soft light from above. The rich red curtains were drawn back, tied with thick, golden ropes. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and old velvet. It already looked like it had been cleaned, a pristine, silent stage waiting for the chaos of creation.
"It's quiet today," Kev remarked as they passed the armchairs and ascended the side steps onto the stage.
"I like it like this," Gerald said, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "The only other time it's quiet like this is right before you start playing. The conductor's wand in the air, the audience's rapt attention for the first note..."
Kev smiled. He was glad he could help the giraffe. The dedication to come in so early and get things ready... He didn't know when the music stopped at night, but he did know it was after he went to bed, later than midnight.
He followed the tall bass player around to the back of the stage. Backstage was a labyrinth of dark, silent passages. Thick, black curtains hung from the ceiling, creating temporary walls and pathways. Ropes and pulleys, thick as a man's arm, snaked their way up into the unseen heights of the fly system. A single, bare "ghost light" flickered on a tall stand cast long, eerie shadows, illuminating a jumble of stage props, flats, and disassembled set pieces leaning against the walls. It was a completely different world from the polished grandeur of the main theater. Kev had passed through here on his first week, but it had been so loud and filled with people working on sets and practicing music that he hadn't gotten a really good look. The mansion seemed to be bigger on the inside than it was on the outside... and it looked quite big on the outside.
"Since you also play the drums, it should be alright if you move them," Gerald said. "Please do be careful, though. Some of these are personal instruments."
Gerald led Kev to a set of double doors not far from the hallway with Asmodeus's dressing room. He easily pulled both wide open and quickly kicked in doorstops that had been sitting just inside, keeping the doors spread wide.
The percussion closet was a treasure trove of sound. It was packed to the gills. Three large, copper timpani drums, their polished bowls gleaming, dominated one side. A towering xylophone and a set of tubular chimes stood against the back wall, their metal bars and tubes glinting in the dim light. Racks of cymbals of all sizes, from tiny finger cymbals to massive gongs, hung from the walls, alongside triangles, woodblocks, and other odds and ends. A massive bass drum, its head painted with the stylized "Club Fang" logo, sat on a wheeled stand, waiting to be unleashed.
Fighting the urge to tap the timpani, Kev said, "I'll follow your lead."
Bringing the drums around the curtains was quite relaxing. All of the large items, with the exception of the bass drum, had wheels, and everything was very well-maintained.
The large kettle drums went first, rolling one at a time towards the far side of the stage.
"Can you imagine having to buy a set of these to practice?" Kev murmured. "They take up so much space."
"Can you imagine having a percussionist who practices?" Gerald replied, his voice a dry rumble.
Next were the keyboards. When Gerald repositioned a glockenspiel over the xylophone, Kev considered it.
"Looks like those people who put two electric pianos on each other," he said.
"Asmodeus does not want the musicians moving around in between songs," Gerald pressed down on the wheel lock once he was satisfied with the setup. "We hoped to give it to the triangle player, but..."
"Is the xylophone player just better than the triangle player on the bells?" Kev asked, knowing the toucan band leader's perfectionist tendencies.
"No," Gerald sighed. "Asmodeus says the triangle player is a prodigy, and he doesn't want to disrupt her 'flow' by pushing a different instrument on her."
Kev shook his head as they walked back to the percussion closet. "Is he being sarcastic?"
Gerald looked away and said, "After being acknowledged by Asmodeus, she has taken the stage name 'Tink'."
Kev reached for the bass drum. It was large but surprisingly light, and he carefully turned, making sure the delicate drum skins did not get punctured by anything. "I always thought of a triangle as more of a 'ding'."
Gerald picked up the drum stand. "She would have you know that a 'ding' is what a beginner plays. The true masters of the triangle understand the brilliance of the muted note."
"Tink..." Kev said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "...I got it."
The rest of the setup went quickly. The bass drum was placed back-center, a thundering heart waiting to beat. The cymbals were arranged next to a few tables with black felt tops, where the cowbells, ratchets, woodblocks, wind chimes, and a few other oddities were laid out like surgical instruments. Large, tubular bells were the last, their brassy columns completing the wall of percussion near the rear of the stage. The collection of instruments was an impressive, almost intimidating sight—a chaotic orchestra of potential noise, all waiting patiently for their masters to arrive.
"So, chairs next?" Kev asked, looking around.
Gerald nodded and beckoned Kev backstage once more. After closing the percussion closet, he turned around with a three-legged stool in each hand. "Which one would you like to carry?"
Kev grinned. "The left one looks like a particularly fresh catch."
After putting the pair of chairs on the far side of the stage near the timpani, Gerald sat on one and closed his eyes, his long neck swaying his head back and forth slowly, a picture of weary contentment.
"It is quite nice in here when it's quiet," Kev said, taking the seat on the stool next to the tired giraffe.
"Yeah, but it will be loud soon. Everyone else coming in and stumbling over each other to get things set up."
"What time does your practice start?" Kev asked, glancing at his watch. "If you want me to get out of your hair so you can take your nap before things wake up around here, I wouldn't be offended."
"Oh, don't worry about that. I'm going to nap in my practice room." Gerald yawned again, not opening his eyes.
"Is that a good idea?" Kev asked. "You won't oversleep in the soundproof room?"
"I guess it's possible, but someone always comes and finds me for something." Gerald gave Kev a tired grin. "That's the downside of surviving the toucan's tempers. I'm the only one who's here from before Asmodeus took the stage."
Kev racked his brain. Did he know how long Asmodeus had been working here? "Uh, do you know much about the rest of the club? Other than the west wing, I mean."
"A bit," Gerald said, stretching his shoulders and standing.
"Do you know anything about the second floor?" Kev asked. "I was hoping to find out if anyone knew about one of the rooms up there."
Gerald replied, "What room? I've actually been up there before, you know. Got to play a set up in the library."
"That must have been fun," Kev said, following Gerald down the stage steps and back into the scattered, plush armchairs of the seating area. "Sounds classy."
Gerald smiled gently. "That was the idea, but Mr. Fang had a bit of a disagreement with someone about something, and the guests were evacuated quite quickly."
"Oh," Kev frowned. "That's actually what I wanted to ask you about... do you know anything about the room across from Fang's? The off-limits one?"
Gerald stood at the exit of the theater and looked down at the human. "I've heard it's haunted..." Another yawn passed his lips, and he looked towards the flickering lights of the west wing. "I know that's not much help. Sorry."
"No, it's fine," Kev said. "Go get some sleep. Thanks for talking with me."
Gerald smiled and waved. "Anytime, I appreciate the help."
Kev waved too, parting from the towering musician.
He decided to head out to the backyard to have a smoke in the fresh air. The irony wasn't lost on him.