“Shit no, blues and Southern rock yeah, but not country. Okay, maybe a few of Cash’s and Parton’s, but that’s about it.” Once again, the man’s blue eyes raked over Sionn’s face, searching for something he obviously didn’t find when he shrugged helplessly. “Dee. You can call me Dee.”
“Good to meet you, Dee.” Crossing his arms, Sionn watched the musician duck under the awning and sprint across the wide walkway toward the city streets beyond the pier. Glancing up at the furious heavens, Sionn sighed heavily and crossed himself, slipping into the thick Gaelic he’d spoken with his grandmother. “Forgive me, Gran, but I promise, he can play here only as long as it rains. Then he’s out on his own again. I’ll give you that, Gran, if you just let me stare at that ass for a few hours a week. That’s all I’m asking.”
THERE was enough in the guitar case’s belly to carry him over for another week, something Damien was fucking happy about since his fingers were practically bleeding from the acoustic’s thick strings. He’d expected something to happen when he’d played outside the pub. Every time he set up, his shoulders tightened and a flicker of a memory washed through him.
When the broad-shouldered, gray-eyed man strolled out, he’d gotten a clear flash of a small crook-nosed woman with wild silver hair and her thick Irish-scented shouts for him and Miki to find someplace else to beg for money. Something clicked in his head, bringing with it a throbbing ache, but he was grateful for the pain, welcoming it alongside the idea of a cat-and-mouse game they’d once played with the curmudgeonly pub owner.
It all came back to him… too easily, he thought. The days spent shuffling through the touristy parts of San Francisco, setting up his case and playing whatever the crowd seemed to fancy. He ran the gamut from classic rock to pure classical, all the while peering at passing faces, hoping to see the one man he’d come to the Bay City to find.
Miki St. John.
The wind picked up as he walked, carrying the scent of salt water and fish with it. He was cold and soaked through, and his guitar case banged against his thigh when he took the steps up to the flophouse he’d scored a room at. Stepping over the legs of a drunk sprawled across the narrow walk-up landing, Damien grunted a hello at the old Chinese woman who seemed to live in a chair next to her room door. She grinned back at him, a slender crooked pipe clenched between her nicotine-tarred teeth.
It was four flights up before he reached the tiny attic space he rented for a hundred a week. Cramped, the ceiling was almost too low, and he had to duck around the bare bulb hanging by a fabric-wrapped cord from the room’s crossbeam. He’d left the thin window open, hoping a fresh breeze would suck out the heat, but despite the coolness outside, the air still felt sticky.
The room was Spartan, but Damien was fine with its bareness. A few apple boxes held the clothes he’d foraged from charity bins, and the full box spring that came with the room rested on the floor next to the window. He’d freeze in the winter, but for now, under the cool night air blowing through the patched window screen was the only way he could sleep.
Wind meant he was someplace where the windows could be opened. Something the hyped-up sanitarium denied its patients.
He put the acoustic down, leaning the case lengthwise against the wall. The electric guitar and piggyback amp he’d scraped up money for called to him, but Damien held off, resisting the urge to drown himself in the sharp buzz of music. Instead, he opened the case’s string compartment and dug out the pieces of paper he’d printed out at the library.
He sat down on the bed and took the time to smooth out the creases in the paper before studying the printouts, trying to glean anything he could from the articles.
From all accounts, Miki St. John had withdrawn from life, barricading himself behind the brick walls of his warehouse fortress. A photographer captured a shot of Miki near his front door, an elaborate mix of fluid metal, polished wood, and glass. The door tickled at Damien’s memories, and they darted through his mind, elusive silvery fish emerging out of unplumbed depths only to skitter back down when he tried to catch them.
He consumed the articles, reading through the account of Miki’s stalker and his murdering spree. Miki came out the survivor, but Damien knew his brother would be shaken down to the bone at having to revisit the dark places Miki had left buried in his past.
“Stupid how I remember that shit, isn’t it, Sinjun?” He traced the edges of the photo, wishing he was there to hold Miki as he fought off his demons. From the looks of things, the singer might have hooked up with someone, a steely-eyed muscular man with a fierce scowl and strong profile. “Is he helping you out there, Miki? You finally decided to find someone to love? Good for you.”