Читать книгу Black Mad Wheel - Josh Malerman, Josh Malerman - Страница 10

Hey, Philip,” Misty says. “Looks like you’ve already been drinking.”

It’s always looks like with Misty.

“I’m all right.” Philip smiles.

“Looks like you’re recording a band of stiffs.” Misty nods to the Sparklers, who stand awkwardly farther down the bar. “What do they call themselves? The Bland?”

“The Sparklers.”

“Jesus H.”

Larry winks at Misty from over Philip’s shoulder.

“It’s our job to loosen them up,” he says.

“You can’t make a record with no grooves,” Misty puns.

“They’ll groove,” Larry says. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe they won’t.”

“Help us out,” Philip says.

“Sure. What do you want me to give them?”

“Something terrible. Something strong.”

Misty considers this. But not for long. It’s not the first time the Danes have brought a band into Doug’s Den on Beaubien Street. She arranges five shot glasses.

“And we’ll have the same,” Philip adds.

Misty smiles something maternal. Philip likes Misty. With her short dark hair and strong eyes she looks like she could be his sister. And she’s always been good to the Danes.

“You planning on getting any recording done today?” she asks, already pouring the shots.

“We haven’t made it past the drum kit yet.”

Thurston Harris’s “Little Bitty Pretty One” comes on the jukebox.

Duane, dancing as he moves, takes half the shots from Misty. Philip grabs the others. They carry them to the Sparklers, now congregated on the dance floor. But still not dancing.

“You guys like this song?” Philip asks.

“Yeah,” the Sparklers’ bassist says. Philip catches himself reflected in the kid’s glasses. He looks drunk. “It’s fun.”

“Good,” Duane says. “So let’s have fun.”

As he and Philip distribute the shots, the door to Doug’s Den swings open and Ross enters. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat and he’s hunched, as he always is, even when playing the guitar.

The young Sparklers stare at Ross with reverence. After all, it’s his guitar line on “Be Here” that gave the Danes their instrumental hit.

“Sorry I’m late,” he tells Philip. “Long night.”

Philip understands. This isn’t the first time a Dane has pleaded hungover.

“Ross, meet the Sparklers.”

Ross checks them out. He knows Philip well enough to know why he’s brought them to Doug’s.

“You’re Ross Robinson,” the Sparklers’ guitarist says, eyeing Ross’s uncombed curly hair. “I curled my hair so it looks like yours.”

“You look like a clown,” Ross says. Then he takes one of the shot glasses, downs the whiskey within.

“Better?” Larry asks.

Ross wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his corduroy coat.

“Might be worse.”

Philip raises his glass, inspiring the Sparklers to timidly do the same.

Art, the band’s manager, rushes to stop this. His hair is wet with sweat. His tie is loose.

“Now hang on a minute! We’ve got a session to finish! My boys can’t be whooping it up like this!”

The music gets louder. Philip looks over his shoulder. Misty is smiling behind the bar.

“This is all part of the session,” Philip says. “This is tracking.”

Philip downs his shot, grabs the lead singer of the Sparklers, and dances with him. He places the kid’s hand on his back, asking him to lead.

The Path has taken Philip to amazing places, but sometimes, like when he looks into the naïve eyes of a younger musician, he wonders how far it can go.

These kids, Philip knows, haven’t left home yet.

Ross squeezes himself between Philip and the singer with another round of shots.

“No more of this,” Art says, stepping in. “I mean it. No more!”

“Little Bitty Pretty One” ends and Sonny James’s “Young Love” begins. It’s not yet noon and the regulars are watching the Danes. These men, veterans of the First World War, have been here since eight.

Larry starts dancing with the manager of the Sparklers. Art looks like a child in his arms. The drummer of the Sparklers unbuttons his shirt.

“There he goes,” Ross says to Philip. “He’ll be a drunk in no time.”

The Sparklers are getting loose. Strange dance moves. The guitarist is kissing a poster featuring an actress from a new monster movie, From Hell It Came.

The front door opens and daylight cuts a fresh silhouette of a man in the door.

Philip doesn’t see him.

“Think we’re ready to record?” the Sparkler asks Larry.

Larry smiles but shakes his head no.

“In about another twenty years.”

He twirls the kid.

Philip feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns.

The face he sees, the pale blue eyes, the set jaw, the manicured hair, is more familiar than it is friendly.

Military, Philip thinks. He hasn’t seen a face like this one in a long time. Veterans are one thing, and they change through the years. But the men who give orders do not.

The Path, it seems, is unsteady now. Different footing.

“Philip Tonka?” the man asks.

“Yeah?”

A serious expression grips the lower half of the man’s face, but his eyes still sparkle. Nothing shines, Philip thinks, exactly like military.

Could it be? Here?

“You a fan of the Danes?” Philip asks, hopeful, yet staring at a ghost, an era he thought was over.

The man nods.

“Yes. I am.”

Philip notices the man’s pressed suit. The lint-free overcoat.

“You looking to record a song?” Philip asks. But he’s only stalling.

“My name is Jonathan Mull. Join me for a drink?”

“We’re in the middle of a session.”

Mull surveys the bar. Takes it in.

“This will only take a moment.”

But Philip knows it’s going to be longer than that.

He leads the man to a booth. On the way, Duane watches. Philip meets his drummer’s eyes and they share a silent worry.

Military? Here?

“You’re an army man?”

Mull slides into one side of the booth, Philip the other.

“Good eye. Military intelligence. Most of my colleagues know me as Secretary Mull. This is about an opportunity for you and the rest of the Danes.”

“A gig?”

“Of sorts.”

“Where?”

“Well, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Let’s talk, then.”

“Africa.”

Philip has a hard time believing this. Maybe it’s the shots. Maybe it’s the military.

“That’s gonna cost a lot of money.”

“We’re certainly going to pay you. A considerable amount. A lot. But this gig is a little different from what you’re used to.”

“How different is different?” Hope in Philip’s voice. What already feels like a memory, the last vestige of levity.

Mull tents his fingers on the tabletop.

“You won’t be playing any music with this gig. You won’t be making any noise at all. In fact, you’ll be listening for a particular sound instead.”

Philip looks to his bandmates. He feels a sudden longing, as if painfully watching the way the world used to be.

The Path.

Has he stepped off?

“What kind of sound?” Philip asks, turning back to face the military, to face the change.

“A sound you’ve never heard,” the man says.

And Philip doesn’t doubt it. Doesn’t have any reason to believe that anything is familiar where this man wants to send them.

“Can I hear it?”

“Not here.”

“Why not?”

Mull pauses.

“As you know, Private Tonka, the army’s primary function is to protect the country’s citizenry.”

Philip smiles, but not because what the man has said is funny.

“What kind of sound could put people in danger?”

Mull places his elbows on the table and for a beat Philip sees the top of a reel jutting from the breast pocket of his suit coat. Mull’s eyes travel to Philip’s lips, as if asking him to remove the smile.

It isn’t applicable here, he says without words.

“A malevolent one, Private Tonka.”

Philip is still thinking about that reel.

“You make it sound like it’s alive.”

Mull leans back in the booth again.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter to talk.”

As if cued, the ruckus behind them rises. Larry is lifting one of the Sparklers by the waist.

“Wonderland,” Mull suggests.

“To talk,” Philip repeats.

He could stop this now. Whatever this is. He could say no. I like it here. I don’t wanna go anywhere else. You can’t make us.

“To listen,” Mull says.

A malevolent sound, Private Tonka.

“Give me a minute,” Philip says. “I’ll gather the Danes.”

But even as he slides from the booth, as he crosses the bar to retrieve his friends, Philip is telling himself no, no amount of money, no amount of curiosity is enough to leave all this behind.

And yet, the image of that tape in the military man’s pocket …

Maybe it’s because you can’t see where it’ll lead, Philip thinks, as he plants a hand on the shoulder of Ross’s corduroy jacket. Maybe it’s because people can’t see the end that they agree to begin.

“What’s up?” Ross asks. But Ross saw the man, too.

“This fella wants us to go up to the studio. He’s got a reel he wants us to hear.”

Ross hesitates.

“He’s army.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there any money in it?”

“He said it’s ‘considerable.’”

“Is that for them to consider or for us?”

“He said it’s a lot.”

Ross looks to Larry, dancing down the bar.

“Then we’ll come right back down?” he asks Philip.

“Yep,” Philip says.

But the two friends stare into each other’s eyes for a beat, and in that brief rhythm is the truth that they both know they won’t be right back down.

“What is it?”

“A sound.”

Ross smiles. But it’s not a nice one.

“Well, shit, Philip,” he says, sweating now. “How much trouble can one sound be?”