HE WAS surprised to see Dee slouched in the far corner of the patio when he got to Finnegan’s the next day. It was very early, so early the seagulls hadn’t descended from their perch on the pub’s roof. The only people on the pier were the hardcore locals who jogged or walked regardless of the city’s mercurial weather, and while he enjoyed the brisk air and a good run, peeling through fog banks and shivering wasn’t Sionn’s idea of a good morning.
The bay was lost behind a thick soup, with little promise it would clear up anytime soon. No, it was going to be a day of sparse crowds and lean tips, but there he was, splayed out on the captain’s chair Leigh brought out for him to sit in. And from what Sionn could tell, it looked like it was going to be a blues kind of day.
A small amp Sionn’d spotted at a neighbor’s garage sale was making an appearance on the patio, and it was humming, as if anticipating the first note Dee would pull out of the cherrywood Gibson the guitarist held in his graceful hands. Dee only brought out the electric when he was in a mournful, gray mood. Sionn knew that much from the few weeks since the guitarist began to roost in front of Finnegan’s.
Dee’s cowboy hat was slanted down low, hiding most of his face, but Sionn could see the man’s lush lower lip caught under Dee’s teeth, his unshaved jaw shadowed with short bristles. Dee’s long, denim-clad legs were stretched out, the heels of his leather boots resting on a lettuce crate, and his shoulders were curled in, cradling the Gibson against his belly. Oddly enough, the guitar’s case was leaning against the wall instead of lying open on the railing’s corner in a bid for tips.
One of Finnegan’s massive coffee mugs sat on the table next to Dee’s chair, seemingly forgotten and gone cold, from the lack of steam rising up from its milky depths.
“Hey, Cowboy.” He nudged Dee’s leg with the toe of his sneaker and got a slanting peek of blue through the thick black mane covering the man’s eyes. “Tell me you made that and not Leigh.”
“’Allo, Irish.” The British was laid on heavy this morning, a buttery smooth cant on Dee’s low drawl. He sounded half asleep, a rumpled state of lazy Sionn should only have been able to hear if they’d spent the night together. “And nah, it was already brewed up.”
“You’re here early.” It was a stupid thing to say, but the guitarist rarely showed up before noon, usually strolling in just as the lunch crowds were thickening up the walk. “You okay?”
“Yep, just… needed to think. Here seemed as good a place as any.” His fingers ran a squeaking trill down the guitar’s fret, sending an echoing buzz through the amp. “Leigh was here already so… I thought I’d just sit and play. She said it was okay, but, you know, if you want me gone—”
“Nah, she’s the boss, and when have I ever wanted you gone?” Sionn picked up the coffee cup. It was dead cold in his hand, and a drowned gnat bobbed about on the brew’s curdled skin. “Let me go warm this up for you. I’ll be back.”
Leigh was behind the bar doing inventory when he walked into the pub. She looked up from her tally of tequila levels and raised her eyebrows when he emptied the cup out into one of the bar sinks.
“Looks like he didn’t even take a sip.” She marked off something on her list and shuffled past Sionn as he washed out the mug. “Hate to waste it.”
“Well, you upped your body count. A bug decided it was as good a place to die as any windshield, so I’m swapping it out.” Soaping up the rim, he tried to sound as casual. “How long has he been out there?”
“He was there when I came in.” Leigh shrugged, as if their resident busker normally strolled in before the ducks woke. “I told him to come in for some coffee, but he just grabbed the amp from the office and went back outside. Haven’t heard him actually play anything other than a couple of strummy things once in a while.”
“Strummy things?” Sionn refilled the cup, adding two sugars and a dollop of half-and-half from the fridge near the ice box to Dee’s before sweetening his.
“You know, like when he’s tuning, but longer.” Sighing, she pushed a lock of her hair out of her face with the end of her pencil. “Scales? Guess that’s what he calls them.”
“You need me today?” He waved his hand at the bottles. “In here, I mean.”
“Nah, I’ve got it. Nice of you to come in, though. By the way, call your Aunt B later. She called last night to see where you were. I told her the Hottentots got you. I don’t think she believed me.” Her grin was sly when she looked over at him. “You going to see what’s up with him? He might need someone to sit and listen to him.”
“Maybe.” He contemplated what he really wanted to do to the guitarist, because it certainly wasn’t talking.