Page 112 of Antihero

A feedback whine cut off their conversation, and then the band was announced to distracted applause and a few lonely whoops. The curtain came up and there they were: the imitation Beatles. The mop-top wigs were terrible, heads flopping back and forth as they opened with a stunningly prosaic rendition of “Love Me Do.” The music was mercifully loud, nearly sufficient to eclipse the out-of-tune vocals.

George, the oldest, was the clear leader of the band. During the chorus, he roamed the stage, frowning and signaling to his bandmates and the sound guys, calling for adjustments that had no discernible effect. Softening into middle age, John was a middling talent who’d probably had the third-best voice from his high school back in the day, no doubt drove the girls crazy playing proms. His Lennon glasses were lensless. Paul looked five years past his prime, rouged cheeks highlighting his round face to young him up. He was mustering his residual talent as best he could, but his voice was mostly shot, the strain lending it a decidedly non–Fab Four rasp. Ringo looked to be two steps out of music college, Berklee or USC’s Thornton perhaps, and it seemed to be dawning on him in real time that this was what an entertainer’s life looked like. The most skilled, he played with a barely suppressed fuck-my-life depressive rage, eyes knifing off into the middle distance as his hands flicked the drumsticks robotically.

As the band rolled into the next set, the prix fixe dinner arrived, all courses in rapid succession—wilted salad, stringy asparagus, potatoes with grainy innards, chicken slimed in fatty skin. Evan poked and nibbled and then opted for strategic rearrangement on the plate.

“Let’s hear it for Ringo!” George said, clapping overhead. “C’mon, that’s all you got for Ringo?”

The food, the drink, the music, the dancing—there was nothing outstanding anywhere in sight. And yet everyone seemed to be having fun. They were drinking and drinking and drinking their well booze from thick outdoor cups, nodding along glassy-eyed or dancing out of step. Evan did not understand. Speaker static crackled at intervals throughout “Please Please Me,” and he was starting to feel ill and was not sure what he was doing here or how to remain here. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mia glance over at him, concerned.

“We have T-shirts and CDs for sale at the booth,” George said. “They make wonderful Christmas gifts.”

“Christmas!” John shticked. “It’s February!”

“Late Christmas gifts.”

A sole lady in the audience laughed, a dry cackle.

“We’re gonna take a quick break—but we’ll be back soon for a … Magical Mystery Tour!” John airplaned his arms at a tilt, wiggled his fingers, and flew himself off the stage. The others followed, except for Paul, who hopped arthritically off the platform and approached.

Mia rose to receive him, and he kissed her on both cheeks. “Hello, honey. And thank you for coming to see us.” His affect, completely different offstage.

“How’s Phil?”

“Been home three weeks. Doing better. Still drinking through a straw so it’s smoothies, smoothies, smoothies. But thank you. You are our legal goddess.” He looked askance at Evan. “Who’s Mr. Man here?”

“A friend.”

“Friend?” Paul shook his head. “Foolish, foolish man.”

He swept off rather grandly, disappearing backstage.

“His husband,” Mia said. “Beaten with a tire jack leaving a club.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” she said. “I prosecuted the offender. He’s serving seven years. And they won a fifty-thousand-dollar settlement in civil.”

“Seven years? Fifty K? That’s it?”

“That’s all we could get. And all the defendant had.” Mia fanned a hand around the room. “This is the world I live in. Where I have to make decisions about the law. Where I negotiate small victories for people like Phil and Sam. In the everyday grind.”

Evan tried to imagine a legal action against RedLite with their Luxembourg holding company, endless phantom corps, and legion lawyers. Building a case, pulling warrants, motions and filings, summonses and court delays. It would take forever. And during that forever, Anca Dumitrescu would be uploaded anew, raped again and again over the course of perennial viewings.

“You think that works?” Evan said. “For people without money, resources, connections—you see them having a fair shot?”

“I don’t see the fair shot, Evan. I make it. I am it.” Mia’s pique showed in the flush coming up in her cheeks, muting those faint freckles. “In fact, that’s the only way it works. Anything else? Is a threat to that system.”

Her reaction seemed pointed, aimed directly at him.

“I offended you,” he observed.

“No,” she said, though he knew he had. “I just don’t have the luxury of ignoring all the rules. Like some people.”

“Allegedly,” he said.

Her nostrils flared. “Allegedly,” she conceded.

The band reemerged to scattered applause, their wigs now shaggy. John shaded his eyes, surveyed the spotty attendance with a hammy squint. “Glad to be back out among all you fine … dozens of people. From the looks of it, we’re already on a first-name basis with everyone here.”