I blew out a slow breath, knelt down, and started to untangle my dogs, wondering what they and the Sanitation Department knew that I didn’t. Moz had said some paranormal stuff about the woman who’d tossed him her guitar—that she was part of something bigger—and I’d read there was a crime wave now, to go along with the heat and the garbage.
But wasn’t it always like this in the middle of every long summer, brains beginning to zigzag in the fawesome temperatures?
Of course, the day before, Moz and I had watched that black water spraying out of a fire hydrant, as if something old and rotten had been dredged up beneath the city. Despite the heat bouncing off the asphalt, I shivered, thinking about what I’d seen back in that alley. That cat was in charge of all those rats, one glance had told me. Like my dogs, those glowing eyes were one big pack, but the feline had total control, no jostling or butt-sniffing required, like they were all family. And that just wasn’t natural.
The delivery truck guy blared his horn at me one more time—like it was me in his way and not the garbage truck—so I gave him the finger. On the other side of his glass, his face broke into a smile, as if a little disrespect was all he’d been looking for.
Before the garbage truck was done, I got the pack unwound and back onto the sidewalk. We headed across town, toward the bottom end of Times Square, where we were supposed to meet Moz.
Maybe we could see my drummer after all. The hundred-yard dash had finally worn my dogs out, and the mastiff trotted ahead, tail high, having taken over through the mysteries of dog-pack democracy. Maybe it was because she’d led us down the street to safety, or because the Dobermans had fled first from the rat-infested alley.
Whatever. At least it was all decided now, and someone other than me was in charge.
8. CASH MONEY CREW
— MOZ-
Times Square was buzzing.
Even in broad daylight, the battery of lights and billboards rattled me, rubbing my brain raw. Huge video screens were wrapped around the curving buildings over my head, shimmering like water in the rain, ads for computers and cosmetics flickering across them. News bites scrolled past on glittering strips, punctuated by nonsense stock-ticker symbols.
I was an insect in a canyon of giant TVs, mystified and irrelevant.
And penniless.
I’d never felt poor before, never once. I’d always thought it was moronic to ogle car ads and store windows, but now that I needed it, I saw money everywhere—in silver initials on thousand-dollar handbags, woven like gold threads into suits and silk scarves, and in the flickering images overhead. On the subway coming up here, I’d coveted the dollars invisibly stockpiled in magnetic strips on MetroCards, even the change rattling in beggars’ paper cups.
Money, money, everywhere.
I couldn’t go back to my piece-of-crap guitar after that Stratocaster. I had to own that same smooth action, those purring depths and crystal highs. Of course, maybe it didn’t have to be a ’75 with gold pickups. In the music stores on Forty-eighth Street, I’d found a few cheaper guitars I could live with, but I still needed to scrape together about two thousand bucks before the crazy woman returned.
Problem was, I had no idea how.
I’m not lazy, but money and me don’t mix. Every time I get a job, something always happens. The boss tells me to smile, pretending I want to be at work when I’d rather be anywhere else. Or makes me call in every week to ask for my hours, and it turns into a whole extra job finding out when I’m supposed to be at my job. And whenever I explain these issues, someone always asks me the dreaded question, If you hate it so much, why don’t you just quit?
And I say, “Good point.” And quit.
In that flickering canyon of advertising, two thousand dollars had never seemed so far away.
Zahler was waiting at the corner where he’d said to meet, seven dogs in tow.
He was panting and sweaty, but his entourage looked happy—gazing up at the signs, sniffing at tourists passing by. It was all just flickering lights to them.
No jobs, no money. Lucky dogs.
“How much you get paid for that, Zahler?”
“Not enough,” he panted. “Almost got killed on the way down here!”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. One of the little ones was nibbling me, and I knelt and petted him. “This guy looks deadly.”
“No really, Moz. There was this alley… and this cat.”
“An alley cat? And you with only seven dogs.” One of which was gigantic, like a horse with long, flowing hair. I stroked its head, laughing at Zahler.
Still panting, he pointed his free hand at one of the little ones. “It’s all his fault, for peeing.”
“Huh?”
“It was just—never mind.” He frowned. “Listen, you hear that drumming? It’s her. Come on.”
I grabbed the monster-dog’s leash from Zahler, and then two more, pulling the three of them away from a pretzel cart whose ripples of heat smelled like seared salt and fresh bread. “So, you think Pearl will approve of this drummer?”
“Sure. Pearl’s all about talent, and this girl is fexcellent.”
“But she plays on the street, Zahler? She could be homeless or something.”
He snorted. “Compared to Pearl, you and me are practically homeless. Didn’t you see that apartment?”
“Yeah, I saw that apartment.” I could still smell the money crammed into every corner.
“And there were stairs. More floors than we even saw.”
“Sure, Pearl’s insanely rich. And this is supposed to convince me she can deal with a homeless drummer?”
“We don’t know that this girl’s homeless, Moz. Anyway, all I’m saying is that if Pearl can deal with you and me, she’s no snob.”
I shrugged. Snob wasn’t the word I would’ve used.
“Are you still bummed because of what she did to the Riff?”
“No. Once I got used to the idea of flushing all those years of practice down the toilet, I got over it.”
“Dude! You are still bummed.”
“No, I mean it.”
“Look, I know it hurts, Moz. But she’s going to make us huge!”
“I get it, Zahler.” I sighed, angling my dogs away from a hot-dog cart. Of course, practicing yesterday had hurt—but so did getting a tattoo, or watching a perfect sunset, or playing till your fingers bled. Sometimes you just had to sit there and deal with the pain.
Pearl had rubbed me raw, but she knew how to listen. She could hear the heart of the Big Riff, and she hadn’t done anything I wouldn’t have if I’d been listening. I’d had six years to figure out what she’d recognized in six minutes. That’s what made me cringe.
That and the whammy she’d put on Zahler. He wouldn’t shut up about how brilliant Pearl was, how she was going to make us big, how things were finally going to happen. Like all those years with just the two of us had been a waste of time.
Zahler had a total crush on Pearl—that was obvious. But if I said so out loud, he’d just roast me with his death stare. And talk about wasting time: girls like her were about as likely to hook up with boys like us as Zahler’s dogs were to pull him to the moon.
“Okay, I thought you said she was a drummer.”
“What?” Zahler cried above the rumble. “You don’t call that drumming?”
“Well, she’s got drumsticks. But I thought drummers were to supposed to have drums.” I shook my head, trying to keep my three curious dogs from surging into the rapt crowd of tourists, Times Square locals, and loitering cops surrounding the woman.
“Yeah, well, imagine if she did have drums. Listen to how much sound she’s getting out of those paint cans!”