Strum Again? Book Three of the Songkiller Saga by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough Page A

death-edge common to so many songs in
Spanish, what the poets called duende. He closed his eyes as he
sang and was a little surprised to suddenly hear the announcer of
the wrestling match talking over him. He opened his eyes.
    All of the patrons of the bar had turned
back to the television, including Bob Beezle, who had just reached
up to turn up the volume so it drowned out Willie's song. The tune
died away under his fingers.
    "That'll be twenty-two fifty," Simone told
him.
    "Beg your pardon?"
    "For the gas. Twenty-two fifty."
    Numb and disoriented again, Willie dug for
money and discovered he didn't have any American money. "Excuse me,
ma'am, I need to go back out to the car. I just got back from a
trip and only have foreign money on me."
    "No tricks, buddy. I can see your license
number from here," she said.
    Willie first wanted to kill Beezle, or at
least yell at him, and then wanted to die himself. He half expected
the van not to be there when he got outside, for the whole trip and
everybody who'd been on it with him seemed to be a dream. The
people in the bar didn't appear to be aware of anything strange but
continued with their pastimes as if he weren't there. He didn't
think Beezle would hear him if he called him names, didn't think
his fist would connect with anything solid if he tried to punch the
man. He felt dizzy, disoriented, and had the queerest feeling, as
if he hadn't played at all.
    Then he told himself maybe he'd just played
badly, even though he knew he had improved as a musician about
seven-hundredfold in the seven years he'd spent abroad. But to
these people his music simply made no difference. Those jerks just
preferred the television. If there was magic in his music, they
were immune. Funny, when Beezle had claimed to be a fan.
    Puzzled and pissed off, Willie wove his way
out to the van, noticing that maybe abstention hadn't been so good
for him—he couldn't seem to hold his liquor like he used to.
    The half-moon was high and the stars were
bright as he crunched across the gravel parking lot, away from the
neon signs. A woman was leaning up against the van, looking up at
the moon. She was wearing boots, jeans, a tank top, and a Stetson
and turned to smile at him as he walked up.
    "Hi there, sugar. How was your glorious
comeback?"
    "I remembered the goddamn song, which was
more than I did when I left this country," he growled at her.
    "Hush now, sweetie, you'll wake all the good
people in the van. Come on back inside and I'll buy you another
drink."
    "I don't need a drink, but if you could
scare up twenty-two fifty, and I know you're just the gal to ask to
scare things up, I'd be much obliged, and I wouldn't have to wake
anybody." He didn't mind in the least taking advantage of the
Debauchery Devil.
    "Why, Willie, you've gotten considerate in
your old age!"
    "Look, lady, can we just drop the crap? What
are you doing here?"
    "I came to warn you, Willie. You know what a
soft spot I have for you."
    "Yeah, baby, I know. You're all heart."
    "No, but really. You saw how those people
acted in there. You're just going to be beating your head against a
wall if you try to play that some old stuff. Nobody wants to hear
it. You sing about Mexican bandits and cowboys and lonesome
pickers, and most people have never even seen anybody like that in
the media, much less for real. People watch game shows and talk
shows and soap operas now. They like real-life stories about serial
killers and the latest war. They're just not interested in all that
rehashed crap you people sing about."
    "It doesn't seem like it, does it?"
    "No, and you've been away for a long time.
Look at what happened to poor old Brose. Lost everything, even that
beat-up old stock of his. The kids he was trying to help are all
working for me now. All the last part of his life was wasted
because of this kick you've been on. You've still got some of your
charisma, Willie. The people who remember you will follow you—well,
except for that guy in there.