Act of God

“The fuck’s wrong?”
    The man dropped his hand. “Nothing’s wrong. I got enough, that’s all.”
    “Enough? We’re only halfway through the fucking set.” Teagle didn’t endear himself to the guy. “Look, pal. I been doing this twenty-five years, and I’ve heard enough to know when I’ve heard enough. Besides, you’re lucky, there’ll be so many assholes shitfaced in this place by the time you go on, nobody’ll hear you anyway.”
    “Oh, that’s real fucking funny. And real professional, too.”
    As Teagle glared at him, the older man closed down his panel and walked toward me. Conversationally, he said, “What do you want?”
    “I’m with the band.”
    “Christ, you ever read that book?”
    “What book?”
    The guy gave me a disgusted look and went upstairs. Teagle now had his back to me, his friends starting to break down their equipment. I moved toward the stage. Seeing me, the drummer said, “Yeah?”
    I spoke to Teagle’s back. “I need to talk with you.”
    The lead singer turned around. “Well, what do you know.”
    The keyboardist said, “Agent?”
    Teagle said, “Not. This is the fucker who claimed to be a cop, rousted me in my apartment.”
    The Baltimore accent made it “A-parr-mum.” The other guitarist, the Asian kid, tried to sound tough. “Maybe we ought to mess him up a little for you, Rush.”
    “Maybe we should, Hack.”
    Hack and Rush. I almost wanted to know the other kids’ names. “Bad for business, guys.”
    The drummer said, “So, we take you outside, asshole. Management doesn’t give a shit what happens in the alley.” I looked at the four of them, figuring the drummer as the only real trouble, then thought of my shoulder and knee. “Not just bad for the bar’s business, boyo. You guys make a living using your fingers.”
    The drummer grunted. “Some living.”
    I said, “Suppose even one finger on one hand got broken, how would that affect your playing?”
    Hack, the Asian guitarist, swallowed hard. The Hispanic kid at the keyboard wiggled his fingers until he realized he was doing it and stopped. The drummer just smiled at me as Teagle said, “What the fuck right you got, coming in here and threatening us like this?”
    “I thought I was the one being threatened, but why don’t we just call it a draw. Then you can sit down and talk with me a while.”
    “And if I don’t fucking feel like it?”
    “Then I stake out your place, catch you sometime without the U.N. Peacekeeping Force here to monitor my good intentions.”
    The drummer said, “I still think we ought to beat the shit out of this asshole.”
    Teagle seemed to be thinking about something. “No, wait. The dude wants to talk, that’s cool.” Lovingly, he laid his guitar on its soft black case. “How about over there?”
    I met him at the darkened bar, no stools for sitting. As I looked around the room, I couldn’t see any place to sit, just stand-up counters at elbow height for setting down drinks. “So man, what’s up now?”
    Teagle was silhouetted by the stage spots, so I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the voice told me he was grinning. I couldn’t quite understand the change in his attitude.
    As the other three dealt with their equipment, I said, “Why can’t you just leave things there for tonight?”
    “Huh?”
    “Your instruments and stuff. Why do you have to take everything down?”
    “Oh. Coupla other groups are playing tonight. Gotta give them the chance for sound checks, too.”
    “ Battle of the bands?”
    “Huh?”
    “You guys in a contest?”
    “Oh. Not. Tonight’s like an audition night.”
    “But the place already hired you, right?”
    “Not exactly. It’s more like we auditioned with a tape. That’s how you do it now, drop off a tape so the houseman or the owner—”
    “Houseman?”
    “The asshole was working the console over there. A club’ll have three, four groups come in from their tapes, and everybody gets to play a set. There’s a Sox game tonight, so they’ll start early, get people in the mood. But we’re the best, ‘cause we’re an original band.”
    “Not a copy.”
    “Right. The other guys, they’re just cover bands. They play like the top-forty songs.”
    “Instead of their own music.”
    “Right, right. I don’t write it, we don’t play it.”
    Teagle was being awfully cooperative, almost as if he wanted my help in return.
    I said, “I have a few more questions for you.”
    “Like ask away, man.”
    “You