Music: Out of the Box 26 (The Girl in the Box Book 36)

by Robert J. Crane

  “No, no,” Jules said, gently but firmly. “Meditate. Soothe yourself.” He smiled. “I’ll warm them up, get them all set for you, and you come on out and knock ’em dead.” He winked. “You’ve got this.”

  Brance felt a curious chill in his blood as Jules shut the door.

  He did have this...didn’t he?

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Reed

  “So.” Yolanda Biddle had sidled up to me as soon as I was back to watching the protest unfolding at the gates next to the Lotsostuff entry. “Why did you stop it?”

  A cool breeze blew across me, rattling the nearby chainlink fence, barely audible over the protests. I wasn’t sure how they’d been chanting all day without their voices getting tired and scratchy, but they were still shouting, somehow. I looked at Yolanda, tempted to just blast myself into the air away from her again, but instead I asked, “What are you talking about?”

  “Logan Mills built this place on the backs of his workers,” Yolanda said, cradling her phone in front of her. Yep, this was an interview, and one I’d not given consent for. “Letting it get burned down would be justice. Why’d you stop it?”

  “How does burning it down help these people keep their jobs?” I asked, eyes slitted. “How does it get them what they want?”

  Yolanda shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Burning it down sends a message to Logan Mills that he can’t roll over people. He’d be forced to negotiate in good faith, finally.”

  “I don’t know if he’s negotiated in good faith up to now or not,” I said with a shrug. Something about this woman annoyed me to the point I was willing to defend Mills, who I found grating at best. “And it’s awfully presumptuous of you to say he built this place on their backs. It’s not like he didn’t pay them while they worked for him.”

  “Logan Mills is worth billions,” Yolanda said, looking at me like I was dumb. “You don’t see that money trickling down here, do you? And the wages he paid them? Theft. He treated them like dirt.”

  Every word she said was like needles in my skin, and again, I felt stirred to offer a defense of Logan Mills. Why? “They didn’t have to take the jobs,” I said. “And they actually pay better than any company around here for a starting wage, so there’s that.”

  “A lot of the employees actually like Mills personally,” Alan Kwon said, wandering over. He’d been taking pictures of the crowd, recording their latest chant. “Even some of the ones here. They just, y’know...want more money.”

  “Don’t we all,” I muttered.

  “Seems to me seeing part of this place burn would have been a nice strike for the workers,” Yolanda said, so haughtily. I looked her over; I doubted she’d done any warehouse work in her life. Her hands were perfectly manicured, lacking any callouses save for those caused by a pen and a keyboard.

  Why did that annoy me? Was it her bearing? The fact that she was lecturing, hectoring, and she didn’t have a clue what it was like to run a business?

  My eyelid fluttered in a twitch. Since when did I take up the cause of billionaire CEOs against their workers? I shook off the feeling, trying to get my concentration back on the protests. Ignoring Yolanda felt key to that.

  “Would you not want the cops and firefighters to show up if someone burned your apartment?” Alan asked. Good. Maybe if he and Yolanda got into it, I could stay out of it.

  “I didn’t steal my stuff,” Yolanda said.

  “No,” I said, launching myself in as a hot, red flare of anger welled up in me, “you make your living the honest reporter way—writing hack jobs against people like my sister that you know are composed of absolute bullshit. I see you over there, Yolanda, thinking you’re all righteous. Do you know how much damage you did to my family two thousand words at a time?” I let it all flow out. “Let me remind you: ‘Sienna Nealon is a Deadly Threat to Our Way of Life, and the Cops Should Shoot Her On Sight.’ June of last year, I believe, is when you published it.”

  Yolanda looked like I’d planted a fist right in her face, though I would never do any such thing (but Sienna totally would). “It was...right at the time.”

  “It was a lie at the time,” I said. “The evidence was out there. You weren’t looking for it. Why is that?”

  “I only have so much time and resources,” Yolanda sputtered.

  “Ahhh, so that’s the reason for your absolute career malpractice,” I said. “I noticed a lot of hot takes like that while Sienna was on the run.” I smiled, a little viciously. “In about five or ten years, so-called ‘reporters’ like you, you clickbait farmers who do nothing but sit around a newsroom and dick around on the internet while you try to generate outrage to get eyeballs on your sites and stories? You’re all going to be unemployed, because none of your insipid little websites or magazines or newspapers do anything but lose money. And I’m going to be sad, because it’s unfortunate to witness the death of a once-vital profession like journalism due to the narcissistic shit-mongering of low-grade crapweasels like you. Learn to code, asshole, because you’re going to be out of a job.”

  Alan made a little gasping noise, and his mouth was all sucked in itself. “Burn,” he whispered. “Like a super ghost pepper burn, wowza.”

  “Well, whatever,” Yolanda said, her heavily made-up face showing blush through the plaster of concealer. “We’ve been on her side lately, in case you missed it.”

  “How many articles did you guys write blasting her after that stupid thing went viral on Socialite?” I asked. “That she didn’t even write?”

  Yolanda flushed. “That’s just business. Everyone online was dragging her for that. We couldn’t stay out of it—”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to go against the herd or anything,” I said. “Show moral courage and swim against the consensus? Heaven forfend. That might mean you didn’t get as many clicks that day!”

  “What do you even care?” Yolanda asked, still clutching her phone in front of her. “Aren’t you two fallen out, or whatever?”

  “There’s a difference between having a big side of beef between me and my sister,” I said, “and not caring when the collective ADHD opinion columnist circle jerk takes aim at her.”

  And with that, I flew back up into the air, stewing. Yolanda shouted a question below me, but I ignored her, focusing on the overall clad protesters, floating in the weak February sunlight and letting the pleasant breeze lull me as I tuned out the dull roar of the crowd.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  Jules

  “Don’t let the kid out of his dressing room until I call for him,” Jules said, brushing past Gil on his path toward the stage. The dressing room was close, but not too close to the wings.

  “You got it, boss,” Gil said. “Knock ’em dead.”

  “Maybe.” All the smiles faded for a moment as Jules walked along the dim corridors of backstage, listening for the sound of his gathering out front. He could hear them, dimly. A peal of laughter here, someone’s loud comment there. Backstage was a warren of corridors, a miniature labyrinth. Not too complicated, fortunately. He found the stage in moments, and strode out like he owned the place. Because for tonight, at least, he did.

  “Welcome, welcome,” Jules said, throwing his arms expansively wide. “So glad you all could attend our little event here. I know it’s short notice, but I think it’s past time we all had a little sit down.”

  “Why here, Jules?” Charlie Xiong called out. Charlie was from the Triads. He had a reputation for not messing around. Evidence of his reputation had washed up in the Cumberland from time to time, which was a little bit messier than how most of them in the biz preferred to do things. For his part, Jules liked it when the people he wanted dead never turned up anywhere again. Not even a piece of them. “Kinda showy,” Charlie said. There was a hoot of laughter from one of his minions.

  “We all know it’s ‘First Class with No Class’ for you, Charlie,” Jules called back, grinning. “Naw, just kidding. Nothing but the best for you guys, that’s how I’m playin
g this.” He clapped his hands together, a little trick to get their attention. “I think you all know the general idea about why we’re here. A little confabulation among those of us in the biz who might be concerned about current events in Nashville. There’s some desire, springing from this, I think, to unify in the face of a new challenge from out of town. We’re all businessmen and women. All trying to capture our particular markets. Expand our revenues.”

  Jules looked out over his crowd. They were listening politely enough, but he had a little boundary to push here. Make himself understood to be a visionary. “We all deal with the same problems. The law sticking their nose in our business. Us, fighting back with lawyers. Putting the noses of their confidential informants out of joint—or in the river, in Charlie’s case.” Everyone laughed at that one but Charlie, and he just nodded.

  “I want to submit an idea to you,” Jules said, adopting a pensive pose. “What stops us—we few, we visionaries, we masters of our respective domains—from taking over the world?” He paused for effect. “Or at least Nashville?”

  “The cops,” someone called, prompting a hoot of agreement. What the hell, was there an owl in attendance?

  “You’re not wrong,” Jules said, pointing out in the direction the call had come from. He couldn’t see who had said it, but it didn’t matter. “See, in our respective businesses, sometimes you got to get tough with people. Most of us like to keep that under cover, right? Quiet like. Except Charlie.” Another hoot, definitely one of Charlie’s people this time. “Society is a little tender for some of our purposes. That’s an opportunity, right? They’re weak. Easily intimidated. But it’s a challenge because the cops, the TBI, even the FBI sometimes, they’re out there protecting the people from our honest efforts. How are you supposed to get a protection racket going in this town if the cops are always out there knocking down your door every time you establish a customer?”

  Jules clenched his fist. “We could take over everything, extend our reach well beyond its current, minuscule levels. But the violence it would require? Well, we all flinch from that. Too loud, we’d say. Too much attention. Not quiet like. We’d be gophers sticking our heads up and waiting for the hunters—or Sienna Nealon, apparently—to pop it off, am I right?” Of course he was right.

  “But what if there was a way to do the violence,” Jules said, “where it was deniable?” He paused. No one interrupted. “Gunshots are loud. Beatings leave bruises and scars. Surveillance tapes show what we do, what our mooks do, at least. But what if there was a way to put the fear of God in these people we want to do business with...and it didn’t leave those kind of marks? In fact, what if it took care of the surveillance video problem for us and left us with a kind of plausible deniability our lawyers love? Would that be of interest to you?”

  “Yeah. A flying car would be nice, too,” Larry shouted, and boy, did they laugh at that.

  “All I’m saying—” Jules kept his smile even “—is if someone could unite us and deliver that kind of business growth...why, there’d be a big piece of pie for all of us. Expand our revenue picture, give us control of things we never dreamed of having control over.”

  “And you’re going to do that, I suppose?” Larry called again. He waved a hand dismissively. “Come on, Jules. Back to the strip club. You’re high on your own product. Or mine—” Larry grinned “—since we all know mine’s the best stuff in town.” That produced another laugh, slightly more uneasy. These were competitive folks.

  “You guys just give it a thought for a minute,” Jules said, keeping up that grin. “Consider it. I’ve got some entertainment for you while you think it over. Okay?” He looked sideways offstage, wondering if Gil had gotten the message.

  A moment later, Brance appeared in the wings. He’d gotten the message and obeyed. Perfect.

  The mobsters were talking among themselves. “Gentlemen, lady...I give you...Brance.”

  And Jules walked off the stage to tepid applause as Brance took his place. He didn’t envy the kid at the start, because these guys probably thought Jules had brought some of his strippers, but that was okay. He’d win them over in the end.

  One way or another.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Brance

  It was his warmest and yet coldest introduction, being really the only one he’d ever gotten. Still, Brance walked out onto the Ryman stage with none of the thunderous applause he might have hoped for, but, then, there were probably only forty or so people—almost all of them guys—out in the audience. In his nervousness, Brance hadn’t even remembered who this audience was he was performing for. Probably some talent scouts or something, someone Jules was trying to impress.

  On wobbly legs, Brance stood in front of the microphone stand. He knew Leo was working the sound and light board, and past the stage lights, which were rising as the theater lights dimmed, the audience faded out beyond his view. Their conversations were audible, though. And hardly flattering.

  “I thought Jules’s entertainment would be prettier. And leggier.”

  “I don’t need to see him take anything off, thanks. Jules doesn’t need to be in charge of anything if this is his idea of a good time.”

  Brance sucked it up. He’d show them. “My name is Brance, and tonight I’m going to be performing ‘Is It Cold In Here’ by Joe Diffie.”

  Someone booed. That was okay. Brance took a breath, and the music started.

  Leo knew at least a little of what he was doing. The track was the background music, steel guitar kicking in, but with the vocals turned down somehow. That was good. Perfect, in fact. They’d rehearsed—briefly—so he could hear what he’d be doing, but not long enough to make him too much more jittery than he already was.

  Control. He just needed to control it.

  Here it came. Brance launched into the first verse, and the chatter before the stage cut off like he’d silenced them personally. He suppressed a smile. His voice had done that. Not the screeching, wailing, inhuman voice, either, because he wasn’t making that.

  No, it was his natural voice. He’d shut them up by sheer virtue of his performance.

  He could do this.

  Launching into the run-up to the chorus, Brance closed his eyes.

  And gave it everything he had.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Jules

  The earplugs did a fine job of tuning out the singing, Jules reflected. He stood in the wings next to Gil, watching Brance as much as the audience. He had a little bud of a microphone in his hand that would pipe directly to Brance’s earpiece when he needed to, but he’d have to step back a little farther from the stage, maybe all the way into the back, to keep the feedback from blowing up Brance’s ears. Sensitive little bitch would whine about that, too.

  “He’s doing a pretty good job,” Gil said. Jules lifted his headphones to hear the idiot.

  Then Jules nodded, frowning. He’d give it a little more time before he did his thing.

  The chorus gave way to the second verse, and a small burst of tepid applause broke, spontaneously, from some of the audience, surprising Jules. The kid did have a pretty good voice and all, but surely they didn’t think this was the actual show?

  They must have, though, because from his position at the side of the stage, Jules could see Charlie and his crew getting up, one of the bodyguards hesitating, like he wanted to stay. Charlie wanted to leave, clearly. Seen enough, he supposed.

  Then it was time to give it hell.

  Jogging back behind the stage, Jules flipped on the microphone. He huddled next to a potted fern, and said, “That’s great, kid. You’re really knocking them dead.” A pause for effect. “Think about how proud your mom and dad would be, seeing you up here achieving your dream like this.”

  Then he flicked the switch off on the microphone and waited, straining to hear through his earplugs.

  It didn’t take very long.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Brance

  “Think about how pro
ud your mom and dad would be, seeing you up here achieving your dream like this.”

  Jules’s words cut through Brance’s concentration like a bone saw starting up. He was deep in the second verse, running up to the chorus, letting loose with his voice—

  He could feel that waver of uncertainty run through him. A little emotional tremor. He’d been so focused on the song, delivering the song, making the song sing. Why had Jules gone and brought up his parents?

  Now he felt...off. He warbled a wrong note. Then another one, trying to bring himself back on track.

  Something was wrong, though. He was on the right note, he could feel it.

  There was something else, something beyond—

  Screaming.

  No, it couldn’t be. It was in his head. He’d just hold this note and it’d be fine.

  This was his dream, dammit. He had to hold this note. All day, if need be. He’d show these talent agents or scouts or whoever they were what he could do.

  Think of the dream. He tried to, but somehow the thought of his dad laughing at him when Brance told him he was moving to Nashville echoed in his ear, loud and high and cold and cruel, and terribly, terribly off key.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Jules

  Holding his hands over his ears, Jules still felt his eyes twitch a little. The plugs helped keep the worst effects of Brance’s singing voice off of him, but they were hardly perfect, and it still rang in his head like a shrill bell going off ceaselessly.

  Gil didn’t look to be having much better of a time. He was holding his hands over his earmuffs, cringing. It was loud, it was agonizing.

  It was perfect.

  Jules looked out, past the stage lights, over the crowd. Some of them were writhing. Some were screaming, he was pretty sure, though it was hard to tell over Brance’s caterwauling. No one was upright and walking. Charlie and his entourage were visible up the aisle. They’d almost made it to the door, but not quite, and now they were forced to stay, squirming in the aisle, regardless of what they’d wished.