“Lovely,” I said. I’d long ago learned better than to argue with Rose Noire about subjects like toxic energy. And except for the occasional foul-tasting herbal concoction, all her cleansings and energy beamings seemed, at worst, harmless, and more often than not curiously comforting.
Molly in Chains, the Morris dancers in black leather, turned out to be twelve very shapely and athletic young women, and while their act was just as strange as I expected, it was definitely entertaining. The Rancid Dread musicians spent the entire performance outside gawking. The show almost didn’t go on after the dancers finished their final number, bowed to the applause, and hurried offstage. Most of them pulled off their towering stilettos and iced down their aching feet. The prospect that they might follow this up by removing their sprayed-on leather garb so distracted the Rancid Dreads that they almost forgot they were due onstage. Luckily, they weren’t trying to double as their own roadies. Half a dozen adult Shiffley men began hauling instruments, microphones, and many of the enormous speakers out onto the bandstand. By the time they finished their setup, I’d managed to pry the band’s eyes off the dancers and shoo them out into the tiny offstage area.
We still had at least half of the equipment in the tent, but apparently the adult Shiffleys had decided they had enough amplification onstage. Probably a wise decision, since the only way they could fit any more of the speakers onstage would be to dispense with a musician or two. The volunteer roadies ambled off the stage and the crowd, realizing that the last and presumably biggest act of the day was about to begin, shushed each other until silence reigned.
Rancid Dread exploded onto the stage, all pumping both fists in the air as if to acknowledge the frenzied cheers of their fans. Unfortunately their audience was a mix of indulgently smiling locals, who had known the musicians since they were in diapers, and the tourists, who were perfectly happy to applaud politely for almost any act that walked onstage.
The fist-pumping petered out as the five Dreads took their places. Orvis scurried over to his drums and crouched behind them, peeking out from time to time as if surprised that no one was throwing anything at him. The vocalist clung to the microphone stand as if in need of support, while the guitar, bass, and keyboard players stumbled around onstage, peering at all the available instruments as if unsure which they’d been assigned. Finally the vocalist turned around and stage whispered, “One! Two! Three! Four!” All three instrumentalists quickly grabbed an instrument and began to play.
My initial thought was that they’d also failed to reach agreement on what their first number would be. The guitar player and the keyboardist were playing something that resembled a reggae version of Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild,” while the bass player and Orvis launched into the rhythm of “Louie Louie.” I cringed, expecting that after a few bars they’d stop and regroup, or perhaps one side or the other would give in gracefully and switch. But either they were all incredibly stubborn or the mishmash they were playing was exactly what they had in mind.
After a few bars more, the vocalist joined in with an earsplitting wail, sort of a cross between chalk on a blackboard and the feedback our sound crew had become so adept at producing. The band responded by turning up the volume—a feat I wouldn’t have dreamed possible—and the first few ashen-faced tourists began stumbling toward safety.
I decided to put the tent between me and Rancid Dread, so I ducked inside.
Randall and a posse of Shiffleys had arrived and were springing into action. The reason for the surplus sound equipment became evident—the extra speakers were not actually speakers but cleverly camouflaged cases holding tools, lumber, and other construction supplies.
“We’re going to do some prep work for the trapdoor,” Randall shouted to me. “We’re hauling a bunch of tools and equipment over to the courthouse basement, and then we’re going to work inside the tunnel shaft for a while. So once we get in there, I’d appreciate it if you could close the trapdoor and keep watch.”
“Do you really think anyone will come near the bandstand while this is going on?” I bellowed back.
“Never hurts to be cautious,” he replied. “Specially since one of the band members is a Pruitt. Bass player. He’s the mayor’s second cousin once removed. According to Orvis, he hates his whole family, and maybe that’s true, but…”
“Better safe than sorry, then,” I said. “So he’s not in on the secret of the trapdoor and we want to keep him that way.”
Randall nodded.
We hauled the trapdoor open during one of the vocalist’s glass-shattering screeches. I watched the Shiffleys lug tools and equipment down into the tunnel. I helped them arrange the big faux speakers in a rough circle around the trapdoor, as if we were using the crawl space as an overflow sound equipment area. They even strung a few cables from the fake speakers up into the tangle of real wires overhead. I had to admit—it was impressive camouflage.