Lords of Salem by Rob Zombie Page A

antique, or at least had been made to look like it was. Crazy the things a band would do to get noticed. A folded note was taped toit, and on the top of the box was a symbol. A rough circle, a small upturned half circle within its top and a small downturned half circle in its bottom half, the two connected by a line that was in turn cut across by another line with a dot at either end of it. Pretty cool , she thought. Blixa Bargeld would be proud.
    “Check this out,” she said, bringing it back to the table.
    “Cool promo,” said Whitey. “Who is it?”
    Heidi plucked the note off the box’s lid, read it. “Some band called the Lords, I guess,” she said.
    “Never heard of them,” said Herman.
    “That’s because they’re not from the seventies,” said Whitey.
    “Ha-ha,” said Herman. “Very funny.”
    Heidi looked for a way to open the box. She could tell the lid from the rest of the box by a shift in the grain of the wood, but there were no hinges, no hasp either. Maybe it wasn’t locked at all. She tried to push it up with her fingers but something held it closed, some hidden latch.
    “Let me try,” said Whitey.
    “I got it,” said Heidi, slapping his hand away. She ran her fingers along the line of the lid, looking for something, not quite sure what. Other than the symbol on the top of the lid the box was unadorned, with no marks or carvings of any kind. It really did look antique—whoever had put the promo box together had done a great job of making it look distressed, as if it had been buried for a few hundred years and was just now being seen again for the first time. It even smelled old, and the groove of the wood grain had turned gray in places from what looked like dust.
    But what was the point of having a promo that nobody could figure out how to open? Heidi wondered why she should bother, why she shouldn’t just throw it in the trash. The band probably wasn’t all that good anyway—they seldom were. Herman and Whitey were already starting to lose interest, might even have left the table if there hadn’t still been wine to drink.
    She let her finger trace the symbol on the lid and then, on a whim, placed a finger on each of the two dots at the end of the crosspiece. Something clicked and the lid of the box came suddenly loose.
    “Cool trick,” said Herman.
    She carefully worked the lid off and set it to one side. Inside was a record. She cradled it by its edge and lifted it out. It was black and oddly heavy, and when she looked at it from the side it seemed strangely thick. She saw Herman staring at her with a skeptical look.
    “Sure as shit… it’s shit,” he said. He drained off what was left in his mug and poured some more.
    “Just for that I’m going to take it home and give it a listen,” said Heidi. She lifted it back into the box and placed the lid back on. It clicked into place and once again the lid was latched on, the box impossible to open without pressing on the dots. Then she shoved it into her messenger bag. Should I really bother? she wondered.
    Herman raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to you discovering the next Earth, Wind, and Fire,” he said.
    Just for that, I will bother , thought Heidi. And if it’s good, I’ll figure out some way to tell Herman “I told you so.”
    “You got to update your references, dude,” said Whitey.
    Herman stared at him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t have to do nothing,” he said. He stared back without blinking. They held the look until it was too much and they both burst out laughing. Herman got up and opened another bottle.
    By the time they were walking out of the station, all three of them were pretty loaded. Heidi was carrying the bottle and drinking straight from it. Outside it was dark. The air, which had been crisp before, was now windy and freezing. Herman shivered.
    “Goddamn!” he said, fumbling at his coat’s zipper. “It’s fucking witchy titty cold out here. Man, I hate this time of year.” Still