That Old Devil Sin

by W E DeVore

  He left the room, slamming the door on his way out. Pete and Tom stood staring, looking from Q to the banging door and back to Q.

  “What are you two looking at?” she demanded. “Let’s fucking practice, already.”

  She sat down at the piano and tried to play but her hands were shaking too badly to string together more than one note.

  Tom said, “I don’t feel like it. Come on, Pete. I’ll give you a ride home. Your rig’s in my car already.”

  Pete didn’t argue. He walked over to Q and hugged her from behind. “For what it’s worth, I still think you’re tough. You scare the shit out of me.”

  She laughed in spite of herself and he kissed her lightly on top of her head, saying, “Thank you for fixing it with Urian. And I really am happy for you, Q. Ben’s a lucky dude.”

  “Me too, Q,” Tom said. “It’s not good for folks to be alone. Look at Charlie.”

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did,” she murmured.

  “No, probably, not. But neither should he,” Tom agreed. “He’ll cool off. Just let him be. You want a ride?”

  “Yeah, Scare. That’d be great.”

  She picked up her fakebook and shoved it back in her satchel. Taking out her phone, she glanced at the screen and hesitated before putting it back into her pocket.

  “Go on and call him, Q. I’ll bring you,” Tom said gently. She looked up at him. “Like I said, it’s bad for people to be alone. Go on, now. I’ll wait outside.”

  She pulled her phone back out and dialed Ben’s number.

  “Two days in a row. Must be some kind of record.” His raspy voice washed through her and she immediately forgot to be upset about Charlie Bourdel.

  “Are you busy?” she asked, hesitantly.

  “Yeah, but I don’t have to be. You ok, darlin’?” Ben sounded worried.

  She tried to sound cheerful. “Yeah, fine. Band practice is canceled. You still want to do something with me in the daytime?”

  He did. Q locked up the practice shed and went out into the sunshine.

  Rock Me, Baby

  Q sat on the edge of the stage, silently enjoying her vodka. Early evening light drifted through the Cove’s long front windows. She watched the caterers fly around the room covering the pool table and repurposing it as a buffet. Ben walked out of the office and crossed the room to sit next to her.

  He kissed her on her temple. “Need another?”

  “Maybe two. What have I gotten myself into?”

  She was dreading seeing Charlie. Two weeks and no Charlie. He had refused to play the gigs on Friday and Saturday, which meant they had to hire a small horn section at the last minute – something that wasn’t exactly easy or cheap to do the weekend before Mardi gras. She still wasn’t sure if he’d show or not and if he did show, she wasn’t sure if they could pull off the gig without running through the set list at least once.

  The front door opened and Charlie and Tom walked in carrying Tom’s hardware case.

  “She was a good ol’ girl,” Tom grunted, setting it down with a clang. “I just had to go and kill her.”

  He grinned at Charlie who rolled his eyes.

  “Charlie,” Q said, relieved.

  “Not a fucking word, Q, you hear me? Not a fucking word.”

  Tom shook his head and said, “Y’all play nice. It’s been two weeks already. Look, Charlie, Q even wore a pretty dress for you.”

  Charlie replied, “Dress or no dress, get off your ass and go grab some drums, Q.”

  She drained the last of her vodka and stood up, debating the costs and benefits of telling Charlie to go fuck himself; but decided it would be better for everyone if she just did as she was told. She mutely headed out into the blazing sunset to Tom’s Jeep, grabbed the cymbal vault out of the back, and walked back into the Cove. Charlie avoided eye contact when he passed her on his way out for another load.

  “How bad is it, Scare?” she asked, setting down the vault.

  “He’s not quitting, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tom replied as he undid the latches on the hardware case. “What’s with the get-up anyway?”

  “Just trying something new, Tommy. That’s all.” Ben had surprised her with the fitted, black velvet dress that morning as, what Q had assumed, a not so subtle hint of what she should wear to the gig instead of her usual slacks or jeans. She wasn’t about to explain that to Tom or Charlie.

  Tom grunted as he began setting up his cymbal stands.

  “Gonna make load-in a might more interesting than normal,” he said with a wink.

  She laughed and began to unpack the drums from their cases. Charlie appeared next to her and set down the bass drum case he was carrying with a thud. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Taking a long, slow drag, he stood silently for a few minutes, watching her unpack drums and stack the cases like a nesting Babushka doll.

  “You are the worst fucking band manager in New Orleans, Q,” Charlie finally said in an exhale of smoke.

  Tom said, “Be fair, Charlie, there are meth heads managing bands in Metairie.”

  Charlie snarled, “Did I mention Metairie? No. A ninth ward crack head has more managerial skills than you do, Q. Who the fuck gives five Gs to a gangster they owe nothing to?”

  “Charlie, you know that’s not right….” she started to argue.

  Charlie held up a hand and said, a little too calmly, “Not a fucking word.” He paused for a minute before saying, “You’re fired, Q.”

  “You’re kicking me out of my own fucking band?” She was livid.

  “Will you shut up for once in your fucking life? Christ, if I wanted to listen to a woman talk nonstop, I’d be married like that one or stupid enough to fuck you like him.” Charlie jerked his thumb at Tom and Ben respectively before continuing, “You are forthwith the sometimes vaguely charming front-woman of QT and the Beasts….and only the front-woman. The Beasts are going to run the show from here on out. We handle the money. If there’s deals to be made with gangsters, we handle that, too. Hunky club owners offer us gigs playing for shithead politicians Tom’s related to? That’s right, sweetheart. We give the thumbs up or thumbs down, not you. This will continue until such time as we can find a reasonably trustworthy and affordable manager for our fucking band. This ain’t no autocracy anymore.”

  “Dang brother, you been reading that vocabulary book in the shitter again.” Tom grinned, setting up his cymbal stands. “Oh, and Pete’s still fired.”

  Q boiled inside. She knew she deserved it. She definitely knew Pete deserved it, but she wasn’t ready to say so. “Fine. Just don’t fucking call me ‘sweetheart.’ I need a damned drink.”

  She stormed off towards the bar, calling out behind her, “You’re both assholes.”

  Charlie smirked and called back, “Takes one to know one, princess!”

  She sulked to the bar where Ben already had a vodka martini waiting for her. She drained it in a single long swallow and popped an olive in her mouth, chewing it slowly. Ben kissed her shoulder.

  “Get the band a round,” he said to the bartender before walking over to talk to the caterers still setting up in the corner.

  She rapped her knuckles on the bar and pointed to the glass. “Another, please. And a Purple Haze and a whiskey neat for the boys,” she said.

  “Slow down sweetheart, the night is young,” the bartender said as he took her glass.

  Q glowered at him. “Enough with the ‘sweetheart’ already.”

  Clearly not understanding, he said. “Smile now, you’re too pretty to look so angry.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’m so fucking thrilled you think I’m pretty,” she said sarcastically. “My existence up until now has finally been justified.”

  “Easy, honey, I’m just looking out for you.”

  “Trust me, Joe…it is 'Joe’, right?” she asked. Joe nodded with a grin.

  “Of course, it is.” Q sighed. “Trust me, you really don’t want to fuck with me now.”

  Joe leaned forward and
said, “What about later, then?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on now, give us a smile. What the bossman don’t know won’t hurt him.” He winked.

  “Oh, now, that’s something else entirely.” She leaned forward, smiling, and pressing the little bit of what amounted to her cleavage together just enough to get his attention. He leaned closer, his eyes flickered down to get a better look at what the top of her dress might not be covering.

  Q batted her eyelashes and cooed, “Is that better, baby?”

  He leered, licking his lips, leaning in closer still, and nervously looking over her shoulder to make sure Ben wasn’t watching. “Yes, ma’am. Better and better.”

  “Mama always said more than a mouthful was too much. What do you think?” she asked, toying with him.

  “I think I’d have to get a mouthful to know for sure.” He moved closer.

  “Tell me something, baby?” she asked.

  “Anything you want, just ask?”

  “Do you always try to fuck your boss’s girlfriends or am I the first?” Q rested her chin on her hands, looking him straight in the eye.

  Joe-the-muscle-bound-bartender tried to defend his actions but it came out more like, “I…you…I…uh…you know I was just…”

  She decided to put him out of his misery. “Just get me and boys a round….and for the love of god, stop with the ‘baby’ and the ‘honey’ and the 'sweetheart’…”

  “Before she kicks your sorry ass and I fire you for trying to steal my girl.” Ben appeared at her side and winked at her.

  She looked at Ben pointedly and said, “And for being a condescending prick.”

  “Yep, that too.” He grinned at her.

  “Just making sure she’s worth your time, bossman,” Joe explained.

  Ben shook his head. “Like hell you were, now go on and get the lady her drinks.”

  Once Joe was busy mixing her martini, Q said to Ben, “Your bartender is a tool.”

  “He’s not all the bright neither, but the ladies seem to like him.” Ben smiled.

  “Really?” she asked incredulously.

  Ben grabbed her ass and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Lucky for me, you ain’t a lady. Besides, have some pity on the poor man. That little black dress is hard to ignore.”

  She spun around for effect. “I’m glad you approve. You should feel honored. I don’t usually wear dresses, they’re too hard to play piano in.” She smiled up at him. “You owe me. I’ve already caught a ration of shit from Tom.”

  He pulled her close and whispered, “I’ll make it up to you. Pulling off those tight pants you like to wear is awful hard work, this will be so much easier to get you out of.” He leaned down to kiss her again.

  Q stomach jolted and she pushed him away. “Back to work, Mister. We still need a run through, remember?”

  She shook off the cold chill that had crept up her spine and took the drinks from the bar, ignoring the glare in her general direction from a chastened Joe. Carrying them back over to the stage, she took several deep breaths to contain the dull roaring building in her ears.

  Relax for Christ’s sake. It’s just a fucking dress. And it’s just Ben being Ben… do not panic…breathe.

  Tom was almost done setting up his drum kit. Charlie had his guitar amp set up and was sitting on it, changing the strings on his guitar. She handed them each a drink, looking around as inconspicuously as possible for Charlie’s trumpet.

  “Peace offering,” she said.

  Charlie raised his glass of whiskey at her and took a sip. She tried to sound innocent when she asked, “So, you’re playing guitar tonight?”

  “Don’t worry, I brought my trumpet, too. Thought we’d mix it up a bit,” he said, handing her a revised set list.

  Q scanned it over. “Um... the lady that hired us…”

  “You mean my dear Aunt Marianne,” Tom corrected.

  “Yes. Your sweet old auntie. And she was pretty specific about which songs she wanted us to play,” she said, carefully keeping any hint of annoyance out of her voice.

  “Tough titty,” Tom said, carefully keeping every trace of annoyance in his.

  Charlie chimed in, “Look Q, don’t worry your pretty little head. We kept the same vibe as what she requested. Set three is still slow and mostly piano. All eyes on you.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Charlie, and you know it,” she replied. “She’s paying us five grand. Remember how pissed that bride was last summer when we moved one freakin’ song to the second set? You know how these society people are…”

  “…Your people, you mean,” Charlie interrupted.

  “You really want to start this up again?” Q folded her arms and stood her ground, ready for battle.

  Tom quickly intervened. “Would you two quit it? Come on, Q, you didn’t really want to play with a fakebook all night, did you?”

  She had to admit that she really did prefer to keep to the songs that they knew and played regularly, especially with Pete being less than reliable, and Charlie being absent from the last two weeks of rehearsals. She finally conceded. “Alright, I’ll try to think of something to smooth it over with the Multers. Pete can handle these songs better for sure.”

  “Doesn’t matter. New bass player starts tonight. Pete won’t be playing at all,” Charlie said matter-of-factly.

  As if on cue, Pete Fontain walked into Lafitte’s Cove literally whistling ‘Dixie,’ followed by a squat black teenager with long dreads carrying a long gig bag over his shoulder.

  “Hey guys, look who I found outside!” Pete said excitedly. “Can you believe how big JJ is?”

  Q looked at Tom, “You asked your nephew to play bass?”

  Tom shook his head, “Don’t look at me, it was Charlie’s idea. The boy’s got skills.”

  “I know he does. I’m not arguing that. I thought he was on the road with Terrence Hill?” Q was shocked. Justice Jamal Augustine, ‘JJ’ to his family, had been playing with some of the biggest names in the New Orleans music scene since he was twelve and was poised to be the next local child protégé to make it big. He’d been touring with Terrence Hill, the current big name former protégé for the last two years.

  “We caught him between gigs. He ours until after Jazz Fest,” Charlie said as he walked over to Pete. Shaking his hand, he said, “Thanks for coming, Pete.”

  “Ah, ain’t no thing but a chicken wing. Look if I’m out, I’m glad JJ’s in. Keep it in the family like. Besides, I like running sound. Less notes to remember.” Pete smiled and looked over at Q. “Seriously, Q. We good.”

  She walked over and gave Pete a hug. “You’re a class act, Pete Fontain.”

  He stood a little straighter before announcing, “Look, y’all should know that this will be my first and last night as sound man for QT and the Beasts. I’m leavin’ town tomorrow morning before the parades start up. Gonna head up north. Get dried out. Get healthy. I can’t do this no more. From tonight on, the “Pocket” is no more.”

  Pete finished his farewell speech with a flourish and a small bow.

  Q wouldn’t have been more shocked if Pete had suddenly proclaimed he was joining Boutay LaRose’s Chicks with Dicks Revue. “What are you going to do? What will you live on?”

  “That’s for me to figure out, not you Q. You’ve done the heavy lifting too long. Time for me to be a man. For now, I’m goin’ to my mom’s cabin up in Tennessee. Nice and quiet up there. Then maybe I’ll go back to teachin’. Who knows?”

  “You hated being an English teacher,” Q reminded him, trying to remember the buttoned-down high school teacher he had been before ‘The Pocket’ had emerged from his psyche.

  “You can barely speak English,” Tom goaded.

  Both Charlie and Tom had personally only ever known ‘The Pocket’. Q was fairly certain that neither would have believed that Pete was once a functioning member of society, had Tom’s wife not taught English alongside the original Peter Fontain for nearly four years, before he devol
ved into his current state.

  “Enough, let’s get set up and sound check,” Charlie said, changing the subject.

  Within the hour, the Multers arrived. Gus Multer looked remarkably like his nephew, except for his constantly roaming eyes that seemingly had no iris, giving them the unfocused appearance of a caged predator. He was tall and lean with wild, grey-blonde hair that refused to lay flat. Q had grown up believing that unkempt hair was a prerequisite to be a politician in Louisiana and Multer definitely qualified. He had opted for a spikey haircut that enhanced his black eyes and their constant hungry roving. His wife, on the other hand, was immaculately groomed. Her medium length wavy black hair was perfectly in place, styled to frame her brown eyes and her most likely medically enhanced, lineless face. She was wearing a fitted purple dress that showed off her only slightly aged figure to great effect.

  Q took a deep breath and prepared to walk over to the Multers, when Tom put his hand on her shoulder and strode past her.

  “Hello Senator and Mrs. Multer,” he said, greeting them. “It’s so nice to meet you in person. My name is Tom Wills and I’m the drummer for QT and the Beasts.”

  A flicker of recognition ran across the Senator’s face. “Do I know you, son?”

  Tom leaned into his Terrebonne drawl and put on a sly grin. “You do now, sir. I just want to thank you for the generous gig. Unfortunately, we have a minor personal situation that I wanted to apprise you of. Our bassist, Pete Fontain…” Tom pointed to Pete. Pete held up a hand from behind the front-of-house console. “…Our bassist, Pete, has hurt his hand. He won’t be able to play tonight. So, my nephew, JJ Augustine…” He pointed at JJ. JJ waved. “…My nephew has graciously agreed to fill in. We were very fortunate that Terrence Hill is enjoying a Mardi Gras ball with his Krewe tonight, thus freeing JJ to join us this evening.”

  Q stared slack-jawed.

  Tom continued, “Because of this unfortunate line-up change, we had to omit some of your song selections as we weren’t able to adequately rehearse. The amount that you are paying us is so generous that we felt it incumbent that we deliver to you the best possible performance tonight. We do hope you understand. Thematically, we stayed within your guidelines as much as we possibly could, under these unfortunate circumstances.”