Page 22 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I glance back at her with a smirk. “We would have been thrown out already if we weren’t.”

Like the rest of Franklin’s, the backstage area hasn’t been updated since the place opened. Which means that instead of any sort of fancy greenroom, all that’s back here is a lounge area with rickety old couches, most likely salvaged from a back alley somewhere, and a few private areas cordoned off with curtains.

The air is laced with the smell of ancient cigarette smoke and dank carpets that needed to be replaced years ago. However, it’s a good smell, like gasoline, one you can’t get enough of even though it should be unpleasant.

I go straight to the back where Bobby’s room is. Bobby is a stalwart favorite here at Franklin’s, all across Austin even, and as such, gets the star treatment. At least when it comes to being a local musician.

Stopping in front of the curtain, I let Eleanor catch up to my side.

She looks up at me through the lenses of her wire framed glasses, brown eyes wide and nervous. No wonder she looks at the world through a camera or sticks herself into the depths of the Reeder Music Library. Her default seems to be skittish. Until she gets comfortable or has one of those bursts of wit.

That’s why she needs me around for this project. We complement each other. Charisma paired with diligence.

Not to mention I have my own reasons for being interested.

“Ready?” I ask.

Eleanor runs her fingers through her curls, pushing them out of her face. One of them sprigs onto her forehead, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Do I look okay?” she asks.

“You trying to be a groupie or something?” I ask.

Her lips and nose squinch together. “I’m trying to make a good impression,” she hisses.

I touch her shoulder, her bare shoulder. The blood running through my palm pulses. “It’ll be great. I’ll do the talking, alright? All you need to do is show him the picture and . . .” Look pretty. “Be yourself.”

Eleanor smiles gratefully and I take that as my permission to rap my hand against the curtain. “Bobby!” I call out. “You’ve got some fans out here!”

“Is that Wyatt?” Bobby cries back in response. “Come on in!”

I pull the curtain back and usher Eleanor through before stepping in after her and letting the curtain flutter shut behind us.

Bobby is sitting up against the wall in a folding chair, running a polishing cloth across his tenor saxophone. Though he’s getting up there in years, he has the smile of a hopeful teenager and the brightness in his eyes to match. And when his fingers bounce across the keys so spry and agile, you’d think the man was meant to be immortal. “Well, well, well, you didn’t tell me that I had such pretty fans, Luke.”

Eleanor laughs, unable to quell her flush. I’m glad she takes it as a compliment rather than an affront to her intelligence.

“Bobby, this is my friend Eleanor,” I say with a gesture in her direction.

Bobby’s eyes flick to me for just a moment. “Friend, huh?”

“Colleague better for you?” I offer.

The older man laughs, hard enough for his head to fall back and his chest to wheeze. He rubs his free hand against his thigh and then extends his hand to Eleanor. “Name’s Bobby. You from around here, Eleanor?”

“Chicago,” she says as they shake.

“Oh, Chicago. I can hear it in your voice,” he says. “How’d we measure up to what you got up there?”

Eleanor shakes her head. “Oh, wonderful. Better than.”

“Better!” He points one of his fingers at her. “I won’t tell Mayor Daley you said that.”

She laughs. “Good thing he hasn’t been mayor in over a decade, then.”

“Ah, I’ll have to brush up on those Windy City politics,” he says with a grimace, returning to polishing his sax. “Surprised to see you out there, Wyatt. Been a while since you’ve been able to pop in.”

I slide my hands into the pockets of my pants. “Been busy with work.”

“Sure, sure,” Bobby says. He pauses in his work for a moment. “How’s your ma doin’?”

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