14
LUKE
The crowd is good for a Wednesday night especially for an up-and-coming Tejano rock band. Since the audience isn’t super familiar with the music, it’s not at all rowdy. A lot of listening, a lot of nodding along when a lyric hits them, a lot of leaning into their friends, whispering, “S’good.”
I watch from the bar. The venue is small, no big backstage area for me to hide out, keep tabs from the wings. Instead, you could probably feel a performer spit on you all the way in the back of the venue. The big stages are my bread and butter, but the little ones are where all the soul lives.
I lock eyes with the band manager, an old-timer who’s been on the Austin circuit for years. He gives me a nod of respect. I nod in return, trying to keep my composure. The manager used to be a titan with his big mustache and ten-gallon hat. Now, he’s slowed down and lost some of his cred. But still slings himself around like he’s cock of the walk.
Regardless of his current status, I respect my elders. They’re the reason I’m here, and why the Austin music scene still blooms anew again and again. So, when I promised him that I’d have the venue full for his band, I meant it.
There’s not an empty cabaret table, and standing room keeps filling up with passers-by.
Very good for a Wednesday night.
In fact, I ought to consider giving up my seat at the bar so someone can sit and stay a while. I look down the bar at all the patrons. At the very end is a man tapping his foot against his stool, considering the band thoughtfully through a pair of black-rimmed glasses. His completely white hair is cut stylishly, and his lips are pulled down like a trout, the quintessential expression of someone who likes what he’s listening to.
Skip Baxter, the Beat Cowboy, is a local disc jockey who’s been active since the ‘90s. Though he’s at least sixty, he wears his age well. Radio hosts are pretty good at staying out of the fray. They get to be in the industry while avoiding the party scene as much or as little as they want.
I narrow my eyes. He’s been around. Probably has a catalogue of all the acts that have waltzed through town.
I wonder . . .
No. It would be silly to ask about Diane.
Except I haven’t shaken her since Eleanor found out her name. Sometimes it keeps me awake at night, which isn’t good considering how busy this month is for me. I can’t afford to lose any more sleep.
I tried to give up on the mystery. Tried to have Eleanor give up on it, too.
But I can’t.
That picture from ’93 still prompts so many questions.
She performed at The Lone Star. Played guitar. A solo act, if I’m to believe Bobby’s notes are correct.
Would it be possible that Baxter might know something?
It’s worth a shot. Besides, it would give me a reason to reach out to Eleanor that isn’t just me trying to make conversation, so she doesn’t forget about me.
I give the bartender a nod and point at the end of the bar. “Two of what he’s having,” I mouth.
She gives me a quick nod before pouring off two straight club sodas.
No wonder the guy looks good. He doesn’t even drink.
Then again, he’s over fifty and it is a Wednesday. Could take a note from his book.
I take the club sodas and head down to the end of the bar, posting up beside Baxter. He glances up at me and gives me a polite smile before returning his gaze to the band.
“They’re good, huh?” I say.
“Yeah, smooth stuff.”
“Thinking about running their tracks?” I ask.
He does a double take in my direction, realizing he’s been recognized, then smiles sadly. “I’d like to. Would people listen?” He shrugs. “Radio ain’t what it used to be.”
“Hear that.” I hold out the straight club soda to him. “Name’s Wyatt. Grew up listening to you.”
Skip appraises the club soda before taking it. “Nice to meet you, Wyatt. Working tonight?”
I smile, glancing at the band. The singer is a flamboyant woman with a flat-black Cordobés hat, a lacy top, and high-waisted pants that are embroidered with bright-colored flowers. She’s a show woman and the people are eating her up. “You can tell?”
“A tailored suit in a club like this?” he says with a raised eyebrow.
I chuckle, looking down at the pinstripe blue I’ve chosen for tonight and carefully adjust the silver bolo around my neck. “Caught me.”
“They’re good,” Skip says. “Too bad you can’t get them on a bigger stage. She deserves it.”
“I agree,” I say. “You still accept demos like you did in the old days?”
Skip huffs out a disdainful laugh. “Not since everyone and their mother has access to SoundCloud.”
I remember the calls on the then up-and-coming radio station. “Send us your wild and your weird! Send us your Austin!”
For a while, Skip’s station was straight up Austin. Local only, unless out-of-towners were promoting a show. Now, it’s modern alternative. Sneaks in something new to the ear every now and then, but it’s not the same.
“But I have no doubt their manager will corner me after the show. As he is known to do . . .” Skip says, eyeing the manager as he takes a sip of club soda.
I take the opportunity to pull out my phone. “Could I ask you a question? Since you’ve been around for a while?”
“Watch it kid,” Skip says wryly.
“I mean that with all due respect, sir,” I correct.
The audience erupts in applause. I hadn’t even realized they’d finished their last song. Skip leans back on the bar, focusing on the band as they shuffle around before the next song of their set, not bothering to clap. “What is it, Wyatt?” he finally asks.
I pull up the picture of Diane on my phone. I took it after my first encounter with Eleanor so that I could try and pick apart more details myself. How I have poured over this picture, trying to find out anything and everything about it. “You recognize this musician?”
Skip looks at my phone, squinting through his glasses. He leans in, pushing his glasses up on his forehead. He looks for a long time and then utters a quick, “Nope. Should I?”
“No, no. I’m just working with an archivist at the Reeder and she’s trying to get more information since this image is going to be shown in an exhibition.” No harm in a tiny fib, especially not when it’s the kind used to manifest goodness for someone I care about.
“Mm. Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you,” he says.
I flick off the screen on my phone. “How about a name? Would you recognize a name?”
A soft, brushing beat begins on the drums, and the singer begins to hum into the mic.
“Depends. Heard a lot of names over the years.”
All of these old-timers and their attempt at mystery. I don’t let myself look annoyed, but I’m starting to get tired of it. “Diane Bloom. Know the name?”
Skip’s mouth gets small, and he lets out a “Hm.”
The muscles in my stomach tighten with anticipation as the name rolls around Skip’s brain. If he comes up empty, I will fall apart.
“Think she probably sent a demo back in the day. I remember the last name. Bloom.”
I hold back every impulse to explode with excitement. “Yeah? You remember listening to it?”
“No, not particularly,” Skip says, nonplussed.
Well, that was anticlimactic. “So, you didn’t play it on the radio.”
“Not that I recall.”
He goes silent as he watches the band. I can’t take my eyes off Skip, begging him to say more.
“We keep all of them though,” he says, enchanted by the Tejana singer helming the band. “They’ve been digitized, but likely she’s in the catalog.”
If only Eleanor was here to hear this. She’d be vibrating next to me. Maybe she’d grab my arm. I swoon at the thought. I’m down bad if all it takes is me thinking about her touch to send me into the stratosphere.
“I can look tomorrow for you if you like,” Skip says. “Wouldn’t be hard.”
“Could you? That would be fantastic! You have no idea how much that would mean to me,” I say. And I mean it. It would mean everything to Eleanor, but it would mean everything to me too. Not only would I have answers, but I’d also get to be Eleanor’s hero.
Maybe that will set something off in her. Show her just how much I’m trying to show up for her. As a friend, sure, but I’d like to me much, much more.
I can imagine what my father would say. That I’m being a wuss about it, and I should just go after her. The worst she can say is no thanks. I’ve been rejected before. Hell, I’m rejected on a daily basis just by being in the line of work I’m in.
However, I fear a no from Eleanor would kill me. Would brutalize me.
Skip cracks a smile, one that seems a little bit friendly for once. “You know her or something?”
My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster. He doesn’t even know that she’s passed away. A beautiful myth to us all. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I did.”
His eyebrows jump up. He catches my meaning. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s alright.” I don’t believe I have rightful claim to grieving Diane. And yet I ache over her loss.
Skip shifts in his seat. Looks to the band then back to me. Opens his mouth, closes it. Looks back at the band and then back at me again. “After the set, you busy?”
“N-no. Why?”
“Because we can go down to the station tonight if you want.”
I put my hand on the bar beside me, fearing my legs might turn to jelly and give out. “Are you serious?”
Skip’s smile grows. “Yeah, we’ll go after the show.”
Jack-fucking-pot.
Just wait until I tell Eleanor.