Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

Luce waved her glass toward the hall.

In the bathroom, Rosemary raised her Hoodie and pinged Recruiter Management.

“Hi, Rosemary, what’s up?” The same generic avatar spawned, though she had no way to know if the same person controlled it. “We’ve been contacted by those Mosquito guys, and Kurt Zell. Nice work.”

“The performance space where I’ve been recruiting was raided tonight. While I was in it. We didn’t have anything to do with that, did we?”

A frown crossed his perfect face. “Let me check.”

For a moment, his avatar stood vacant, not blinking or moving other than the fake wind through his fake hair. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said when he returned. “That wasn’t supposed to happen until next Saturday.”

“What do you mean ‘supposed to happen’? What wasn’t supposed to happen?”

“You were supposed to be given until tomorrow to sign any of the four acts we discussed. They weren’t supposed to be raided until after relationships were established. Somebody entered the wrong date.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We owe you an apology. You weren’t arrested, were you? Do you need me to transfer you to Legal?”

Her frustration bested her. “No. I wasn’t arrested, but some people I know probably were, and this whole place is probably shutting permanently. Can you explain to me what’s going on? Really slowly?”

Luce called down the hallway, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” Rosemary called back without putting her hood down, making Management wince at the volume. Then, to the avatar, “Explain. Please.”

“Standard protocol. Recruiter goes in, finds new talent, recruits talent. Once everyone is on board…”

“…You shut the place down so they can’t compete with you, and the audiences are forced to see their favorite bands on SHL instead of in person, because you’ve taken that option away.”

“We, Rosemary. You work here.”

“We.” Oh, God. “So what do people in my position do now? Quit in disgust? Is this why there was an opening for me, you burn through recruiters?”

“Some quit. Some realize their outrage is temporary but quitting is permanent, and buckle down and get on with their job. You didn’t do anything wrong. You found some great acts—”

“Bands,” said Rosemary. “Not acts.”

Management continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “—and you hooked them up with us. They’ll be so much better off here. Think about it. All the fans they can reach. They’re spinning their wheels playing for the same people in the same city. Please tell us you got to talk to Luce Cannon before the police came?”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I was going to talk with her tonight.”

“Shit. Did she get arrested? Will you be able to find her again? I can get Legal on assistance for her, too, if you think that would help.”

Find her yourself, she wanted to say. “I know where she is.”

He looked relieved. The first genuine emotion she thought she had ever gotten from him. “Thanks. We know it can be upsetting the first time you hear this, but it’s a good system, we promise.”

“Really? Does this ‘good system’ take into account the fact that Luce owns the venue you closed? Is that supposed to help me convince her to do business with us?”

“Ah. Um.” He seemed flustered. Left his avatar empty again momentarily, returned contrite. “Was that in the information you gave us?”

“It wasn’t, because I didn’t know it was relevant. You sent me here without full information.”

“It works best that way for the first trip. Otherwise the recruiter gets nervous and telegraphs.”

“This is messed up. What if people stampeded to get out and somebody got hurt? What if I got hurt?”

He shrugged. “It works. Nobody’s ever been injured as far as we know. Anyway, maybe now she won’t be tied to her venue. Tell her we’d love to have her on board. Give her some bright sides.”

Rosemary put her hands to her head. “I don’t think she’s going to be as enthusiastic as you imagine, but I’ll give it a try.”

“Thanks for being a team player.”

She dropped her hood again without saying another word.

The bathroom swayed. She wished she could have told him where to shove it, to say she wanted no more part in this. At least not in putting people in danger and closing performance spaces. She considered her beautiful hotel room, the weeks of meals. She would be in debt forever trying to pay it off if she left without completing a single assignment. She couldn’t walk away. Anyway, connecting musicians with SHL was still a good thing. Maybe? Getting them the huge audiences they deserved. Putting them in the position to live off their music. Those were all positives.

She composed herself. Walked back into the living room, where Luce still lay on the couch, a pillow over her head. She sat again and drained her glass. There was no other way to do this.

“Luce, I need to tell you something.”

The pillow shifted to one side, and Luce raised her head. She looked exhausted, and not in the sated postshow way. Her tone was light, but her voice was weary. “You’re a cop after all. You’ve been here undercover this whole time and now you’re going to arrest me.”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t think I could take that.”

This wasn’t going to be easy. “The night is still young. Can I ask you a serious question?”

Luce levered herself back into a sitting position. “Hit me.”

“I had something to ask you, before any of this happened.”

“Okay…”

“You said the other night if you could get half the attention you got for ‘Blood and Diamonds’ for ‘Choose,’ you thought you’d be able to make a difference. Were you serious?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s the best song I’ve ever written.”

“Do you still want to get your music in front of new audiences? Big ones?”

“Sure. Why?”

Rosemary took a deep breath. “What if I offered that to you?”

“What are you, a genie? A hidden-camera-show host?”

“Not a genie, and I don’t know what that second one is. What if I, uh, could put you in touch with StageHoloLive? If I told you they were interested in you and your new stuff.”

Luce stood and poured herself another drink without offering Rosemary one. “Did they say both of those things? Me and my new stuff?”

“They were happy to think whatever you’d put out recently wasn’t widely distributed yet, so they could rerelease it in a package with live stuff, and, ah, ‘a rediscovery special.’”

“A rediscovery special. Do you know what that means?”

“They want to introduce you to a new generation of listeners?”

“They want to package me as a nostalgia act. They want me to play the same music I played back then. You’ve heard me. Do I sound the same?”

“No,” Rosemary admitted. “It’s not even the same genre.”

“I wrote one good folk-pop song, and the next thing I knew I was playing sit-down theaters all over the country for a company that only knew how to market me if I stayed in their little box forever. Now StageHoloLive wants me but only if I get back in the little box again?”

“They didn’t say that. They were excited to know you’re still playing. I’m sure you could set terms.”

“Set terms for what?”

“Whatever you want. Money, artistic freedom. You can quit your day job and make music full-time again. There are so many people who’d love to hear you.”

“In their little hood-worlds and their living rooms.”

Rosemary bit her lip. “You play for the same people night after night. You’ve been holding a wake for music you think is dead.”