Road Rash (24 page)

She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” She was way subdued, nothing at all like she’d been onstage just a little while ago. “How about you?”

I didn’t
even
want to get into the Kimber thing. “I’m fine.” The woman behind the bar came by and I asked her for a cup of coffee. She seemed a lot nicer than Mr. Friendly and I briefly
wondered if it was going to show up on our tab. I turned back to Jamie and held my hands up. “So? Any word on Brad?”

“Yeah. He’s up in the room, crashed out.”

I almost asked,
Whose room?
but I didn’t. “Any, uh, explanation on where he was?”

“Not really …” She glanced over at me, then looked down at her coffee. “He wasn’t in any condition to explain anything,” she added, “but wherever he was, they were serving green beer.”

“Huh?”

“I saw it. Coming back up.”

Whoa—TMI. But I just nodded, as if seeing people puke up green beer was something that happened every day.

“He’ll be fine tomorrow,” she said. She shook her head slowly. “And I’m sure he’ll explain and apologize. He always does.”

“He’s done this before?”

She sighed. “Well, not exactly like this, but he can be, um … impulsive.” She thought about it. “He’s like the yang to GT’s yin.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But Glenn wasn’t exactly Mr. Passionless tonight, was he?”

I meant it as a joke. Mostly. But she took it seriously. “No,” she said, shaking her head slowly as she considered it. “No, he certainly was not.”

The hell with it. It was 2:30 a.m. after a bizarre gig after a bizarre day following a
really
bizarre morning—was there ever going to be a better time? “It’s none of my business …”
Other than the fact that I’m a thousand miles away from home with you
guys, stuck inside some sort of weird reality show
. “But what’s the deal with you and Glenn? I mean, I don’t know much of the band history or anything, but I’m not blind.…”

She took a deep breath and let out a big shaky sigh. I was thinking of a way to backpedal when I realized there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh, hey,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

She held up her hand. “No, it’s fine … I actually appreciate you asking.” She took a sip of her coffee, then called over to the bartender, who was nearby. “I know it’s after last call, but is there any way I could get a shot of Baileys in here?”

The woman looked around, then took Jamie’s cup, dumped it, and poured in fresh coffee followed by a good slug of Irish cream. “It’s on the house, honey.”

“Oh, thanks. I never do that, but it’s been a rough day.”

“I can tell.” She winked. “Just don’t tell Alex.”

Jamie smiled. “Cross my heart.”

She sat back, took a sip, and kinda went
aah
 … I swear, I almost asked her what it tasted like, but I caught myself in time.

She looked over at me. “GT’s nice. Super-nice. And he’s smart, and he’s really talented. And I’ll kill you if you tell him I said this, but he’s sexy as hell, too.”

And I’m sitting there thinking,
And the problem with all this is …?

I guess I was thinking a little too loud. “But the problem is,” she said, “he’s married to his music. Or at least seriously engaged. You ever see that old movie
That Thing You Do
?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“Watch it sometime—you’d love it. The main character is a
drummer who joins this band at the last minute and has a big influence on them, changing their destiny.”

“Huh.”

“I know, right? But my point is, there’s a girl in the film who’s in love with the bandleader, only all he cares about is his music—he’s the main writer and singer. He’s also a butthead who treats her badly, and that’s where the analogy is kind of backward, because GT isn’t like that at all—in some ways he’s actually more like the drummer, who’s a smart but positive guy. But he does share that trait about putting the music first. Trust me.”

“Have you ever talked to him about that? I mean, specifically?”

“No. He is who he is, and that’s not a bad thing at all.”

“You know, you sound just like him—he said almost the exact same thing to me once.”

She snorted. “Well,
that’s
just great.”

I laughed. “Hey, I call ’em like I see ’em. But you never know—it might be worth a try.”

“Look, Zach, I know you like GT. You’ve got a little of that same attitude in you yourself. It’s sweet of you to put in a good word for him, and maybe you’re looking out for me, too. But I think it’s too little, too late.” She paused. “I’ve been in a band with Brad for four or five years now, and we’ve always gotten along really well. But for most of that time he’s had one girlfriend or another.”

“And now?” I had a sinking feeling I already knew the answer.

“And now he’s single, been that way for a while, since shortly after GT joined. He’s fun. He’s a regular guy. Sure, he’s a great singer, but he doesn’t just live for music. That’s the difference.”

I was throwing my opinion around right and left tonight, so why stop now? “I don’t think that Glenn only lives for his music. I think he’s someone who follows his passion, regardless, and I think that would hold true whether it was music”—I looked at her—“or you.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time. “You know, you’re actually quite a bit like him,” she finally said. “And I mean that as a compliment. Mostly. You’re going to make some girl very happy someday.” She took a drink of her coffee and laughed. “Or miserable.”

“God, you’re psychic tonight,” I mumbled. I nodded toward her cup. “So, how is that?”

She slid it over and I took a sip. “Wow, that’s good!” I took another, bigger swig.

She pulled it back in mock horror. “In that case, stay away—you’re a mere child!” She got serious. “Really, Zach, thanks for caring … you’ve given me something to think about. Not that that makes it any easier.” She smiled, but it was the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. “I’d better get going now.”

“Yeah, me too. Hey—one question. The girl? In that movie?”

“Yeah …?”

“Who’d she end up with?”

She stopped and thought about it. “Hmm. I guess you’d say she followed her passion.”

I woke up before nine o’clock and couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay there for a while thinking about Kimber’s email, but
that
got old really quick, so I rolled out of bed, got dressed quietly, and went down to the club.

I had the rest of my stuff packed up and was starting in on coiling up the PA cables when Glenn showed up.

“Hey, you don’t have to do that all by yourself,” he said. “The others’ll be down in a while and we’ll all tear down.”

“Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d make myself useful.”

“Same here. I’m thinking about getting paid, actually.”

“Uh … we didn’t get paid last night?” Usually the managers paid us on Saturday night. Sometimes they’d even pay you before you went on, so they didn’t have to deal with it afterward on a late night.

“Nope, couldn’t find him anywhere. So I’m going looking. Want to join me?”

“Sure.”

Glenn went over to some guy cleaning up behind the bar. He was like Mr. Friendly’s brother or something, but more grumpy than downright mean.

“How’s it going?” Glenn said.

Mr. Happy kinda nodded, but not even a microscopic hint of a smile.

“We’re looking for Alex. Is he around?”

“Who wants to know?”

“We’re the band. We’ll be pulling out in a few hours, and we need to get paid.”

“Ain’t seen ’im. He don’t always come in on Sundays.”

Glenn thought about this. “Okay, thanks. Would you do us a favor? If you see him, mention that we’d like to settle up today, because we weren’t planning on staying over tonight.”

Mr. Happy just nodded, then went back to wiping down the scarred-up bar.

As we walked away, I said quietly to Glenn, “So what do we do now—wait around all day in case His Majesty shows up?”

“Not if we can help it.”

We went back toward the stage, but Glenn kept going until we were outside. He looked up a number in his phone, then punched
send
and turned the speaker on.

“Yeah?” That would be one Mr. Happy, best receptionist in the West.

“Hey, howzit goin’, this is Mike,” Glenn said quickly in a low, gruff voice. “Need ta talk ta Alex.”

“Hang on a sec, he’s in the back.” There was a click, then someone picked up the line.

“This is Alex.”

Glenn hung up.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said.

“Go where?”

“To get paid.”

“Maybe I should bring my cymbal stand?” I was joking.

“Probably not a bad idea.” I had to look twice to see that he was kidding. I think.

We went back inside and worked onstage, pulling cables and coiling them up, killing a few minutes before Glenn said, “Follow me.”

We headed over near the bar, but we went past it and through the door to the back. There was a sign on it that said
EMPLOYEES ONLY
, but we went through it like we worked there.

Mr. Happy said “Hey!” in his cheerful way, but Glenn just said “Alex is waiting for us,” and kept on going.

The FLC was in a hundred-year-old brick building, like most of the places in that part of town, and there were lots of little rooms off the winding, narrow hallway. We poked around until we finally came to a ratty little office, where Alex and Mr. Friendly were talking. They both stopped and looked up when we came in.

“Who let you back here?” Alex asked.

“It’s Sunday,” Glenn said, ignoring his question. “We’re down the road in a couple of hours, soon as we’re packed. So we came to settle up.”

“Yeah, I was gonna talk to you about that.” Uh-oh. “Looks like you boys didn’t fulfill your end of the contract.”

“What are you talking about?”

He dug through a pile of papers on the messy desk in front of him, then held up a one-page printout. “It’s a copy of your contract.” He handed it to Glenn. “How many pieces does it say the band Bad Habit has?”

Glenn didn’t even look at it. “Five.”

“Well, there you go. Now, if you boys’ll excuse me …”

“Wait a minute. What does that mean?” Glenn said.

“That means you didn’t live up to your end of the contract, plain and simple.”

“So you’re saying the
one
guy who missed
one
night doesn’t get paid for that night, then? Fine by me.”

Alex shook his head. “Not quite that simple. You violated the contract, so I don’t have any legal obligation to pay you anything.”

“You want to stiff us for the whole week because one guy was out sick one time? After we played here five nights?” Glenn was calm on the outside but I could tell he was righteously pissed.

This was complete bullshit. “Time for the cymbal stand?” I asked under my breath.

He never looked away from Alex. “Not yet.”

“Look, guys,” Alex said. “Don’t get too upset. I’ll contact Corey and I’m sure we’ll come to some kind of agreement.”

“That’s kind of funny, because Corey was here last night and he didn’t have any problem with the fact that there were only four of us. In fact, he said we were great. And I noticed your customers didn’t seem to mind, either. What was your bar take for last night?”

It was Alex’s turn to ignore the question. “I never said I wasn’t going to pay you. I just said I’ll have to negotiate with the agency first.”

“Maybe so. But then again, maybe not. It’s impossible for a band to collect once they’re out of state, and there’s no way we can afford to stick around and take you to court and all that. And you know it.”

Alex didn’t say anything. Finally, he shrugged. “That’s the way you want to see it, fine. I’ll talk to Corey, and he’ll be in touch with you. Now, I’ve got work to do.…”

When we didn’t move, Mr. Friendly finally spoke. “Boss, you want I should get these guys outta here?”

“Not so fast,” Glenn said. “There’s a little something he
might want to know first.” He sat on the corner of Alex’s desk, right in front of him, and leaned in and talked quietly. “A couple of hours after Friday’s gig, some guys broke into our motor home out back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’ll bet. But the interesting part is, they were your patrons. And they were pretty bold about the whole thing, too. We had to stick a gun in their faces to drive them off, and even then we came this close”—he held up his fingers half an inch apart—“to dropping the hammer on one of them, because he was just too drunk to get it. But they eventually put our stuff down and left. And like I said, we can’t stick around and we didn’t want to make a big stink, so we let it go at that. But I’m thinking maybe we need to do our civic duty and contact the police after all. They might be interested to know
your
customers go around robbing citizens right outside
your
club, especially after
you’ve
been serving them way beyond the point where you should cut them off. Hell, the local paper and TV news might be interested in that, too.”

“You lying son of a bitch, you’re bluffing.”

“I might be a son of a bitch, but I’m not lying and I’m sure as hell not bluffing—that really happened. I’m only asking for what we earned.”

Alex thought for a minute. “Okay, I’ll pay you for Tuesday through Friday.” He folded his arms. “And that’s it. Take it or leave it.”

I’d had enough. As they were yakking away, I reached across the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.

“Silver Bow County Sheriff’s Office. Is this an emergency?”

“Not at the moment. I want to know if I can still file a report on a robbery that happened early yesterday morning.”

“Why, yes you can. What’s your location? We can have a patrol car come by and take a report.”

I held the phone against my chest and said loudly, interrupting the conversation, “Excuse me! What’s the address here? The police dispatcher wants to know so she can send an officer by to take our report.”

All of a sudden everyone got quiet.

Alex looked at me. I just stared back at him, the phone still in my hand. Finally, he spoke. “Okay …”