Probably he got a lot of texts about the video segment, same as I did.
“He said he was from Chattanooga,” I said. “And he’d been to a lot of cities. Did he tell you anything else?”
“He’d just come from Vegas,” Paul said. “He’d been playin’ some coffee shops. I got the impression he doesn’t like bars.”
“You think one of those shops would know who he was?” I asked. “Maybe they wrote him a check or got tax info.”
Jazz shook his head. “Doubt it. They don’t want paperwork. Most of these gigs are cash under the table. ’Sides, I’m pretty sure he only played for tips.”
I held the edge of the bar with a death grip. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else?” I asked. “I can’t just go to Chattanooga and look for a Chance.”
“Look for a chance,” Jazz said with a laugh. “There’s always a chance.”
I wanted to belt him.
“Come on,” Tina said. “These losers don’t have anything.” She pulled on my arm.
“Hey, wait,” Paul said.
I turned back around. “What?”
“That guitar he had. It was a Seagull. And not any ordinary Seagull either, one of their rare wood ones. It looked pretty new. If I were playing detective, I’d call around Chattanooga guitar stores and see where he might have picked it up. There are few enough of them around that it might get you somewhere.”
Now that was an honest-to-God clue. “Thank you,” I said.
“I think he’ll be happy to see you,” Paul said. “He was pretty broken up about the director thing.”
I nodded, feeling my heart soften. “Thank you,” I repeated.
Tina and I walked out of the bar. “Let me drive,” Tina said. “You have some thinking to do.”
I handed her the keys. We’d both abandoned our drinks. I should tell her now about being pregnant, but I decided not to. Maybe the next person I would get to tell would be the baby’s father.
Chapter 32: Chance
My whole body lurched back into the cushioned seat of the booth. Whoever had just waylaid me packed some punch.
Now, I might have been *footing around the country like a peacemaker for five months while I played, but the twenty-four years leading up to it were full of more hellfire and fistfights than I had business surviving with my face intact.
So I didn’t even bother to take a look at who was after me, or why. That was obvious. I just lifted the bottom of the table and sent it flying across the room so it was the hell out of my way.
Angie scurried out of range as the glasses and table crashed to the ground. The band stopped playing.
“You son of a bitch!” a voice raged.
I turned toward the sound. A hulking man about my age wiped soda off his face. I’d gotten a nice shot in without even trying.
He had me outweighed by at least forty pounds, but not all of it was muscle. I kept my arms loose at my sides, waiting for his next move. I really preferred to avoid injuring my hands on his ugly mug, but I wasn’t sure I had any choice at this point.
“Reggie, stop it!” Angie cried out and flung herself in front of him. “Leave him alone.”
He pushed her aside. “Who the hell are you?” he bellowed at me.
“His name’s Chance,” Angie said, flitting around him like a bee buzzing. “And he’s twice the man you ever were.”
Great. She had picked me to mess with him. Did women ever do anything but pit men against each other? Were we really so dumb as to fall for this?
I was disgusted, but there was nothing to be done about it. This guy had already clocked me once. There was going to be payback.
He took a step forward, and I saw my opportunity. I lunged forward and slammed my shoulder into his belly like a linebacker on the charge. He grunted, falling back, and I snatched a barstool as I tumbled onto him so I’d have a weapon when I got on my feet.
I jumped up, the stool out. The big oaf managed to roll over and stand. When he rushed for me, I smashed the stool into his thigh. He spun around, hopping on one leg. I had no intention of doing real harm, as a stool to his head could actually kill him, but I held it. I was done with this asshole.
He held out his hand. “This ain’t worth it,” he said, pointing at Angie. “You’re not worth it, you filthy whore.”
He straightened up and cracked his neck. He looked around the room as if to see who was going to witness his exit, and said, “You can have her.”
Then he stormed back out.
I dropped the stool. This is why bars were bad. And women.
God, I was disgusted.
I didn’t even look at Angie, but slung my backpack over my shoulder and picked up my guitar case. Since her asshole ex, or whoever he was, had gone out the front, I headed toward the back. Nobody said a word as I wound through the tables and headed through an exit behind the bar.
A couple bar-backs loading fresh kegs looked up. I passed through, aiming for the open door to the back lot. The night air felt good. I’d walk a bit, cool off.