Ashton Crooker is my best friend. He used to bring his djembe drum and give me rhythm backup while I played on the street. The funny thing about that is we never talked the first three times. He’d just show up, drum behind me and leave. He never asked for any of the tips. It always seemed like he found joy in the playing and that was all he wanted.
So one rainy day when there wasn’t a lot of action, we headed for a coffee joint to warm up. We found out that we shared a passion for music. Ashton liked all kinds and filled my ears with talk of African, Brazilian and Cuban bands and drummers I should hear. We’d sit around his bachelor apartment and listen to music and talk long into the night sometimes. I told him about my life on the reservation and how the blues just reached out and touched me. He told me about growing up poor in a trailer park on the outskirts of Montreal and how drumming always seemed to make him feel better. He said he could even drum away hunger. That was the power of music. We were friends after that.
Now we sat in the same coffee joint, and he looked at me wide-eyed. “So he just gave you all this money?”
“Yeah. Just over three thousand.”
“Commission?”
“That’s what he said. An advance.”
“That’s too radical to be real.” Ashton studied the card Hardy had given me. “Did you even call this number? See if it’s a real office?”
“No. Why would I? The guy just wants fast money. Who doesn’t? I mean, if I met a guy like me and figured he could get me some easy winnings, I’d go for it too.”
“You’d hand off three grand to a stranger?”
“Well, maybe not that. But it shows he’s got money. Guys with that kind of money have connections, and he said he’d get me a recording session.”
“I’d be careful about who his connections were.”
“You know what, Ash? I don’t even care. If it gets me into a studio, that’s all I want.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s real name is Win.”
I riffled the edges of the bills. “I won this.”
“Maybe so,” Ashton said with a worried look. “But guys like you and me, Cree, we don’t get breaks like this. Not this easy. We’re working-class guys who play a little music. Dream, yeah. But stay real, buddy. Stay real.”
Just then the door opened, and two very large men walked in. They had heads the size of basketballs and eyes that stared straight ahead, unreadable like the eyes of dolls. They strode right over to our table and stood there looking down at us. I was suddenly very scared.
“Which one of you is Thunderboy?” the biggest one asked.
His friend punched him in the shoulder. “Well, gee, Vic. Would it be the Indian guy or the pasty-faced white guy? Hmmm. I wonder.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the one named Vic said. “Mr. Hardy asks that you sign these papers.” He held out a sheaf of legal-sized papers to me.
“What are they?” I said. “And how did you know where to find me?”
“Personal services agreement. Standard talent stuff,” the other one said. “And we can always find you. Trust me.”
Ashton and I exchanged a look. “Can I read them over?”
“I told you, standard stuff. You agreed in principle when you took the advance. So just sign the papers. We got work to do.”
“What kind of work?” Ashton asked.
“Tell him, Vic.”
Vic straightened up and stood as tall as he could and cast a sweeping look around the café. Then he leaned forward, his full weight on his arms. We could feel the tabletop bend. He looked right at Ashton with those bright, depthless eyes.
“Me and Jerry are commission agents. Thunderboy here pays us, we pay him. We get to be friends, have a few drinks. Maybe take in a ball game now and then. He don’t pay us, the story takes a slightly different tack. You get my drift?”
“I get it,” Ashton said. “I get it.” He slid back in his chair.
I signed the papers and handed them to Jerry, who folded them without looking. He put his hands in his pants pockets, and his coat flapped back to reveal the butt of a gun in his belt. We stared at it. Hard. When we looked up at him, he was grinning.
“Sometimes things get tough in the commission business. We wouldn’t want that to happen to you, Wonderboy.”
“That’s Thunderboy,” I said.
“Same difference from what I hear. Be ready at nine am. We’ll pick you up.”
“For what?”
Jerry slapped Vic playfully on the back, and the bigger man curled up his fists and ducked his head and shoulders down in a boxer’s shuffle step.
“For what, the kid asks.”
“Dumb kid,” Vic said and stood beside Jerry. “You signed the deal. You should know the play. We pick you up in the morning and deliver you to the studio, where you cut some tracks. I hear you’re some kind of whiz kid on guitar.”
“I’m recording? Just like that?”
“Just like that, like it says in the deal,” Vic said. “Then in the afternoon we deliver you to the track and you do your thing for the boss man. Here’s tomorrow’s form.”
He laid the racing form on the table. Ashton and I both stared at it without moving. This all seemed to be happening very fast. The two large men watched us. When we didn’t offer a response, they turned and walked toward the door. Then Vic turned on one heel and marched back, irritated.
“Don’t forget to do your homework. The man needs your call before we pick you up. Got it?” he asked.
“I got it.” I said. “I got it.”
Ashton and I looked at each other a long time without speaking.