start somewhere. A few lessons ago, you didn’t know the names of the strings. Now, you can tune the guitar, and pick out simple melodies, plus you know a few basic chords. Most of what people play on acoustic rhythm guitar these days can be done with what they call ‘cowboy chords,’ maybe ten or fifteen or so.”
“Odd name,” he said.
“Think of those old cowboy movies you probably watched as a kid on late-night TV—Gene or Roy or whoever and his buddies sitting around the campfire, somebody with a guitar, somebody with a harmonica—I think that’s where the name came from.”
Kent nodded. He could see it.
“For a lot of blues,” she went on, “you can get by with three or four, and for most rock and roll you only really need half a dozen. You don’t have to be a world-class player to enjoy making music.”
She stood. “Same time, Tuesday?”
“Works for me. Walk you to your car?”
“Think I can’t make it there on my own?”
“I’m parked close to you,” he said. “In case I fall down, you can help me up.”
She laughed again. He liked making her do that.
“You used to be married, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. She passed away a while ago.”
“I was married once myself. But my husband was more interested in work than me. Twenty years ago, he took off and went out to conquer the music world.”
“Did he? Conquer the music world, I mean?”
“He did, actually. His instrument is the cello. He can sit on the same stage and keep up with Yo-Yo Ma. Played first cello with a couple of major European orchestras, formed his own chamber group that puts out a recording now and then, usually goes pretty high up on the classical charts. Married three more times since we split. I believe his current wife is a twenty-six-year-old daughter of some German baron. Beautiful woman, and if I had to guess, probably can’t keep time in a waterproof basket—Armand prefers to be the only musician in a marriage.”
Kent heard just a trace of bitterness, and a hint of ugly history, but then she laughed again, and that seemed real enough. “Lotta water under that bridge,” she said. She turned and headed for the shop’s exit. “No reason to go back there and fall in.”
He didn’t speak to that, only followed her to the door. Maybe he would check on-line and see what he could find about this “Armand” character. Might be interesting to know what kind of man would leave a woman like Jennifer Hart. The more he was around her, the more relaxed he felt. That was interesting, too. . . .
10
Bramblett’s Cafe
White Hope, Virginia
Carruth knew he should get rid of his handgun. They’d recover the slugs, and ballistics would cook him if they ever got hold of the revolver. There probably weren’t that many fifty-caliber handguns kicking around, and fewer still of the custom-made Reeders. But the gun had cost almost three grand, and he liked it. And now there was certainly no doubt that it was effective. It had dropped the cops fast enough, even with vests.
So the trick was to make sure the police didn’t get the gun until he could afford to buy a new one to replace it.
The bored waitress, a skinny twenty-something with short hair, nine earrings in each ear, a nose stud, plus an eyebrow- and a lip-piercing, refilled his cup of bad coffee. She didn’t smile at him.
Must be a lesbian, he figured. Or a doper. Or both.
It had been a freak accident, the cops coming on him that way. What were the chances that would happen? What were the chances it would happen twice?
Yeah, he’d left the rental car, but even while he was on the boogie in the police cruiser, he had called one of his men and had him haul butt there to fetch the rental before the cops had time to shut the whole neighborhood down, so no grief from that. The car had been leased under a shell-company name anyhow. He had never been to that neighborhood before, and God knew he was never going back there again.
A first-class
“Odd name,” he said.
“Think of those old cowboy movies you probably watched as a kid on late-night TV—Gene or Roy or whoever and his buddies sitting around the campfire, somebody with a guitar, somebody with a harmonica—I think that’s where the name came from.”
Kent nodded. He could see it.
“For a lot of blues,” she went on, “you can get by with three or four, and for most rock and roll you only really need half a dozen. You don’t have to be a world-class player to enjoy making music.”
She stood. “Same time, Tuesday?”
“Works for me. Walk you to your car?”
“Think I can’t make it there on my own?”
“I’m parked close to you,” he said. “In case I fall down, you can help me up.”
She laughed again. He liked making her do that.
“You used to be married, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. She passed away a while ago.”
“I was married once myself. But my husband was more interested in work than me. Twenty years ago, he took off and went out to conquer the music world.”
“Did he? Conquer the music world, I mean?”
“He did, actually. His instrument is the cello. He can sit on the same stage and keep up with Yo-Yo Ma. Played first cello with a couple of major European orchestras, formed his own chamber group that puts out a recording now and then, usually goes pretty high up on the classical charts. Married three more times since we split. I believe his current wife is a twenty-six-year-old daughter of some German baron. Beautiful woman, and if I had to guess, probably can’t keep time in a waterproof basket—Armand prefers to be the only musician in a marriage.”
Kent heard just a trace of bitterness, and a hint of ugly history, but then she laughed again, and that seemed real enough. “Lotta water under that bridge,” she said. She turned and headed for the shop’s exit. “No reason to go back there and fall in.”
He didn’t speak to that, only followed her to the door. Maybe he would check on-line and see what he could find about this “Armand” character. Might be interesting to know what kind of man would leave a woman like Jennifer Hart. The more he was around her, the more relaxed he felt. That was interesting, too. . . .
10
Bramblett’s Cafe
White Hope, Virginia
Carruth knew he should get rid of his handgun. They’d recover the slugs, and ballistics would cook him if they ever got hold of the revolver. There probably weren’t that many fifty-caliber handguns kicking around, and fewer still of the custom-made Reeders. But the gun had cost almost three grand, and he liked it. And now there was certainly no doubt that it was effective. It had dropped the cops fast enough, even with vests.
So the trick was to make sure the police didn’t get the gun until he could afford to buy a new one to replace it.
The bored waitress, a skinny twenty-something with short hair, nine earrings in each ear, a nose stud, plus an eyebrow- and a lip-piercing, refilled his cup of bad coffee. She didn’t smile at him.
Must be a lesbian, he figured. Or a doper. Or both.
It had been a freak accident, the cops coming on him that way. What were the chances that would happen? What were the chances it would happen twice?
Yeah, he’d left the rental car, but even while he was on the boogie in the police cruiser, he had called one of his men and had him haul butt there to fetch the rental before the cops had time to shut the whole neighborhood down, so no grief from that. The car had been leased under a shell-company name anyhow. He had never been to that neighborhood before, and God knew he was never going back there again.
A first-class
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