Forever Man by Brian Matthews Page A

was already enough darkness in her life. She wasn’t going to live in it.
     
    *   *   *
     
    Eugene Vincent prided himself on being pretty laid back. He wasn’t surprised by much of anything. But now he stood behind his bar, a look of astonishment on his face.
    Owens had plugged in his guitar—an expensive-looking Martin acoustic with custom pickups—into the amp. The Music Man wasn’t intended for an acoustic guitar, but Owens had fiddled with the knobs along the front casing until he was satisfied. After tuning up the guitar, he’d started to play. And the man played well. Very well.
    He’d opened with Fats Domino’s “Ain’t That a Shame.” But instead of the usual upbeat, swing rhythm, he’d slowed it down, added breaks that weren’t in the original, and gave it a bluesy feel.
    The next five songs were also classic oldies hits. Again, they were transformed by the fingers and voice of Bart Owens into something deeper, more emotional.
    Then the man shifted to rock songs. He changed the tuning on his guitar and slid into a slow, soulful rendition of Led Zeppelin’s “The Rain Song.” After a Stones’ and a Beatles’ tune, he launched into a jumping, rockabilly version of J.J. Cale’s “After Midnight.”
    When he finished the song, Owens took a sip of water from a bottle sitting on the amp. He talked to the crowd for the first time that night.
    “Thank you all for being here tonight. Hope you’re enjoying the music. I’m going to take a brief break. Be right back.”
    He walked off the stage and headed for the restroom.
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” Gene said, mostly to himself.
    “Can’t you get some real music in here?” came an unexpected reply.
    Gene looked down at the end of the bar. Denny Cain glared back at him.
    Denny had wandered into the Lula early that evening. Gene had wondered why the man was here and not home with his wife but figured it was none of his business. He’d given Denny two drinks and all the food the man had wanted, on the house. But Denny—having found his drinking buddy Chet Boardman—had downed one scotch after another, matched by Chet’s bourbon and cola. Feeling sorry for the guy, Gene had let the drinking go on longer than he should have; after all, the man had just lost his only child. But both were now pretty plowed and he’d cut them off.
    Gene walked down to Denny and Chet. He stopped in front of them and put his elbows on the bar top. Leaning in close, he asked, “You got a problem, Denny?”
    Denny blinked slowly. Grief and alcohol had etched red lines into the whites of his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble gave his face a haggard, sunken look.
    “Problem?” Denny replied. “Yeah, Gene, I gotta problem. You see, my son’s dead, all ripped to shreds and lying in a morgue. I ain’t never gonna see him again. So hell yeah, I gotta huge fucking problem.”
    “Fuckin’ problem,” Chet chimed in drunkenly.
    Other customers looked over at them. Gene said, “Keep your voices down, okay? Now, can I get you guys something else to eat? Some coffee, maybe.”
    “Don’t want nothing,” complained Denny. He glanced over to the stage. “But you can tell him to stop squawking.”
    Gene frowned. “Who, Owens? Come on, the guy’s good. Easily the best musician I’ve had in here. Not my fault if you don’t like the music.”
    “It ain’t the music,” clarified Denny somewhat blearily. “It’s him.”
    “I’m not following,” said Gene. “What’s your beef with Owens?”
    Denny glared at Gene. “You saw that mark near his eye. That teardrop thing. I ain’t stupid, Gene. I seen stuff like that on television, on those cop shows. That’s a prison tattoo. The guy’s been locked up.”
    “You don’t know that,” countered Gene, though he’d had similar thoughts earlier in the day. “And even if it’s true, that has nothing to do with him working here. As long as he minds his own business, I’ve got no problem with him.”
    “I