The Octopus on My Head by Jim Nisbet

brother lately?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t. We talked a month ago, right before I went on the road. He said that when I arrived, he’d have a job for me, and … and a place to stay.” 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. “This is the address he gave me.”
    â€œIt was his address until just a week ago. He moved quite suddenly.”
    â€œI’ve been all over America since then, sir. It’s quite a place. Met all kinds of people. But I haven’t thought to call my brother.”
    â€œI can understand that. What kind of songs you play?”
    â€œRailroad songs, sir. I know every song Jimmy Rodgers ever recorded.”
    â€œJimmy Rodgers!” the old man said. “The Singing Brakeman!”
    â€œThe very same, sir.”
    The old man grew pensive. “Your 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.”
    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, “I’m hoping to bring Stefan around to my way of singing, sir. But I don’t know. He’s a wild one.”
    â€œMm,” was all he said.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œYes, son?”
    I shivered visibly. “Is it always this cold in San Francisco?”
    The old man permitted himself a smile.
    â€œI haven’t eaten since yesterday,” I hastened to add, “and 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 he’s moved to?”
    The old man bit his lip. “I’m not supposed to tell.”
    â€œNot supposed to tell? Why forever not?”
    â€œMust 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. Stefan’s trying to get away from him.”
    â€œOh, well, I can understand that,” I said. “That’s awful.”
    â€œI kept telling him that’s the nature of the business he’s in,” the old man said pedantically. “The 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 wouldn’t have it any other way.”
    My neck ached from looking up at him, and it was cold out there. A horn honked behind me. “Hey,” yelled the cabbie. “They’re calling for a fare to the airport!”
    Not liking an interruption while I’m performing, I glared over my shoulder. The cabbie held up both hands and said, “I’m cool, I’m cool,” and settled back into his seat. I looked back at the landlord and smiled. “High finance.”
    He smiled thinly. “If you don’t mind my asking, son, what’s that on your head?”
    â€œAn octopus, sir.”
    After a moment he said, “Is that right.”
    I shrugged modestly. “Youthful indiscretion.”
    â€œYouth.” Without looking into his tin he thoughtfully chose another mint. “And by the way,” he said, as he placed it on his tongue, “stockbrokers belong in hell.”
    I grinned. “It sounds like you learned more from my brother than he did from you, sir.”
    The old man said slyly, “You brother’s wife has lots of pretty girlfriends. She’s a looker herself.”
    â€œOh,” I said, “that would be Angelica.”
    He beamed at the name. “They’re a couple of