by Mark Pryor
“What?” I genuinely didn't understand. “Who makes you sniff whose fingers?”
“That's my job. To sniff the fingers of the little assholes when they come to school every morning, and sometimes after lunch. It's to see if they've been smoking weed.”
“That's…unpleasant.”
“It's worse than that, it's disgusting. They're the punks and I'm the one being humiliated. They know it, too.”
“And what if you smell weed on them?”
“That gives me probable cause to search their stuff. Backpacks, pockets, whatever.”
“I can't believe they make you do that. Can you refuse? Tell them to buy a dog, or something?”
“No.” He heaved a sigh and looked up at me. “Truth is, I can't lose this job, Dom. It's part-time as it is. I'm hoping to live like a beggar for a year or two, cash in my retirement, and go buy out half of my brother's business, a bar on the beach in Tampa. Twenty grand, and I can spend my days wearing flowered shirts and serving drinks to chicks in bikinis. I'm looking to start a new security gig soon, some fancy new apartment complex off Seventh Street, all co-eds and cheerleaders, I'm hoping.”
“That doesn't sound too bad.”
“Yeah, if it happens. Meanwhile, I gotta hold on a little while longer, and I sure as hell can't afford to lose this job, no matter what they make me do.”
“Jeez, I'm sorry.” I wasn't, I didn't care in the slightest, but I also didn't know what else to say. Every thought that popped into my head made the humiliation worse, and I saw no point in that right now. The guy wasn't wallowing in his misery. He'd all but given up the struggle, like a man neck-deep in quicksand, hoping against hope that by staying still he'd make it. But I also didn't have the mental energy to steer us back toward a polite and meaningless conversation, so I just asked him about the case, the reason he was there. We looked over his written report of the incident, going through the motions, pretending he needed to be prepped.
He left after about twenty minutes, offering a handshake that my father would have described as “wet-fish”—cold, clammy, and weak. I walked out into the atrium with him and watched as he trudged down the stairs into the parking lot. I half expected him to climb onto an AISD bicycle, complete with pink ribbons and basket, but I remembered his weight and figured he'd not seen a bicycle in a few years. An image of donkey transportation popped into my head, but I held my smile until I was sure he wouldn't see me. I scanned the lot, looking for a police vehicle, wondering if they'd given him that much, but it was his own car he clambered into, a battered white Chevy with one working brake light and a rear license plate screwed on not quite straight.
I turned back toward the security door, but a flash of color to my left caught my eye. She stood against the side wall, her hands behind her back, her eyes on me and her head tilted to one side, just a fraction. My pale, thin girl wearing the same lime-green dress that she had on this morning, the same bright-red shoes telling everyone to look her way so she could look right back.
I knew I was staring, but she was, too, so I didn't stop. I couldn't understand why she was there and I wondered if she'd tracked me down, but that made no sense. Women, relationships, have always been the hardest things for me to figure out. It can begin with a sort of childish infatuation, and it's needy and possessive. No matter her wonderful qualities, we don't appreciate a woman unless those qualities are of some benefit to us, and if so, we horde and exploit them. Not maliciously, not always anyway, but the way a child will charm his mother into buying him a toy, then thank her with kisses and hugs until the next crushing need arises. And like a child, I will lie to impress.
I took a step toward the girl and noticed the lanyard around her neck. It struck me that she might work there, too. “Hello,” I said.
“Hello again.” Her voice was soft but flat, leaving me with no idea if she was being polite or shy.
“You're a fugitive from the law, aren't you?” I said it to be funny, to break some of the ice, but something flickered in her eyes and she didn't smile.
“No.”
“I was kidding. After this morning.”
She nodded and finally looked away, down to the floor. I followed her gaze, and my eyes locked onto her red shoes, her thin ankles, the hard muscle of her calves. I forced myself to look at her, but when I opened my mouth I didn't know what to say. I cleared my throat, hoping it would clear my mind, and it restarted my brain at a fundamental level.
“Do you work here?” I asked.
“No.”
I looked at the lanyard around her neck and saw that it wasn't a badge after all, but a visitor's pass.
“I'm here for my brother, Bobby. He was picked up last night for drugs. Hoping I can take him home.”
“Really? I guess I shouldn't be talking to you, then.”
“Why?”
“I'm a prosecutor here. First day on the job.”
“Oh.” I'd expected suspicion or distaste, but she seemed disinterested, and it crossed my mind that she might be on something herself. But when she looked at me again, those wide, brown eyes were clear, stunningly clear, and I was unable to look away, let alone walk away. The only question I could come up with drew me further toward forbidden territory.
“How old is your brother?”
“Twelve.” She glanced over my shoulder, but when I checked, no one was there.
“You don't talk much, do you?”
“You said we shouldn't be talking at all.”
“True. We probably shouldn't.”
She turned her eyes back on me, and I know what it felt like to be a rabbit in headlights. What I couldn't be sure of was whether she was doing it on purpose, whether she knew that each time she looked at me full-on like that, my mouth dried up and my blood fizzed.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“England, originally.” I wanted to tell her the story, how I got here and why I stayed, but I didn't want to do it here, and she didn't press.
I heard voices behind me and we both looked over to see a teenage boy walking alongside an adult.
“That's my brother. And his probation officer.”
“He has one already?”
“We've been here before,” she explained, her voice still flat, quiet.
She started to move away from the wall toward them, and I tried to give her room but froze when she paused and put a hand on my forearm. She was looking at me, touching me, with the simplicity and innocence of a teenager, and I didn't know what to do or feel. Her eyes locked mine in place, and she gave her first smile, just a gentle tilt of her lips.
“I hope your gig goes well tonight,” she said. “If I can, maybe I'll come watch.”
She drifted away, leaving me with the lingering touch of her hand and the soft smell of baby powder. Confusion spun inside me and for a moment I just stared at the wall, wondering. But no answer made sense; I simply couldn't fathom how she knew I was a musician.
And then I smiled because the part that mattered right there and then was simply that she did know. She knew I was a musician. And that mattered not just because girls like musicians but because the fact that she'd found that out meant she was interested in me before she knew.
And if there's one thing I like, it's having a beautiful girl chase me.
I made it to the Norman Pub that evening, thirty minutes before I was due to play and planning on my usual routine of an orange juice and tonic water over ice while sitting on the front deck. I used to drink, but it's one of the things I gave up, like violence, because even a calm and rational man can find his mask slipping when he's had a few. Because I'm hardwired to lie, exaggerate, and act impulsively, alcohol was a risk I'd stopped taking.
I was also there to hang out with perhaps my best friend, and the night's main act, Gus Cronstedt. Gus was a Costa Rican–Swede who'd inherited the best physical characteristics of each culture, leaving him tall, dark, and handsome, with the iciest blue eyes I'd ever seen.
We'd known each other for several years
, having met in court. He was an immigration lawyer who found himself out of his depth in criminal court one morning. I'd enjoyed watching him flail, but after a few minutes I figured I could get some traction, an edge of sorts, by offering to help. The solicitous prosecutor, I'd held his hand and shown him which forms to fill out and helped him get a good deal for his client. Not because I cared, of course, but because I wanted him in my debt, and, as usual, I was right about the favor: he'd been overly grateful ever since.
He was an odd duck, though, one of those guys who'd sit around and watch everyone else talk, occasionally offering comment in a deadpan delivery, whether it was a political statement or a joke. Like when he told people about his cousin, Thor Einarss, he'd repeat the name until they got he was saying “sore anus.” Although that one actually made him laugh. But generally he was quiet and introverted, which is why he preferred the solitude of his office to the stage. He was good, though, his voice and songs powerful and hypnotic, and he was one of the few part-time Austin musicians whom the clubs willingly paid to play. The fact that he had to be dragged kicking and screaming made him all the more attractive. I should've minded, been jealous, but even I loved hearing him play, and he always insisted that I open for him so any resentment on my part would have been counterproductive.
He was already at the wooden picnic table when I arrived, and he had bought my drink. All around us, outdoor fans wafted at the evening heat. Each one was armed with a tiny spray pump, and together they set a mist all over the patio, like a foggy heath from my homeland. Despite them, it was baking hot.
“So what's going on?” I sat down and nodded at my waiting drink. “That for a reason?”
“They changed the lineup,” Gus said, not looking me in the eye.
“Changed it how?”
He shrugged. “Don't know all the details, Marley wouldn't say.” Marley Jensen, the owner of the pub. He was one of those older, balding guys who managed a ponytail. His was white, plus a few yellow patches from the haze of cigarette smoke he'd lived in for the past fifty years. His voice was scratchy, his eyes watery, but he was generally an honest guy and loved his music.
“Are you trying to tell me I'm not playing tonight?” Lineups changed, of course, but not last-minute, and whoever was in charge of booking usually had the decency to call the affected musician. Even if it was just a guy playing for tips.
“That's what he said.”
“Seriously?” I felt a hot flash of anger that chilled immediately, like the end of a fuse that flares for a second, then settles in for its slow, lethal burn. “Is he inside?”
“No. Went out for the pizzas.”
The Norman Pub was small enough that it didn't serve food, but Marley would buy a dozen pizzas from the little place next door and sell them at the bar, good and hot around 7 p.m., cold and stringy by midnight. He was a lush and brought in the pizzas early, as opposed to in shifts, because pretty soon after the music started he began knocking back bourbon, and by the middle of the evening he'd have tripped over his feet or gotten lost on the short trip to the pizza place.
We sat in silence for a minute as my mind ticked over and I wondered what might have happened, and how I should handle it. I put my anger on hold until I could get some answers from Marley, not wanting to think about revenge until I knew it was required. In the meantime, I didn't want Gus to think it was a big deal, that I was overly upset, so I talked as if all was normal.
“Any new material?” I asked.
“Yeah. Couple of songs. Been slow at work, so I've had more time to write.”
“Slow? I thought Mexicans were pouring across the border just to come to your office.”
“Whatever. Plenty of them in Austin, but those who do show up want the advice but don't want to pay for it. Fuckers.” I wasn't sure if he meant that, if his disgruntlement was real or for show. “What about you?”
“Same set,” I said. “Six songs, then I'll slide out the way and get drunk while the chicks throw their panties at you.”
They did, pretty much. Gus was married, though, and I'd barely seen him look at another woman. He tried to steer them my way, and sometimes it worked. Another reason I didn't resent opening for him.
“Yeah, well, I like your stuff,” he said, looking over my shoulder. I turned to watch Marley walk across the parking lot between the pub and the pizza shop, pie boxes piled high and balanced with both hands. I wanted to trip him.
“Be right there,” he said as he went past and shouldered his way into the pub, the tower of pizzas leaning dangerously as he disappeared inside. We sat in silence until he reappeared two minutes later. He stopped halfway between us and the door.
“Talk to you?” he said.
“Over here, sure.” I didn't see any reason to get up or conceal the conversation from Gus.
“Sure.” Marley came over and sat down. “Dude. I'm sorry, but I've got bad news.”
“So I gather. You're really not letting me play?”
He ran a hand over his head, adjusting his ponytail. “Yeah, a problem came up. Don't really know how to say it, honestly. Kinda fucked-up, really.”
“Spit it out.”
“Someone said you'd stolen a song. Copied, I guess.”
My mouth fell open, but I was speechless. Not that stealing a song was beyond me, I just hadn't. I'd only do that if I could be sure of getting away with it, and if I actually needed to. I enjoyed the process of writing songs, creating my own little worlds with each one. And, as I said, the fact was I hadn't stolen anyone's song.
“Now, I know that's a helluva accusation, bub, and I'm not the one making it. You need to know that straight up.”
“Then who the fuck—?”
“Just hold on, we need to take this slow and easy.”
“The fuck we do.” The fuse was lit and I was looking for a direction to explode. “This is bullshit. I've never stolen a thing.” Not even close to true, but I'd not stolen anything for a long, long time. “Marley, I've never copied anyone's music or lyrics. Ever.” Quite true.
He held up his hands, but in defense, not surrender. “I have no idea what the fuck's going on, but the person who called me also plays here sometimes, and so I can't let you on stage tonight. Just tonight, okay?”
“What ‘person’? Who?” I demanded. I felt like a sniper, swinging my scope across an empty battlefield, looking for a target.
“I don't want to say, don't want to start a feud.” He held up his hands again, this time to calm me down. “I have your music, and his, on tape. I'll just listen and decide. Seriously, Dom, it's an easy fix.”
“Bullshit. Even if they're similar, how do you know he didn't copy mine, whoever this mysterious fuckface is.”
“If they're similar, we'll worry about it then, okay?”
“No, not okay. This is bullshit, seriously bullshit.”
“I know, I know. It's upsetting to be accused of something you didn't do. Happened to me once.” His eyes flickered at me, as if he meant something by that. As a prosecutor, I'd heard the line before from various people, and it was usually used as a justification for shafting me. He turned to Gus. “Change your mind?”
“Nope, sorry.”
A silence descended, and I looked between them. “About what?”
“He said that if you weren't allowed to play, he wasn't going to.” Marley said it matter-of-factly, as if a striking musician was to be expected.
“Why?” As soon as I said it, I knew this was one of those empathy things that I didn't get but needed to be on the lookout for.
“Why do you think?” Gus said, maintaining eye contact with his drink.
“That's sweet, Gus, but stupid,” I said, meaning it. “What good does this do you?”
As much time as I'd spent trying to understand empaths, mimic them, become one, this kind of thing bamboozled me. To act in a way that benefited no one and annoyed the people who funded you, to make a meaningless gesture in support of someone who was not only indifferent and would nev
er do the same for you (the latter he couldn't know, of course)…it was bizarre. I argued with him. Not to change his mind, because I didn't much care, but to understand. “You want out of the office rat race as much as I do, and people actually pay to hear you play. Why would you risk pissing off your fans and your employers?” Again, true, and as I said, I certainly wouldn't have done the same for him.
The other thing at play here was that I didn't like people doing me favors I couldn't return. A fundamental principle of controlling the people around you is gaining power over them, having them in your debt. It didn't matter that I wouldn't pay him back; it was that reversal of the power balance I didn't like. And, truthfully, I didn't like not understanding his motivations and subsequent actions. Solidarity and friendship, sure, whatever, but how strong could those things be, even for empaths (and Gus had always struck me as something of a lone wolf, not the do-gooder type)? The musical ladder was slippery enough without taking voluntary nosedives on principle, even for friends. I was obviously missing something because Marley seemed pretty phlegmatic about it when he should have been angry.
“Yeah, solidarity, friendship, and all that shit,” Gus said, reading my mind.
Marley started toward the door. “I got another act on the way, I need to check on them. As I said, I'll listen closely to both songs and call you. Tomorrow, I promise.”
Tomorrow.
Depending on what he said tomorrow, and it was physically painful to have to wait for someone else's judgment like that, my music career in Austin could be over. Such an irony, too, because I'd manipulated and cheated to do well in law school, not much but enough, and more than a few defendants had enhanced my reputation with long prison sentences that resulted from missing or tampered-with evidence. But music, that was the one area I'd played it fair, the only place I'd never felt inclined to cheat. And not because of some moral compunction but because there'd been no need. I simply had the skills and the talent to satisfy myself in that arena, to be confident that my stuff was good and different enough from everyone else's that we weren't really in competition. I'd really believed that one day I could leave the law behind and soak myself in writing and singing, leave behind the daily toil of manipulating my colleagues and my opponents for the life I felt I deserved, the one that was easier and more fulfilling.
