Кейт Форсит - Relics, Wrecks and Ruins - Anthology of Speculative Fiction Short Works

“There you are,” called a voice from the shadows beneath the hedge fence. At first, he appeared as nothing more than the red dot of a cigarette and the stench of stale Marlboros. The singer, then—only rock singers still thought it was cool to smoke.

“Car trouble,” she explained.

He stepped into the streetlamp’s sick light, thin limbed with stringy gray hair that probably hadn’t seen a comb since the black leather pants and vest he wore had still been cool. He was older than he’d sounded on the phone.

“Did you bring the Rickenbacker?” he asked.

She stopped pulling the dolly and nodded towards the case on top. “Still don’t know why it’s so important.”

“You’ll find out soon enough, Axe Girl.” He extended a hand. “Johnny Jacks.”

He hadn’t given the last name on the phone. Johnny Jacks. Good grief.

“Jen Farmer,” she said taking his hand. “Please don’t call me Axe Girl.” He held her fingers a fraction too long.

Two others sidled from the darkness. The man was young, early twenties at most, with tight curly hair and a thick-lipped smile.

“Levon,” Johnny said. “Drummer.”

A woman about Jen’s age stomped out the remains of a cigarette on the front lawn before joining them. “Lucy,” she said. “Lucy Bottom.”

The bass player, no doubt, hence the “Bottom.” These people might have been time travelers from the late seventies except even then, bands weren’t so on the nose.

“So,” Jen said, nodding towards the house. “What’s the gig? I never did get your song list.”

Johnny shrugged and headed for the front door. “Song lists are for feebs.”

Dragging her amp’s head, cab, plus the cable bag and two guitars up the walkway and through the door—only to be informed the gig was on the top floor—worsened Jen’s mood. The others left her to carry the equipment up in stages, starting with hauling the guitars and cable bag up the narrow flight of stairs to a tight hallway and then going back for the amp and cabinet.

When she passed an open bedroom, she caught sight of a man and woman sitting on the bed. They looked to be about Jen’s age, maybe thirty-five or so, and could have been Sears catalogue models except for their haggard looks and the tears running down the man’s cheeks.

“Sorry,” Jen mumbled when they glanced up to see her staring. She hoisted the amp head onto her hip and shuffled down the hall towards the next set of stairs going to the top floor.

“Are you…”

Jen turned to find the woman standing behind her, one hand on the doorframe of the bedroom as if she might suddenly run back inside and slam the door shut.

“Guitar player,” Jen said, then, not knowing what else to say, she asked, “Big party tonight?”

The woman stared, a horrified expression on her face. “A party?”

“Don’t mind her,” Johnny Jacks said, striding the hallway towards them. “Axe Girl here is… eccentric.” He gently shunted the woman out of the way, whispering as he passed Jen, “Never talk to the clients.”

“Whatever,” Jen said, following Jacks up the stairs. It wasn’t unusual for a band leader to insist that only he communicate with the clients, but it wasn’t as if she’d been trying to book herself for the next party.

“You’ll set up in there,” Johnny said when they reached the top. He pointed to a door on the left at the hallway’s far end. A sliver of yellow light crept from beneath the closed, peeling timber panel.

“Why up here?” she asked, guessing at the size of the room. “Isn’t it going to be kind of tight in there for dancing?”

“Nobody’s going to be doing any dancing tonight,” the skeletal singer replied. “Just get the rest of your gear and set up on the window side of that room. Lucy and Levon will be up with their stuff in a few minutes. Right now, I’ve got to warm up my voice.” He turned to go then stopped. “And when you get in there, remember what I said: Nev—”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Never talk to the clients.’”

When she opened the door, only a small desk lamp provided dim illumination. The room was even smaller than she’d figured. “Great,” she said.

“Are you the band?”

Opposite the door, a single bed was pressed up against the wall. A kid, maybe eight or nine years old, lay under the covers. He wore some kind of beanie and she couldn’t see any hair underneath. Pale features. Wan expression. Probably chemo or radiation. Now, the whole scene made a lot more sense: the parents looking exhausted and miserable, setting up inside a bedroom on the top floor, and of course, the fact that the aging rocker hadn’t given her any details about the show. Probably the kid’s cancer treatments were going poorly, and this was a special present for him.

Geez, kid, she thought. You make your last wish to hear crusty old Johnny Jacks croon out his one hit song and collection of mediocre follow-ups? No accounting for taste.

“Are you the guitar player?” the kid asked. “Guitar’s my favorite.”

Jen held up the acoustic case and smiled. “Me too. You ever learn to play?”

The boy shook his head.

“Want a quick lesson?” She had done two years of afternoons in the back room of a local guitar shop teaching aspiring high school rockers and over-the-hill wannabes how to play their favorite AC/DC covers.

The kid in the bed pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Is it hard?”

Jen set the acoustic case down and flipped open the clasps. “Easy-peasey. You like rock?”

He shook his head.

“Metal? Pop? Jazz? Folk?” Apparently, none of those interested him, because his head just kept swiveling back and forth. “Help me out, kid. What kind of music do you like?”

“I don’t like music,” he replied.

She tried to guess at what she’d done to trigger this sudden bout of petulance. “You don’t like music?”

“No.”

“Everybody likes music, kid.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Johnny Jacks demanded. His sudden appearance at the door and the snarl on his lips nearly sent her tripping over her guitar case.

“Just setting up.”

He stormed in and grabbed her by the arm, his long, thin fingers digging into her skin right through her jacket. He hauled her outside the room, kicking the door shut behind them. “I told you never to talk to the clients.”

Jen hesitated. She needed the money from this gig, but she also needed to lay down the law. She took a deep breath, then met Jacks’s eyes and served up the death stare she’d learned from another guitar player years ago—the look you gave band leaders to make them realize they’d crossed a line.

“Take. Your. Fucking. Hand. Off. Me.”

Jacks let go, smiling as he did. It was one of those asshole ex-rocker smiles that said he thought he was still too sexy to have some chick with a guitar tell him off, but if that didn’t work, he’d plead harmless old man.

She kept glaring. “I’m not kidding. Don’t ever touch me again. I’m here to play guitar, that’s it. I don’t want any of your shit. I’m not your date. We’re not going to flirt.”

“But you’ll actually play the guitar, right?” he asked.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just go set up your goddamned rig and don’t let me catch you talking to the clients again.”

“The kid talked to me. What was I supposed to do? Tell him to shut up?”

“If he talks to you again, pretend he isn’t there. You’re here to play the songs I tell you, and then leave. Until you hear otherwise from me, mind your own business. In exchange, you get three hundred bucks, and I promise not to look at your ass when you’re soloing. Think you can handle that?”