Drive (15 page)

“You can't play games with him. That's not fair. He's a kid,” I said.

“He's brilliant.” She turned around. “I don't think you appreciate that. Maybe he's just your little brother but people are starting to notice him.”

There was a copy of Blue Prairie on the end table and she scooped it up. “Producers don't foot the bill for demo tapes, Jens, not unless they think they're going to make a whole lot of money on you later. What Daniel got would cost the average peon like me two, even three grand.”

I felt struck. Kruse said we owed him
five.

Chantel continued on. “The world is full of great guitarists, but he's
writing
those songs. At sixteen. That's exciting.”

My mind was trying to move in two gears at once. “You're saying it's three grand for a demo and about five hundred tapes?”

She nodded toward the promo picture on the wall. “That's the top end. We priced out five places. Right before we split up,” she finished quietly.

No wonder Kruse had blown up when I asked what the tapes were worth – he was overcharging Daniel. But I wasn't about to tell our troubles to Chantel.

“So Daniel's talented,” I said. “That excites you.”

She met me dead on with her clear green eyes. “I like him. He's sweet. He doesn't use people.” She stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray, pressing it down twice, three times. “And he's lonely. Who couldn't understand that?”

The soft sound of her voice surprised me. I didn't think women like Chantel were ever without…company. But then Daniel thought I could get anybody I wanted, too.

He walked in, combing his damp hair.

“I left you a towel,” he said.

“Thanks, here's one for you,” I said, draping the wet dish towel against his neck as I hurried by. He grabbed it off and snapped it at me, but he hit the closed door. Way too slow.

I stripped off my clothes, my mind running back to Mogen Kruse. That rip-off artist! He'd built the cost of the “free” recording session into the price, and then some. His offer to represent Daniel was so Mom and Dad wouldn't look anywhere else. But a contract was a contract. Overcharging might be wrong but it wasn't illegal.

And yet I couldn't stop the rush of sudden hope. Now that I knew what was fair I might have a lever, a bargaining chip to beat down the amount we owed him. If I showed up with two and a half thousand dollars, he'd probably take
it. But I wouldn't tell Daniel yet; I didn't want him to slow down.

It felt good to get under the hot water and scrub the last two days away. Maybe it felt too good. The memory of pink lips and hard nipples rubbed against me as I soaped up with care. A lot of care. Daniel wasn't the only one who knew about lonely.

You have sixty-one tapes to sell, I told myself finally. Stay hungry.

I eased the temperature from warm to cool, then finally cold.

The counter around the sink was crowded with make-up, brushes and perfume. A flowery female scent rose up with the steam. I rubbed a circle on the mirror so I could comb my hair. It was running lighter than usual, from all the sunny days. Brown eyes, blunt jaw. Shoulders that filled up the mirror. You're not so bad, I told myself.

I walked out into the living room. Daniel and Chantel were leaning against the wall, wrapped up together, deep in each other's mouths. She had one hand clenched in the back of his hair, the other at his waist, under his shirt.

“We'd better go,” I said. My voice sounded raw. I hit Boffo the clown on my way out.

We arrived at the rec center just before seven. I stopped the truck across the street and got out
for a look. It was still daylight, evening sun that gave everything a bronze tint and long shadows. There were already cars in the parking lot and clusters of people standing around socializing. Most surrounded the three or four trucks that had their tailgates open; that's where the beer flowed from. I was amazed. I'd seen tailgate parties for football, but curling? It must be the biggest sport in town.

There was a long wall between the parking lot and the main entrance, and that's where the musicians were set up – already two guitar players and one saxophone. I could understand their reasoning: Everyone would have to pass by them to get inside. But no one was making that walk yet. The musicians had their cases open, playing to the open air, one circle of music bleeding into the next.

Daniel was watching them eagerly.

“Do you know anyone?” he asked Chantel.

“That's Andy Larson at the end,” she said.

“Let's go talk to him. Jens, let me open the back.”

“Wait.” I put a hand on his shoulder, holding him. If I let Daniel join the wall he'd be lost. I had to do something that would make him stand out, show that he was above the others. We were out here to sell tapes.

A burst of laughter made me look over at the
parking lot again. That's where the party was. I had a brainstorm.

“If only we had an extension cord,” I said.

My brother looked at me. “Of course we do. It's in that bag with my extra strings and picks and stuff. Why?”

My arm flew around his neck, tugging him into a headlock. “Daniel, you're brilliant!” I buzzed the top of his head with my knuckles.

He wriggled out of my grip and looked at me suspiciously, dark hair standing up. “Why? What are we going to do?”

But I wouldn't tell him yet. I drove into the parking lot, past the party people, to the corner of the lot marked “Staff,” and backed into a stall.

Manitoba winters are brutal. You can't let a car sit all day at minus twenty – or thirty – and expect it to start. Most businesses have a rack of electrical outlets for their employees to plug in. My only fear was that the rec center had switched off the breaker because it was spring.

Daniel watched me unload his guitar and the amps.

“Are you nuts?! Jens, you don't busk with an electric.”

“Then think of it as an open-air concert.”

He gestured at the musicians along the wall. “I'll drown them out. They'll hate me!”

Chantel was grinning, leaning against the
truck. She had on a little black leather jacket, tight and short. I was sure she couldn't zip it up all the way. “So let them hate you. You're leaving tomorrow anyway. I think it takes balls.”

The compliment made him blush, but he took an uncertain step toward her.

“I thought you and me were going to sing together. We can't sing electric without a mike.”

“Later,” I cut in. “Once we have a crowd and they know you're here. Why don't you get the acoustic out right now? And grab some tapes, too.”

As soon as he left, I closed in on Chantel.

“Listen, thanks. But I need more help. I want him to get up on the hood.”

She laughed out loud, a single gust of disbelief. “You never quit, do you?”

I smiled back at her. “If I was ice cream, I'd be Tiger-Tiger.”

I let Daniel set up and start tuning in front of the truck. To my relief the cords reached and the power was still on. I stacked the guitar cases on top of each other and began building a display of cassettes.

“Why don't you put those up here,” Daniel said, touching the hood. “People could see them better.”

I looked at Chantel.

“That's where you're going to be,” she said.

“What?!”

My instincts had been right. My brother was a tough sell. Finally I tugged him aside.

“Daniel, to get people over here, you've got to do something, be different. We don't have a lot of time. If you think you're good, you've got to be willing to stand up and prove it.”

“But not on the truck!”

“Why not?”

He looked away. “It's stupid. It's like…showing off.”

“Yeah, it is! And if you're good enough, you've got that right.”

“I'll be embarrassed.”

“So wear the hat,” I said. Now he was embarrassed, that I knew what it was for. I hurried on. “And you said you didn't care what people thought, anyway.”

“It's easy for you to talk! You don't have to get up there.”

“No, but I will,” I said. “I'll introduce you.”

His face was so full of disbelief it was almost a taunt. “You'll stand up on this truck and say, Here's Daniel Desroschers and he's great?”

The name stuck in my throat like a claw. It would choke me.

“I'll shout it,” I promised.

“And you'll charge ten bucks a tape?”

“I…will.”

He was grinning now. “And every morning you'll get down on your knees and kiss my –”

I grabbed for another headlock, a good one this time, but he was half expecting it and put up a decent struggle. Chantel looked over in alarm, thinking it was a fight, until she heard him laugh.

I did everything I could think of to sell tapes. Heart thumping, I stood on my truck hood in front of him and announced to the nearly full parking lot that they were about to hear the best new guitarist in the province of Manitoba. I leapt to the ground and Daniel burst into “Night Drive,” the instrumental killer he'd opened at the Starling Legion with.

I was close enough to know he was shaking. The hat hid his face; his head was so low his chin almost touched his chest, as he pretended to watch his fingering. Yet it looked strangely cool, as if he didn't care.

The sight and the sound of him – that driving, electric dead run of a song – pulled people in. I could see the question in their faces. Who the hell was this kid on the truck? I was there with the answer, shaking hands and showing the tape.

“Where do we throw the money?” a woman asked.

I politely explained my brother was a professional
and that he would be glad to autograph a cassette for her, at his next break.

“How much?” she said, picking one up.

I took a nervous breath. But I'd promised him. “Nine ninety-five.”

She seemed to study it for a long time. “Can you change a twenty?”

I could have kissed her.

At first Chantel was stationed in the crowd to applaud, get people going. When I realized we didn't need it, I asked her to take an armful of tapes over to the party trucks.

“Oh, right! Should I wear bunny ears and a poofy little tail, too?”

Her hands were on her hips, black denim stretched tight. I swallowed. “You…you'd knock them over in a paper bag.”

The compliment caught her off guard. “Salesmen!” she said finally, shaking her head, yet I could have sworn she was blushing. She loaded up on tapes, and sold six. I think she was surprised that it worked.

I'd planned to coach Daniel on what songs to play, except I got busy talking to people and taking money. A pack of twelve- and thirteen-year-old girls cornered me against the side of the truck, peppering me with questions about Daniel. How old was he? Where did he live? Did he have a girlfriend?

“No,” I said.

That sold three tapes. Their whole group stood around, giggling and whispering as they waited for the autographs.

I didn't have to worry about my brother. He'd learned something in Starling. If the crowd started to thin, he'd pick up on a song everybody knew, drawing over the people just getting out of their cars. It amazed me again. He
could
play anyone, from Hendrix to Henley, and every song Colin James had ever written or touched.

At 7:30 he took a break, looking relieved as he slid down onto the ground. He was immediately surrounded by people who wanted their tapes signed. I was worried because I hadn't warned him about it, yet he slung off the guitar and handed it to me like I was a roadie. I watched the smooth flow of movements – how he deftly unwrapped the plastic, opened the case and signed the paper sleeve with a flourish - and realized he'd practiced this. It reminded me of when I'd got my business cards, standing in front of the mirror, perfecting the smile as I held one out, the slightest tilt of a bow.

I couldn't resist. I nudged my way in next to him and leaned toward his ear.

“You faker. You love this!”

He glanced at me, straight jaw and brown
eyes looking older under the brim of the hat, but still the face I had grown up with.

“So do you,” he whispered.

It was midnight before we trudged up the three flights to Chantel's apartment, exhausted but wired. I was carrying both sleeping bags and two duffles, one with the money.

“How come I have to carry everything?” I said on the second landing.

“Because you're a slavedriver,” Chantel said, shoving me playfully against the wall. “A dictator. You should never be allowed to run your own country.”

I had worked everybody hard, including myself. After the bonspiel started at eight, the other musicians packed up and left – Andy Larson with a few choice words – but not us. I knew there'd be an intermission, the pavement crowded with smokers, and then the great flood toward the parking lot at the end. In the meantime,
I wasn't going to stand around. I paid my admission and went into the arena with one tape and a handful of guitar picks.

Wherever people were, I was there, too.

“This is the best new guitarist in the province,” I'd say, flashing the tape. “And tonight only, this guitar pick is worth two dollars off the price of his debut release.”

I got some funny looks, but they took the picks.

When people came out, they were greeted by a new, different show. It was dark now. I'd reparked the truck so it was closer to the front doors, and turned on the headlights. The brilliant white light was behind them but it seemed to beam off their bodies as Daniel and Chantel sang their hearts out, to the crowd and to each other.

It stopped me. It stopped everybody. I don't know what happened, what had changed between the apartment and that piece of pavement. But they weren't those fumbling kids anymore. Black leather and crinkly blond hair faced denim and the acoustic, lips inches apart, biting the words as if they were biting each other.