“Just what you’ve told us. You need a guitar player to fill in, state the timeframe, and you better to be ready to offer a decent wage when you get replies.”Unlike what you pay me, went unsaid.
Still, Mike managed to pay for the Bronco’s repairs and only needed a few more bucks before he’d have enough to move on. Maybe he’d better start watching Craigslist himself for possible ranch jobs. And maybe a willing body.
The double bed in the trailer got mighty lonely at night.
How long since he’d last heard, “Folks are getting suspicious,” got a fuck for the road from a closeted rancher, and sent on his way? He’d held out too much hope for the last one, a gorgeous man with a decent heart, someone he could have settled down with.
That short-lived affair ended with his lover proposing to a local widow to keep up the illusion of being straight.
Mike should’ve stopped seeing his few relationships as more than short-term about the third time an “I love you” turned into “I’m sorry, but…” within a few days.
Who was he kidding? He’d nothing to offer anyone, with a past he didn’t want to talk about and not much on the horizon for a future.
Definitely nothing in the here and now.
* * *
“But we need a lead guitar for two weeks, man! Our guy won’t be back until then.”
Killian sighed, cell phone braced in one hand a few inches from his ear while half-eaten bacon and eggs congealed on a plate in front of him. The clicks and clacks of a busy diner competed with his call—an amazing feat, since the guy on the other end of the line shouted to be heard over a rock band in rehearsal.
In deep bass tones once described by a reporter as “smoky, with a hint of enter at your own risk,” Killian replied, “And I done told you, one night’s all I got. Take it or leave it.” Yeah, he’d love the gig, but no way in hell was he sticking around any longer than necessary to earn a couple of bucks and release the music building up in his soul. He frowned, both at the waitress offering more coffee and the caller refusing to understand plain English.
Ignoring his cold breakfast, he fired up a cigarette. Bluish smoke swirled toward the ceiling, to be batted away by the currents of an overhead fan. Nobody charged his table, demanding he put it out—despite the “No Smoking” signs plastered on the walls every few feet like grease-spattered pop art.
“What’d you say your name was again?” Killy's would-be employer’s voice danced the razor’s edge between cautious and paranoid.
“I didn’t. I said I play lead guitar and do vocals, all you asked for in your ad. I can front or I can backup. Your choice.”
“How long you been playing?”
“Long enough.” The asshole didn’t need to know about Mama bringing him and his older brother onstage starting at six and eight years old, hoping to squash junkie rumors by projecting a motherly image. The act hadn’t worked, and the kiddies grew up on a tour bus, with pot, cocaine, and other drugs more readily available than bubble gum. Of course, trade a tour bus for cheap hotel rooms, drugs for booze and caffeine, and pot for tobacco, and you gotla vida del Papa. Oh, yeah, and enough prescription painkillers to choke one of the broncs the man rode.
“I e-mailed you a lineup. You do know Trickster’s songs, right?”
Trickster? Did he say “Trickster”? Oh shit. Killian hadn’t read his e-mail yet or he wouldn’t have taken this call. He swallowed hard around the solid lump of panic lodged in his throat. Trickster? A million friggin’ bands out there, with a zillion freaking songs—why the fuck did the guy have to say Trickster? He came close to disconnecting the call until recalling the four lonely twenties and handful of smaller bills in his billfold. Even the paycheck he’d collect later wouldn’t tide him over indefinitely. Royalties simmered in a bank somewhere, but damned if he’d touch a cent until the vultures finished squabbling over who got what, and his mother’s pitiful legacy languished in trust pending Killy’s thirtieth birthday.Money, money everywhere and not a dime to spend.And damn, those lawsuits dragged ass in getting resolved.
“Yeah, I know their songs.” Hell, he should. He’d written most of them.
“What’d you say your name was again?”
Oh, shit, here goes.Maybe he should lie, hoping the leader of a band dedicated to his old songs never looked too closely at the band’s many photos. Then again, that one piece of info might guarantee him the job, but might also encourage the weekend warriors to beg him to stay, even if they did think him full of shit. No chance in hell of him staying.
“Killian Desmond,” he replied, braced against the response he’d get. The novelty of a look-alike/sound-alike for a famous dead musician usually increased the take at whatever seedy bars he played. Using the name further boosted his appeal even though someone occasionally spat, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, disrespecting that poor dead man!” If only they knew. However, in all his time filling in for bands wherever he could, this would be the first time he’d played Trickster’s songs without Trickster. Even for a man who’d seen a lot in twenty-six years, this was too bizarre.
“Killian Desmond? Man, you’re shitting me, right?” The guy paused, then snorted. “Good one. Who put you up to this? It was Ralph, wasn’t it?”
“You ain’t writing any IRS papers anyway. It don’t matter if Iamshitting you.” Even though he wasn’t. Killy pushed his greasy meal away, appetite vanishing along with his patience. “Look, you gonna hire me or not?”
The caller spoke words he’d heard a hundred times. “I wanna hear you sing.”
Well, what could he expect? People weren’t in the habit of hiring dead men, though a band missing a lead guitarist the day before a show couldn’t afford to be choosy. He signaled the waitress that he’d be back, and stepped out into a day promising to be hot once the sun woke up properly. Rounding the back of the building, checking to ensure no one lurked around the corner, he began a deep, grumbling melody as familiar as his own hand, and as complicated as his life.
A song from his very first album. Not his best work, but certainly not his worst. A three-day cocaine binge once birthed words never meant to be strung together in the same sentences.
“Thieves and outlaws hide in shadows
Gloom is where the demons roam
