brother lately?â
âNo, I havenât. We talked a month ago, right before I went on the road. He said that when I arrived, heâd have a job for me, and ⦠and a place to stay.â I set down the guitar case and pulled the police garage paperwork out of my hip pocket, squinted at it, and gestured toward the apartment door. âThis is the address he gave me.â
âIt was his address until just a week ago. He moved quite suddenly.â
âIâve been all over America since then, sir. Itâs quite a place. Met all kinds of people. But I havenât thought to call my brother.â
âI can understand that. What kind of songs you play?â
âRailroad songs, sir. I know every song Jimmy Rodgers ever recorded.â
âJimmy Rodgers!â the old man said. âThe Singing Brakeman!â
âThe very same, sir.â
The old man grew pensive. âYour brother Stefan lived here almost two years. I heard a lot of music come through the wall, but I never heard a Jimmy Rodgers tune. Not one.â
Well, I thought to myself, if there were actually a guitar in this case, I might play you one. To head off the possibility that I might be asked to do so, I said, âIâm hoping to bring Stefan around to my way of singing, sir. But I donât know. Heâs a wild one.â
âMm,â was all he said.
âSir?â
âYes, son?â
I shivered visibly. âIs it always this cold in San Francisco?â
The old man permitted himself a smile.
âI havenât eaten since yesterday,â I hastened to add, âand this gig I mean job my brother was telling me about, it starts tomorrow night. We got a lot of music to learn between now and then, not to mention catching up on some sleep. Would you possibly know where heâs moved to?â
The old man bit his lip. âIâm not supposed to tell.â
âNot supposed to tell? Why forever not?â
âMust have to do with that other guitar player. Stefan said he was a bad element. Borrowed money from Stefan and drank it all up. Kept coming back for more. Skipped rehearsals. Showed up drunk for jobs. Stuff like that. Stefanâs trying to get away from him.â
âOh, well, I can understand that,â I said. âThatâs awful.â
âI kept telling him thatâs the nature of the business heâs in,â the old man said pedantically. âThe music business, I mean. Told him he ought to get off that path and turn to Jesus or stockbroking. But Stefan said if he was going to hell, he was going to take rock and roll with him, and there would be plenty of stockbrokers there waiting for him. Said the devil wouldnât have it any other way.â
My neck ached from looking up at him, and it was cold out there. A horn honked behind me. âHey,â yelled the cabbie. âTheyâre calling for a fare to the airport!â
Not liking an interruption while Iâm performing, I glared over my shoulder. The cabbie held up both hands and said, âIâm cool, Iâm cool,â and settled back into his seat. I looked back at the landlord and smiled. âHigh finance.â
He smiled thinly. âIf you donât mind my asking, son, whatâs that on your head?â
âAn octopus, sir.â
After a moment he said, âIs that right.â
I shrugged modestly. âYouthful indiscretion.â
âYouth.â Without looking into his tin he thoughtfully chose another mint. âAnd by the way,â he said, as he placed it on his tongue, âstockbrokers belong in hell.â
I grinned. âIt sounds like you learned more from my brother than he did from you, sir.â
The old man said slyly, âYou brotherâs wife has lots of pretty girlfriends. Sheâs a looker herself.â
âOh,â I said, âthat would be Angelica.â
He beamed at the name. âTheyâre a couple of
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