Dylan Mercer's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Dylan stood on the sidewalk with the reel in his hand and the studio door shut behind him. The tape was small. It weighed almost nothing. He had a recording no one had heard, not even the band, because the engineer had rushed them out the moment the second hour ended. He needed to hear it clean before he handed it to the booker. He had until dusk. Derek shifted the snare under his arm. "We need a machine," he said. "We don't own one." Luna adjusted the strap of her fish-shaped bass. "The tavern has one," she said. "Behind the bar. I saw it when we played the back room." Hoot blinked once. "Rock and Roll," he said. "Two blocks." They walked fast. The tavern sat on the corner with neon guitars burning in the windows and barrels stacked along the porch. It was too early for the door crowd. A woman behind the bar was wiping glasses and did not look up when they came in. Dylan set the reel on the bar. "We recorded this morning," he said. "We need to hear it once. That's all." The woman looked at the reel. She looked at Derek's ears, Luna's tail, Hoot's feathers. "Machine's for staff," she said. "Not for kids off the street." Luna spoke without raising her voice. "We played your back room in spring. The night the pipes broke. We stayed and helped mop." The woman stopped wiping. She looked at Luna a long moment. Then she reached under the bar and lifted out a squat machine with two silver reels and a row of colored knobs. She set it on the counter and plugged it into the wall. "One play," she said. "Then out." Dylan threaded the tape himself. His hands shook once and then steadied. He pressed the switch. The reels turned. For a breath there was only hiss. Then Derek's count came in, and the bass, and Hoot's guitar, and Dylan's own voice riding on top of all of it. It was clean. Every part sat where it should. The room they had found in the loft was there in the tape. Derek's mouth opened a little. Luna closed her eyes. Hoot did not move at all. The song ended. The reel spun down. The woman behind the bar was watching them now, glass forgotten in her hand. "That's you?" she said. Dylan nodded. She said, "Play it for whoever you're playing it for. Go." Dylan lifted the tape off the machine and slid it back into its paper sleeve. The sun outside had climbed. He guessed four hours until dusk. He had a record he could hand to the booker and stand behind. Now he had to find her before she left town, and he did not know where she had gone.