When they reached the door, she mustered, “I had a wonderful day. Thanks for showing me around.”
Joni smiled. “There’s more I can show you if you want to do it again sometime.”
“That would be lovely.”
The evening’s first band was a teenaged-looking sextet of assorted gender presentations playing hip-hop on toy instruments: a plastic drum kit, a plastic ukulele, a tiny xylophone, etc. They turned their joke instruments into a catchy sound, and the ukulele player was a talented rapper. They all wore Superwally warehouse uniforms—ironically, Rosemary thought, since if the techwear in the uniforms was still activated they’d be fired—and the first song gave a hilarious takedown of Superwally customer service. What if one of them was Jeremy from Quality Control? Rosemary laughed out loud at the thought. She didn’t think SHL would condone mockery of Superwally, but she made a mental note to find out their name and mention it as one to watch. Now that she had an idea how SHL worked, she thought it would be easy enough to add other bands as she found them.
After a couple of songs, she spotted Joni chatting with someone she didn’t recognize, a stocky black guy with a shaved head, and made her way over.
“Rosemary, this is Mark Grail. He’s been coming here since Luce started bringing in music. He took most of the pictures on Luce’s walls. Mark, this is Rosemary. She’s visiting from out of town. I was just saying I hadn’t seen Mark in a while,” Joni said.
“And I said I got a little burned out on the scene. There’s only so many times I can watch the same bands in the same room.”
“What did you do instead?” asked Rosemary.
“Hung out in a jazz joint for a while. Found a good monthly house concert.”
“And why did you come back?”
“Because he missed me,” Joni teased.
Mark waved her off. “My buddy Dex is in the next band. It’s their first time here.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Rosemary. “How do you know who’s playing on any given night? I’ve been trying and trying to figure it out.”
“There’s a calendar on the fridge upstairs.”
“A calendar?”
“Paper. Old like Main Street, but it works.”
“Okay, but how did Mark know his friend’s band was playing without coming here to look on the fridge?”
Mark smiled. “I think it went something like, ‘Hey, Mark, my band’s first show is Saturday night. Please come.’”
“I wonder if I’ll ever get to a point where I’m not asking stupid questions.”
“That wasn’t stupid,” said Joni. “Silly, not stupid. Just because we don’t have Hoodies doesn’t mean we don’t communicate.”
“And not all of us are noncomm.” Mark gestured at his Hoodie. “I just choose to leave it down when I venture out into the real world. Like you, I see.”
A siren whooped, and Rosemary glanced at the stage to see what the teenage band was playing now. A few other people looked in that direction as well. They were still on their toy instruments.
“Must have been passing by outside,” said Joni.
Another whoop. Then another. At the stage’s back, a tear in the paper covering the window let through a small arc of blue and red light.
“I’m going to go take a look outside. Mark, why don’t you open the back door, to be safe?” Joni headed up the stairs.
“There’s a back door?” Rosemary asked.
“Under the porch. For band load-ins and wheelchairs and people who can’t climb stairs.” Mark pointed in the direction he was already walking. “And safety’s sake. Luce has been around long enough to think of that stuff. No firetraps.”
Rosemary followed him a few steps and then stopped, unsure what to do next.
Joni returned. Rosemary took a step toward her, but Joni walked past her as if she were invisible. She walked onto the stage, interrupting the band in midsong. “Hey, everyone, Code Blue. There’s no danger, but I need you all to quietly leave out the kitchen door or the back. Code Blue.”
She made a slashing motion across her neck and the sound guy cut off the mics. For a second, nobody moved. Then a middle-aged white guy pushed past the stage and dashed up the stairs. The crowd followed, moving as a wave toward the two doors, flowing around Rosemary, jostling her. Her stomach dropped, and she found herself rooted to the spot. It couldn’t be a fire. There were fire alarms, but they hadn’t gone off. If somebody was hurt they wouldn’t evacuate; they’d leave everyone where they were. If fire and ambulance were ruled out, that left police. In any of those scenarios, if Joni said to leave, she should go. If her feet worked.
A loud but muffled voice came through the ceiling.
“Turn around!” said somebody on the stairs. “They’re coming in the front door.” The tide swirled. Rosemary was shoved against the merchandise table.
“Stop pushing,” someone said, but nobody did. She squeezed into the alcove she had sat in the first night, trying to put some space between herself and the others. The crowd pushed toward the door. She pressed herself back, deeper. Whatever it was that everyone was trying to escape, it couldn’t be as bad as getting trampled or crushed. She waited, listening to the shouts upstairs.
The last audience members trickled out. More footsteps on the stairs above her head. A small chunk of plaster dislodged.
“Anybody down here?” somebody asked.
“Status?” she heard over a walkie-talkie.
“They all went out the back. Basement’s empty. You catch any?”
“A few.”
“Enough to make the count?”
“Probably. Find anything?”
“Some sound equipment. Definitely being operated as a club. I’ll be up as soon as I take a few pictures.”
Rosemary stayed put. She hoped Joni had gotten out, and Luce, who must have been in the building somewhere. She even worried for Alice. She pictured the scene: Alice sitting in her living room, telling the cops she was home alone. Alice taking on the entire police force single-handedly. Rosemary wondered if one had dressed as an attendee, and if Alice had sniffed them out before they made it through the door.
She had no idea how much time passed. Ten minutes, an hour. An eternity. The blue and red slivers of light reflected on the stage wall until they didn’t anymore. Distant voices drifted downstairs through the disturbing quiet until they were silent, too. She’d never have imagined she might get to a point where she missed a crowd.
At some point, in the millionth minute of eternity, a hinge squeal, then the tumble of a lock. A moment later, Luce appeared in the room, pulling the plug on the lights that marked the stage.
“Are they gone?” Rosemary asked.
Luce dropped the cord and whirled. “Jesus, Rosemary. You nearly gave me a heart attack. Everybody’s gone.”
“I was afraid you got arrested.” Rosemary stepped from the alcove, rolling her head side to side to unkink her neck.
“Not arrested. Cited. Closed down.”
“Closed down like permanently?”
“Probably. I was stupid to run this from my house. Better to rent or squat somewhere, so when they cite you, you can move on to another place. Me, this is all I’ve got. Now the city can seize it if they decide I was involved, which I was, of course, and if they think that’s the best way to keep me from doing it again, which it is.”
Rosemary couldn’t find a word to convey how awful the prospect was, and she’d only been here a short time. This wasn’t another shuttered storefront; this was a community. Anything she said would be inadequate. “Shit.”
“Shit,” Luce agreed. “Do you want a drink? I need a drink.”
“Sure, but shouldn’t we be doing something? Calling lawyers? Making sure everyone’s okay?”
“You’re sweet. As far as I know, they only arrested two guys stupid enough to b
reak away and run because they were carrying hard drugs. A few more got cited for congregating, but that’s a misdemeanor, and I should have enough to cover their fines. Did you see who got people out in time?”
“Joni. She told that Mark guy to open the back door. She isn’t in trouble, is she?”
“I don’t think so. I didn’t see any sign of her. Come on.”
Rosemary followed Luce to the second-floor apartment.
“What can I get you? I’m going for whiskey myself.”
She’d never tried it before. “Whiskey is fine.”
Luce opened a cabinet in her living room, poured two amber tumblers. Shot one, poured another. She gave the other glass to Rosemary, put hers on the coffee table, and flopped face-first onto the couch. Rosemary chose the same chair she’d sat in the last time. She sipped her drink and winced. It had an eye-watering burn to it, but the aftereffect left her strangely calm.
“What I don’t get,” said Luce after a minute, eyes still closed. “What I don’t get is why they busted us on this night of all nights. That was about the quietest band in the rotation. There’s no way anyone complained.”
It wasn’t a question, so Rosemary sipped her drink and stayed silent.
“It’s not the end of the month, and they didn’t go out of their way to bust anyone, so I don’t think it was a quota thing. If there’s somebody wanting to be paid off, they didn’t make it known.”
“Have you had to pay someone off before?”
“Nah. I went to so much trouble to make sure we didn’t bother anyone. Soundproofing. Shows don’t go super late. I own the vacants on both sides and the only people who sleep in them are in bands that play here. Nobody knows about us who shouldn’t. There’s nobody fighting that I know of, and even if they were, they’d take it out on each other, not the show space. This is just shitting where you eat. Sorry—did I say something?”
“No—I, uh, it’s been an upsetting night.” Rosemary’s stomach flipped. She didn’t want to put her horrible thought into words. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”
Luce waved her glass toward the hall.
In the bathroom, Rosemary raised her Hoodie and pinged Recruiter Management.
“Hi, Rosemary, what’s up?” The same generic avatar spawned, though she had no way to know if the same person controlled it. “We’ve been contacted by those Mosquito guys, and Kurt Zell. Nice work.”
“The performance space where I’ve been recruiting was raided tonight. While I was in it. We didn’t have anything to do with that, did we?”
A frown crossed his perfect face. “Let me check.”
For a moment, his avatar stood vacant, not blinking or moving other than the fake wind through his fake hair. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he said when he returned. “That wasn’t supposed to happen until next Saturday.”
“What do you mean ‘supposed to happen’? What wasn’t supposed to happen?”
“You were supposed to be given until tomorrow to sign any of the four acts we discussed. They weren’t supposed to be raided until after relationships were established. Somebody entered the wrong date.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We owe you an apology. You weren’t arrested, were you? Do you need me to transfer you to Legal?”
Her frustration bested her. “No. I wasn’t arrested, but some people I know probably were, and this whole place is probably shutting permanently. Can you explain to me what’s going on? Really slowly?”
Luce called down the hallway, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” Rosemary called back without putting her hood down, making Management wince at the volume. Then, to the avatar, “Explain. Please.”
“Standard protocol. Recruiter goes in, finds new talent, recruits talent. Once everyone is on board . . .”
“. . . You shut the place down so they can’t compete with you, and the audiences are forced to see their favorite bands on SHL instead of in person, because you’ve taken that option away.”
“We, Rosemary. You work here.”
“We.” Oh, God. “So what do people in my position do now? Quit in disgust? Is this why there was an opening for me, you burn through recruiters?”
“Some quit. Some realize their outrage is temporary but quitting is permanent, and buckle down and get on with their job. You didn’t do anything wrong. You found some great acts—”
“Bands,” said Rosemary. “Not acts.”
Management continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “—and you hooked them up with us. They’ll be so much better off here. Think about it. All the fans they can reach. They’re spinning their wheels playing for the same people in the same city. Please tell us you got to talk to Luce Cannon before the police came?”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I was going to talk with her tonight.”
“Shit. Did she get arrested? Will you be able to find her again? I can get Legal on assistance for her, too, if you think that would help.”
Find her yourself, she wanted to say. “I know where she is.”
He looked relieved. The first genuine emotion she thought she had ever gotten from him. “Thanks. We know it can be upsetting the first time you hear this, but it’s a good system, we promise.”
“Really? Does this ‘good system’ take into account the fact that Luce owns the venue you closed? Is that supposed to help me convince her to do business with us?”
“Ah. Um.” He seemed flustered. Left his avatar empty again momentarily, returned contrite. “Was that in the information you gave us?”
“It wasn’t, because I didn’t know it was relevant. You sent me here without full information.”
“It works best that way for the first trip. Otherwise the recruiter gets nervous and telegraphs.”
“This is messed up. What if people stampeded to get out and somebody got hurt? What if I got hurt?”
He shrugged. “It works. Nobody’s ever been injured as far as we know. Anyway, maybe now she won’t be tied to her venue. Tell her we’d love to have her on board. Give her some bright sides.”
Rosemary put her hands to her head. “I don’t think she’s going to be as enthusiastic as you imagine, but I’ll give it a try.”
“Thanks for being a team player.”
She dropped her hood again without saying another word.
The bathroom swayed. She wished she could have told him where to shove it, to say she wanted no more part in this. At least not in putting people in danger and closing performance spaces. She considered her beautiful hotel room, the weeks of meals. She would be in debt forever trying to pay it off if she left without completing a single assignment. She couldn’t walk away. Anyway, connecting musicians with SHL was still a good thing. Maybe? Getting them the huge audiences they deserved. Putting them in the position to live off their music. Those were all positives.
She composed herself. Walked back into the living room, where Luce still lay on the couch, a pillow over her head. She sat again and drained her glass. There was no other way to do this.
“Luce, I need to tell you something.”
The pillow shifted to one side, and Luce raised her head. She looked exhausted, and not in the sated postshow way. Her tone was light, but her voice was weary. “You’re a cop after all. You’ve been here undercover this whole time and now you’re going to arrest me.”
“No.”
“Good. I don’t think I could take that.”
This wasn’t going to be easy. “The night is still young. Can I ask you a serious question?”
Luce levered herself back into a sitting position. “Hit me.”
“I had something to ask you, before any of this happened.”
“Okay . . .”
“You said the other night if you could get half the attention you got for ‘Blood and Diamonds’
for ‘Choose,’ you thought you’d be able to make a difference. Were you serious?”
“Yeah, of course. It’s the best song I’ve ever written.”
“Do you still want to get your music in front of new audiences? Big ones?”
“Sure. Why?”
Rosemary took a deep breath. “What if I offered that to you?”
“What are you, a genie? A hidden-camera-show host?”
“Not a genie, and I don’t know what that second one is. What if I, uh, could put you in touch with StageHoloLive? If I told you they were interested in you and your new stuff.”
Luce stood and poured herself another drink without offering Rosemary one. “Did they say both of those things? Me and my new stuff?”
“They were happy to think whatever you’d put out recently wasn’t widely distributed yet, so they could rerelease it in a package with live stuff, and, ah, ‘a rediscovery special.’”
“A rediscovery special. Do you know what that means?”
“They want to introduce you to a new generation of listeners?”
“They want to package me as a nostalgia act. They want me to play the same music I played back then. You’ve heard me. Do I sound the same?”
“No,” Rosemary admitted. “It’s not even the same genre.”
“I wrote one good folk-pop song, and the next thing I knew I was playing sit-down theaters all over the country for a company that only knew how to market me if I stayed in their little box forever. Now StageHoloLive wants me but only if I get back in the little box again?”
“They didn’t say that. They were excited to know you’re still playing. I’m sure you could set terms.”
“Set terms for what?”
“Whatever you want. Money, artistic freedom. You can quit your day job and make music full-time again. There are so many people who’d love to hear you.”
“In their little hood-worlds and their living rooms.”
Rosemary bit her lip. “You play for the same people night after night. You’ve been holding a wake for music you think is dead.”
“Do you really think that’s what we’re doing?” The weariness was gone from Luce’s voice, replaced by something hard-edged. Disbelief, disappointment. Conviction. “I don’t think you do, and I don’t think we are. Playing for the same people every week is a different challenge from touring. I have to make every night interesting. It pushes me to keep writing.”
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