Emerald City by Chris Nickson Page B

Life had been simple and innocent. All that had changed and I missed its simplicity, a time when everything was black and white, the good guys and the bad, not the shades of gray that filled adulthood.
    But for all the years I’d spent in it, the house didn’t have a hold on me any longer. Seeing it made me smile inside, but it was the same pleasure I got from looking at a photograph from happier times, the old colors and memories blurred.
    The rain grew a little heavier, the patterns of drops on the windshield coming together to form wide runnels down the glass. I switched on the engine, started the wipers and drove back to the apartment.

Eleven
    Tom Hardy was one of those good souls who gladly put his savings where his heart told him and kept preaching the gospel of local music. He ran a small record label and released the Seattle music he loved; he’d put out the Snakeblood LP and singles. Tom lived in a cramped studio apartment on Capitol Hill, the walls lined with cardboard boxes full of stock, hoping he’d break even some day. His younger brother Andy helped him out, a strange, troubled kid who always looked angry and never seemed to speak. People said Andy had problems, that he’d spent time in a psych ward, and I was willing to believe it; he was a sullen presence who did what his brother told him.
    I saw Tom at most of the gigs I attended, hunched deep into his beat-up leather jacket, chain-smoking Marlboros, usually with a glass of Michelob in his hand. I knew he’d love to be on the stage himself, but like me, he’d been born with the joy of the music and not the ability to make it. He was large, belly bulging even though he was only in his middle twenties, getting by on a small trust fund his parents had left him. But no one resented him; he was a genuine fan trying to help out those he believed in. About three months before, someone had believed in him enough to put serious moneyinto the label, stopping him from going bust. Twenty-five thousand dollars was the figure people had mentioned. I doubted there’d ever be a return on that investment. When I called he answered on the second ring.
    â€œHey Tom,” I said, “it’s Laura Benton.”
    â€œHi, Laura,” he said. I heard his voice move up a gear into sales mode. “Have you gotten that new single I sent you yet?”
    â€œYeah,” I parried, “but I haven’t had a chance to listen to it yet. Listen, I wanted to ask you about Snakeblood.”
    â€œOh, man, that was so bad,” he said, and I could hear the emotion. “Craig was a really good guy.”
    â€œDo you know who was handling things for the band at ARP?”
    â€œLet me see. Hold on.” He put the phone down and I heard the soft rustling sounds of paper being moved around on his desk and Tom muttering to himself.
    â€œOkay, I got it. Greg West was the guy who was handling them. He’s in A&R and he was really hot to sign them.”
    â€œYou have his number?”
    I wrote it down, beginning with the Los Angeles area code I knew so well.
    â€œHow was Craig feeling about it all?” I asked. “He must have been pretty stoked.”
    â€œOh man, he thought every day was sunshine,” Tom said. “He couldn’t wait. You know I saw him last week?”
    â€œNo,” I replied, suddenly alert. “When?”
    â€œTuesday? Yeah, Tuesday.”
    â€œHow was he then?”
    â€œGood. Happy. He had all these plans for the album. That’s why I can’t believe he did that to himself. He seemed in good shape and everything.” He paused. “You know the really weird thing? Since he died everyone’s been wanting the Snakeblood record. I mean, I’ve had so many requests I can’t even keep up with them, I might have to have it re-pressed. It’s just not the way I wanted to sell it, you know?”
    â€œYeah,” I said sadly.
    â€œListen to that new record I