Russell is visibly deflated. “You’ll be missing out on some cool shit.”
“You can fill me in,” Victor says. “This is important.”
“I checked out the website on your flier,” I say. “Some pretty awful stuff.”
I’m not sure the reaction I was expecting. I blurted it out without really weighing the consequences, so I’m unprepared when Russell offers a solemn nod while Victor perks up for the first time. He pushes off the side of the car, loops his fingers through his gun belt like some kind of matinee cowboy and looks me directly in the eye for the first time.
“What do you think ought to be done about it?” he asks.
I’m not prepared for the question. One minute I’m trying to deal with the fresh intrusions of fandom and now I’m being asked what kind of justice is proper. I think about the words on the flyer again, the call against more useless marches.
“I think people should be more motivated than just complaining. Bring about some civil action.”
Russell nods again, but it looks like he just wants the conversation to move forward. Victor is disappointed. Head lowered, shoulders weak under the checkered cloth of his shirt.
“The rich are poisoning the rest of us and you think the best course of action is a lawsuit?”
I look to the gun again. The back of Victor’s fingers almost brush against the weapon.
“What would you prefer?” I ask. “Guillotines and heads on spikes? I don’t think most are ready for armed rebellion.”
“You mean self-defense?” Victor says. We let the silence hang between us until Russell clears his throat. He offers me an apologetic smile, something that quietly implies we can all be friends again. Only Victor isn’t convinced. His eyes have never left mine, staring as if trying to bore a hole straight through the center of me.
“You’re just as useless as the rest of them,” Victor says. He doesn’t wait for my rebuttal. He turns and walks away, moving down the hillside toward the creek.
“Don’t worry about him,” Russell says. “Victor’s just passionate about the troubles around here.”
“Is he that hard on you?” I ask. “You know, being a Watson?”
“No,” Russell says. “But he would be if I wasn’t proving myself.”
I watch Victor go until he fades into the thicket that surrounds the creek on this side of the property.
“How’d you two meet up?” I ask.
“He answered the ad I put out for a bass player. We got to talking about music and bonded quick.” Russell smiles at me. “I make a lot of friends that way. All I need is one or two common interests.”
“Seems like he must stay busy with the band and the protests. Especially with that Watchmen site.”
Russell’s eyes go wide at the mention of The Watchmen. “Look, it’s better not to mention that stuff anymore around Victor. They booted him out. I guess it’s for the best. They weren’t getting much done.”
“But I saw him passing out their flyers?”
Russell shrugs. “Gotta get people started somewhere, and those guys are a good source of information. Just not willing to do what’s necessary.”
I see that Russell’s grown impatient, so I invite him up on the porch and hold the door as he steps inside. His anticipation is palpable. He nearly vibrates following me down the hall. Caroline is lurking somewhere, but I don’t hear her as Russell’s footsteps reverberate on the hardwood floor.
“Nice place,” he says, but it’s an empty pleasantry. My home is impressive compared to most in Coopersville, but Russell is a Watson. This place is a hovel next to where he was raised.
I take the keys from my pocket and unlock the door to the music room. Russell pauses at the threshold to look at my guitars. Eventually, he claps me on the back and lets out a loud wolf whistle.
“Jesus Christ,” Russell chuckles. “And you said you didn’t have anything.” He covers his mouth with his hand, but I’m still feeling the pain from that good-natured slap. Most treat my body like something too fragile to exist. I’m a little pleased Russell could give me a familiar whack before pacing around the room to admire the framed playbills that cover my opposite wall. He’s the only person I’ve met in years who didn’t have questions about my appearance.
Russell stops when he spots the safe. “What’s in there?” he asks.
“A few guitars. Some autographs.”
He plops down in an office chair next to my recording console and crosses his legs. “Can I see?”
We’re flirting with danger now. The smart answer would be no, but something about the kid makes me want to share. I punch the code into the safe’s keypad and let the door swing open. My scrapbook and recordings are stowed in the bottom compartment, so I remove the guitar without fear of exposing the tapes. I hand the instrument over and watch as Russell orbits his thumb across the tobacco sunburst erupting from the sound hole. He flips it over to read the inscription on its back.
“‘To Hollis, my friend and the man the music speaks to, Angela Carver.’” Russell strums a few chords. “So, you were there when those first songs were written?” He begins to pick out the solemn intro of “The Poison Flood.” The sound is haunting coming from Angela’s old guitar. Even though she always played a bit sloppy, this rendition is the same as the first morning in her father’s basement.
“Some,” I say. “Not many.”
“Did you help write them?”
“No,” I lie. “That was all Angela.” I can’t understand how, but he knows. As sure as people in Hell want water, he sees right through my falseness. I’ve been careful over the years. Never told anyone about my arrangement with Angela. It’s stupid to be found out this way. I let the silence hang to see if he’ll push the point.
“But you’re ‘the man the music speaks to.’” He smiles, releasing me from the need to answer. “You know, what I’m really looking for is something like that bootleg I saw. You have any old recordings?”
I keep my eyes from drifting toward the bottom compartment of the safe. “Nothing like that.”
Russell’s fingers spiderwalk down the guitar neck. “Well, if you did, I’d pay top dollar. Money wouldn’t be a concern.”
My first instinct is to tell him to go fuck himself, but I’d be lying if I pretended there wasn’t some temptation simmering below the anger. This is an endless supply of cash staring me in the face. A few minutes of tape could be enough to support my own music for years. I could sell him some harmless grainy tracks we threw out. No one would ever have to know I wrote most of the first album. This selfishness evaporates as I remember passing a joint with Angela in her father’s basement. If our secret is exposed, all the fallout will land firmly on her. I agreed to our arrangement, so I owe her more protection than just my personal comfort. It might be best to just send Russell on his way.