Come Dancing by Leslie Wells

of mud or something.” Jack frowned. “I still saw my father on weekends but I started getting into scrapes, got known as a troublemaker. So I’ve had to live up to that reputation.” He raised an eyebrow as I laughed.
    “Let me show you these records I found,” Jack said, untangling his legs. He scooped a pile of albums from the shelf and brought them over to the table. “You said you liked Billie, so here are a few of hers. And these are some early Robert Johnsons. Matter of fact, they’re kind of rare.”
    “How about one of the Robert Johnsons?”
    Jack put the record on. “I was messing around with some of those riffs this afternoon. Want to hear them?”
    “I’d love to.” Shoot me now—he’s going to play the guitar only for me!
    Jack glanced around the room. “Wonder where Carla’s hid me new picks. I thought I left them here.” He noticed my inquisitive look. “That’s my housekeeper; she deals with my mess. She’s got this peach of a little kid who loves our music. Carla and my manager Mary Jo help me keep it together.”
    He paced around, lifting papers off the front table. “Where the hell are those picks?”
    I followed Jack into the kitchen, and he started yanking open various drawers. It looked as if Carla had scooped up every smallish object from the surfaces of the apartment and dumped it in; keys on chains tangled with Zig-Zag rolling papers, pens, loose cigars, nail clippers, corkscrews. One that he opened revealed a cache of condoms mixed in with some salt and pepper packets. He quickly slammed it shut. I could just imagine how many women he’d had up here with him, and how many of those little packages he’d gone through.
    “Here they are,” he said finally. “Right in with the knives. Unbelievable.”
    Jack grabbed more beers from the fridge and tore open the bag of picks with his teeth. We sat on the couch, and he began strumming his Fender along with the record. When it stopped he kept going, eyes closed, his lashes a dark fringe over high cheekbones. As he shifted among bluesy chords, I observed the changing moods on his face. The soulful notes dripped from his fingers like melting tallow.
    “That was really beautiful,” I said when he set aside the guitar. “I’ve always wondered how people compose songs. Do you stumble on the tune while you’re playing random notes?”
    Jack thought about it for a second. “It’s… kind of like wandering around in a place I’ve never seen, yet it’s familiar. Like going for a walk in the woods and you take a path you haven’t been on, but suddenly you know the way. Once in a while something comes to me in the middle of a concert. Did you ever catch one?”
    “Sorry, I never did.” I couldn’t afford the tickets, but I thought it would sound cheap to say that.
    “We’ll be touring at some point. You should come see a few.”
    “I’d love to. It must be a thrill to play for a huge audience. Do you ever get stage fright?”
    “I did the first time we were in something larger than a club. But then you bust a few strings and realize the show goes on, with or without you.” Jack drained his bottle and opened another. “So what does an assistant editor do?”
    “Oh, type up letters and contracts; tell Harvey’s wife he’s in a meeting when he wants to avoid her. Edit his authors, and he takes the credit. He’d have me tying his shoelaces if he could. I need to acquire a book if I’m ever going to get promoted.”
    “So why do it?”
    “Well, because I love books. And authors are a fascinating breed, if a little high-maintenance. Plus occasionally you get to go to a glitzy party or awards dinner.” I took a sip of beer. “And I think I have a knack for editing. It’s the one talent I possess.”
    “That’s the reason to do it, then. Only thing I was ever good at was playing and singing. Lucky for me, that worked out.”
    “How did you connect with the other guys after you and Patrick got together? I’ve read a bit