Part 14 (2/2)

124.

”Hey,” he called after her. ”What's your name?”

”Daria,” she called back, without even turning around.

Two weeks later, Ecstatic Wreck played the Cave again, another Wednesday night, and this time there were a few more people. The stingy reward for a couple hundred fliers and word-of-mouth.

Keith Barry came back, too.

They played all the same songs in a different order, and added a jangling cover of David Bowie's ”Starman.” When the show was over, Keith was waiting at the edge of the stage.

”There's someone I want you to meet,” he said and handed her a cold bottle of beer. She looked at the beer, then at Keith Barry. He was dressed a little better than before, and his hair was combed; his hands weren't shaking, and there was a confidence in his voice that told her he'd fixed before the show. She took a sip of the beer, promised the boys that she'd only be a minute, and let him lead her to a booth near the very back of the club. He said the sound was better back there, as good as the sound could ever get in a dump like the Cave. Then he introduced her to a skinny guy in a baseball cap and a blue mechanic's s.h.i.+rt with the name MORT st.i.tched on the pocket.

”My man Mortimer here, he was our drummer,” Keith said and sat down next to Mort, motioning for Daria to take the seat across from them. Mort looked uncomfort-able, but said hi and smiled. Daria looked over her shoulder at the stage, Sherman and Donny already breaking everything down, and then she looked back at Keith.

”I really should help them,” she said.

”C'mon. They're doin' just fine on their own,” Keith replied and pointed at the empty seat again. ”There's something we got to talk to you about. It's something important.”

”Something important,” she mumbled and sighed, but sat down. She took another swallow of beer, and it soothed her dry, exhausted throat.

”We want to put the band back together,” Keith Barry 125.

said. ”We've been talking about it, me and Mort, and we think it's time we got off our lazy a.s.ses and went back to work. Sarah's gone, sure, but there's no reason we have to bury Stiff Kitten with her.”

Daria stared at him a minute, then glanced at Mort, and he must have seen the growing impatience, the suspicion, in her eyes, because he just shrugged and began picking apart a soggy napkin.

”That's really great,” she said, turning back to Keith.

”But what's it got to do with me?”

”What's it got to do with you?” he repeated, as if he wasn't exactly sure what she was asking. ”See, that's what I was just getting to.”

”He wants you to dump your band,” Mort said without looking at her, still busy dissecting the napkin. ”He wants you to play with us.”

”Oh,” she whispered. ”You've gotta be kidding.”

”No,” Keith said, glaring at Mort, glaring like he could kill a man with those eyes alone. ”I'm not f.u.c.king kidding.

We need a singer and a ba.s.s player, and we're never gonna find anyone better than you.”

”I'd be a s.h.i.+t,” Daria said, ”if I walked out on them like that. We're just getting started.”

Keith frowned, then sighed and slumped back into the booth. ”They're not the ones you should be worrying about,” he said, and lit a cigarette.

”They're my friends-”

”Sure, they're your friends. And I'm sure they're sweet guys. But you know that they're nowhere near as good as you are, right? You know they never will be.”

”Jesus,” she whispered, and stared hard at Keith Barry through the veil of smoke hanging in the air between them.

”Yeah, I know that,” she said, finally. ”But I also know that your arm's got a bad habit.”

Keith took another drag and shook his head. ”I guess that must make you Sherlock f.u.c.king Holmes.”

”All I'm saying is, I want to know if it's something you got a handle on, or if it's got you. You're sitting there ask-126 ing me to ditch some really good guys. I think I have a right to ask.”

”You some kind of f.u.c.king saint?” he asked angrily, and she knew that was her cue to thank them both for the beer and the compliments and walk away. But she chewed at her lower lip, instead, and waited for him to answer her question.

”You're about to blow this thing,” Mort said, scattering bits of shredded napkin across the table in front of him.

”The lady asked you a question.”

Keith smoked his cigarette and stared past Daria, towards the stage.

”You gonna answer her or not?”

”Yeah,” he said, finally. ”It's under control. I just f.u.c.king need to get back to work, that's all. It's not a problem.”

She nodded her head and finished her beer. It was even hotter back here in the shadows than it had been on stage and she was starting to feel a little dizzy, a little sick to her stomach.

Walk away, she thought. Tell him thanks and walk away and just keep walking.

”Look,” she said, all the false cool she'd ever have rolled up in that one word. ”I'm gonna have to think about this for a couple of days.” And then she set the empty beer bottle down onto the table in front of her.

”No problem,” Keith said. ”I'm not asking you to make a decision right this minute. I know you need some time.”

”I just gotta think about it, that's all.”

”This is my number at work,” Mort said, and he slid a business card from a northside machine shop across the table to her. ”Just ask for me. And whatever you decide, thanks for thinking about it.”

”You won't be sorry,” Keith said, like it was already a done deal, and stubbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. ”You won't regret it. I swear. Me, you, and Mort, we'll wake all these motherf.u.c.kers up.”

”Yeah, well, we'll see,” she said. ”I'm not making any 127.

promises,” and Daria slipped Mort's card into a pocket and walked back to the stage alone.

After the signing-two interminable hours of auto-graphs and smiles for flas.h.i.+ng cameras, the pretense that it's all about the fans, about the music, instead of the mortgage and the credit cards and Niki's doctor bills-and after the interview, Alex leads her to the waiting car and tells the driver to take them back to the hotel. She lights a cigarette and watches the streetlights, the ugly parade of strip malls and apartment buildings and fast-food restaurants along Peachtree Street. The stark white blaze of mercury vapor and halogen and fluorescence set against the last few moments of November dusk, and when she s.h.i.+vers Alex puts an arm around her.

”You were great,” he says. ”You're a trooper.”

I'm a phony, she starts to tell him, but it's an old argument, an old confession, and she doesn't feel like having it again right now. ”I need a drink,” she says instead.

”We'll be back at the hotel soon.”

”Great, but I need a drink now, not soon.”

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