“It was ‘Walkin’ After Midnight,’ I thought,” the guy said. “What you were singing just now. And I didn’t walk up on you. You walked up on me.”
He took another drag, lighting up his face enough that I thought I might know him—but not precisely. I went around half-recognizing people from the scene, from our audiences. If you saw a lot of faces week in and week out, everyone you met looked a little bit like someone you might know.
A little bit like someone you know—hmm, not bad.
I untangled the leash from my left arm and shook it out. I’d broken it badly as a kid—had it brokenforme—and sometimes it still ached. “Well, thanks a lot,” I said. “That’s my fretting side.”
“Excuse not to start on time, like last week?”
That was low. We’d started a few minutes late, so what? This guy had no idea what I was up against. He was just some hanger-on who came to our shows, a friend of a friend, someone I’d met, maybe, at Fitzgerald’s or Carol’s. Or he might play for another band and was only hanging around to grub for our slot.
Little did he know. One word to Alex and this guy’s band wouldn’t even get served adrink.
“Okay, kids,” I said to the dogs, my teeth banging together from the cold. “Let’s let him live to insult me another day. Come on.”
In the alley, the truck was gone, at least. The dogs huffed and snorted along the pavement, going quickly, smelling something interesting—
I pulled up short, not understanding what I was seeing. A fresh gale roared through the alley like a train.
In the spot where the truck had been, a box of light lay on the ice, and the back door to McPhee’s hung open.
But I was sure I had—
No, the door wasn’t justopen. It was loose on its hinges, all but ripped from the wall. Maybe the door hadn’t latched and the wind had caught it?
The dogs whined and pulled at the leash.
Or maybe there was someone waiting inside. I shaded my eyes from the light and peered into the shadows.
“Okay, you mongrels,” I muttered to the dogs. “Time to earn your kibble.”
I unhooked the dogs’ gear, and stood back as they tore through the door, into the alcove, and up the stairs, snuffling happily, as though someone had left behind a biscuit trail.
At the bottom of the stairs, I reached for the softball bat Oona kept there and climbed behind the dogs. I couldn’t quite take in that I was holding the bat as intended. This was my hand on the grip. These were my tats twisting out from under the edge of my jacket cuff and curlingaround the handle. This was happening? McPhee’s didn’t really get much trouble here, despite what people thought about Chicago. We had locks. We took precautions. We’d had a little more than our fair share of vandalism lately, to be fair. Some graffiti, the vestibule canvas slashed. The security camera in the alley had taken a good smashing, and Alex hadn’t yet had it replaced. Just kid stuff.
But then it could always turn out to be our turn, right?
Time slowed. I could hear the inner workings of my own body, breath and blood.
On the landing, the dogs were tapping with anticipation. When I opened the door, they bolted inside, Lemon already yodeling for the peaks. But was it alarm? Or excitement?
I paused at the butcher block on the kitchen counter to trade the bat for the largest of Oona’s dull knives. A light burned, somewhere. The dogs had gone quiet.
I could hear the jangle of the tags on the dogs’ collars coming from—
My room. The light was on inside.
Primary Jim, asking—
Was I worried?
“Joey?” I hated the hope in my voice, couldn’t decide what I hoped for, why.
On the corner of my unmade bed sat a woman, a stranger. The dogs flanked her, either side, letting her scratch at their necks and whisper sweet nothings into their ears.
A string of expletives fell out of my mouth. “Who—
But I already knew.
