Burned Page 8

  “A special light show?” said Luke. He looked confused.

  The manager held up his hand.

  “You got five minutes, Pigs.”

  Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

  Luke Ripper looked at us and smirked. “Guess who that was.”

  “The club rat,” I said.

  “Yeah. His name’s Tom Start and he’s a total sleazebag.”

  “I hear he records our concerts to make bootleg CDs,” said Bam-Bam.

  “I want to get that guy,” Grunt growled.

  Luke shook his head. “I think Tom might be totally losing it. I mean, what was he ranting and raving about? We don’t have a special light show.”

  I looked at Frank.

  “Maybe someone is trying to sabotage the show,” I said.

  Everybody looked at me.

  I continued. “Tom Start could be C. D. Burns, the man behind the illegal CD burning. Maybe he’s afraid you’ll find out about all the copies he’s made of your music. Maybe he’s trying to get rid of you.”

  The Flaming Pigs mulled it over.

  “I think you boys are watching too much TV,” said Luke finally. “I also think the band should get out there and play.”

  Nodding in agreement, they picked up their instruments and headed for the stage.

  “Wait, Luke,” said Frank. “I really think you should cancel the show.”

  The lead singer stopped in his tracks. He smiled at us over his shoulder. “Haven’t you ever heard the expression, boys? The show must go on.”

  Then he walked out on the stage.

  The crowd went crazy.

  As the Flaming Pigs launched into their first song, Frank and I worked our way toward the audience. We had to squeeze through a mass of screaming fans, jumping up and down in Flaming Pigs concert shirts.

  Frank tugged my arm and pointed.

  Everyone was holding Ham Sweet Ham CDs with homemade covers.

  Bootleg copies.

  Frank stopped and asked a girl with green hair where she got her CD.

  “Back there!” she yelled over the music. “Under the counter! You have to ask for it!”

  Frank looked at me, then pushed forward through the crowd. Soon we reached the back of the club.

  “Joe! Look!”

  I looked.

  A few feet away, Tom Start stood inside a large black booth filled with concert shirts and CDs. He was selling stuff like nobody’s business, reaching beneath the countertop, swapping twenty-dollar bills for the Pigs’ new CD.

  Frank and I pushed closer to the booth.

  When we got to the front of the line, Tom Start looked up at us—and froze.

  “What do you want?” he snarled.

  “We want the Flaming Pigs to get the money they deserve,” I answered back.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The bootleg CDs, Mr. Start,” said Frank. “They’re illegal.”

  The guy’s mouth dropped open. Then his whole face turned red.

  “Get out of here! NOW!” he shouted.

  Frank and I held our ground.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, Start,” I said.

  He didn’t answer me.

  Instead he began jumping up and down, waving his arms over our heads. “Bubba! Jack! Over here! Get ’em!”

  Frank and I turned around.

  Two huge bouncers tackled us to the floor.

  POW.

  Frank and I went down so fast we barely knew what hit us.

  The bouncer named Bubba—or maybe it was Jack—knocked me to the floor and pinned me down with all his body weight.

  And I’m talking serious body weight—two hundred and fifty pounds at least.

  No doubt about it. These guys were total giants and Frank and I were dead meat.

  We barely had a chance to catch our breath when the bouncers hoisted us off the floor and dragged us to the exit. We kicked and fought them every step of the way—even yelled for help—but it was no use. The audience was rocking out to the music of the Flaming Pigs.

  The bouncers flung open the exit door. Struggling, I looked up and spotted Luke Ripper on the stage. “Luke!”

  The lead singer gazed out over the crowd, squinting his eyes.

  Yes! He sees us!

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Tom Start

  Hometown: Atlantic City, NJ

  Physical description: Forty-one years old, 5’7”, 165 lbs., long white hair, tattoos on both arms, smokes cigars.

  Occupation: Bitter End nightclub manager, band promoter

  Background: Father used to gamble. Grew up with ten dogs.

  Suspicious behavior: Sold bootleg copies of Flaming Pigs CD, told bouncers to boot us From club.

  Suspected of: Being the real “C. D. Burns.”

  Possible motives: Money, lots of it.

  But there was nothing he could do, because as soon as he hit his final note, the “special light show” began.

  White-hot sparks shot out of a pair of flashpots at Luke’s feet.

  And the stage burst into flames.

  14.

  Band on the Run

  At first everyone thought the fire was part of the show.

  But Joe and I knew better.

  C. D. Burns did this.

  Foot-high flames danced across the stage, forcing Luke Ripper to jump back a few feet. The crowd went crazy. And who could blame them? They thought it was just a special effect.

  Until the curtains caught on fire.

  This doesn’t look good.

  Bam-Bam stopped drumming. Grunt ran to the edge of the stage and started beating back the flames with his guitar. Luke Ripper tried to help him but only managed to make the mess worse.

  There must be gasoline or something on the stage.

  The flames leaped higher, and smoke started to fill the club.

  Someone screamed.

  “We’re going to die!”

  Bubba and Jack jumped into action. Shoving Joe and me aside, the bouncers rushed into the club, waving their arms like traffic cops.

  “Stay calm, everybody! Make your way to the exits! Just stay calm!”

  Right.

  The crowd went nuts. The whole place erupted in a loud chorus of hacking, coughing, and screams.

  “Frank! Look!”

  Joe pointed toward the stage. The band scrambled to the center of the stage, surrounded by flames. Luke Ripper hopped up and down, slapping his legs with his hands.

  What’s he doing?

  Then it hit me: His jeans were on fire.

  “We’ve got to help them!” Joe shouted.

  I definitely agreed.

  But when we tried to run toward the stage, we were nearly trampled by a howling mob. Pushing and shoving, they sent us reeling back until we slammed against a pair of columns, struggling to keep from falling to the floor.

  Hold on.

  I couldn’t see Joe. But I knew where he was heading. Pushing against the flow of screaming people, I moved closer and closer to the stage.

  I coughed and wiped my eyes.

  All I could see were smoke and flames.

  Then, taking a deep breath, I hurled myself out of the crowd.

  And into the fire.

  Pulling my shirt up over my mouth, I took a few steps forward and looked around frantically. The flames were spreading through the whole club now, blazing up the walls and licking the ceiling.

  “Joe! Where are you? Joe!!!”

  Answer me. Please.

  “Frank! Over here!”

  Thank you.

  My brother’s voice rang out from the stage. I ducked down below the thick haze of smoke and rushed forward, trying not to breathe.

  There he is.

  Joe crouched down on the stage next to Grunt and Bam-Bam. They were all leaning over Luke Ripper, who was curled up in a ball, coughing and coughing.

  Smoke inhalation.

  We had to get him out of there. And fast.

&nbs
p; Jumping onto the stage, I hopped over some flames and joined the others.

  “Let’s carry him,” I said. “Help me pick him up.”

  The four of us reached beneath Luke’s shaking body and hoisted him up.

  “Which way?” asked Bam-Bam.

  Joe pointed toward the nearest exit at the front of the club. We were able to move pretty quickly off the stage. With four people carrying him, Luke wasn’t very heavy.

  Then one of the ceiling beams collapsed.

  Whoomp!

  Right in front of us, it sent a fluttering of sparks and ashes flying. We tried moving around the fallen beam but found ourselves face-to-face with a roaring wall of fire.

  “We’re trapped,” Grunt muttered.

  He was right. The entire front of the nightclub was engulfed in flames. Raising my head, I searched desperately for an escape.

  “Let’s go backstage!” I shouted.

  Circling around the blaze, we carried Luke down a narrow corridor toward a steel door. The burning curtains crashed to the floor behind us.

  “This way!” yelled Bam-Bam.

  The drummer pushed open the door, took a step forward, and stopped. I took a quick look around.

  We were in the room where we’d unloaded the band equipment—through the side door of the club.

  It’s our only chance.

  There was just one problem.

  The whole room was in flames.

  Just our luck.

  “Looks like a dead end, guys,” Grunt grunted.

  “We can’t give up,” I said.

  “We can’t walk through fire, either,” he said.

  Joe spun around, glancing behind us. “Wait right here,” he said. “Hold on to Luke.”

  My brother broke away from us and headed back into the club.

  What are you doing, Joe?

  With a running leap, he jumped and dove over the burning beam. For a second he disappeared into the fire. Then he crashed to the floor on the other side of the beam, rolling and coughing.

  Dude!

  The ceiling crackled overhead. Flaming chunks of the building showered down to the floor.

  Look out!

  Joe scrambled out of the way in the nick of time.

  Man, that was close.

  Throwing himself against the side wall, he inched his way forward, then stopped and reached out for something.

  I squinted my eyes to see through the smoke.

  It was an emergency fire hose.

  All right, Joe! Do it!

  My brother grabbed the heavy-duty hose and pulled hard until it unraveled at his feet. Then he reached for the round steel handle to turn on the water.

  “Aauuugh!”

  Joe snatched his hand away. The fire must have heated up the steel.

  But that didn’t stop him.

  Tearing off his T-shirt and wrapping it around his hand, he grabbed the handle and gave it hard twist.

  Nothing happened at first.

  Then, with a loud sputter, the hose wriggled like a snake—and sprayed a huge gush of water into the air.

  He did it!

  Joe bent down and grabbed it, aiming the nozzle toward the ceiling beam on the floor. Slowly the water drenched the burning wood, dousing enough of the flames for him to step safely over and make his way back toward us.

  “Move back!” he yelled.

  Grunt, Bam-Bam, and I lifted Luke up and moved out of the doorway to let Joe through. Holding the hose like a machine gun, he fought off the flames a few feet at a time.

  “Follow him!” I shouted to the others. “And stay close!”

  Step by step we made our way across the blazing room, closer and closer to the side door. Luke coughed and groaned in our arms.

  We’re running out of time.

  Shuffling through the ashes—and trying not to breathe in the smoke—we finally reached the exit door. Joe kicked it open with a loud bang.

  And we were free.

  Way to go, Joe!

  The cool night air never felt better. We all gasped and sucked it into our lungs as deeply as we could.

  Joe dropped the hose and helped us carry Luke Ripper away from the burning building.

  “There’s an ambulance!” I pointed out.

  We moved quickly toward the flashing lights across the parking lot. There were fire trucks and emergency vehicles pulling up to every corner.

  A couple of paramedics rushed to our aid. “We’ll take care of him,” one of them said, leaning over Luke. “He’s going to be okay. The rest of you join the others over there.”

  He nodded toward the front of the building, where a large group of survivors were huddled together under blankets, coughing and staring with stunned eyes at the burning nightclub.

  Bam-Bam shook his head and nudged Grunt.

  “Now that’s what I call a light show.”

  Twenty minutes later the firefighters had everything under control. Every last flame was put out, and the club was a blackened shell.

  “It looks like everybody got out,” one of the firemen said to another. “Other than a few mild cases of smoke inhalation, no one got hurt.”

  I looked around and scanned the crowd.

  Where’s Tom Start?

  “I don’t see that sleazeball manager,” said Joe.

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Maybe he got trapped inside the booth.”

  Before I could stop him, my brother bolted past the firefighters and ran into the building.

  “Joe!” I yelled after him.

  I dashed after him, ignoring the protests of one of the firemen. Stumbling through the charred wreckage, I headed for the back of the club where Tom Start had been selling his illegal CDs.

  “Out of the way!” someone yelled.

  I ran up behind Joe and froze.

  Two firefighters pushed past us, carrying a white stretcher with a body on it. We looked down to see a man lying on his back, clenching a fistful of money.

  It was Tom Start.

  And he was dead.

  15.

  Dead or Alive

  I couldn’t believe it.

  Burns got burned.

  I watched a paramedic cover Tom Start’s face with a sheet before taking him outside.

  It’s all over.

  “Man, what a way to end the mission,” I said to Frank. “Our prime suspect gets killed before we even had a chance to prove anything. C. D. Burns is dead.”

  Frank looked me in the eye. “C. D. Burns isn’t dead, Joe.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Think about it,” he said. “Why would Tom Start burn down his own club?”

  “To cover his tracks,” I answered. “He wanted to destroy the evidence. He had thousands of bootleg CDs here, and he knew we were on to him.”

  “But remember—right before the Flaming Pigs went onstage, Tom Start mentioned a guy setting up a ‘special light show.’”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “He thought it was one of the band’s crew,” Frank continued. “But it wasn’t. It was C. D. Burns.”

  “Why would Burns do this?”

  Frank looked down, thinking. “He knows what we’re up to, Joe. By burning down the club, he could hide his connections to Tom Start, the bootleg CDs, even the band he was ripping off—all at the same time.”

  I glanced at the devastation around us and shook my head.

  “The guy must be crazy,” I said.

  “We’ve got to catch him, Joe. And fast. He might go after Julian and Lefty next, just to shut them up.”

  I looked across the club—and spotted something.

  “Look, Frank. There’s something under the booth.”

  Running over to the burnt structure, I knelt down and pulled out a flat metal box. I opened it up.

  Man!

  The box was filled with cash—probably thousands of dollars, bundled together with rubber bands. One of the stacks had a little piece of paper attached.

 
; Written on it were the words: FOR C. D. BURNS.

  “See? This proves it,” said Frank, ducking down. “Tom Start was selling CDs for Burns.”

  Behind us a firefighter yelled, “Hey! What are you kids doing in here? Get out! It’s dangerous!”

  Frank grabbed the metal box, tucked it into his leather jacket, and zipped it up.

  “Sorry. We thought we could help,” he said, standing up and facing the fireman.

  “You could help by going outside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We slipped past him and went out to the parking lot.

  “Frank! Joe!”

  It was Luke Ripper. The long-haired lead singer was up on his feet, leaning against Bam-Bam and Grunt next to an ambulance.

  “Luke!” I shouted, happy to see he was okay. “How’s it going, man?”

  “I’m cool, dude,” he said with a shrug. “But my jeans are burnt to a crisp.”

  He raised a leg to show off the charred remains of his ripped pants.

  “Hey, they look good like that!” said Bam-Bam.

  “Yeah, man. Maybe we should all burn our clothes,” said Grunt. “We are the Flaming Pigs, after all.”

  Frank and I snickered.

  Then we told them about Tom Start.

  The band stopped laughing. Luke Ripper looked down at the ground and frowned. “The guy was a major jerk,” he said. “But he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  Frank told them his theory about Start’s fatal connection to C. D. Burns and showed them the metal box filled with cash.

  “We still need to catch him,” my brother said. “And I think we can use this money to lure him out of hiding.”

  Luke threw his arm over Frank’s shoulder. “Well, if you guys need our help, let us know. You saved my life, dudes. I owe you. Big-time.”

  I could see the wheels turning in Frank’s head.

  “Do the Flaming Pigs have a Web site?” he asked.

  Well, it turned out that the Pigs did have a Web site—and they were willing to share their private access codes with us.

  “What are you planning to do, Frank?”

  I pulled up a chair next to my brother and his computer. Playback flew around the bedroom, trying to get our attention, but we ignored him.