by Jim Stein
“Ed!” Quinn pushed away from the papers on the dinette and crushed me in an enthusiastic hug.
She looked awesome in her short skirt and shabby-chic red top hanging low off the right shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her just as she pulled back leaving me off balance and awkwardly clinging to her retreating form. Regrettably, I also leaned in for a kiss, which she smoothly dodged as she reached down to pet Max. Enthusiastic, but businesslike.
“Hello, Maxie-Moo.”
“Hey, Quinn.” Where did you take a greeting like that? I eyed the luxurious appointments. The dinette was easily the most utilitarian piece of furniture, but even those little bench seats were trimmed in rich leather and bold patterns. The papers atop the simulated-marble table looked like receipts. “No electronic books?”
“We have them too, but the box offices all use a different system. Makes adding things up interesting.” She seemed happy to have a safe topic and waved me over to the big leather couch across from a kitchen that put mine to shame. “At least Double-M uses an honest-to-god national bank. Otherwise, we’d be carrying a butt load of cash. How was the trip?”
“Long and bumpy. Piper had a blast in Salt Lake.” I sat, but she didn’t join me. “Stopped at a couple of your early venues. Your posters look awesome.”
“Aw, thanks.” A smile touched her eyes. “The photographers were great to work with. You should have seen them trying to get Randy’s hair under control. It was hysterical.”
“I bet, so anyway re—”
“Talk about bumpy?” She swept her arms out to encompass Pioneer. “This thing rattles and bounces until your kidneys bleed. Downtown was the worst. Can you believe how people are living?”
I shuddered at the memory of people scratching out a living in the broken buildings and along the cracked streets. The shadows moving among them made me glad Quinn learned the hiding spell. My eyes snapped up. Her smile was strained, the easiness we developed over the winter replaced with a cautious reserve. But that wasn’t what worried me.
“You aren’t shielded!” My exclamation made Max abandon his counter surfing with a guilty glare.
“Haven’t seen much to worry about.” Quinn looked at her feet.
“I have!” I stood, pointing to what I hoped was east. “Quinn, there are things out there in the cities. Maybe in this city.”
“I don’t need—”
“Hey, what’s all the shouting?”
A man in his twenties jogged up the stairs, his leather jacket trailing across one shoulder. He wore slacks, and a blue dress shirt strained over a sculpted chest. His black hair glistened with product, matching dark eyes set in a lean square face. He threw a familiar arm around Quinn and gave me a shark’s grin that brought out dimples and the cleft in his chin.
“Hi, sport. Manfred Slack, Double-M Records.” He thrust a hand forward with the friendly words, daring me to say something.
I hated him immediately, but shook hands rather than look like a complete jerk. None-too-subtle cologne filled the room. Why the hell did Quinn just stand there and let herself be manhandled? At least Max was thinking clearly. My awesome dog leaned against my left leg to glare in solidarity at the intruder. The guy blanched and his smile turned brittle. Someone gets an extra biscuit tonight.
“Manny, this is Ed Johnson from Philly.” Quinn finally disentangled herself and got busy straightening the receipts.
“This is little Eddy?” He crossed his arms and put a finger to his lips. “Quinn speaks highly of you.”
“Glad to hear it. We’ve been through a lot together.” At least she mentioned me.
“Sure, sure.” His hands were back in play, thumbs and fingers forming guns like he was in a Wild West shootout. “Doing your little recordings and dance mixes. I like seeing young folks get into the hobby.”
Max, kill! I thought. What came out of my mouth was only slightly more civilized.
“Any time you need pointers, Manny…” I plastered on my own predatory smile.
Manny stiffened, as if unaccustomed to people talking back. “Manfred will do just fine, or Mr. Slack.”
The air in the RV turned thick and warm. Fire leapt to meet my anger, wanting to wipe the uppity sneer off his stupid face. Max growled into the tension, and I instinctively stroked his neck. His fur, warm and familiar, brought me back to my senses. I throttled down the wild element and glared at Manfred.
We didn’t have many bullies in New Philly, but I knew one when I saw him. His expression was no friendlier than my own until Quinn grabbed his arm and pulled him over to the table. Then Manfred was all smiles and gleaming teeth.
“I’m going to help Billy.” I made a quick escape from the claustrophobic vehicle, reveling in the blistering heat rising off the blacktop. “What a freaking jerk. You should have bit him.”
Max panted alongside, clearly agreeing. Billy was just inside the back door discussing stage setup with the Idaho Falls crew. He directed the locals with cool efficiency, updated the lighting plan, and had me hoof auxiliary gear. But I was a fifth wheel in the otherwise smooth operation.
“Done any live recordings yet?” I asked as we took a breather.
“No, I keep asking, but Manny is too focused on the tour.”
“That’s crazy stupid. Enough live tracks would make a killer one-point-five album without more studio work. Mind if I grab a few samples tonight?”
“I don’t, but check with Manny.” Billy downed the rest of his water and waved the team back into action. “He needs to okay stuff like that.”
Sure, I’ll get right on that. I flashed a noncommittal thumbs up and went to gather my own equipment. I found a discreet spot between seating zones. The cement alcove had either been for handicap viewing or mixing equipment and was recessed enough I wouldn’t block anyone’s view. My directional mics were perfect for vocals and drums, but really needed to grab a couple direct outputs from the main mixing board. I settled for tucking an omnidirectional mic off to either side of the stage, hoping no one would notice the wireless gadgets among the lengthening shadows.
By the time I finished setting out my small mixing board and converter, people were already milling around. I glanced at my watch then down at Max. I had an hour to get the dog fed and back in the car before sound checks.
The RV and car were tucked behind the building. About thirty vehicles dotted the main lot. Curls of smoke and the smell of charred meat rose from several barbeque grills. Old documentaries showed cookouts and partying before a show. I breathed deep, savoring the aromas, the heat radiating off the pavement, and the cooling air rife with anticipation. Music really was coming back, a resurgence. The thought carried a sense of wholeness.
Happy waves of magic and music washed over me as I fed Max and got him settled. Snare beats snapped from the stage followed by Randy’s sound checks. I hurried back, not wanting to miss setting my recording levels.
***
“Are you new?” The girl dancing up the aisle stopped and smiled.
“New?” I looked up from my computer.
She was a cute little thing, maybe sixteen and dressed in a blue top with white jeans. Blond hair hung well past her shoulders and glowed in the halogen house lights. Her green eyes were wide and innocent as she cocked her head to the side with a pretty little laugh.
“New to the band, silly.” Her voice matched the freshness of her face. “I love the ACs.”
“Just a friend. I work with the keyboard player back east.”
“Wow! I thought I was a groupie. You drove clear across country.” She lifted her arms and danced in place to the pre-show music pumping from the speakers. Hair whipped across her face. “I’m Anna.”
“Ed.” I couldn’t help but smile at her carefree attitude.
“Nice to meet you.” Anna extended her hand, I shook it, and a jolt ran up my arm like when you nick your funny bone on the doorframe.
The music propelled her on up the rows, blue paisley blouse swaying to the beat. I shivered and sli
pped on my jacket. Anna’s top was long-sleeved, but sheer. She’d be cold. I frowned at the unexpected spike of concern. The girl’s incessant movement would keep her warm.
Manfred’s dismissive comments aside, I didn’t optimize my recordings once the show started. Plenty more performances lay ahead to perfect the sound. This was just a trial run. I set my levels, sat back, and enjoyed being part of the audience.
On the heels of early birds like Anna, pedestrians, cars, and two busses streamed into the amphitheater’s lot. Soon, swaying bodies jammed the pit area and half the seats were filled. Instead of true security, stage crew in bright yellow shirts directed the energetic crowd, but everyone behaved. I finally spotted Piper standing with another woman and Manfred inside the enclosure to the right of the band. I’d have to ask her opinion on the jerk.
Anna waved to me during the second number. She stood on her seat to see over the crowd and dance to one of Randy’s heart-stopping solos. Her four friends danced and laughed, making a colorful pocket of cheery pastels. A half-dozen other brightly dressed groups dotted the crowd. I whooped when Quinn laid into a thundering bass line, and sang along to Jinx’s falsetto cries for independence, though I probably sounded more like a choking seagull. It was one hell of a show.
“That was majestic!” I burst in on the band backstage. “E to the P-I-C, epic.”
I got sweaty high fives from Billy and Jinx. Randy still rapped his sticks on anything that didn’t move, so I slapped him on the shoulder. I spun to Quinn, hand raised, but she stepped forward. I waited for the hug, she stopped short, and we ended up doing a kind of lame fist bump.
“Sounded good?” Billy asked.
“You’ve really got it dialed in,” I said. “We could make an album so easy out here. Editing would be a breeze. I’ll double to check the tracks I captured, but the levels never pegged once.”
“The crowd loves us. They would buy it.” Jinx grinned as he wiped down his guitar.
“Double-M can handle sales.” Billy shrugged. “It’s great Manny let you record.”
“He doesn’t need to let me. I have my own gear, right?”
I couldn’t stop smiling. This was just the beginning. The week on the road, crappy beds, and rotting dog breath had been so worth it. I grabbed a bottle of Rejuve from the community ice tub, shook it like a madman, and popped the top. My elation slipped a notch when I realized everyone stopped chatting and no longer smiled. Even Randy had gone still.
“Ed.” Billy mopped at his forehead, which seemed to have sprung several leaks. “We signed contracts with specific restrictions.”
“Very specific,” Quinn added.
Billy nodded. “One of which is no pirate recordings. Tell me you didn’t go off on your own.”
“I wasn’t on my own.” I gulped down a big swig of neon-green energy, and Billy’s grimace relaxed a fraction. “I talked to you first, remember?”
“We’re screwed.” Quinn threw up her hands.
“Aw, come on. It’s me. We do this all the time.” No one returned my grin, but they all turned as the door slammed open.
“What the fuck is this?” Manfred strode in, face red and a death grip on one of my wireless mics. He shook the gray cube at us, then focused on me. “One of your punk devices?”
“Really? If you knew half as much as you thought, you’d know that’s a Bose 225. Best there is.” I did not like being on the defensive without backup.
Their road manager looked about to scream, but managed three deep breaths. His posture relaxed, and he handed me the mic before turning away.
“I don’t need this.” Manfred paused on his way to the door, his voice quiet. “You’re fired.”
“That’s stupid. I don’t even work for you.”
“I wasn’t talking to you, punk.” He shook his head, looking tired. “The tour’s over.”
***
Manfred ignored the gaping band and left to find his assistant. Rhonda had worked other special events and would know the protocols for shutting down the tour. A pang of regret sat uncomfortably in his gut, fueled by Quinn’s unspoken accusations. Hurt and outrage had marred her lovely face. They’d all been shell-shocked by his sudden proclamation. Hell, the flash of insight and warning caught him off guard too, but nothing good would come if he simply stayed the course. Ed’s antics aside, the tour needed to end now, before the storm broke.
The company wouldn’t mind. Their real work was complete. He’d counted, documented, and neatly categorized the strangely happy customers his superiors had known would come out of the woodwork. The damned hippies were drawn to the A-Chords’ music—actually followed them. He felt like the proverbial Pied Piper of Hamlin. The band and its groupies fed off each other, producing an electricity that energized the entire affair.
Far away from politics and back-stabbing, a weight had been lifted, making him as free as the spirits following the tour. He found himself looking forward to “work” each morning and came to enjoy this nomadic life, the quirks and comradery of the band, and the attentions of a certain bassist. The presence of her immature boy toy from back east was a kick in the teeth, but nothing he couldn’t deal with.
Yet amidst the long hours, company reports, and excitement, something ominous grew. It was difficult to tell what was coming, but a heaviness closed in on them. The air tasted of potential devastation, the foreboding weight preceding wild storms of the Great Plains. Instead of dark clouds, problems arose in the wake of the tour. And the company kept sending their…representatives, many more than were needed to conduct the simple survey.
He found Rhonda hunched over the computer, furiously typing one of her private reports. Her defensive posture—so secretive and saying clearer than words she’d brook no interruption—reminded him of the life he’d escaped for a time. Manfred sighed and waited. Going back into the rat-race would be difficult, but it was better to cut things off before the storm forced his hand.
12. The Music
“G
UYS, I’M sorry. I turned all my recordings over to Manfred. What else can I do?”
“Use your head maybe?” Quinn’s sparkly top flashed under her denim jacket.
Cold seeped through the steel security doors at my back. Piper and I joined the band backstage as they entertained VIP fans at the after-concert mixer. The manager’s ultimatum hadn’t extended to canceling the popular event. Billy moved off to a corner by the punch in response to a wave from a group wanting autographs. They chatted with excitement as the big man approached, the girls tittering and fawning. Jinx got pulled away to talk to a subdued trio dressed in black and gray, two middle-aged men and a twenty-something girl.
Rather than beating my head against Quinn’s cold shoulder or Randy’s waking dreamscape, I studied the room. The small venue accommodated two dozen. People cycled out and fresh guests in about every twenty minutes. We were on the third round when Anna and her friends entered. The A-Chords attracted two types of die-hard fans, free spirits like Anna and somber ones like those that still waylaid poor Jinx. Normal folks apparently didn’t warrant VIP invites. I snickered at the thought. Who was I to judge what was normal? In addition to having supernatural lineage, I excelled at screwing up relationships without even trying.
Manfred mingled with the new batch of fans. His M.O. was to slide in, make a few introductions, and then disappear. Perhaps that was how the two groups managed to coexist so well. He walked a brooding fellow over to Anna’s friends before moving on to work the rest of the room.
I was none too happy Quinn grabbed Manfred before he vanished again. The two talked briefly with lots of hand gestures. Manfred left, and Quinn came storming back to the sitting area.
“He’s sticking to his guns. He’s”—her voice caught and she swallowed hard—“off to call Double-M and tell them the tour is cancelled.”
“Guy’s an asshole,” I said, earning angry daggers from Quinn. “Well, he is. Look, I know I screwed up, but this isn’t fair to the band or your fans. I’m go
nna go talk to him.”
Quinn didn’t try to stop me, but she didn’t come along either. If I swallowed my pride and made an honest apology, Manfred would see reason. He could keep the damned tracks. Missing out on a live album wouldn’t be the end of the world, but crushing the band mid-tour would.
I walked down the strip of offices, peeking into rooms. Piper and I were to spend the night in one of them, but we hadn’t yet ironed out which. My heart sank as I approached the end of the row and heard the manager’s voice already deep into a phone call.
“I told them it’s over. We’ll pack up after tonight’s mixer and head back. I have the list of cancellations here.”
Manfred was so matter of fact I started to see red again as papers rustled.
“What? No, we’ve already made a profit and done the…accounting.” His tone turned defensive, as if the person on the other end disagreed. “Look, you put me in charge for a reason. I—Yes, I know that…Yes.”
I waited, but that seemed to be the end of the conversation. I stuck my head in the door just as he spoke again.
“Fine. We’ll do it your way.” He hung up, cursed, and then spotted me lurking in the doorway. “Wonderful!”
“Hey, look…I’m sorry. Don’t take this out on the band.”
I tried for remorseful, which wasn’t difficult. He never would have approved me recording, but I should have thought through the repercussions. His condescending attitude made me stubborn.
“Okay.” Manfred shrugged.
“What, do you mean…okay?”
“The higher ups want the tour to continue, and they like”—he choked a little on the words—“the idea of a live album. Which is a lot of goddam work I don’t have time for.”
“So they get to finish.” I frowned down at the data cards he plucked from the desktop and pushed at me. “What’s this?”
“Your tracks. The mix levels are off and the drums are weak, but not half bad.” He spoke with disappointment rather than the grudging respect I deserved. “Work with Billy and keep recording. At least then your screw up doesn’t cost me extra work.”
