“How about thirty minutes?”
Terry thought about it. He cast an eye over the beautiful keyboards that most people in the world never knew existed. So many to play, and so little time.
“I can live with that,” he decided.
“Good. That’s very good.” True nodded, and again he touched the shape of the .38 in his leather bag. It wasn’t much use against a rifle at long range, but it was all he had. A thought came to him. “Ever do any hunting?” he asked Gherosimini. If he was a fisherman, he might be a—
“Hate guns,” Gherosimini answered. “Worse than Stereo hates cars.”
“Okay. Just curious.” True smiled at Ariel. “I’m going to go for a walk. Not far. You know I get a little anxious.”
Then he turned away from his band, and he walked toward the front door and the road that led south.
TWENTY-NINE.
He had dust on his wingtips. It was puffing up with every stride. Small stones grated underfoot. Then he caught sight of a second shadow on the ground, coming up behind him, rapidly closing the distance.
When the shadow got in step with True’s, Nomad said, “Are you fucking crazy?”
True’s gun was out, held in the right hand down at his side. He kept walking briskly toward the snakespine curve, the sun hot on the right side of his face, his back and his shoulder. Nomad kept up.
“You probably need to go back,” True said.
“You think he’s out there? You think he followed us and he’s sitting out there waiting? If that’s so, what good is it going to do to let him see you? You think you’re going to walk right up to him, ask him to surrender to the FBI, and then it’s hero time? Oh, yeah! Make me laugh, man. He’ll blow your fucking head off before you can—”
True abruptly stopped and turned on him. “I’ve told you to stop that cursing,” he said, his eyes intense. “You don’t need that to communicate. It’s low, and you are not low. Get yourself out of the gutter, how about it?”
They stared at each other for a few seconds, mano-a-mano.
Then True started walking south again, and Nomad lost a step but caught up.
“How’s it going to help us if you get shot?” was the next question. “If you get killed, what are we supposed to do?”
“I’m just going to take a look. Very cautiously. I’m going to turkey-peek around that curve.”
“Okay, fine, but if he sees you before you see him—and from what you say about him, that’s what’s going to happen—he’ll put you down, reload and come after us. He might not know your face, but he’ll know you’re with the band. Gun in your hand…he’ll figure it out. Maybe he followed us from the club last night and he parked close enough to watch the motel. Maybe he saw the Yukon leave, and he’s figured that out too. Or maybe—maybe—he’s not sitting out there at all. But I wouldn’t want to walk around that curve and find out, because those fu…those bullets can run a lot faster than me.”
True kept going. Nomad said urgently, “How about asking Gherosimini to drive his truck out and scout for us? If he sees anybody waiting, he can get to a phone. Call for help.”
“If Pett’s there, he’s going to figure he has us in a prime position. I don’t think he’ll let anyone through. Would you like to be responsible for that man’s death?”
“The way this is heading, we won’t live much longer to be responsible for anything. Anyfuckingthing,” Nomad said, with gritty emphasis.
“This was a big mistake,” said True. “Coming here. A big, big mistake.”
“You want to tell that to Terry? Hold it.” Nomad caught at True’s white polo shirt and stopped his progress. The sun was fierce. Sweat sparkled on True’s forehead and Nomad felt it on his neck and the back of his Army-green T-shirt. “Don’t go any further. I’m asking you. Please will you not go any further?”
“John, I have to do my job.”
“Your job, Mr. Manager Man, is to get us through.” Nomad got his face right up into True’s. “Whatever it is. Keeping the van going, finding a place to sleep, a place for us to wash our clothes. Making sure nobody gets food poisoning, or if they have to see a doctor on the road you work that out too. Doing the best you can with a fucked-up sound system, or club owners who just don’t give a shit. You tell us we did really well when we all know we sucked, but we’ll do it better the next time. You get us through, man. The day-to-day grind. That’s your job. Because you signed on here as much a manager as you did an FBI gun.”
True wore a pained expression. He kept his eyes down. “John—”
“I’m not finished,” Nomad asserted. “Maybe your gung-ho hero boy is around that curve. Maybe he’s not. I hope to God he’s not. You want to save him because he’s sacrificed himself for a cause, because he’s seen the hard battles that took so much out of him. Something you say we’ve never done. Are you sure we haven’t? Are you sure we’ve never fought for a cause worth dying for?”
“And what would that be? To make music?”
Nomad shook his head. “To be heard,” he said.
They stood together without speaking, their shadows on the earth, the snakespine curve on one side and on the other rocks that echoed the thunder of a storm about to break.
“Get us through,” Nomad told him.
True looked toward the curve. Maybe Pett wasn’t there. If he was…
“I’ll try,” True said. “But if he’s set up with his rifle and he’s ready, he can kill somebody today. Maybe more than one. Even with the tinted glass. We can’t get a lot of speed out of that van, not with the trailer on it. Not much more speed even with it unhooked. He might go for the driver first, or for the tires. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear.”
“Will you tell the others that, or do you want me to?”
“We don’t want Gherosimini involved. He’ll think he has to do something to help, and he’ll either get himself killed or slow us down. I’m planning on driving as fast as I can out of here. Everybody else needs to get small, as much as they can. That’s not much of a plan, but it’s all I’ve got.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” True said. He retreated from the curve, regarding it with a watchful eye, and Nomad did the same. Then at a distance they turned around and walked back to the house, the black wingtips and the black Chucks stirring up dust in equal measures.
When they got to the studio, Terry was playing Procul Harum’s ‘A Whiter Shade Of Pale’ on the Vox Continental, and Nomad thought that beautiful song had never sounded so amazing. It brought tears to his eyes, watching Terry put his soul into it. Gherosimini was standing a few paces away, eyes closed, feeling the love.
< >
True beckoned Berke and Ariel over to him, and he began talking to them in a very quiet and serious voice.
After it was done, Nomad saw Ariel nod. She lifted her chin up like a fighter, daring fate. Berke walked away a few feet and put one hand against the wall; she stayed like that for a minute, her face downcast, and then Ariel put an arm around her shoulders and Berke nodded too.
< >
Terry kept playing. Nomad saw True check his wristwatch. Thirty minutes had gone past. True bent down, because one of his shoes must’ve come untied. Then the other’s laces needed some attention too.
Terry finished the song, one of the greatest ever written for the keyboard. He blinked, as if emerging from shadow into sun. He looked around at True and asked if it was time to go, and True said it was, but first he needed to speak to him in the front room. They left the studio, and Gherosimini turned off the central switch, and all the voices went back to sleep.