He heaved a deep sigh. “Thanks, Lian. You had me worried.”
She shook her head as she wound the strap from her case around herself again. “Never worry, Sody. Bad for luck. See you tomorrow.”
He lunged quickly into her path. “Want some dinner?”
She shut her eyes for a moment and silently cursed. Had she made a mistake after all? “No,” she said shortly, then left.
The next day she and Sody were again at their post at the subway stop when a short dark young man stepped off the arriving train and walked directly toward them, the familiar stars in his determined eyes. Without pausing in her song, Lian screamed inwardly at her fate, enraged all over again. Was her life being wrenched from her control? Had she proven unworthy of her luck and had it abandoned her?
“Been hearing about you two topside, on the street. Needing a keyboard?” he asked, and Lian gasped, forgetting her lyrics. Her hands dropped useless at her sides.
Sody let his bass chords die. He gazed coolly down at the short intruder and said, “You got one?”
Lian glanced at Sody. Normally she’d be furious at him for acting as leader, but now it didn’t matter. Now she only strained to hear a distant voice come floating to her from down the presently empty track, telling her what to do.
The stranger was around five seven, a few inches taller than Lian, but his muscles strained his black jeans and tee nearly to bursting. A no-style no-neck, marveled Lian. Hadn’t shaved for days, by the look of him, and not recently bathed by the smell, either. His dark hair, though, curved clean and smooth, the ruffled edges just hitting his shoulders, but unmarred by any purple or green dye, shit that Lian hated. He also lacked the endless body piercing Lian considered childish, although tattoos could make a statement-so long as the statement wasn’t that you’d been somebody’s “partner” in prison or membership in a drug gang. Losers, that lot.
She considered her last thought. Sounded a bit Irish. Excitement shivered through her for an instant. The lilt was coming. And to help it, this chunk of powerful Irish male had arrived. Again she threw her question down the tracks, asking her luck what to do with this keyboarder with muscles and the genuine brogue she’d longed to learn. No sign came. Or was the answer standing in front of her in the form of this new musician…
Just then Sody turned to her and said, “Let’s give him a try, okay? If he sucks, I’ll throw him back on the train.” The young man glowered at that, as if his maleness had been challenged. Lian shrugged coolly, feeling anything but cool inside.
“Eleven tomorrow,” she agreed. “Make an impression or Sody will help you fuck off.”
The young man looked her over with black eyes melting into black liquid. “Him? Small chance. Bugger you, more likely!”
She listened to this, lips parted and breathless. His voice slid like cream into her ears!
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
“Joseph Francis Urban O’Rourke, then. Joe. And you?”
“Lian Logan,” she said and his gaze changed. She saw the shrewdness in his lightning assessment of her. She knew he’d seen through her and out the other side. He knew it all. Her fake Irishness, her ambition, her dreams. Maybe even her luck. His eyes glittered but with a powerful maleness that Sody could never have summoned, despite his height. Lian doubted Sody would ever be able to throw this one onto a train. Or anywhere.
“Keyboard.” She repeated stiffly, as if considering, and felt heat rise in her face.
She looked around for an electrical plug. As if he read her mind, he said, “I bring my own re-charge battery pack, if I need it, an’ I usually do. Not a problem. Why ye got to sing b’neath God’s good earth, though?” He looked around uneasily. “What’s wrong with the open air?”
Lian’s face hardened. “Not negotiable.”
“Tomorrow then.” They all nodded to each other and O’Rourke jumped down onto the track, and strolled along the narrow ledge where the trainmen usually walked to get to a needed repair down the line. Lian shivered to watch his carelessness of the massive trains and wondered if this was a stupid male display to impress her. It did.
In the coming days, O’Rourke became an asset, as Lian had guessed he would, since her luck must have summoned him to her. He seemed to live in an aura of confidence. He didn’t know as many songs as Sody, but he could plug in spots as he caught on to the progression of chords and fill out the music until he quickly learned it.
Lian’s voice soared like an angel borne up on the talents of these two, but she was careful to practice the song in private. Over the next weeks, they made a lot of money, enabling Lian to dress more and more to fit the image she had chosen, rather than to just cover her body. She sublet a closet of an apartment, one room with several doors, each of which opened to a murphy bed, the toilet, and a sink next to a two burner stove, so she finally had somewhere relatively clean-and safe-to sleep. And she carefully gave no hint of its location to Sody, Joe, or anyone.
Then it happened. Lian moved the trio to “her” place outside Grand Central’s double doors on 42nd Street. Joe, relieved to leave the dank underground behind, bloomed in the bright sun and his performances sharpened, to Sody and Lian’s delight. Within a week, a portly man dressed in all black stopped to hear not just one song, but several. He stood close by for nearly an hour, reminding Lian of a Catholic priest in his black three-button suit hanging open over the black silk mock-turtleneck tee. His head nodded to the beat of their music, obviously enjoying himself. Then a sudden realization caused Lian to drop out of the performance of “Baby Jones,” too breathless to sing. It was him! Her “luck” had brought him!
Sody glanced at her in concern, but after a deep gasp for breath, she rejoined the chorus, her voice energized and full of new emotion.
At the finish, the man gave her his card, as she’d known he would. “I represent Krim Recordings. How about a meet tomorrow? Four-ish good for you? Bring your instruments.” Lian nodded with as much coolness as she could muster. Sody and Joe gaped. As soon as the man turned the corner, disappearing from sight, Sody snatched the card from Lian’s fingers.
“Krim! Omigod!”
“Aye! We got to-what do we got to do?” For the first time, Joe looked flummoxed.
Lian gazed at her partners in disgust. She thought Sody might cry, from the look on his face. “Well what did ye expect!” she shrieked at them both. Staying in her Irish persona was more important now than ever before. “What’s the point of this if not to step up?”
Joe stared at her, blinking. “Oh, aye. Sure!”
Sody swallowed hard. “I can’t sing anymore today. I can’t.”
Lian said, “And why should ye? We’ll be superstars after tomorrow!”
Sody froze, absorbing that thought. After a long moment, he glanced at Lian and nodded. “Right.” He packed his bass guitar into the battered case. “Go home, Joe. Get some rest. You too,” he ordered Lian. “Go on.” He gave them each a paternal wave, permission to leave. Joe, hugging his keyboard to his chest in excitement, nearly ran down 42nd street.
Lian didn’t move. She gazed at Sody, her eyes interested.
“Go on, Lian,” he repeated. “You need rest, too. See you tomorrow.” He patted her shoulder, not noticing how she jerked her shoulder from beneath his hand. He jaywalked across the street to enter the small coffee shop he liked to frequent. Lian, still not moving, watched him through the shop window until he began giving his order to a waitress.
Then Lian turned and descended the stairs to the subways, took a train back to her old spot, the West 50th Street stop. When she got out, she opened her case again, seeded it with the two crumpled dollars, and began to sing alone: ‘Leave me now, I’ve moved on anyhow. Lah tee dah, down the MTA highway, the next stop will be better, Lah tee dah…’ Her song. The song. Her voice lifted and the tunnel seized it to send it soaring. Passengers paused to hear the whole song before moving on.