Page 38 of Torch Songs

“Insufferable prick,” Martin returned under his breath. They worked quietly for a few moments until they heard the squeak of the old man’s office door and the rustle of his blinds. This meant Calhoun had retreated for his morning nip of scotch with some coffee, and they had some peace for the next two or so hours. Martin gave an exaggerated sigh.

“That was close—geez, the price you pay for being three minutes early instead of fifteen minutes early.”

Guthrie chuckled, his stomach still rumbling uneasily, and he pulled out his phone, surreptitiously checking for a text from Tad, but there was nothing there.

“Yeah, I caught a call from a friend just as I was getting out of the truck.”

“Bad news?” Martin asked, and Guthrie shook his head, remembering that it was, in fact,goodnews.

“No. Not at all. My friend’s little sisters are going to stay with me for the summer. The youngest one is doing a play in the city for a junior theater company. It’s a big deal. Her sister’s going to escort her to the city and work on an online course with some visits at CSUSF. They’re great kids, and, you know, my friends. So it’s nice I get a chance to help out.”

“Oh!” Martin grinned, the newly nicer part of him obviously lighting up. “So is this like… your, uhm….” He glanced up, like toward the music that was humming out of the speakers, and Guthrie nodded and gave him a wink.

“Sure is. In fact….” Guthrie glanced around surreptitiously. “He might….” He hated to doubt Seth like this, but he also didn’t like to hope too much. Dreams were great, but sometimes plans fell through. “He’s trying to get a recording session in place. Sort of classics meets pop music sort of thing. Wants me on vocals and drums and guitar if I want. Says his agent’s got backers, and they just have to free up some studio space in the city for the end of August. I mean, even if it’s nothing, it’ll be a chance to meet up with my friends again, right?”

“And play?” Martin asked, mouth open a little in wonder. He’d confessed to signing up for guitar lessons at a local community outreach and had shyly admitted he loved practicing.

“Yeah,” Guthrie said, the dream of that flooding him with endorphins. “And play.”

“Righteous,” Martin said softly. “Put in for vacationright nowso the old man can’t complain.”

Guthrie grimaced. “I gotta wait until Seth gets back to me with dates—”

Martin shook his head. “Two weeks off, the last two weeks of August, dude. And if your friend can’t come through, book your own session, even if it’s in somebody’s garage.”

Guthrie stared at him, a little surprised. “Buddy, I am a honky-tonk guitarist and a backup musician—”

Martin shook his head even harder. “I was at Scorpio last week, Guthrie. I know you didn’t see me because your crowd wasinsane, but your band is good, and you can work solo any time. I’m telling you this because….” He glanced behind his shoulder, as though expecting to see Eugene Calhoun there, breathing down their necks. “You are too good for this, brother,” he said.

“Honest money’s honest money,” Guthrie told him soberly.

“I’m telling you, your music’s honest. I’ll put in for the vacation for you right now, and you approve it. I want….” He sighed. “I want somebody I know to have something good.”

Guthrie frowned. In the last month he’d discovered Martin lived with his mother, who, as far as Guthrie could tell, was sort of controlling and overprotective, and he would probably be forever hurt that his father didn’t want a relationship with him. Guthrie couldn’t articulate how lucky the poor guy was that he did not. But Guthrie had never pried, and he wasn’t sure how to pry now. Martin gave his head a violent shake and said, “Please. For me. Let me think of you getting your break and feeling good about it, okay?”

“Yeah,” Guthrie said, helpless in the face of that much despair. “Okay.”

His computer beeped in a few moments with the paperwork for Guthrie’s own vacation—Martin hadn’t lied. He’d put it in himself.

Guthrie okayed him and made sure the automatic email was sent. He realized that he’d committed to something—a promise of some sort to make his life better, to see his dream through, no matter what the cost.

But he’d tasted hope two weeks before. He’d had hope show up on his phone a few times a day since. And hope had gone to a cold, dark place the night before, leaving Guthrie on the stage with a band that probably wasn’t going to make it till the end of summer, because those kids had whole different careers than he did. Guthrie had poured hissoulinto “Long Long Time” the night before, because he couldn’t play “Faithfully” when Tad wasn’t in the audience, and the other song he’d worked up, the one that was supposed to be a surprise, had felt like a lie.

Suddenly heneededthat hope, that last gasp of summer, that need to drive his life forward instead of to tread water and wait for something more.

The day continued—Friday was often a reasonably busy day, particularly after graduation. A lot of wealthy parents were there with dazed, excited, and yes, sometimes entitled children shopping for a graduation present that would help them launch into promising lives.

Enough of that sort had come through the doors, chattering animatedly, that when at about one o’clock, a wraith-thin young woman in worn jeans and a faded hoodie came through the door, Guthrie glanced at her twice to check her out. She had auburn hair and green eyes, both of which seemed suspiciously familiar, and haunted elfin features.

With Guthrie’s second glance he read SAC PD across the chest of the hoodie, which flapped around her ninety-pound frame, and stood.

“Do we need security?” Martin asked, and Guthrie shook his head.

“No,” he murmured. “I think she’s a friend’s sister. I… if Calhoun shows up, tell him I took early lunch, and see if you can get Tracy back here to help you out.”

“No worries,” Martin said, picking up the phone, and then, as they both saw the girl—who had anenormousbag over hershoulder, like a cross between a duffel bag and actual luggage—wipe the back of her hand across her eyes, he added, “She looks desperate.”

“Yeah,” Guthrie said. He didn’t have to check his phone, see the screen with zero notifications, to guess why.

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