by Cory Barclay
She said, “That’s not a bad idea. What about shopping around for other labels? I’m sure there are other people we could find.”
“Not without an agent,” Steve said, elevating his Bummer Bob status to Debbie Downer levels. “I had a connection with Imminent Records through John Levi, and I fucked that up.”
“That contract was bullshit,” Dale said. “And Bel did you a solid by not taking it.”
“I know . . .” Steve muttered, glancing over at Annabel. She was eyeing him too, for the first time since getting in the car. Steve managed a half-smile—still unable to swing a full one.
Robert Plant was singing, “And as we wind on down the road!”
“She’s right, Steve-o. There are other fish in the sea. I’m sure we could land something with another label,” Dale said, cutting himself off even though it seemed like he was going to say more.
“But?” Annabel asked.
“But it means we got to hit the pavement. It’s gonna be hard work, y’know?” Dale finished, reluctantly.
“I’m not averse to hard work,” Annabel said. “Are you?”
Robert Plant was singing, “And if you listen very haaard!”
Aiden had been uncharacteristically quiet during this exchange between the trio, apparently taking Plant’s suggestion to listen very hard.
But now there was a lull in the conversation—radio silence—and he spoke.
“I could fund you guys.”
The car went silent.
Except for Robert Plant singing, “When all are one and one is all!”
“What did you say?” Steve asked, looking back into the rearview mirror, thinking he’d misheard the mischievous leprechaun.
“It’s why I brought up the music in the first place, mate. I said I could fund you hooligans.”
The first thought that ran through Steve’s mind was, Caution! Unlucky leprechaun!
Dale said, “You would do that, man?”
Aiden shrugged. “The way I see it . . . it’s just another version of a gamble. It’s a wager—putting my money on you guys to succeed.”
“What will happen if we don’t succeed? Will you want your money back?” Dale asked.
But Steve thought Fats was getting in too deep too quick. Before Aiden had a chance to answer, Steve said, “Does that mean we’re destined to fail, since you see it as a gamble? I mean, if you’re the unluckiest leprechaun on this side of the pond.”
Aiden chuckled or scoffed. Either way it was an unpleasant sound.
Dale said, “Shut up, Steve-o.”
But Steve was serious. He had stopped taking all this superstitious stuff rhetorically. He’d become a firm believer in the Mythics and their talents and their follies. And it was well known that Aiden O’Shaunessy was a shoddy gambler and perpetual loser. Not in the personality sense was he a loser, of course, but in the monetary sense.
He couldn’t win a bet.
What would make this endeavor any different? If he put his grubby fingers on Annabel’s music, would that mean it’d be sure to flop?
“I suppose that’s always a possibility,” Aiden said, shrugging again.
Steve thought long and hard about that, just as “Stairway to Heaven” was coming to a close. As Robert Plant sang off the last notes of the song, it brought Steve back to that fateful day at the cemetery, when he’d first met Annabel.
The car ride home that day, in which he almost got into multiple accidents because he was feeling so scatterbrained, had been the last time he’d heard the popular rock song. It had evoked strong memories then, just as it did now.
Steve smiled as he tuned out the other three people in the car, who were in the middle of a heated back-and-forth. He thought about that day . . .
His brother Tom giving the Creative Writing course eulogy for his dead father.
His cousin Lenny slapping him upside the head for not listening to his brother, because Steve’s eyes were focused elsewhere . . .
On a strange girl in a white dress playing her music for the dead. He realized, knowing what he knew now, no one else had probably been able to see her.
She was all his.
Not until he walked over to her and started talking to her could she be seen by the funeral party. To Lenny and Tom, it probably looked like Steve was simply walking off, that he’d heard enough about his father . . . maybe he was going to go cry?
Then Steve had complimented Annabel about her music, was given the cryptic responses in return, and handed her a business card to offer his services . . . if she ever wanted to record some music at his studio.
She’d shown up that afternoon outside his studio, unable to hide her eagerness, all-too-ready to get song to tape and—
“Steve!” Annabel yelled for the third or fourth time.
Steve slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light. The tires screeched as they came to a forceful stop.
Steve’s eyes bulged.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, man?” Dale quipped. “You want me to drive?”
“The fucking business card!” Steve shouted.
Everyone in the car looked at him like he belonged in the loony bin.
But then Steve turned to Annabel and he could see in her eyes as it dawned on her—the epiphany light bulb moment when everything made sense.
“Oh . . . shit,” she said. “The business card you gave me is the Conveyor!”
AIDEN’S HOUSE WAS NOT what Steve expected. Given that the Irishman was a bona fide leprechaun, Steve expected he’d live in one of those Hobbit houses with the miniature doors and tiny windows. There was a whole village of quaint little people houses in the hills of La Jolla. He expected Frodo’s Shire.
What he got was much more grandiose.
Aiden had a verifiable mansion on the Mission Bay waterfront, overlooking the calm, black body of water that sat in the middle of San Diego like a big swimming pool. It was sleek and modern and lavish, not at all the medieval fairytale funtime house Steve expected.
It was another surprise in a list of surprises that were beginning to not surprise him anymore.
It was like an Art Deco piece with two overhanging balconies, making it at least three stories tall, a winding staircase like you see in Disney castles, and lush floral arrangements in the front, leading the viewer’s eyes heavenward, to take in the whole structure.
And that was just the outside.
Inside was like a red-carpeted Renaissance masquerade ballroom. A huge chandelier with a bajillion little crystals greeted them in the foyer of the house—yes, it had a foyer—which led to three different rooms in three different directions.
“Jesus, Aiden, I thought you were an unlucky gambler,” Dale said, awestruck as he struggled to keep his balance while staring up at the high-ceilinged beams and columns.
Aiden chuckled. “I am. But I still do all right for myself.”
“I guess so . . .” Steve said, trailing off as he perused an abstract art piece on the wall. It looked like it could be an original Picasso.
“Chasing that rainbow has really paid off, huh?” Dale asked.
Aiden smiled. “Yes, Thor, you could say that.” He pointed down a wide hallway to the right of the foyer. “The kitchen and bathroom are that way.” Then he pointed to the left. “The living room, conference room, billiards room, another bathroom, game room, and indoor jacuzzi are that way.”
“You have a billiards room?” Dale asked excitedly.
Steve angled his brow at Dale. “I would’ve thought you’d be more enthused about the jacuzzi room, Fats.”
“You know how much I like to play pool,” Dale responded. He spun around to face Aiden. “What’s in the game room?” He was clearly like a kid in a candy shop, or a kid who begrudgingly goes to visit his Auntie with his mom, angry he has to sleep over, only to find out Auntie’s got cooler stuff and better games than his parents do.
Aiden counted off on his fingers. “Darts, shuffleboard, and twenty-two pinball machines.”
“I’m a bit of a collector—a pinball connoisseur, if you will.”
“What’s down that hall?” Steve asked, pointing down the hall that went straight into darkness.
“The stairs. All the bedrooms are upstairs, either on the second or third floors.”
“How many bedrooms are there?”
“Six.”
Steve nodded. He turned to Annabel. “Want to join me in the kitchen?” he asked. They both knew it wasn’t for food. They needed to discuss that damn business card.
“Sure,” she said, nodding.
To Dale, Aiden said, “Maybe we could go to the conference room to hash out the details of funding your music project?”
Dale frowned. “Can we do that in the game room?”
Aiden smiled. “Absolutely.”
And they walked away.
Steve and Annabel walked down the long white hallway to the right. Halfway through the hallway it felt like they were entering the twilight zone. They couldn’t see what was ahead of them or behind them anymore—the light from the foyer was too far away.
Annabel crept next to Steve and shyly grabbed his hand.
Steve smiled, feeling her cold skin against his.
Then lights blared to life overhead, startling both of them.
They jumped into each other’s arms, then cracked up laughing when they realized they weren’t in imminent peril.
Aiden hadn’t mentioned he had automatic lights.
The kitchen had two cobalt-colored islands and two refrigerators. They sat at one of the islands, across from each other.
“So . . .” Steve began, folding his hands in front of him and leaning forward. “Any idea what you did with that business card I gave you?”
Annabel frowned. “I was afraid you’d ask that . . .”
“It’s got to be the Conveyor, yeah? I mean, that’s the first physical object I ever handed to you. It’s crazy to think something so small could do something so powerful . . .”
“Yeah, like rip me out of my world,” Annabel said. She thought for a second, then added, “I’m not sure if I left the business card in your studio somewhere . . .”
Steve made a hollow, inward clicking sound. “That . . . would be bad,” he said, thinking about the piles of ash that now stood where his studio used to be.
From somewhere in the deepest bowels of the house, Steve and Annabel could hear Dale singing: “I’M A PINBALL WIZARD!”
They both chuckled. It helped lighten the mood, considering the implication of what Annabel had just said—if the business card burned down in the studio, she was stuck on Earth forever, as far as they knew.
“Could you have left it at the cemetery?” Steve asked.
Annabel shook her head. “That would be almost as bad, right? But no . . . I remember putting it in my dress pocket. I think.”
“You think?”
“I could have put it in my guitar case.”
Steve sighed. “But you didn’t throw it away, right?”
Annabel shook her head. “I wouldn’t have been able to find your studio without the address on the business card,” she pointed out.
“Oh. Right. Well, what about your parent’s house?”
“I never went there before coming to your studio.” Annabel continued shaking her head, more vigorously now. She was clearly getting frustrated—not necessarily with the line of questioning, but just being unable to remember such a little detail that very clearly meant a whole lot, in the grand scheme of things.
Steve drummed his fingertips on the polished, cobalt tabletop. He scratched his forehead and leaned down further, as if the further his head went to the center of the Earth, the more he’d remember.
Annabel got up to check one of the refrigerators. She turned around holding two bottles of Budweiser. When she got halfway between the fridge and the island, she stopped in her tracks. “Whoops,” she said, turning back around.
Steve chuckled. “It’s no problem.”
She put one of the beers back in the fridge and called out, “Want a Ginger Ale or a Coke?”
“Ginger Ale,” Steve said.
She returned to the island and passed the Ginger Ale to Steve, turning the twist-off lid of the Budweiser for herself.
“For being so rich, he sure picks a crappy beer to drink,” Steve said, taking a sip of his soda.
Annabel shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Steve said, “I’m gonna go find a balcony to smoke on, want to join me?”
“I’ll be there in a minute, I’m going to try to think some more.”
Steve nodded and turned around. He shuffled across the marble floor, and when he was five steps away from the island, Annabel’s words stopped him cold.
“Ah, damn!” she said, snapping her fingers. “That’s it.”
Steve spun around, his eyes narrowing on her, his head tilted.
“He asked me for a cigarette . . .”
“Who did?”
“I said I didn’t smoke, then I searched around in my pockets for my guitar pick . . . and the card fell out.”
“Who, what, where?” Steve was asking.
“Tumbleweed, that homeless guy outside your studio! When we first busked on the street, the morning after I slept over at your studio the first time.”
Steve stepped forward. “What happened to the card, Bel? After you dropped it?”
Annabel pursed her lips. “He picked it up and handed it to me.”
“And?”
“And . . . I told him to keep it, I said I already knew the place . . .”
Annabel looked up from the table, snapped out of her reverie. They looked at each other with astonished expressions.
“You mean to say . . . the dead homeless guy is our last chance to get you home?”
“It seems that way. But how would we even find him? I mean . . . he’s dead!”
Steve ran a hand through his hair. He felt like he’d gained fifty new gray hairs that day. He threw his arms up and said, “Hell if I know! We didn’t even know the guy’s real name!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Pacing around the kitchen, which was nearly as large as Steve’s entire former apartment, Steve kept clicking his tongue. It was a clear nervous tick; a sign of him thinking. They’d only been in Aiden’s house for a mere half hour, but it felt like they’d be jetting out again soon.
And it had already been a hell of a day for Steve and Company.
As Annabel picked her fingernails, her own nervous tick, she watched Steve. She said, “What should we do since we don’t know Tumbleweed’s name?”
Steve, still pacing, said, “We could go into Pacific Beach and roam around the byways and bridges, try to find some homeless people who might have known him . . .”
“That could take eons.”
Steve sighed. “You’re right. There are thousands of homeless in San Diego, and I have no idea where their main hangouts are. I’ve never been homeless.” Steve stopped pacing for a moment and turned to Annabel with a curious look.
If he thought Annabel was going to answer, “I have,” he was mistaken.
Steve continued pacing. “If only Pancho were still around . . . or do you think Aiden might have known him?”
“How?”
“I dunno. They’re both Mythics . . .”
Annabel scoffed. “Just because they’re both from the same plane of existence doesn’t mean they were buddies, Steve. That would be like you being friends with every music studio owner in the world.”
“I know, I know, you’re right,” Steve said. “Sorry. I’m just trying to come up with ideas.”
“I’m sorry too . . . I know I’m not helping,” Annabel said.
Steve walked over to her and took her hands in his own. “You shouldn’t have to help, Bel. This is my fault—I should be the one coming up with the plans.”
Steve’s little speech didn’t have the desired effec
t. Annabel frowned and cocked her head back. “That’s a little sexist, don’t you think? Just because you’re a man doesn’t mean I can’t come up with ideas—”
“N-No, no,” Steve yipped, waving his hands in the air. “That’s not what I meant! Ugh, I don’t know what I meant.”
It was clear that both their emotional capacities were on the fritz. Steve checked his phone and saw it was past 10:00 p.m. They’d had a long day, and it was starting to show via their little quibbling.
Steve put his hands in his jacket pockets and walked away toward the fridge, grabbing another Canada Dry Ginger Ale from inside. He untwisted the top and took a gulp, put the plastic bottle on the island, and put his hands back in his pockets.
Then his right hand went across something in his jacket pocket that almost gave him a papercut. He furrowed his brow and pulled out what had been poking his hand.
It was a card.
No, it wasn’t the card.
It was a calling card for a Detective Gary Richmond. He had been the on-scene detective that had first questioned Steve after the car crash that killed Tumbleweed, when Steve was still in shock.
Steve pursed his lips and smacked the card against his palm a few times.
“What’s that?”
“Hold on,” he said, trying to keep his thoughts straight. A moment later, he continued. “It’s the card for the detective that questioned me after Shannon Barton’s crash.”
“Hmm,” Annabel said, caressing her chin. “Wouldn’t someone who knows the streets—who roams the streets every day, looking for trouble—probably know the names of the homeless folk in his jurisdiction?”
Steve grinned. “Just what I was thinking, my dear.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“And if not that,” Steve added, “he could maybe point us in the right direction.” He pulled out his cell phone, then paused.
“What is it?” Annabel asked, watching him stammer.
“I was just thinking . . . didn’t Buddy’s Diner threaten to kick Tumbleweed and Pancho to the proverbial curb if they kept hanging out in front of the restaurant? For loitering, I mean?”