This early in the morning, only a few shops displayed “Open” signs, but several small cafés wafted the scents of coffee, bacon, and sausage onto the street. His stomach grumbled as he approached a restaurant on the corner.
Through the window he spotted Valerie and Jake. Good thing they came so early. Not many people to recognize them.
Taking a deep breath, Killian shoved his way through the door and to the table.
“It’s too damned early to be up,” Jake muttered, sipping from an oversized coffee cup.
Valerie propped on one arm. “How’s Mike?”
Killian sat and motioned for the waitress to bring him some coffee. “Sleeping. He’s not used to the vultures.” The very reason Killy left him home. If something came of this meeting, then he’d clue Mike in, but he wouldn’t upset him needlessly. “What happened yesterday is why I wanted to talk to you two.”
Jake raised a brow. “Are you calling us buzzards?”
“No, but you’ve been in this business as long as I have.” Killy accepted a cup of coffee and sipped it black, not wanting to pause long enough to add sugar. “I need to know something. How do you feel about Gus?”
Valerie and Jake exchanged looks.
“Be honest.”
Valerie sighed and placed her cup on the table, lifting a tea bag by the string and occupying herself with dunking and redunking the bag. “I met him through you, but didn’t know him too well. Since you’ve been gone, our paths have crossed a few more times, and well, to be honest, he’s not well thought of in the business.”
Jake clapped a hand to Valerie’s shoulder. “What she’s trying to say is, the moment Gus leaves the room, folks start laughing. We didn’t say anything because he’s been Trickster’s manager so long but, dude, he’s not doing you any favors.”
Really? They agreed with him and hadn’t spoken up. Which brought a wave of heat. “You two are both a part of the band. If you felt this way you should have said something long before now. He’s fought me every step of the way since I got back, didn’t want me to hire the two of you, or Mike, and keeps saying he can’t get us a recording contract.”
Valerie winced. “A contract is the last thing you want. It’s been three years since you’ve been around, but things change. First, any musician worth their guitar strings makes their own label, and you should never put so much faith in one person. Too many cautionary tales out there about major talents who lost everything by trusting the wrong person.”
Jake took over the telling. “Look, I know someone I think you should meet. Go, see what she says, then let’s talk again. But, dude, neither one of us is gonna miss Gus if he suddenly disappears.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and extracted a business card. “I kinda guessed what you wanted to talk about, so I called her. She’s expecting you in about thirty minutes. Once you talk to her, call us.”
What the hell?
* * *
“I’m here to see Christine Parkinson,” Killian told a smiling doorman, who buzzed him onto the elevator. One floor, two floors. “C’mon, c’mon, ten.” The doors opened and he plodded down the halls, past closed doors, business names emblazoned on brass nameplates gracing each one.
At the end of the corridor a door stood open. He stepped inside. No receptionist. Not surprising at this early hour. Floor to ceiling windows made good use of the tenth-floor corner office, with the interior a soothing mix of teal and oak. Modern meets yesterday. Nice effect, though, when paired with soft tings of a Tibetan singing bowl soundtrack.
A door opened to his left and a woman stepped out, dressed casually in a long, flowing dress, a pair of gray booties peeking out from under the hem. She’d piled dark tresses messily on her head, held in place by two ornamental combs. She couldn’t be much past thirty.
“Mr. Desmond? Hi, I’m Christy. It’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand and gripped Killy’s in a firm grasp.
Best to mind his manners. Just because he’d had bad luck in the past in his business dealings didn’t make starting out hostile a good idea. “Thanks for meeting with me so early, and on such short notice.”
“Not a problem at all.” Her wide smile brought out the twinkle in her eyes, making her appear even younger. Genetics graced her with tan skin many a Californian paid a fortune at salons for. In a way she reminded Killy of Annie, only less sweet, more businesslike. “Please, come in and make yourself comfortable.”
She waved him into her office, as peaceful and unpretentious as the reception area. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Water, please.” Instead of sitting in front of her desk, he settled on a couch strategically placed to provide a good view of the streets below.
“Sure.” She crossed the room, opened a panel in the wall, and pulled out two bottles of water. Hidden fridge. Nice.
Handing over a bottle, she sat next to him on the couch and nodded at the view. “I like to sit here too. Makes me feel removed from the world outside, yet also a part of it, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, he did. “You sound like a songwriter.”
Her hearty laughter reminded him of Mike’s, real and unpretentious. “No, Mr. Desmond, I’m not poetic, and can’t play a single note on any instrument. I can barely stream music on my phone.” She laughed again. The humor left her, her narrowed-eyed gaze pulling him in with her intensity.
“Call me Killy.”
