Phantom of the Paradise Lounge
Lead singer of Wicker Man, Janine Lyman—"Rusty" to her friends and family because of her flaming red hair—walked into the cramped, poorly lit, sparsely furnished dressing room and groaned. The fact that she would be crowded into the dim, claustrophobic space with the four other members of her band was not so bad; that the tiny room reeked of cigarette smoke was another matter.
After removing her dark-tinted granny glasses, she sat down at the makeshift dressing table to apply her makeup. First, she had to wipe the dirt off the mirror with a tissue so that she could see her reflection.
"I wonder if Janis Joplin ever has to work under these circumstances,' she complained to Ty Walley, the band's bass player.
"Probably not since the Monterey Pop Festival," the bassist replied as he removed his fringed buckskin and donned the Nehru jacket he would wear on stage.
"I wouldn't worry about the accommodations," Sparky Seales, the drummer, advised. "Remember, this is a three-week gig at Casey's in Boston. You hear that? Boston. You're not in Kansas anymore."
"You can cool it with The Wizard of Oz references. I'm not from Kansas; I'm from Nebraska."
"Same difference," Sparky said with a laugh as he quickly passed a comb through his fashionably long locks.
"And that's from a man who was born and raised in New Jersey!" she teased.
"I'll have you know I grew up less than ten miles from Manhattan," Sparky said defensively.
Unlike their female singer, the four male musicians were not overly concerned with their appearance or their wardrobe. As long as their flies were zipped up, they would go on stage.
"We'll see you out there," Pavel Pasternak, the lead guitarist called to Rusty, as he exited the room.
"I'll only be a second."
Alone in the dressing room, the nineteen-year-old singer suddenly became homesick. Ever since she began singing in the church choir as a young girl, she had wanted to be a performer; and when she first heard the Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand" played on her family's old RCA Victor radio, she wanted to dedicate her life to rock 'n' roll. To achieve that dream, however, the Nebraska farm girl had to leave the security of her family and strike out on her own.
And here I am, fifteen hundred miles from home, she thought despondently, in a cramped, filthy room that reeks of stale smoke.
To pick up her spirits, she began to sing "Amazing Grace." One of her mother's favorite songs, it never failed to comfort her by conjuring up images of the sprawling farmhouse she called home.
As she swiped a mascara wand over her eyelashes, she heard a noise that seemed to come from the small closet in the room.
"Is anyone there?" she asked.
She pulled aside the curtain that substituted for a door and found only her stage costumes and a terrycloth robe. There was another noise, but this time it seemed to emanate from the next room. The walls of the old nightclub were obviously paper thin and far from sound-proof.
When she heard Sly Eckhardt tuning his guitar, she was reminded that she had to be on stage shortly and hurried back to the vanity to finish putting on her makeup. She was unaware that as she applied blush on her cheeks someone was watching her from a well-concealed peephole in the wall.
* * *
Both the band and the club owner were pleased with Wicker Man's opening night in Boston. Although the house was not packed, the audience was enthusiastic about the performance.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Wes Buckland, one of Casey's two bartenders asked Rusty during the band's last break of the evening.
"I'll take a Coke."
"Want something in it?"
"No, just a plain Coke."
"Your band is good," Wes said as he put the glass of soda down on the bar. "Once word gets around, you'll develop quite a following."
"I hope you're right. This is the first real gig we've ever had. Up until now it's been pretty much college dances, high school proms and an occasional wedding."
"I know I'm right. I've got the gift, and I see great things in your future."
"Like what?"
"Oh, like a record deal, a Grammy award, a world tour, performing on stage with the Beatles."
"The Beatles haven't done a live concert since they played Candlestick Park in San Francisco."
"But they haven't heard you sing yet," Wes joked. "When they do, they'll come out of the studio just for the opportunity to open for Wicker Man."
Rusty saw Sly and Sparky heading for the stage and quickly finished her soda.
"It's time for me to get back to work," she announced.
"Are you doing anything after the show?" the bartender asked.
"I planned on going back to the hotel and reading until I fall asleep."
"Would you like to go out and get some breakfast instead? I know a great all-night diner in Cambridge."
"Sure. I'll wait for you in the dressing room after the show."
As she belted out one rock song after another in her strong, soulful Joplin-esque voice, an attentive spectator listened closely to every note she sang.
* * *
Those three weeks in Boston seemed to fly by. Not only did Rusty enjoy performing at Casey's, but she also developed a romantic relationship with the young bartender.
"I can't believe tomorrow will be our last show," the singer said with disappointment as she and Wes walked hand in hand through the Public Gardens.
"Won't you be coming back in another month?"
"Yes, we've agreed to a six-week engagement when we're done playing Providence."
"Rhode Island is only an hour's drive from Boston," Wes pointed out. "If you'd like, I could drive down on my days off to see you."
"Would you?" Rusty asked, her green eyes sparkling with happiness.
After a ride on the swan boat, the couple headed in the direction of the nightclub.
"It looks like we're early," Wes observed when they walked into Casey's.
"Good. I can have the dressing room all to myself."
As she crossed the threshold of the small room, the pervasive odor of smoke assaulted her nostrils. She reached for her bottle of perfume and sprayed it into the air. It did little to mask the overpowering scent, however.
What should I wear on stage tonight? she wondered, as she looked through her costumes that were hanging in the closet.
She settled on a blue dress that looked as though someone had sewed a dozen silk scarves together. The loose-fitting outfit was comfortable, and the lightweight fabric would keep her cool under the hot stage lights. As Rusty removed her bell bottom pants, she heard someone moving in the next room. It was a noise she had grown familiar with over the last three weeks.
"Rusty."
The singer turned to see if someone had come into the dressing room, but the door was closed and the room empty except for her.
"Wes? Is that you? You can come in. I could use your help with the zipper in the back of my dress."
Something from inside the closet brushed against her arm and made her scream. Beneath the patter of running footsteps outside the dressing room, she heard the distinct sound of a door closing in the adjacent room.
"What's wrong?" Pavel asked.
"There's someone hiding in the closet."
The guitar player pushed aside the clothes and discovered a secret panel on the far wall.
"Whoever it was must have got in through here."
Pavel slid open the panel, but could see nothing in the darkness beyond.
"I'm calling the police," he announced.
Although the break-in was classified as a thwarted robbery attempt, Rusty was unwilling to return to the dressing room, preferring to put her makeup on in the ladies restroom.
"I never did like that place," she confided in Wes when they left the club that night. "It's too small, it stinks of cigarette smoke and it gives me the creeps!"
"You're not the only one to feel that way. We had one performer, Gomez Rivera, a stand-up comic, who refused to go into the dressing room. He claimed it was haunted."
"Are you serious?"
"I asked him the same question. Gomez was a comedian, after all, so I thought he was pulling my leg. But he was sincere. He was frightened of the room."
"Well, if it is haunted, my guess is that it is by the ghost of a former chain smoker who probably died of lung cancer."
* * *
When Wicker Man opened at the club in Providence, they were surprised to see that many of their fans from Boston had made the trip to see them perform in Rhode Island.
"I told you that you would get a following," Wes said when he spoke to Rusty on the phone one evening before she went on stage.
"Yes, you did. But I don't want to talk about work. When are you coming down here?"
"Monday's my usual day off. I can drive down then."
"That's three whole days away!"
"I don't like being apart any more than you do, but it's something we're going to have to get used to. You're a singer in a rock group; you'll be on the road a lot."
"Let's talk about something more pleasant," she suggested. "Like what we're going to do when you get here on Monday."
Like Scarlett O'Hara, Rusty preferred to postpone her worrying for another day.
Three days later, she was watching reruns of The Dating Game on the black-and-white television in her motel room when she heard a car pull up outside. After she looked through the opening in the curtains and saw Wes Buckland getting out of his Mustang, she ran to the door to meet him.
"You're here early," she said, confirming with a glance at her watch that it was only nine o'clock.
"I thought I'd surprise you and take you out to breakfast."
"You're a godsend! Since I got here I've begun every morning with a cup of lukewarm coffee from the vending machine."
Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in a diner, waiting for the waitress to bring them their order of pancakes.
"So how's the ghost doing?" Rusty laughingly inquired.
"Ghost? Oh, you're talking about the one Gomez Rivera claims has been haunting the dressing room at Casey's."
"That's the one."
"It's funny you should mention that ...."
"What's up?"
"During my lonely days without you," Wes said with a wink, "I've been doing a little research."
"On ghosts?"
"No. On the club itself. Casey's wasn't the first nightclub on that spot. Before it was built, the site was the location of the Paradise Lounge. Have you ever heard of it?"
"I can't say that I have, but then I'm from Nebraska. Before the gig in Boston, I'd never been east of Omaha."
"Let me give you a little history lesson then. The Paradise Lounge opened as a speakeasy back in 1927. Its owner, Lucky Lombardi, was a former bootlegger who worked his way up to being head of the Boston crime world. His reign was short-lived, however. On his thirtieth birthday, he was gunned down in the men's room of the Cocoanut Grove."
"You don't think the club is being haunted by Lucky Lombardi, do you?"
"It's possible. Anyway, after Lucky's unlucky demise, the place went through a series of owners including a popular bandleader by the name of Lazslo Gault. Under his ownership, the club became the place to be seen in Boston. During the Second World War, politicians, celebrities, sport stars, men and women in uniform and local racketeers all frequented the Paradise Lounge. Of course, the old club was much larger than Casey's. It took up most of the block, in fact. It had a raised dining area, a dance floor, an orchestra and a stage. People could drink at one of two bars, the Palm Tree or the Oasis, or they could go downstairs to the more intimate Moonlight Room."
"It sounds like quite a place. What happened to it?"
"It burned down back in 1942 in what was considered the second deadliest fire in American history, the first being the Iroquois Theatre Fire in Chicago. Four hundred and ninety-eight people died, and one hundred and sixteen more were injured."
"How horrible! What started it?"
"The cause has never been determined. What is known is that the place was packed well beyond capacity. In an area supposed to hold no more than four hundred and sixty people, there were an estimated one thousand patrons that night."
"People must have been crammed in like sardines!"
"The fire was first noticed shortly after ten in the Moonlight Room. It quickly spread through the lower floor along the ceiling and then up the narrow staircase. Within five minutes, it traversed the first floor."
"I can't imagine the panic those poor people must have felt," Rusty said, turning to look out the window at the clear, blue summer sky.
"There were few means of escape available to them. It was discovered that a side door leading out to the alley was locked that night. Even more horrifying, the main entrance was a revolving door which somehow became jammed during the mass exodus. The fire was extinguished in a little over an hour, but by that time nearly half the people were incinerated."
When the food arrived, Wes stopped talking, and the couple ate their pancakes in silence. As she reached for her cup of coffee, Rusty finally spoke.
"Maybe you shouldn't have told me about the fire. I didn't like that dressing room before. Now, I'll like it even less."
"Sorry," he said. "I just thought you'd want to know."
The sudden smile on the bartender's handsome face made Rusty forget all about the deadly tragedy that had occurred at the Paradise Lounge and think about the present and the future.
* * *
After concluding the four-week engagement in Providence, Wicker Man returned to Boston. Not even the dismal dressing room dampened Rusty Lyman's joy at being back at the club where Wes Buckland worked.
"I missed you so much," she said, after throwing herself into his arms.
"But I drove down to see you every Monday," the bartender reminded her.
"Being together one day a week is not nearly enough!"
"For the next six weeks, we'll be together night and day. Let's hope you don't grow tired of me," Wes teased.
"I could never get tired of you, Wes—maybe of Casey's and that God-awful dressing room—but not of you."
"Oh? Funny you should say that. Wait until you see the surprise I have for you."
The bartender took Rusty by the hand and led her to the closed door of the dressing room.
"Violà!" he exclaimed as he threw the door open and revealed a redecorated room. "I couldn't make it any larger, but I think the new paint and a thorough scrubbing made a definite improvement."
"You did this yourself?"
"Casey paid for the paint, but I provided the labor."
"And the fresh flowers? Are they from you or the boss?"
"From me, naturally," he replied and kissed her on the top of the head. "Oh, and I nailed that panel shut in back of the closet. You won't have to worry about any intruders getting in here now."
"I'll bet you did all this just so that I wouldn't want to leave Boston."
"How did you know?"
"That's too bad," Sparky Seales said, as he entered the dressing room. "In six weeks, we'll be heading for New York."
"What's in New York?" Wes asked.
"Wicker Man is going to record a demo record. If the producer likes what he hears, we're going to get a recording contract."
"That's great!"
The look of disappointment in Wes's eyes contradicted his words.
"Record deal or not," Sparky continued, "we'll be heading for the West Coast after we leave New York. We won't be playing Boston again for some time—if ever."
"We'll talk about this later, sweetheart," Rusty whispered into the bartender's ear as the three remaining members of Wicker Man squeezed into the dressing room.
"Sure," Wes said. "We can go out for something to eat after the show."
* * *
For the next six weeks, Rusty and Wes lived and loved for the moment, refusing to think or talk about the long separation that lay ahead of them. On the evening of Wicker Man's last performance in Boston, Casey's bartender surprised his girlfriend by proposing marriage.
"I'd love to marry you," the singer declared, "but not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I have my career to think of. The band is hopefully on the verge of getting a recording contract and doing our first West Coast tour. I can't give all that up to get married. Besides, it wouldn't be fair to the band, leaving them without a singer at such short notice."
"I guess it was selfish of me to ask."
"No, it wasn't. Why don't we consider ourselves unofficially engaged? We'll just put off setting a date until a later time."
"Sure," Wes he said sullenly. "Why not?"
For the remainder of the evening, Wes barely looked at Rusty. Even when the band took its breaks, he avoided her. Finally, before she went back on stage for her last set, she confronted him.
"Let's not part this way. I don't have to be in New York until the end of the week. We really ought to enjoy these next few days together."
"Because who knows if we'll ever see each other again."
"Please don't say that. I love you and have every intention of marrying you. All I ask is that we wait awhile."
"All right," Wes agreed, finally managing a smile. "Why don't we go out for breakfast later?"
"Sounds good."
After the band's last number, the male members of Wicker Man exited through the back door, anxious to attend a party being thrown in their honor by one of their wealthier fans. After declining the invitation to join them, Rusty went to the dressing room to remove her stage makeup. She was using a cotton ball to wipe off the thick eye shadow and liner when she sensed a movement behind her. Suddenly, a strong arm grabbed her upper body and a cloth was placed over her mouth and nose. She breathed in the chloroform and swooned. When she came to, Rusty was in an unfamiliar room that could best be described as a damp, dark, cavernous cellar.
"Where am I?" she moaned.
Believing she was alone, she was startled when a voice from behind answered her question.
"You're in the cellar of the Paradise Lounge."
She turned her head and saw a figure in an old-fashioned tuxedo, wearing a plain white mask over his face. It was like a scene out of the Claude Rains' movie Phantom of the Opera.
"Who are you? What do you want? What am I doing here?"
"One question at a time, please."
Muffled by the mask, the man's voice was unrecognizable.
"Who are you?"
"I was the piano player in the Moonlight Room of the Paradise Lounge."
"You were one of the lucky ones to survive the fire?"
"Obviously," he replied. "I was able to escape the blaze through the side door that led out to the alley. Next question."
"How did I get here?"
"I brought you here. I've been keeping an eye on you the entire time you've been in Boston."
"You're the one who came into the dressing room through the closet!"
"Yes. There are all sorts of concealed passageways in that building. I've kept watch over you as you sat in the dressing room, while you were on stage and even when you were sitting at the bar."
"Why?" Rusty demanded to know. "What do you want with me?"
"I've been waiting for you to come back to me for twenty-five years."
"What are you talking about? Who do you think I am?"
"You are the reincarnation of Raquel Zane, the lounge singer at the Moonlight Room. I was her piano player as well as her lover."
"I'm not her," Rusty said, believing her captor was mentally disturbed. "I'm a nineteen-year-old rock singer from Nebraska."
"Do you think I wouldn't recognize you even after all these years. Your hair may be curly, and you're a little thinner than you were back then, but I recognized you at once. And even if I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, I would know your voice anywhere."
"I'm sorry for your loss; I really am. But I'm not Raquel Zane. I have my own life, my own singing career, a man that I love."
"None of what you've known in this life matters. We've been given another chance for happiness; we must take it!"
The phantom reached out a glove-covered hand, took her arm, unlocked the door and led her to another room where a table had been set with two long-stemmed glasses and an ice bucket containing a chilled bottle of champagne.
"We must toast to our reunion," he said as he popped the cork.
Rusty wanted to refuse, but her intuition told her to humor the madman.
"Thank you," she said sweetly as she accepted the drink.
"To us, my dearest Raquel," the phantom said and lifted the glass to his lips.
With no premeditated plan, Rusty acted on sheer impulse. She tossed the champagne into her captor's face, burning his eyes. Then she grabbed the half-empty bottle and hit him over the head as hard as she could manage. Dazed by the blow, he fell to the ground. Here was her chance to run, but she could not resist leaning over and removing the mask.
The sight of the phantom's burned flesh made Rusty gag. He had been so disfigured by the fire that he no longer looked human. This was no time for compassion, however. She fled the room, shutting the door behind her and locking her captor inside the cellar. She made her way through a maze of abandoned hallways and dead ends and eventually pushed open a second plywood panel that led into the dressing room closet. Although she recalled that Wes told her he had nailed it shut, she was too relieved by her escape to wonder why he lied to her.
Rusty had no idea how long it had been since she was abducted by the masked man, but the sun shining through the window indicated it was daytime. She debated who she should go to first: the police or Wes Buckland. In the end, she followed her heart and went to find the bartender.
* * *
Finding the door to Wes's apartment locked, she knocked, but there was no answer.
He might still be asleep, she thought and reached above the ledge for the spare key he kept there.
Rusty let herself into his apartment and walked to the bedroom. Not only was it empty, but the bed was neatly made. Either he had not come home last night or he had gotten up early and left already.
He's probably looking for me, she realized. We were supposed to go out to eat after the show last night. He must be wondering what has become of me.
In the days before everyone carried a cell phone, however, she had no way of contacting him.
I'll wait here for him to come home, she decided and sat down on his couch.
The afternoon waned, and there was still no sign of Wes. Bored with waiting, she walked over to a small bookcase that doubled as a stand for his portable Zenith television. On a shelf apparently devoted to books on bartending, she found a thick volume on the Paradise Lounge fire.
She thumbed through pages of photographs and read through the description of events that Wes had relayed to her over pancakes in the Providence diner. At the back of the book there were two lists included as an appendix. The first was a compilation of the names of the four hundred and ninety-eight people who perished in the fire.
You really existed, she thought with surprise when she saw Raquel Zane's name on the page. You're not some figment of that deranged lunatic's imagination.
With a trembling hand she turned several pages to the next list: the names of the one hundred and sixteen people who were injured. She held her breath as her eyes moved from one name to the next.
"Oh, my God!" she exclaimed when she read the name of the piano player at the Moonlight Room. "Wesley Buckland!"
Giving no thought to her safety, Rusty left Wes's apartment and returned to club.
"What are you doing here?" one of the cocktail waitresses asked. "I thought you were going to New York?"
"I am, but I want to see Wes first."
"He's not here. He was supposed to work tonight, but he didn't show up."
"I left my sunglasses on the vanity yesterday," the singer lied. "I'm just going to go get them."
She walked into the dressing room, through the panel at the back of the closet and into the secret passageway where the phantom had hidden to spy on her. With only a few wrong turns, she made her way back down to the cellar and discovered that the door was still locked.
"Are you in there?" she called.
There was a mumbled reply from the other room.
She opened the door and saw the phantom standing beside the table with the mask once again covering his face. Her eyes went to the broken champagne glass on the floor, and suddenly she grabbed onto the door frame for support as a torrent of memories flooded her brain.
"You got the champagne and the glasses from Casey's bar upstairs," she managed to say. "I came back to discover your identity, but I think I already know it."
"I told you who I am. I'm the piano player from the Paradise Lounge."
"You also told me you escaped the fire through the side door that led out to the alley, but that door was locked that night."
The phantom hung his masked head in remorse.
"I know. I was the one who locked it."
"Why would you do such a thing?"
"You were going to leave me. I had to stop you."
"You started the fire, didn't you? Then you ran out through the side door and locked everyone else inside to die."
"I couldn't let you leave! You meant everything to me. I couldn't bear living without you."
"Yet you saved yourself."
"I meant to die with you, but in the end I ... I was a coward."
"I'm not Raquel Zane," Rusty insisted as she reached out, removed the mask from the phantom's face and stared into the handsome bartender's blue eyes.
"Don't you see? I'm not the one who was reincarnated. You are. The piano player did escape from the burning building, but he was badly injured and died later that week in the hospital."
* * *
After recording a successful demo in New York, Wicker Man was awarded a record contract. Over the next eight years, they released six albums, one of which earned them a gold record and a Grammy nomination. Having decided not to make a seventh album after Sly Eckhardt died of a drug overdose, the group broke up. Pavel, Ty and Sparky found work with other bands, and Rusty Lyman returned home to Nebraska where she married a high school music teacher and settled down to raise three children.
Back in Boston, after years of psychoanalysis, Wes Buckland, whose real name was Dale Griffey, was finally able to repair his splintered psyche. Thanks to modern psychiatry, he eventually came to believe that his Moonlight Room piano player persona had been nothing more than a product of a childhood trauma and influenced by accounts of the tragic fire he had either heard or read about in his formative years.
"There is no such thing as reincarnation," he told his therapist at the conclusion of their final session. "It was all in my head."
Like Rusty, he married, had a family and led a normal life. Yet there were times when he lay awake in the late hours of the night, tortured by the sound of Raquel Zane's beautiful rendition of "Amazing Grace" being cut short by a shriek of terror and excruciating pain.
This story was inspired by the tragic 1942 fire at Boston's Cocoanut Grove nightclub.
This mask belongs to the Phantom of the Litter Box.
