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Chapter Two

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I must admit that the road trip from Bakersfield to Monterey isn’t one of my favorites. I’m more of a mountain view girl, and the trip up I-5 presents nothing but rolling hills and farmland. Fortunately for me, I now have Laurel as a traveling companion, because when Bozeman is driving, he’s not much on conversation. Every hundred miles or so he’ll say something, but it’s always something uninspiring like ‘there’s a rest stop coming up’, or ‘I’m going to stop soon for gas’. On past adventures, I’d have to spend my time napping or reading, and although I love Gibson with all my heart, he’s not a skilled conversationalist.

Instead of watching the mile markers pass by, Laurel and I were hard at work on the set list for tomorrow’s gig.

Working from an email I received, I read off the list of special requests and Laurel jotted them down on a sheet of paper.

Celebration? The Kool & The Gang song? Seriously?” she said.

I smiled. “Yep, that’s the one. It would amaze you some of the strange requests we get when people book a gig. Granted, we’ll usually throw in a few, and sometimes a lot of the songs are ones we rotate in and out of the set list anyway, but a lot of times people will send in requests that are either too ambitious or too outrageous for the two of us to handle. Let me see that.”

Laurel moved the paper so I could see it more clearly. I took a pen from the table and crossed a line through Celebration and three other songs, circled three others, and put dots next to the remaining four.

“What’s the shorthand mean?” Laurel asked.

“The crossed off ones are hard passes. Either we don’t know them, or we’d never play them. Circles mean that they’re already on the set list. Dots mean they’re in limbo at this point, neither in nor out. Bozeman and I, and now you, usually decide together which of those we’d include.”

“You don’t simply put them in?” 

I shook my head. “Not usually. The way we typically set up the list is a few of my original songs, a few of Bozeman’s original songs, and then the rest we fill with covers.”

“How long is a typical show?”

“Between an hour and ninety minutes. Sometimes longer. We got booked for a wedding once and played for almost three and a half hours. I love to perform, but even for me that was stretching it, especially for a two-person band.”

“Okay, so what’s next?” Laurel asked.

I got up and retrieved a bottle of water for myself and one for Laurel and returned to the dinette.

“Now we get to the fun part. We use computerized backing tracks to provide a more full-band sound, including bass, drums, and, of course, fiddle. We need to figure out where to remove the fiddle parts so you can take their place.”

Laurel uncapped the bottle and took a drink of water. Some dribbled out onto her chin, but she wiped it away with a nonchalance that made me think it happened all the time.  

“It sounds hard,” she said.

I shook my head. “Sounds worse than it actually is. All I need to do is go into the sound file of the song and uncheck the box that says ‘fiddle’.”

“That sounds easy,” Laurel admitted.

“Here’s the plan. We’ll go through all the songs we have in our library, see if they have a fiddle in them, and see if you can play the song. If you can’t, we’ll either remove it from the list if it’s a cover, or we’ll take a note if it’s an original, so you can learn it.”

Laurel agreed, so I pulled my laptop from the seat next to me, put it on the table, and brought up my music library.

We’d gotten about halfway through the list when I sensed the bus decelerate. I looked out the window and saw that we were pulling into a rest area. Before long, the bus shifted into Park between two semi-trucks that were also headed northbound.

“Let’s go,” I said as I stood. “The general rule is, one goes, all goes. Bozeman hates cleaning out the bus toilet, so we make use of public facilities whenever we can. Besides, it’s good to stretch the legs.”

Bozeman waited while Laurel and I got off the bus and followed behind and locked the doors. He stretched his arms in the air, touched his toes a couple of times and headed off for the men’s room without a word.

“He doesn’t talk much, does he?” Laurel asked as we followed the sidewalk to the toilets.

“Not really. Sometimes he gets on a roll and will talk your ears off, but generally, he’s pretty quiet. You were thinking maybe it was you?”

I glanced over at Laurel, and she nodded. “Well, don’t worry about it. Quiet is his nature. If he has something to say, he’ll say it, and he’ll always answer questions when you ask them.”

Laurel nodded again. Then we finished our walk and parted ways when we moved to separate stalls. Five minutes later, I was back outside in the sunshine. I found a bench, sat down, closed my eyes, and lifted my face to the sun. I heard it said that it’s bad for my skin to do that, but at the moment, I didn’t care since I loved the warmth on my face and the quiet moment I had for myself.

“Hey, little lady, you need a ride?”

The voice shattered my silence, so I opened my eyes and looked at the road warrior who was speaking to me. Overalls hid a body that was at least double the weight it should have been, and a greased-stained trucker hat covered a head of hair that hadn’t seen a barber in months. He clearly needed a bath, since he smelled like a mix of corn chips and hot dogs.

“No thanks. I have my own ride.”

He stepped closer. “Come on, baby. I know you want me.”

I wondered if the guy was a card-carrying member of the sleaze-of-the-month club based on that awful line. But I figured it was time to leave, which wasn’t a problem because I had my own keys to the bus. The only thing I worried about was if the jerk was idiotic enough to follow me.

I got up from the bench and took a few steps toward the parking lot. Behind me, I heard him grunt, and I could tell by the shifting shadow on the sidewalk that he did indeed intend to follow me.

“Hey.” He grabbed my shoulder, trying to spin me around. 

That was all the encouragement I needed. Many people, when they deal with me, assume that I’m not powerful. That bad assumption is because I’m short and skinny. I swung around, and as I did, I performed a perfect uppercut that connected square on with the trucker’s private parts. That took the fight and bravado right out of him, and both of his hands went right to his groin before he groaned and dropped to his knees. I took two steps back to make sure his gumption was truly gone. I was about to turn back around and head to the bus when I spotted a small crowd of people watching the entire encounter. Laurel and Bozeman among them.

A few seconds later, Bozeman appeared at my side. “You need any help here?” He looked down at the trucker, who at that moment rolled over from his knees onto his side.

I smiled and locked arms with him. “Oh, my hero! No. I think I’ll be okay.” We waited for Laurel to catch up to us and climbed back on the bus.

“Does that sort of thing happen a lot?” Laurel asked as we settled back into our seats.

“Not as much as it used to. Early in our touring career, we played a lot of bars and honkytonks. I’m sure you know the places. Long wood bar, sawdust on the floor, chicken wire in front of the stage. It got to where if I didn’t have drunken cowboys attempt to pick me up at least three times over the course of the night, I started feeling bad about myself.”

“So, what happened?”

“I decided to stop playing shows in those places. Now we do mostly private events, theme parks, festivals, county fairs, places like that. Bar gigs are rare for us now, but occasionally we’ll pick one up.”

“Sounds nice. See this?”

Laurel turned to her left and pointed to her right arm, an inch above the elbow. I moved in close and saw a half-inch scar she was pointing to.

“Let me guess, flying beer bottle shard?” I asked. 

“How did you guess that?” Laurel said as she rubbed the spot.

I smiled, stood, and turned around. I pushed down the back of my jeans a couple of inches and pointed to my own scar. “Because I have one exactly like it.”

Laurel grinned. “We’re twins.”

I laughed with her and retook my seat. “Come on, let’s finish going through the songs.”

Laurel and I hunkered down and concentrated on the task while Bozeman kept us rolling down the road. The timing was good because we finished our task and I had just shut down the laptop when Bozeman pulled into the parking lot of a diner. I looked out the window and saw the four lanes of California Highway 1, and beyond that, sand that led into the waters of Monterey Bay.

“Is this the place?” I asked as Bozeman appeared from the front. “It’s a lot less fancy than I would have figured.”

Bozeman smiled at me. “It’s not the place. It’s where—”

A knock at the door interrupted Bozeman, and since he was the one closest to it, he opened it. I heard him express his greetings, then he stepped backward to let someone else aboard. The black man who stepped onto the bus was large enough to make the bus sway as he climbed the stairs. I guessed he was at least three times my weight, and from what I could tell, he was all muscle. Dark blue jeans obscured his legs, but based on the arms and torso definition beneath his T-shirt, I guessed he had a lot lower body fat percentage than I did. I think I could have played xylophone on his abs. Seeing the man would have been intimidating under different circumstances. However, the enormous smile on his face and the way he swept Bozeman into his giant arms for a bear hug told me all I needed to know about the man. 

“This is my old friend, Loren Mullen,” Bozeman said, once he escaped the clutches of his buddy. “Loren, this is Codi Cassidy, and Laurel Preston.”

Loren greeted us both with a hug, and I literally felt like a letter being stuffed into an envelope when he grabbed me.

“I’m honored to meet you both,” he said, the smile never leaving his face.

“You look like you lost weight, Loren. Have you been feeling okay?” Bozeman asked.

“Oh, come on now, Boze. Don’t tease me like that. You know it ain’t right.”

“Want to sit down?” I asked.

“No ma’am, I’m fine standing, and we’ll only be here for but a minute.”

I was grateful for the answer since I honestly didn’t know if we had a piece of furniture on board that would hold him.

“Where are we going?” Laurel asked.

The grin reappeared on Loren’s face. “For pie, of course.”

The way he said it made me think that going for pie was the only logical answer, but I was always up for pie, so I didn’t mind. Even though I still had a slice in the fridge to work through.

“If y’all are ready, you can follow me.”

Whether we were ready or not, Loren backtracked to the stairs and stepped back off the bus, rocking the boat as he did. Bozeman, who was ready, followed him right off. Laurel and I both took a minute to slip on our shoes, and Laurel grabbed a light jacket from the chair.

Loren crossed the parking lot with his long legs in what seemed like six strides, while I had to do triple-steps to keep up with him. To his credit, he waited at the door and held it open for the rest of us. Once inside, he guided us to the back corner to the largest booth in the place. The booth was in a shape of a U, and although two sides were the standard booths found in thousands of diners across the country. The third side was a wood pew that looked like someone had liberated from a church.

Loren took his place in the center of the pew, and the rest of us slid into the booths.

“You have your own seat at the table?” Bozeman asked.

Loren lifted an arm and waved his hand in the air.

“Seat at the table? I own this place.”

Bozeman shook his head. “No way. Sign out front says Lulu’s.”

Loren grinned. “Yes, it’s mine. I had to do something with my time and my money after my playing days were over. And Lulu is my mom. I named the place after her. After all, it’s her recipes I use for the pies.”

As if on cue, two servers appeared. One was carrying plates and silverware, the other had a large tray with a variety of pie slices on it. Once they spread the pies across the table, the server took drink orders, then disappeared.

“Dig in. There’s apple, cherry, French silk, pecan, peach, mixed berry, and Key lime. Or, if there’s something else you’d rather have, just say the word and I can make it happen.”

I didn’t want to offend Loren, so I reached out for the slice of French silk and at the same time Laurel went for the Key lime. I grabbed a spoon and dug in. The chocolate goodness exploded my taste buds. I thought for a moment that I’d die happy right then, and based on the moan coming from Laurel, the lime was just as wonderful.

“This is amazing,” I said between bites.

Loren leaned back and grinned. “Thank you. I’ll tell mama you liked them.”

Bozeman had polished off a slice of apple before I’d even made it partway through my slice, then pointed his fork at Loren. “You sell a lot of these? You must.”

Loren grinned even wider than he had before. “Enough to keep this entire business afloat. Besides the pies I sell here, I get special orders like mad. I have three delivery people on staff that do nothing but drive around all day transporting pies. I cover all over the region, including up to San Francisco.”

“That many pies? Every day?” Laurel asked.

“Yep,” Loren said with a look of pride on his face.

“Why go through the trouble of having a diner instead of just a bakery?” Bozeman asked.

“I make the pies off-site. The diner I keep open to please the locals and the travelers who whiz on by at fifty miles an hour. It also helps keep a bunch of people in town employed. I couldn’t close down the diner. These folks are my family, not just my employees.”

Laurel giggled and rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what the boss always says?” 

“Usually, but in this case, it’s true. Everyone makes more than a living wage and has a full benefits package, including health care and paid time off. There’s even a retirement plan match I do.”

Bozeman grinned in between bites, which made him look silly considering there was a small pecan attached to his chin. “I don’t even have one of those. Can I have a job here?”

It was Loren’s turn to grin, and he grinned widely, his white teeth looking like two rows of perfectly set tombstones.

“Sorry, man, I’m actually over-staffed at the moment. Besides, knowing you, you’d get bored out of your skull by the end of the first day.”

Bozeman shrugged, licked his fork clean, and pushed the plate aside. He didn’t say another word, just leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest, looking satisfied, like a cat just finishing a hearty meal.

Although I wanted to keep going, I didn’t want to embarrass myself by opening the top button on my jeans. I pushed my plate aside as well without bothering to lick the fork clean, even though I wanted to.

“Bozeman tells me we’ve got you to thank for the gig tomorrow,” I said. I took a drink of water, set the glass down, and wiped my mouth.

Loren looked at me, and although there was nothing aggressive about his gaze, it seemed like there was something he wanted to say.

“Yeah, that was me. When Mr. Harris’ secretary called to order desserts for the party, she let it slip that they were having problems booking entertainment. I knew Bozeman was in the business, so I simply connected the dots.”

“You’re providing the pie?” Laurel asked.

Loren leaned back in his seat, which creaked under his mass. “I’m also invited to the party, since I’m considered an upstanding member of the business community.”

“Well, we appreciate it. We’re always looking for gigs to play.” I smiled a genuine smile, and when he saw it, Loren’s face drooped a bit. He looked around to see if anyone was listening in, then leaned forward into his booth.

“Did you get paid?” he asked, his voice low.

At first, I didn’t understand what he was asking, but then it clicked.

“Forty percent upfront. Our standing booking fee,” I said, telling him the truth.

Loren nodded, then moved in even closer, and his voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Listen, I don’t want to tell you how to do your business, but make sure you get that other sixty percent before the show starts.”

“Why?” I asked.

“This doesn’t leave the diner. Hawthorne Harris has a bad habit of forgetting to pay his bills.”

“Isn’t he like a millionaire?” Bozeman asked.

Loren glanced in Bozeman’s direction. “Multi-millionaire is more like it. Unfortunately, he has that annoying problem that some rich people seem to have where he thinks because he’s rich, everything should be free for him. And even when people push him to pay, he still tries to cheat them out of what he owes them.”

“Then why do you do business with him?” Bozeman asked.

“Like I said, we’re part of the same small-town business community. Doesn’t look right if I don’t play along. Besides, the bakery has a pay-on-order policy, so I always get the money up front. You should take care to do the same.”

Loren’s attention strayed when an older gentleman approached the booth, took Loren’s massive hand in his frail one, and started making small talk.

I looked over at Bozeman. His eyes met mine, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing.