Dark Blue Monstropolis

The waitress brought two coffees over on a tray. She was a slightly older woman, probably somewhere in her late thirties–and she deserved credit for taking care of her skin. On the outskirts of the Bowl, if you weren’t mindful, you’d wind up with a face that looked like boiled leather before you hit twenty-five.

The coffee was disgusting, but in the cafés that they could afford, you took what you could lay hands upon. The waitress left them. They were the only two patrons at the time. The lizardman chef was out front at the counter, reading through Indianapolis’ RP version of the newspaper.

Argo took another sip, pulled down his visor and slipped on his glove.

“Can’t wait,” Mayster nodded at him, sipping his coffee. “You must taste the virgin flesh of new music. I respect that.”

The lights along the knuckles of the smart glove came on and the visor sprang to life in front of Argo’s eyes. The sameline neighborhood came up first. The lizardman’s pack was offline, the waitress’ pack was firewalled–the only other one was Mayster’s and they connected using a secure handshake.

Argo brought up his mixing program on his pack and then imported the first new song into it. The cursor responded to the arcane gestures he made with his gloved hand. He sipped his coffee with his free hand and barely thought about what he was doing, as he used the filters to strip out the vocals that he wanted.

Mayster had keyed his earpieces to Argo’s pack and was listening in, making comments. “Remember that bit from…what was it?”

“Peter Gunn.”

“That needs to go underneath. Try it.”

Within a few seconds, Argo’s fingers were placing the track where he needed–zooming into the hundredth of a second to sync up properly. Sure, the program would do it for him, but he liked the hands on approach. He waved his hand and the samples kicked in together.

Mayster was nodding his head appreciatively. “I am a genius.” Then his eyes flicked over Argo’s left shoulder and his demeanor changed.

Argo had a moment before his brain shifted gears and then turned his head.

A man was standing right behind him. Sure, he couldn’t see into Argo’s visor, but still–personal space was an important thing. Argo shifted around in his seat–his neighborhood hadn’t sprung up to tell him there was another pack in the area. That was very odd. He snapped his fingers and the visor went completely clear.

The man was standing right behind Argo’s chair, very calmly taking a cigarette paper and licking it to seal it together. He stuck his creation between his lips. “Jockeys?” It was not exactly a question.

Argo looked back at Mayster, who gave the briefest of shrugs. “Yeah, we’re jockeys,” Argo told the man. “Help you with something?”

A Zippo lighter appeared in the man’s hand and he flicked it open, lighting the cig. He puffed from it thoughtfully and seemed to be sizing the two of them up. “Yeah,” he said finally. “You could say that, yeah.”

Mayster grinned. Despite being a scary motherfucker, Mayster always seemed to be better at putting people at ease–especially if a job was involved. Not that Argo got the impression the newcomer felt threatened by either of them in the least. This was a little disconcerting, and he wasn’t even sure why.

“Share what you know,” Mayster prodded.

The man rubbed at his bearded chin. He had a full growth of beard and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He was wearing a black-faded-to-grey trenchcoat over his regular clothes. There was something about his accent that Argo couldn’t place. And there was something about his appearance that seemed wrong. “I have a gig. I need jockeys. It’s that simple.”

Argo raised an eyebrow. “Paying gig?”

“Payment, yes.”

“Opening act or background?”

“Both.”

“So you got a live one?”

“Live one, yes. She’s doing tonight at the Fellowship Lodge.”

Argo and Mayster exchanged a look. The Lodge was a private club. God himself probably couldn’t get in. “The Lodge?” Argo repeated. “You’re definitely not local. Fellowship won’t give any musicians around here the time of day. Who’s the live one?”

The man looked out the window at the swirling duststorm then drew on his cig again. “Threnody Jones.”

Mayster, in mid-sip, faltered and spilled some coffee.

If Argo had thought about it at the time, that would have given him a clue to end the conversation there. It should have been an omen–Mayster never spilled anything.

Argo’s eyebrows went up. “The Threnody Jones?”

The man almost smiled. “Wasn’t aware they were sold in packs.”

Argo paid no notice. “She’s playing the Fellowship Lodge tonight. And you want us to open for her andbackground her show?”

“You heard me right,” the man said. “We’re between permanent jockeys right now, and we’ve been temping from city to city as we go.”

“What the hell is Threnody Jones doing in Indianapolis?” Argo asked, “I mean, we’re a nothing town on the outskirts of shit. I thought she stuck to the Seaboard.”

The man smiled and exhaled, thinking. “We’re here as a personal favor to some old friends.” He flicked some ashes off into space. “Are we doing business?”

Argo looked at Mayster. Mayster gave the same subtle shrug, which for Mayster was a sign of excitement. Argo stuck out his hand. “We are doing business.”

The man took Argo’s hand and shook it. “Great. My name’s Welsh. I’m Threnody’s manager. Get your gear and be at the Lodge at–” He turned his wrist over and looked at the watch there. “–seven-thirty local. We’re on at eight. Wear whatever you’re comfortable in, bring whatever gear you need. You’ll get a half-hour minimum for your portion, then we’ll download into your packs for Threnody’s show. Any other questions?”

Argo and Mayster both shook their heads.

“Great,” Welsh said. “See you then.” And with that, he dropped his cigarette to the floor, ground it out, and was gone out the first sealed door.

After it shut behind him and they could hear the faint hum of the outer door, Argo and Mayster exchanged glances.

“We’re opening for Threnody Jones,” Argo said aloud, as much for himself, to hear the words, as to confirm it to his friend.

Mayster grinned. “Looks that way, yes.”

“And we’re backing her up, too.”

“That’s an affirmative.” Mayster grinned and sipped his coffee. “Dare we smell a ticket out of this hellhole?”

For once, Argo grinned to match him. “I think we dare.”

They basked in this for a full minute, then both turned to the same topic at once.

“Did you catch his accent?” Argo asked.

Mayster shook his head. “Couldn’t place it. Did you catch his coat?”

“What about it?”

“Didn’t look like the coat of a guy who’d been out there,” Mayster thumbed at the windows–the storm outside had picked up considerably. “This airlock is good, but it ain’t that good. It doesn’t dry clean your shit for you.”

“And he had no pack,” Argo said, still looking out the windows.

“Yup,” Mayster agreed.

Packs always registered, even if you didn’t want them to be accessible or talk to someone else’s. So that meant unless he had some kind of pack like they’d never encountered before, he didn’t have one at all. Who the hell walked around without a pack?