Dylan Mercer's Arc

Chapter 5 of 6

Dylan carried the tape back into the tavern where he'd started. The neon guitars still burned in the windows. The booker had left town, but the bartender had known her once. Dylan set the reel on the bar and asked where she'd gone. The bartender wiped a glass and shook his head. "She's staying two days out past the ridge," he said. "But she won't take a tape from a stranger. No introduction, no ears. She's turned away better bands than yours for less." Dylan's stomach dropped. He had the record. He had no way in. "Then who gives introductions?" he asked. The bartender jerked his chin toward the corner. "Him. If he likes you." In the corner sat a big man with a gray beard and a brown jacket worn soft at the elbows. He turned a small tape over in his hands, listening to something no one else could hear. Dylan had seen him at the back of two shows, always alone, always leaving before the last song. Sunny Downs collected old melodies from every kingdom. Bookers trusted his ears. Dylan walked over and stated his case fast. Sunny didn't look up. "Everybody's got a tape," he said. "Most sound like the last guy's tape. Why should I put my name on yours?" "Because we found our own sound," Dylan said. "Play it. If it's the last guy's tape, throw it out." Sunny studied him a moment. Then he pointed at the machine behind the bar. "One play." Dylan threaded the tape himself. His hands were steady now. Derek's count came in, then the bass, then the guitar, then his own voice over the top. Sunny sat still. Halfway through the song his eyes narrowed. He leaned toward the reels. When Dylan's voice climbed into the bridge, Sunny lifted one hand, not to stop it, but to hold the moment. The song ended. Sunny sat with his hands flat on the bar. "You did that live in one room," he said. It wasn't a question. "Loft. One take." Sunny nodded slow. "There's a real thing in there. Most people never find it once." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stub of pencil and a torn scrap. He wrote three lines and folded it. "Take this to her. Tell her Sunny sent you. She'll listen." Dylan took the note. His chest went tight with relief. Then Sunny caught his wrist. "She's leaving at first light tomorrow. It's a long way out past the ridge, and you've got no wheels." He let go. "That's your problem, not mine." Dylan stepped out onto the porch with the note in one hand and the tape in the other. The sun was going down. He had his introduction. Now he had to reach a booker two days' walk away by dawn, and he had nothing to carry him there.