Joe Schreiber: Perry's killer playlist

We all did.

Now, forty-four hours later, we were here in Venice. Two steps off the train, Norrie dropped his duffle bag on the platform next to Caleb’s and flung himself down on it as if it were a huge body pillow, pulling down his baseball cap and closing his eyes. Linus had fought his way into the station to buy tickets for the water taxi, and Sasha had tagged along, already on the prowl for Italian girls. Of the four of us, he was the only one with a seemingly limitless supply of energy, propelled forward by the libido of an adolescent rhino.

I was digging through my bag for the last Red Bull when my phone started ringing. I looked at the screen and saw an international number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Perry?”

“Yes.”

“George Armitage here. How are you, mate?”

I stood up a little straighter, suddenly feeling wide awake. “Oh. I’m-I’m fine.” Even after all the time I’d been with Paula and talked about Armitage, what he was like and so on, I’d never actually spoken to the man.

“How’s the tour going so far?”

“It’s going great. We were in London… It’s been incredible-”

“Splendid. Love the new songs, honestly. The reviews of the London show have been over the moon. You blokes are going to be huge-you do realize that, don’t you?”

“Thanks,” I said. In front of me, Caleb and Norrie were now both sprawled out on their bags. They looked like they’d gone into matching comas. Norrie was drooling.

“You’re in Venice now, aren’t you?” Armitage asked.

“That’s right. We just got in.”

“Brilliant, brilliant. Wish I could be there to show you the city.”

“Yeah, that would be cool.” For a split second I toyed with the idea of asking him where he was, but I managed to stop the question from tumbling off my lips. According to Paula, George Armitage was an intensely private man. If you Googled him-and we all had-you’d find out that he was British by birth but had renounced his British citizenship and spent most of his time traveling, a media multi-hyphenate. Nobody was quite sure where all his money had come from. In recent years he’d expanded his operation globally and become, for all intents and purposes, his own free-floating sovereign nation. He ran his own production company, a publishing group, and an airline. By all accounts he had more cash than he knew what to do with.

“While you’re traveling, if there’s anything you need, I hope you won’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you,” I said, unable to shake the feeling that there must have been some other reason he’d decided to call. I didn’t have to wait long to find out what it was.

“Listen, mate. I didn’t want to mention anything too early, but at this rate, there might be a record deal for you at the end of all of this.”

I felt my heart stop. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely,” Armitage said. “Ask Paula. The last band whose tour I set up sold six million units in the first two months. Legends are forged by fire. We’ll speak soon. Cheers.”

I said goodbye, turned, and kicked Norrie’s duffle bag until he pushed himself up on his elbows, blinking, and gave me the finger. “Whuh-what the hell’s wrong with you, Stormaire?”

“George Armitage just called me. He wants to get us a record deal.”

“Armitage?” Norrie stared at me. All at once he didn’t look remotely tired. Caleb sat up next to him. “What? Now? ”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go find Linus.”

They were both on their feet already and grabbed their bags, and I hoisted my guitar case, following them down the platform, my head whirling with what Armitage had said and with the abrupt influx of noise and commotion inside the train station.

The whole thing happened so fast that I almost didn’t realize what was happening until it was over. One moment I was following Caleb and Norrie through the automatic sliding doors into the main terminal, and the next, I was alone in the crowd.

I turned around and looked back in the direction I’d come, thinking maybe I’d somehow gotten ahead of them, but they weren’t back there. Off to my left was a big cafe, and somewhere to my right was a row of ticket windows. I didn’t see Linus or any of the others up there. People buzzed by in every direction, wheeling luggage, toting backpacks. None of them was familiar.

Ten minutes in Venice and I was already lost.

I walked out of the station and down the gray steps leading to the Grand Canal, then stopped in my tracks.

Not until that moment did it really hit me that I was in a city that had rivers instead of streets and boats instead of cars. There were intersections, alleyways, and bridges with gondolas tied up to them. Up above the half-submerged doorways and steps I saw ancient stone hotels and ruined palaces sinking into the lagoon. Fog hung over the surface, seagulls dipping and flicking up the waterway, their bellies glinting white and then disappearing in the dark.

I bought a twenty-four-hour pass for the vaporetto, got on the next boat, and called Norrie.

“Dude,” he said, “whuh-what happened to you? We thought we luh-lost you for good.”

“I’m fine. I just lost you guys at the train station.”

“Whuh-Where are you now?”

“The Grand Canal.” I was standing on the deck of a vaporetto with my bag and my guitar case, heading down the canal. Overhead, high gothic arches and crumbling statuary moved slowly past on either side, lit from within like a Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Define lame: I was in Venice, and all I could think of was Disney World. “I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

“Yuh-You buh-better. Linus is fuh-freaking out.”

“Tell him to calm down. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

“It’s the Puh-Pensione Guerrato,” he said, “by the Ruh-Rialto Bridge.”

“Got it.”

“Whuh-What are you duh- doing? ”

“Seeing the sights.”

“It’s luh-like ten o’clock at nuh-night!”

“Relax, okay? I’ll catch up to you later.”

Norrie fell quiet for just a second, and when he spoke again, there was no trace of a stutter in his voice.

“You’re going to look for her, aren’t you?”

I drew in a breath. I don’t know whether it was the unwavering certainty in his voice or just that we’d been friends for so long, but I knew instantly that I couldn’t lie to him.

“Maybe.”

He made an exasperated lip-fart. “Whuh-What about Puh-Paula?”

“What about her?” my answer came back, probably too quickly. “It’s not like I’m cheating on her. I probably won’t even find Gobi anyway, but if I do, we’ll have a cup of coffee, catch up for a few minutes, and that’s it.”

“Buh-Bullshit.”

“Hey, believe what you want.”

“Thuh-This is a ruh-really buh-bad idea.”

I took in a breath and let it out. “Yeah. I know.”

“I nuh- know you know,” Norrie said miserably. “Juh-Just like I know yuh-you’re going to duh-do it anyway.” He was silent again for a moment. “Shit. At least tuh-tell her wuh-we said hello.” Then, with more conviction: “And duh-don’t stuh-stay out all nuh-night! Wuh-We’ve got a gig tomorrow!”

“Okay,” I said, and hung up.

Up ahead I saw what looked like the open lagoon, the boat nudging its way up to the San Marco stop. On the shore, two guys in long dark coats and immaculate pointy-toed leather shoes were smoking and sipping espressos out of paper cups by the dock.

“Excuse me.” My voice came out froggy and hoarse, like I was getting a cold. “I’m looking for Harry’s Bar.”

“Like Hemingway, si ?”