smash it in. He studied me for about five seconds before deciding I wasn't worth the trouble.
"You and yo' brother get your brains in the same place, son?" His accent was pure Southern, too rounded in the vowels for Texas. "What you think? She's gonna get eaten alive, isn't she?"
"Sure," I said. "Who are we talking about?"
"Son, son, son." Compton jerked his head toward the cafe door. He flicked ashes at the carpet. "Miranda Daniels, you idiot."
"Hey, Cam," Garrett said. "Calm it down. Like I told you—"
"Calm it down," Compton repeated. He took a long drag on his cigarette, gave me a smile that was not at all friendly. "Ain't I calm? Just need to teach a bitch a lesson, is all."
Several young urban kickers in line glanced back nervously.
Compton tugged on his Tshirt, stretching the blue gray markings above the breast pocket that had probably been words about six hundred Laundromats ago. He pointed two fingers at Garrett and started to say something, then changed his mind. Garrett was down a little low to be effectively argued with. You felt like you were scolding one of the Munchkins. Instead Cam turned to me and stabbed his fingers lightly into my chest. "You got any idea what Nashville's like?"
"Do you need those fingers to play guitar?"
Cam blinked, momentarily derailed. The fingers slipped off my chest. He jerked his head randomly a few times, trying to regain his bearings on the waves, then looked back at me and gave another closelipped smile. Everything under control again.
"She's gonna get one album if she's lucky, son, a week of parties, then adios"
"Adios," I repeated.
Cam nodded, waved his cigarette to underscore the point. "Old Sheck knew what he was doing, putting her with me. She ditches Cam Compton she ain't going to last a week."
"Oh," I said. Sudden revelation. "That Cam Compton. The washedup artist from Sheckly's stable. Yeah, Milo's told me about you."
I smiled politely and held out my hand to shake.
Cam's forehead slowly turned scarlet. He glanced at Garrett, then held up the lit end of his cigarette and examined it. "What'd this son of a bitch just say?"
Garrett looked back and forth between us. He pulled his scraggly saltandpepper beard, the way he does when he's worried.
"Can I talk to you?" he asked me. " 'Scuse us."
Garrett wheeled himself out of line toward the men's room. I smiled again at Cam, then followed.
"Okay," said Garrett when I joined him, "is this going to be another Texas Chilli Parlour scene?"
He gave me his evil look. With the crooked teeth and the long hair and the beard and the crazy stoned eyes, my brother can look disturbingly like a chubby Charles Manson.
I tried to sound offended. "Give me some credit."
"Shit." Garrett scratched his belly underneath the tie dyed I'm With Stupid Tshirt. He produced a joint, lit it, then started talking with it still in his mouth.
"Last time I took you out we ended up with a three hundreddollar bar tab for broken furniture. They won't let me in the Chilli Parlour for dollar magnum night anymore, okay?"
"That was different. I'd burned that guy for worker's comp fraud and he recognized me.
Not my fault."
Garrett blew smoke. "Cam Compton isn't some out ofwork schmuck, little bro. He's been on Austin City Limits, for Chris sakes."
"You know him well?"
"He knows half the people in town, man."
"Seems like an asshole to me."
"Yeah, well, you pass around good shit and give out backstage passes to major shows, you get a little leeway in the personality department, okay? You invited me here and you're buying the beer. Just don't embarrass me."
He wheeled himself around without waiting for an answer. Cam had disappeared inside the club. Probably gone to wax his guitar or tune his surfboard or something.
Garrett flashed his blue handicapped placard and made some noise and got us back to the front of the line, then inside.
The Cactus Cafe was an unlikely music venue, just a long narrow room off the corner of the Union lobby, a
"You and yo' brother get your brains in the same place, son?" His accent was pure Southern, too rounded in the vowels for Texas. "What you think? She's gonna get eaten alive, isn't she?"
"Sure," I said. "Who are we talking about?"
"Son, son, son." Compton jerked his head toward the cafe door. He flicked ashes at the carpet. "Miranda Daniels, you idiot."
"Hey, Cam," Garrett said. "Calm it down. Like I told you—"
"Calm it down," Compton repeated. He took a long drag on his cigarette, gave me a smile that was not at all friendly. "Ain't I calm? Just need to teach a bitch a lesson, is all."
Several young urban kickers in line glanced back nervously.
Compton tugged on his Tshirt, stretching the blue gray markings above the breast pocket that had probably been words about six hundred Laundromats ago. He pointed two fingers at Garrett and started to say something, then changed his mind. Garrett was down a little low to be effectively argued with. You felt like you were scolding one of the Munchkins. Instead Cam turned to me and stabbed his fingers lightly into my chest. "You got any idea what Nashville's like?"
"Do you need those fingers to play guitar?"
Cam blinked, momentarily derailed. The fingers slipped off my chest. He jerked his head randomly a few times, trying to regain his bearings on the waves, then looked back at me and gave another closelipped smile. Everything under control again.
"She's gonna get one album if she's lucky, son, a week of parties, then adios"
"Adios," I repeated.
Cam nodded, waved his cigarette to underscore the point. "Old Sheck knew what he was doing, putting her with me. She ditches Cam Compton she ain't going to last a week."
"Oh," I said. Sudden revelation. "That Cam Compton. The washedup artist from Sheckly's stable. Yeah, Milo's told me about you."
I smiled politely and held out my hand to shake.
Cam's forehead slowly turned scarlet. He glanced at Garrett, then held up the lit end of his cigarette and examined it. "What'd this son of a bitch just say?"
Garrett looked back and forth between us. He pulled his scraggly saltandpepper beard, the way he does when he's worried.
"Can I talk to you?" he asked me. " 'Scuse us."
Garrett wheeled himself out of line toward the men's room. I smiled again at Cam, then followed.
"Okay," said Garrett when I joined him, "is this going to be another Texas Chilli Parlour scene?"
He gave me his evil look. With the crooked teeth and the long hair and the beard and the crazy stoned eyes, my brother can look disturbingly like a chubby Charles Manson.
I tried to sound offended. "Give me some credit."
"Shit." Garrett scratched his belly underneath the tie dyed I'm With Stupid Tshirt. He produced a joint, lit it, then started talking with it still in his mouth.
"Last time I took you out we ended up with a three hundreddollar bar tab for broken furniture. They won't let me in the Chilli Parlour for dollar magnum night anymore, okay?"
"That was different. I'd burned that guy for worker's comp fraud and he recognized me.
Not my fault."
Garrett blew smoke. "Cam Compton isn't some out ofwork schmuck, little bro. He's been on Austin City Limits, for Chris sakes."
"You know him well?"
"He knows half the people in town, man."
"Seems like an asshole to me."
"Yeah, well, you pass around good shit and give out backstage passes to major shows, you get a little leeway in the personality department, okay? You invited me here and you're buying the beer. Just don't embarrass me."
He wheeled himself around without waiting for an answer. Cam had disappeared inside the club. Probably gone to wax his guitar or tune his surfboard or something.
Garrett flashed his blue handicapped placard and made some noise and got us back to the front of the line, then inside.
The Cactus Cafe was an unlikely music venue, just a long narrow room off the corner of the Union lobby, a
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