Page 8 of Once Upon A Christmas Song

“Have a website, and you can Venmo them the money for their CDs right there on the street,” she said, then narrowed her eyes and did her really terrible impression of me that made me sound like a stoner. “They’re awesome and totally professional.”

I glared at her.

“Again, you have to remember they all work for themselves. They do what they want when they want. Why on earth would they choose to split profits with us when they can keep everything for themselves when they’re on the street?”

“I think they’d prefer a permanent place, not the fly-by-night of maybe having their spot and maybe not.”

“Everybody knows where each person sets up. Have you ever seen anyone take anyone else’s spot ever?”

I had not, but that wasn’t the point. “I just⁠—”

“Again, because you’re making me beat this poor dead horse, you have to keep in mind that they make their own hours and come and go as they please. Why would any of those people want to conform to ours?”

“To make themselves more legitimate.”

“Did I mention the websites and the Venmo? Some of them, their albums are on iTunes, for goodness’ sake.”

“We could ask,” I suggested.

“And listen to people hem and haw and need to think about it? Screw that. Anyone would be lucky for the opportunity to play at La Belle Vie, but more importantly, we don’t have time to wait or for indecision. We need a band now, Chris, not tomorrow, not next week. Now.”

I huffed out a breath. “Fine.”

“Okay, then. We’re agreed. You’ll call the booker.”

“Fine. But you have to meet her with me.”

“Oh, darling, that’s a given after your choices here lately.”

“I—”

“We cannot have her thinking that a metal group or a gospel group is something that’s going to work for us simply because you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“That’s not what⁠—”

“Oh, of course you can play here,” she said, again doing the horrible impersonation that everyone agreed sounded nothing like me. “No, it’s fine, we like Nordic Folk all-percussion and lute music. It’s our favorite.”

“You’re a bad person.”

She cackled. “I thought the high notes were going to break the glassware. So did Xo.”

“You better stop picking on me or I’ll call your mother.”

“And say what?” she goaded me.

“That your apartment in the Warehouse District is empty because you live with Michael Tucker in the Garden District in a lovely house where you give the man the milk for free.”

Her gasp was loud.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“You did not just say that!”

I scoffed. “I’m just repeating what your mother said when you told her you were thinking—just thinking, I might add—about moving in with the nice doctor.”

“You were supposed to be my backup.”

“I was,” I said defensively.