“Hey,” Harley said when he answered the door. “Great to see you. Come on in and meet my friends.”
Harley paused, taking in Webb’s shirt. “Edmonton today? Aren’t they, like, Calgary’s biggest rivals?”
“I rotate through the league,” Webb said. “No favorites.”
He was surprised at Harley’s knowledge of CFL teams, just like he’d been surprised that Harley knew where Moose Jaw was.
Then again, Webb had been surprised when he was down on the street pushing the intercom button for Harley’s place. When Harley had said he and his friends jammed in a warehouse, Webb had pictured a few guys getting together in some empty, long-abandoned building with broken windows and maybe an empty oil drum in the center with burning wood to provide some heat—a movie cliché, but Webb hadn’t been able to help himself.
This building at the edge of the river, east of downtown and close enough to the core to be in the shadows of the skyscrapers, was in an area of upscale coffee shops and intimate cafés.
And calling it a warehouse was accurate only in the sense that, yes, at one time it had been a warehouse.
As Webb stepped through the doorway and followed Harley into his loft, he saw a huge space with living quarters at one end, hardwood floors and large windows that overlooked the Cumberland River. Only someone with money could afford a place like this.
Harley had set up the center of the open area as a stage, complete with monitors and speakers. Four guys were hanging out there, chatting quietly as they tuned their instruments. None of them looked like the homeless people Webb had known when he was living on the streets in Toronto.
Two of the guys had guitars. Webb tried not to show any reaction as he realized the guitars were top-end Telecasters. A third guy was riffing quietly on a drum set. And a fourth sat behind a keyboard, eyes closed, smiling.
Crap, Webb thought. Have I gotten myself in over my head?
Then he noticed the framed records on the walls. Framed gold records.
Crap, he thought again. Who exactly is Harley?
“Guys,” Harley said, “this is Webb. He’s the one who fed me the other day when I was busking.”
All of them laughed. It was good-natured laughter, not mocking laughter.
“Cool,” one of them said. “You made Harley’s day. He was telling everyone that he wouldn’t have made it through the day without that kind of generosity.”
The guy at the drums—middle-aged, earrings on both sides, goatee—hit the snare with the kind of ba-rump that follows a punch line.
“Well,” Webb said, thinking of the gold records on the wall, “he was playing his guitar so bad I thought he’d starve otherwise.”
That earned another ba-rump from the drummer and more good-natured laughter from the other musicians.
“That’s right, Harley,” the keyboard guy said. “Remember, you can’t eat a Grammy.”
This was heavy-duty stuff. A Grammy?
Webb leaned close to Harley and spoke in a low voice. “I had no idea. Really. But you play on the streets to keep the music real, right?”
“The industry can wear you down,” Harley said. “That’s why all of us hang out here on Thursday nights. To get away from managers and lawyers and agents and enjoy the music.”
Those words sunk in. Managers and lawyers and agents. As in musicians who had deals and needed managers and lawyers and agents.
“Maybe,” Webb told Harley, “I could just sit in a corner and listen?”
Harley looked at his friends. “The kid just wants to sit in and listen. Not a chance.”
He put his hand on Webb’s shoulder and pushed him toward the stage. “Plug in and give us that great song you played on the street.”
“About that,” Webb said. “Something has been happening, and I’ve got a question or two.”
“You could say that,” Webb said.
“Rule one here,” Harley answered. “No business. Just music. Come on. Plug in and play. They don’t know the song, but they’ll jump in like I did.”
Fresh from playing it on the street, Webb was in a great mood for “Rock the Boat.” Harley joined in immediately, but the bass guitarist froze and stared at Webb until Webb stopped, just after the first chorus.
“I mess up somewhere?” Webb asked the openly hostile face.
“Yeah,” the bass guitarist said. “When you ripped off those guitars from Gerald Dean. And his song.”