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of songs that required a prerecorded bass and drum track； and Steve was turning knobs that didn't need turning； adjusting levels that were already set。 But how long could that stretch out？ Where were his words？
Then Ghost tore his gaze away from Zillah's shining smile and looked out over the sea of faces again； and the spell was broken。 So Zillah had new teeth； new skin。 So what？ He and Steve had a show to do。 The fragile faces could not be turned away； the burning hearts could not be quenched by disappointment。 Ghost felt a righteous anger fill him。 Hypnotized by a smile？ Oldest trick in the book！ It couldn't trick him； though； not now。 He had to sing。
Steve was staring at him； half pissed off； half scared。 He tapped his foot three times and gave Steve the nod。 And when Ghost started singing again； the words poured from him like a river of gold。
They played 〃Mandrake Sky；〃 an odd chiming melody； the first song Ghost had more or less posed on his own； then an assortment of their older songs； rocking numbers。 Ghost began to be drunk on the music。 When he felt himself swaying； he clung harder to the microphone。
The audience was a sea。 The music pulled like the Mississippi； he could be swept away； he could drown。 But drowning might be sweet。 In his throat； his voice was thick wine。 The pale hands snatched it and bore it up on a cloud of clove smoke。 For those children Ghost sang harder； letting his voice soar； pushing it down deep and gravelly； stringing it out in a howl like a shimmering gold wire。
Between him and Steve the electricity crackled。 Ghost clenched his hands in front of him； raised his face to the gilded tries of the ceiling。 Steve shook his head madly。 His hair stood out like a scribbled black cloud。 Sparkling drops of sweat landed sizzling on his guitar； on the audience； on Ghost's upturned face。 Ghost licked the sweat off his lips and tried to breathe。 There was no breath left in him。 The audience had taken it all。 In him there was only song； endlessly swelling。 If he did not let it out his heart would burst。
He had forgotten all about Zillah's perfect new face。
At the end； Steve joined Ghost at the microphone to sing backup on the last song。 It was 〃World；〃 the song they always closed with。 Steve's fingers stroked the strings； lingering on them； making them chime。 〃World out of balance；〃 Ghost sang。 Steve gave the acpanying line； 〃World without end；〃 in his usual off…key tenor。 But Steve's singing was bettor tonight than ever before。 It was still pretty bad； but there was an element of rawness to it； a hoarseness born of beer and sorrow。 The audience rose on tiptoe。 〃'WE ARE NOT AFRAID；〃 Ghost chanted； throwing his shoulders back； pushing his voice harder。 〃'WE ARE NOT AFRAID。〃
Behind him； Steve sang； 〃Let the night e； let the night e 。 。 。〃 That wetness on his face was only sweat； or so he would claim。 And Ghost wouldn't say different； not for anything。 〃We are not afraid；〃 he whispered； and the audience whispered back； 〃Let the night e 。 。〃
Steve shoved his guitar into its case； snapped the catches shut； and headed for the bar。 He was already half…drunk； and he registered that this was not Kinsey Hummingbird handing him his beer。 This bartender was even taller and paler； and a hell of a lot weirder…looking； but Steve didn't remember seeing the guy before。 A vague impression of a black hat and sunglasses flashed into his mind。 It didn't mean anything to him； and he forgot it。
Ghost had wandered off into the crowd。 At the bar Steve saw a curly head wrapped in a tie…dyed bandanna： Terry Buckett； who owned the Whirling Disc record store where Steve worked； who played drums on their tape and sat in on their shows sometimes。 Terry had been out of town recently。 When he saw Steve； he signalled the bartender for two more beers； The bartender took two bottles of National Bohemian out of the cooler。 Natty Bohos； Terry called them。 Steve called them possum piss； himself； but Terry was buying。
〃What's up？〃 Steve asked after a long and panionable swig。
〃Been tripping for two weeks； man。 Hey； no shit…bike tripping。 You know I rode down to New Orleans？〃 Steve knew； had in fact discussed it with Terry at work； but Terry talked to so many people that he often forgot who had heard what。 〃They got a bar in the French Quarter〃…Terry was just about drooling at the memory…〃serves twenty…five…cent draft every Thursday night。 And they play these same two Tom Waits albums over and over all night。 Blue Valentine and Heart Attack and Vine 。 。 。〃
Steve imagined the place。 The floor would be sticky； the walls slicked with blue light from an old beer sign。 The records would get scratchier every Thursday night； as if Tom had progressive cancer of the larynx。 He wished he were there； sucking the foam off his fifth or sixth draft； forgetting all about Missing Mile and the Sacred Yew。 （Those aren't the things you really want to forget； said a small demon…voice in his head。 It was quiet enough to be ignored； but a couple more beers would drown it for sure。） Terry's bar sounded pretty good。 Maybe he and Ghost could take the T…bird on a road trip one of these days。
〃Man； you can get some heavy shit down there in the Quarter；〃 Terry said。 The new bartender was turned away； filling plastic cups； but his back had an attitude of listening。 〃I got an ounce of this stuff called Popacatepetl Purple。 Couple bong hits of that'll give you some heavy mind groove…〃
〃Did somebody mention bong hits？〃 R。J。 Miller boosted himself onto a bar stool on Terry's other side。 He had grown up from a skinny hyperspace…machine…building kid into a skinny young man who could play a bass line like the thunder of God； but right now he was having trouble holding onto his beer。 He swayed against the bar； then managed to prop himself up on his elbows。 His glasses were crooked。 He pushed them up with his forefinger。 〃Hey； Steve。 Awesome show； man。〃
Terry considered him gravely。 〃How many beers have you had？〃
〃Three；〃 said R。J。； and burst into sudden laughter。 〃Seriously； you guys； what about those bong hits？ You wanna go outside or what？〃
〃You're not old enough to smoke；〃 Terry told him。 Under the bar； Terry nudged Steve's knee。 Steve looked down。 Terry was holding a pack of Camels。 From the pack protruded the end of a joint； fat and twisted。 Steve palmed the joint and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans。
〃Popacatepetl Purple；〃 Terry said softly。 〃You look like you could use some heavy mind groove。〃
Absurdly； Steve felt tears start in his eyes。 His friends loved him。 Girls might fuck you over； but you could always count on your friends。 〃I gotta find Ghost；〃 he told Terry。 〃I want to smoke this with him。〃
〃Sure；〃 said Terry。 〃Enjoy it； huh？〃 He turned to R。J。 and started talking about the strip clubs on Bourbon Street。 R。J。 had gone to sleep on the bar； his head cradled in his arms； his face smooth and blameless as a child's。 His fourth Natty Boho sat in front of him； untouched。
Steve pushed his way through the crowd； still carrying his half…finished beer； smelling clove smoke and the dusty musk of thrill…shop clothes； searching for the streamered beacon of Ghost's