Bandwagon

by Andrew Fish

money he made from writing his memoirs.

  Fortunately the band hadn’t claimed the rights to his name, so the book did bear his name and sold relatively well.

  When an unsigned band breaks up, of course, the situation is generally cheaper and more amicable – although resentment towards anyone seen as the cause of the break-up is a human prerogative that is rarely forgone.

  39

  After the various disruptions to their morning routine, the robots retired to the bar at lunchtime. Service was slow: the barman was engaged in a lively dispute with the club’s owner, who was accusing him of having stolen beer and Lube for the purposes of starting his own business on the side.

  The barman, for his part, was indignant in his defence. ‘When would I get a chance to run a pub on the side?’ he snapped. ‘With the money you pay me, I can barely afford to take time off to sleep.’

  ‘Well, someone’s taking them,’ said the manager, ‘and you’re in charge of security.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since we had to fire Karl for selling copies of the door key.’

  This was true. Strange, but true, but then Karl had always been an odd one.

  ‘You ought to get some surveillance cameras,’ the barman suggested.

  ‘Yes. I imagine those would go very well on the black market,’ the owner half-sneered half-wheezed. Considering further engagement would be hazardous to his health, he staggered away from the bar towards the door. The barman made a rude gesture behind his back then he turned to where Vid was waiting, his face switching to its cheerful, customer-facing mode as he did so.

  ‘What can I get you boys?’ he asked.

  ‘Lube, if there’s any going,’ said Vid.

  ‘Sure,’ said the barman and extracted some glasses from the irradiator.

  Vid pushed a stool aside and leaned on the bar in the manner of a robot who has seen too many films. ‘Having trouble with coughing Harry?’ he asked.

  The barman sighed. ‘Don’t get me started,’ he said. ‘If he could get me to pay for the privilege of working here, I’d be looking for a second job to fund the first.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a bit of a problem, though.’

  ‘The drinks? Oh, that’s nothing.’

  ‘Enough to get him on your back.’

  ‘Pretty much anything would be. He tried to sack me for throwing a coaster away once.’

  Vid nodded sympathetically. ‘I hope Tony’s been paying for our drinks,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said the barman. ‘Him and Harry are like family – what goes between them just ain’t my business. Besides, as long as I log that the drinks are being sold it’s fine.’

  ‘Just as long as you aren’t getting in trouble on our account.’

  ‘Not so far. I think he trusts the accounts more than he does me.’

  ‘So why don’t you just add the missing drinks to our tab?’

  ‘To your tab?’

  ‘It’s not as if we’re paying for them, is it? You add them to our tab and that way they won’t show up as stolen and Harry’ll get off your back.’

  ‘That’s really nice of you,’ the barman said, genuinely impressed. ‘By the way, there was this guy in here looking for you earlier…’

  ‘Hey metal-nose,’ a voice interrupted them from behind. The robots turned to see the scruffy drummer in the black T-Shirt.

  ‘Hi,’ said Vid amiably. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It ain’t. Gearhead is history.’

  ‘Gearhead?’

  ‘The band.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. Like it wasn’t your fault or nuffin.’

  ‘Our fault? Why? What did we do?’ Keys took his pint from the bar and gave a concerned sip.

  ‘Well, after your gig the other night, we basically stank, so the manager here fired us.’

  ‘Haven’t you got other gigs?’

  ‘No. This was the only place that would still take us on.’

  ‘So you’re giving up?’

  ‘Got any better ideas?’

  Vid shrugged. ‘But, I thought you cared about the music.’

  ‘Not as much as I care about where my next meal is coming from.’ The drummer sighed and looked at his shoes. ‘Look, I don’t really hold it against you guys. I mean, we basically stank anyway, but they’d never heard anything better here until you guys showed up.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘Dobbsy suggested we just go home. We’ve got a bit of cash, but if we spend another week over here, we won’t be able to go home without working passage again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘That would be the third time. You know, I’m thinking of taking on a permanent job as a deckhand – the money isn’t bad and nobody criticises your creativity. I mean, you can only play at being a musician for so long, can’t you?’ He smiled roguishly.

  Vid picked up on the tone and reciprocated. ‘When will you start?’ he said.

  The drummer looked at him askance. ‘You’re good with those digs, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard your singer complaining about it.’

  ‘Have you now?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, have you ever thought of going into comedy – I hear there’s a real boom in robot stand-up acts at the moment.’

  ‘Not my thing,’ said Vid. ‘I’m still playing at being a musician.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said the drummer. ‘Well, I’ll catch you around. Good luck.’

  Vid watched him go and then turned back to the bar. ‘Was that who you meant?’ he asked.

  The barman shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was a business-type. You know, starched collarband, electric tie, the whole bit.’

  ‘Did he say what he wanted?’

  The barman began to shake his head, then looked up. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ he suggested. ‘Here he comes.’

  The man whom Vid turned to observe would have been an unassuming one in another setting: he was of average build and his calm, clean-shaven face would not have impressed itself upon the average memory. What marked him out from the crowd was that he obviously took some measure of pride in his appearance – the cut of his suit betrayed that his level of income was higher than the average citizen of downtown Fadora, and his tie - a thin sliver of metal that hooked under his collar and bound the seams of his buttonless shirt – simply shimmered subtly unlike the glowing, gaudy ties of regulars on the club scene. His whole appearance suggested businessman – which gave Vid some pause since he didn’t, on the whole, have much of a business interest.

  ‘Good morning,’ the man greeted the robots, his voice calm and measured, showing that his confidence stretched beyond daring to wear smart clothes in a dodgy area.

  ‘Hi,’ Vid greeted him in return. ‘I heard you were looking for us.’

  ‘I was. My name is Emil Harker. I was wondering if you had representation.’

  ‘Representation?’ Vid’s puzzled gaze took in the suit once more and he leapt quickly to a conclusion. ‘They aren’t suing us, are they?’

  ‘Who?’ Emil asked, neither confirming nor denying at this point.

  ‘The Gearheads. They said that we’d ruined their career, you see. The guy did seem very friendly about it, which struck me as odd at the time…’

  The man made an odd hand-gesture which, coupled with the shaking of his head, Vid took to be a request for silence. He granted it. ‘It’s nothing like that,’ Emil said. ‘I didn’t mean that kind of representation. What I meant to say was “do you have an agent?”’

  Vid looked puzzled. ‘Agent, manager, you know the kind of thing?’ Emil persisted.

  ‘Oh,’ said Vid, light finally dawning. ‘Yes, we do have a manager, thank you.’

  ‘Oh,’ replied Emil, obviously surprised. ‘It’s just that I’d have thought that with you playing here…’

  Riff looked up from where he was sitting at the table. ‘He’s not a very good manager,’ he said.

  Emil lo
oked at him. ‘No? How so?’

  ‘I’d say that he’s more into his own interests than ours.’

  ‘They often are. Do you mind if I…?’ He motioned to a seat.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Riff told him. Emil sat down at the table, adjusting the stool for comfort as he did so. ‘Can we get you a drink?’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Emil, ‘I’m buying. Barman…’

  The barman, who had been surreptitiously trying to follow the conversation, suddenly realised that he was been spoken to directly and looked up from the glass that he was studiously polishing. ‘Yes. Hello Sir,’ he said. ‘May I get you something?’

  ‘I’ll have a dry white wine and these gentleman will have…’

  ‘Lube will be fine,’ said Riff.

  ‘…Lube,’ Emil continued.

  The barman headed across the bar, scratching his head and muttering something about remembering seeing some wine at one point. The agent, leaving the barman to his job, turned back to face the robots.

  ‘I’ve heard some very interesting stories about you gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You’re the talk of the town, you know.’

  ‘Not all bad, I hope,’ said Vid.

  Emil shook his head. ‘On the contrary, I’ve had a few venues approach me, assuming that I was managing you. You see, I have a certain reputation for being associated with the very best acts.’

  ‘Before or after they get there?’ Vid asked immediately. Riff jogged his arm and frowned at him.

  Emil seemed unfazed. ‘I understand your cynicism,’ he said. ‘You’ve obviously not had one of the better managers to date. Who is managing you?’

  ‘Tony Ombreggiati,’ said Riff, his voice adding layers of information to the words.

  ‘Ombreggiati. No, I can’t say that I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘I think we’re the first group he’s managed,’ Riff explained. ‘His usual