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Dane was a reliable guitarist until he got addicted to ants. Now he’s just a giant anteater with an abysmal grade point average. On a date with lead singer, Serena, they witness a gruesome incident. Waking up in the hospital, Dane realizes Serena’s missing. Going to the police only gets him a felony for possession of ants. Now, forced to lick the habit while he tracks down Serena, he’s going to need a little help from the band.
Investigating familiar watering holes (while stopping for one or two drinks) leads him to an underground criminal organization. Is it a coincidence that a feline fatale attempts to recruit him for the mob? Should he expose the dirty underbelly of their society, putting Serena and his band on the line, or try to take them down from the inside? Either way, it’s going to take more than the Komodo dragon on clarinet.
Read an Excerpt from Undertones
Chapter 1
Dane squinted the glare out of his eyes. His eyes were narrow to begin with. They watered up with the effort, the tip of his long nose curled up slightly, and the string of red tongue emerged for a second, like a serpent’s testing the air for danger. The familiar sensation of ants crawling inside his nasal cavity came and went, and he clenched the muscles of his snout to alleviate the aggravating itch. He often ran his noodle-like tongue along the gritty channel of his mouth, searching for stray flavors. Later, in the privacy of his apartment, he would pick the wrinkled bag of dried ants out of his pocket and go to town. But for now, he leaned against the tall speaker, playing it off with style, totally aware that he was the only giant anteater in the room.
The stage was set. Everything gleamed. Gaston flexed nimble fingers above the ivories. Years ago Dane caught sight of the numbat at a nursing home, performing for a herd of elderly gnus. For a numbat, he could cover a huge range, and his tail curved under the stool, patterned like the keys, and would often lever his lightweight body from side to side as he tickled or pounded out the notes.
The crowd was restless, though you could not really call the half-empty barroom a crowd. Dane could not wait for the set to end. The first few songs had gone okay, but they were beginning to bleed together in his mind like the past few nights, and the various flavors of his life. Luckily, he got by on muscle-memory alone, and let the music carry him away. It had always been like that, tough to start, but once he got going, no big deal at all. At times a euphoric bliss came over him during a guitar solo. It was the closest thing he knew to eating ants.
After lapping his reed from end to end, Rick blew a test note on his tenor sax, causing an irritable bison in the front row to jump. The shaggy-headed mammal turned his head slowly, catching glints of neon light in his greasy beard. Rick did not apologize but hopped back. Dane told them to minimize eye contact with audience members. They were putting on a show, after all.
Like any good jazz band, a third of their time was spent warming up. Gaston drummed his foot, and music started to flow out of the upright Yamaha. According to him, this approach built tension in the room. A few lingering notes tricked animals into thinking something was about to happen. Once the goat bartender got that impatient look on his mug and gripped the grimy rag until it squeaked against the smooth counter, all Dane had to do was nod his head at his companions, and the opening riff would erupt abruptly from Ava’s bass as if she had stumbled onto it by accident. Then the trumpets and drums would burble to life, drawing a few glances from tables in front, and the waiter paused in the act of setting down a pitcher, flash-frozen by jazz. Conversations broke off, and every corner of the dusty room filled with the majesty of their sound, like a mesmerizing fog.
Dane did not bother trying to read the audience anymore. Only the sound mattered. It was an interplay of high and low; a meshing of natural rhythms that had existed in their bodies since the day they were born. For him, it came as easily as conversation, intimate talk between lovers - or how he imagined intimacy to be. He loved the certainty of it, but more than that, he loved the formula behind it. Put notes together like a good equation, and the world swooned or cried. It passed like a dream. Someone had turned the hands of the clock - no, their allotted three hours were already up.
A profound dryness asserted itself in his mouth. He watched Chelsea place her fiddle in its case, handling it as gently as a newborn chick, with the tips of her feathers. She caressed it one last time before shutting the lid.
“What kind of jazz was that?” a cob with an incredibly high collar said, bending to gurgle his fizzy water in a shallow bowl.
“Dirty jazz,” Dane replied, wiping spittle off the microphone with exaggerated slowness.
Dipping his beak by tilting the effeminate glass ever-so-slightly, the middle-aged swan leaned in with wide eyes. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything classy from a place called The Hair of the Dog. However, I’m surprised you keep an avian in your band.” The swan gave a look to Chelsea that spoke of how he felt about birds deigning to play in such a motley group.
“There’s a froufrou pub on Jefferson and Maine called Horse Feathers,” Dane said snidely. “Too much glockenspiel for my taste, but it might tickle your fancy.”
The swan snorted, and rolled his pure black eyes before whispering something to his companion.
“Can’t wait to get out of here,” Gaston said, slamming the keylid shut, “I haven’t even started my Geology assignment yet.
“I’m in the same boat, mate.” Rick said, slinging his case over his back. “Chels, I think we might need to reschedule our date. That blasted professor assigned a devil of a paper right at the start of the semester.”
The burrowing owl fluttered onto the kangaroo’s muscular shoulder. “Working date is okay. I finished it yesterday. I always love Geology!” It is hard to tell when an owl is kidding, but Chelsea had a way of ironically turning her head around one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.
“You go on without me,” Dane said, “I’ve got to see Harrison about something.”
Gaston paused, putting on his diminutive gloves, and stared enigmatically at his roommate. Behind his glasses, his eyes betrayed a knowing calm.
“Don’t give me that look,” Dane laughed, unsettled by the numbat’s glare. “Just want him to comp me for taxi fare - that time I filled in for that other singer.”
Gaston clearly did not buy it, but followed Chelsea and Rick down the creaking stairs, lugging his backpack.
Ava straightened her glasses, smoothing the furrow in the red fur of her nose. “I suppose Tech and I’ll handle the amps?” She said coolly, straightening the bandanna over her dreadlocks.
“Sure. Whatever,” Dane said to the red panda before idling up to the bar. He had to squeeze his bulky frame between two small tables, drawing stares from a group of cats in three-piece suits. He barely caught himself before stepping on the cleaning sparrow, who picked at microscopic crumbs underfoot.
“Hey, Billy.” Dane called to the one-horned barmen. The goat spat into a nearby spittoon.
“You know I hate being called Billy,” he said dryly. “It’s William. Why do you think I go by my last name?”
“No one calls you Harrison when you’re not around, you know?” Dane said, leaning on the counter.
“Get to the point. I’m surprised you’re still here. Don’t you go to the clubs?”
“We’re college students. That means we have classes.” Dane’s tone made it clear how little stock he put in academic pursuits. “Now, I didn’t come here to chat.” He lowered his voice, directed his eyes to either side of the bar, and said, “How about a cup of crawling joe?” He hid his urgency with effort. The goat smiled thickly, and finished polishing a cloudy glass.
Grinning at Dane with toothy arrogance for several seconds, he said, “You keep going through them at this rate and you’ll have to start stealing them from the sanctuaries.”
Nonetheless, he pulled out an unmarked, black velvet bag. Dane took it and glanced inside. Live ants crawled around inside like a congealed shadow. “Hey, we all have our vices.”
“Well, I don’t mind slipping folks a fix here and there, but if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself in pretty bad shape.”
Dane shrugged, “I’m still young, aren’t I?”
“Young and inexperienced.”
“Speak for yourself.” Dane laid down a small wad of cash before heading for the door.
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They have always been a cat person (a person who like cats, not a cat human hybrid).
Every house needs at least one room completely crammed with books, so they believe. Other rooms should contain scattered piles.
Their short stories and poems have appeared in Chrome Baby, Havok, Aphelion, Bull & Cross, Red Fez, Bewildering Stories, The Ansible, 365Tomorrows, Commuter Lit, Farther Stars than These and other secluded places on the Internet.
Aside from writing Science Fiction, Fantasy, Noir & Magical Realism, they enjoy long walks on short beaches, black coffee on the rocks, and level grinding.
