though? Any suspicions?”
Tansy thought back to the conversations he’d had over the last week, the friends he’d reconnected with, the memories he’d reawakened. The time he had spent with The Collective had been one of the happiest and most productive periods of his life, and the relationships he’d made went deep, rivaling those he’d made in the marines, even.
“No,” he said. “Not for the people I’ve spoken with. They’d have no reason to lie to me about that.”
He occasionally worked for law enforcement, sure. But Tansy wasn’t a narc. He had enough respect in the community that it went unquestioned.
“How many people have you spoken with?” asked Jackson.
“Mostly everyone,” Tansy cleared his throat. Jackson was looking over his shoulder, looking around for someone. Or maybe to check if they were sufficiently alone. Tansy braced for some uncomfortable question to be lobbed his way like a grenade.
“Have you talked to Carly?”
Tansy tried to hide the impact, how her name hit him like a .60 caliber round. But he couldn’t stop the initial flinch at the sound of her name, no matter how much time had gone by or how “settled” he thought it had been.
“Or,” said Jackson, looking like he’d just sensed the tension he had created, “are you still not talking?”
Tansy could only give a rambling answer. “I can’t let that get in the way, whether or not it’s uncomfortable for us to talk. Or whatever it is. I was always cool with her, so I don’t know.”
It was Carly who had stopped communicating. Not Tansy. Out of nowhere, she’d pulled the plug on their relationship. On something that seemed to have just been getting started.
“Anyway,” said Tansy. “The last I heard was that she was retired.”
“Retired?” Jackson asked, a disbelieving expression distorting his face.
“I hacked into one of those job banks and found her resume. I guess she’s a marketer now? She builds websites for some little marketing outfit in Fort Collins.”
“That can’t be right,” said Jackson. “I obviously don’t know her as well as you, but I mean. . . . Come on.”
“I know.”
“It’s gotta be some kind of front,” said Jackson. That was always what he suspected first.
Tansy just nodded. “Maybe.”
“Is that even retiring, though? Going from hacking to web programming?”
Tansy nodded again. “Yes. Most definitely.”
“Hmm,” said Jackson. “Then I wonder what she’s doing in her spare time.”
9
Carly
T hey took turns driving , and crying, all the way to the Nevada border. The Dotties were booked to play a show at the border town of West Wendover, a tourist trap dotted with casinos. That night’s venue was a faux biker bar lined with slot machines and video poker. A stopover for vacationers headed for something better in Vegas or California, most of them in their fifties and half drunk by 2 p.m. Not exactly The Dotties’ usual crowd.
They dropped off whatever gear they could on stage with whatever energy they could muster. The substance-filled late night in the salt flats, coupled with the blow of getting punked out of their product, was the perfect motivation for them to abandon their shit-show of a tour. And it was pretty much the only topic they’d discussed on their otherwise silent departure of Utah.
Utah, where shitty bands go to die.
Now that they were all spiritually dead, it was time to think rationally. Heading any further into the desolation of Nevada seemed like a wasted enterprise without their product, their real meal ticket. Their next spate of shows in rural and depressed mining towns along the interstate was bound to bring in the worst numbers of the tour.
The younger and more financially stable version of Carly would have continued on regardless, persevering, playing for “the love of music.” But this newer, poorer, more broken iteration was ready to call it quits. She was ready to surrender, giving up her music dream in the
Tansy thought back to the conversations he’d had over the last week, the friends he’d reconnected with, the memories he’d reawakened. The time he had spent with The Collective had been one of the happiest and most productive periods of his life, and the relationships he’d made went deep, rivaling those he’d made in the marines, even.
“No,” he said. “Not for the people I’ve spoken with. They’d have no reason to lie to me about that.”
He occasionally worked for law enforcement, sure. But Tansy wasn’t a narc. He had enough respect in the community that it went unquestioned.
“How many people have you spoken with?” asked Jackson.
“Mostly everyone,” Tansy cleared his throat. Jackson was looking over his shoulder, looking around for someone. Or maybe to check if they were sufficiently alone. Tansy braced for some uncomfortable question to be lobbed his way like a grenade.
“Have you talked to Carly?”
Tansy tried to hide the impact, how her name hit him like a .60 caliber round. But he couldn’t stop the initial flinch at the sound of her name, no matter how much time had gone by or how “settled” he thought it had been.
“Or,” said Jackson, looking like he’d just sensed the tension he had created, “are you still not talking?”
Tansy could only give a rambling answer. “I can’t let that get in the way, whether or not it’s uncomfortable for us to talk. Or whatever it is. I was always cool with her, so I don’t know.”
It was Carly who had stopped communicating. Not Tansy. Out of nowhere, she’d pulled the plug on their relationship. On something that seemed to have just been getting started.
“Anyway,” said Tansy. “The last I heard was that she was retired.”
“Retired?” Jackson asked, a disbelieving expression distorting his face.
“I hacked into one of those job banks and found her resume. I guess she’s a marketer now? She builds websites for some little marketing outfit in Fort Collins.”
“That can’t be right,” said Jackson. “I obviously don’t know her as well as you, but I mean. . . . Come on.”
“I know.”
“It’s gotta be some kind of front,” said Jackson. That was always what he suspected first.
Tansy just nodded. “Maybe.”
“Is that even retiring, though? Going from hacking to web programming?”
Tansy nodded again. “Yes. Most definitely.”
“Hmm,” said Jackson. “Then I wonder what she’s doing in her spare time.”
9
Carly
T hey took turns driving , and crying, all the way to the Nevada border. The Dotties were booked to play a show at the border town of West Wendover, a tourist trap dotted with casinos. That night’s venue was a faux biker bar lined with slot machines and video poker. A stopover for vacationers headed for something better in Vegas or California, most of them in their fifties and half drunk by 2 p.m. Not exactly The Dotties’ usual crowd.
They dropped off whatever gear they could on stage with whatever energy they could muster. The substance-filled late night in the salt flats, coupled with the blow of getting punked out of their product, was the perfect motivation for them to abandon their shit-show of a tour. And it was pretty much the only topic they’d discussed on their otherwise silent departure of Utah.
Utah, where shitty bands go to die.
Now that they were all spiritually dead, it was time to think rationally. Heading any further into the desolation of Nevada seemed like a wasted enterprise without their product, their real meal ticket. Their next spate of shows in rural and depressed mining towns along the interstate was bound to bring in the worst numbers of the tour.
The younger and more financially stable version of Carly would have continued on regardless, persevering, playing for “the love of music.” But this newer, poorer, more broken iteration was ready to call it quits. She was ready to surrender, giving up her music dream in the
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