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“Are you sure we have the right place?” I asked as Bozeman pulled the bus up a driveway and stopped at a gated entry, rolled down his window, and pressed an intercom button.
Bozeman shot me a glance and pointed out the front windshield. I looked and noticed a giant letter H on the iron gate blocking our way.
The intercom let out a squelch of static, then came to life. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Bozeman turned his head to face the voice. “If this is the home of Hawthorne Harris, my name is Bozeman James. I’m here with Codi Cassidy, and we’re the entertainment for tonight.”
There was a pause and got no response for half a minute and the squelch returned. “Go ahead. Stop at the guard shack.”
Before the last syllable cleared the air, the gate clicked and slowly opened inward. Bozeman pulled ahead at a snail’s pace. Two hundred yards later, he stopped at the guard shack where a guard dressed like a U.S. Army commando stood in the center of the driveway, blocking the way. As we got closer, he held a hand up in front of him, like he was going to stop the bus with mental powers. The brakes squealed as we came to a halt, and Bozeman stuck his head through the window and said hello. The no-nonsense guard requested to come aboard, so Laurel unlocked the door and let him in.
“Can I see some identification, please?” the guard said without so much as a grunt of greeting.
Bozeman and I got up from the seats in the front and each of us headed off to our respective rooms for our wallets. Since we lived life on the bus, neither of us carried our wallets on our physical person unless we were going somewhere. Like anywhere we needed money or an ID, and even then, I often forgot mine. When I returned with my driver’s license, the guard was already scrutinizing Laurel’s passport. When he spotted me, I handed him the license, and he took it, compared me against the picture.
“Your hair is different,” he said.
He had me there. The photo of me he held in his left hand showed a prematurely graying woman in her mid-thirties. The real-life version of me standing in front of him was sporting a hair color of deep purple, almost raven colored. I hoped it would lighten as a little time passed.
In response to his non-question, I shrugged. “Women, am I right?”
He stared me down, then checked my name off a list on the clipboard he carried and handed the license back to me. By the time he finished that task, Bozeman had appeared and passed over his license. The guard looked at it for half a second, then found an issue with Bozeman’s credentials as well.
“The picture’s the same, but the name isn’t. Your license says your name is Jesse, not Bozeman.”
Bozeman gave him his signature grin. “Bozeman’s my stage name. I really don’t want to be known as Jesse James.”
The guard didn’t laugh, but checked Bozeman off the sheet and handed the license back. He pointed his pencil in Laurel’s direction. “You’re not on the list at all.”
Laurel opened her mouth to say something, but I held up my hand to stop her and jumped in instead. “Laurel’s only been with the band for a couple of weeks. It’s my fault. I should have called ahead and let you know she needed to be added to the list, but I didn’t do it.”
“What does she do?” the grumpy guard asked.
“I play the fiddle,” Laurel answered for herself.
The guard looked back at me. I shrugged. “She’s right. She plays the fiddle.”
The guard turned around and pulled a phone from his pocket. Although he pretended to be discreet, we could all hear him talking to someone about Laurel. After almost five full minutes, he clicked off and put the phone back where it came from.
“Okay, she’s good to go.” The guard copied her name from the passport to the clipboard, then passed the booklet back to Laurel. “Follow the road down to the left. It’ll curve around to the back of the property, and you can park the bus on the basketball court. The caterer’s van is already there, so pull in next to that.”
Bozeman returned to his place behind the steering wheel, and I got back into the passenger seat. Once we all strapped in, Bozeman put the bus in Drive, waved to the guard, and headed down the driveway. We traveled for a quarter mile before we climbed a hill, and once we crested that, the house finally came into view. House was actually an understatement, because it looked more like a hotel resort than a private residence.
As we descended the hill toward the main building, we saw a private golf course on our right. Beyond that, we saw the edge of an Olympic-sized, in-ground swimming pool. The main building was impressive, especially with the large Doric columns that lined the front entrance. But the view beyond the building, which included a drop into Monterey Bay, and the expanse of the Pacific Ocean beyond, was unbelievable. By my estimate, there were just under a million different shades of blues and greens underneath the whitecaps that gently lapped their way toward shore. As Bozeman dipped down the hill, we passed three giant oak trees that obscured my view of the ocean enough to snap my thoughts away. Then, before I realized it, Bozeman parked the bus next to a caterer’s truck that looked more like a high-end restaurant on wheels than the typical van I was used to seeing. When I stepped off my bus, I noticed a flurry of activity in the caterer’s truck. A third of the side opened up, like a food truck. Through the window I saw several people in chef’s whites busy at work while several other workers transported goods from the truck into the house.
“You’re the band?”
I turned around to look for the owner of the question and saw a man in a dark gray pinstriped suit standing before me with a clipboard.
“Howdy. Yes. We’re the band. I’m Codi Cassidy.” I stuck out my hand for a shake, and the man inspected it for a moment until he finally accepted it and gave me the shortest shake I’d ever received. He stood straight, shoulders back, heels together. He was six feet tall, wore his light brown hair high and tight.
“I’m Brantley Wilson. I’m Mr. Harris’ assistant. Please, follow me.” He spun in place without another word, and then, with military precision, walked off toward the main house.
I followed, double-time, in order to keep up with him, and Bozeman and Laurel fell into step beside me. We entered the house through a double door that led from the basketball court into a home gym that was larger than most apartments I’d lived in. Past the gym, we walked down a long corridor past several closed doors, and finally, Brantley led us into the first ballroom I’d ever seen inside of a house. The center of a ballroom featured a long table at which a man in a black suit and white gloves was busy setting a service for twelve. At the room’s far end was a riser, which was where I assumed we’d be setting up. Sure enough, Brantley led us to the riser.
“You’ll be here. I assume this space will be large enough?” he asked.
Bozeman stepped up onto the riser and did a quick loop around the area. I knew from experience that he was stepping off the space and also looking to make sure there were ample places to plug in our equipment. He stopped in the center of the riser, looked over at the rest of us, and smiled.
“This’ll do fine,” Bozeman said.
“Good, good. I’m glad you approve. I’m Hawthorne Harris.” The voice boomed through the room, and when the group turned, they saw a short, portly man striding toward them. He wore a dark blue jogging suit that appeared to be more everyday wear for the man rather than athletic apparel.
“I’m Codi,” I said, as I stepped forward and met the man halfway. He took my hand in his meaty paw and gave it a single shake before releasing it. His palm was moist, and when he let me go, I had to resist the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans while he was watching me.
“I assumed so. Are they the rest of the band?” he asked without looking at them, but rather just tipping his head in their general direction.
“Bozeman James and Laurel Preston. Two of the finest working musicians on the road today,” I answered.
He smiled. “I’m looking forward to your performance. You come highly recommended. You need anything, you tell Brantley, and he’ll take care of it.” He turned to leave.
“Sir, excuse me, before you go.”
Harris stopped and hesitated, and I could tell at that moment he wasn’t used to people calling for his attention. To my surprise, he turned to face me rather than just walking away, even though the smile that stretched across his pudgy cheeks looked fake.
“Yes?” he asked.
“There’s a matter of the band’s fee. I hate to mention it now, but it’s our policy to be paid on arrival. I’m sure you read it in the contract?”
Harris hesitated. “Sure, yes. Remind me the amount due?”
I told him, and to his credit, he didn’t flinch when I gave him the number.
“Would cash be okay?” he asked.
“Sure. That would work,” I said in a tone that suggested handling American greenbacks would be beneath me.
Harris fished a phone from his pocket and sent a text. “No problem. Jackie will be here in a couple of minutes with the money. Anything else?”
I didn’t answer in the few seconds he allotted me, so he turned away and headed toward the door. He paused briefly, waved without looking back, then disappeared.
“Interesting man,” I said.
“Mmm,” Brantley answered.
The cell phone clipped into a case on his belt dinged, and he checked the message before returning his attention to me.
“I need to go. Please be set up by four. The caterer will make sure you’re fed tonight and be ready to play at seven-thirty. Any questions?”
I didn’t have any, so I shook my head.
“If you need anything, I’ll be around somewhere.” Like his boss, Brantley left the room.
“Friendly people,” Laurel said, although I could hear a twinge of sarcasm in her voice.
“Can’t always get the genuine fans when we do gigs like this. Hey, at least it’s a nice place, right?” I said.
“That’s true. I’m going to help Bozeman with the gear,” Laurel said.
“I’ll wait here for whoever Jackie is, and then I’ll be there,” I promised.
Unencumbered by activity, I stood where I was and watched the man setting the table. Even from where I was, I could tell it was a fancy affair based on the way the silverware shined. Another man joined the first and paid particular attention to any spots on the glassware before he set it on the table. In a way, I was glad I didn’t get invited to dinner since not only did small talk before a show leave me feeling off my game, but also, I never learned which forks, spoons, and knives to use at the fancy feast. Give me a good old-fashioned barbecue picnic any day of the week. I much preferred the joy of eating corn off the cob rather than snails out of their shell.
A woman entered the room, and at first, I assumed she was Jackie, but then I noticed she dressed the same as the men at the table. They looked up from their work as she approached and greeted her warmly, and she folded the napkins into fancy shapes and set them atop each plate.
Another woman glided into the room, and I could tell this one wasn’t part of the hired help. She was five-seven, just over a hundred pounds, and had a pair of designer sunglasses on top of her perfectly quaffed platinum blond hair. Her eyes were blue, as was the over-application of eye shadow, as were the tennis shorts she wore. Her teeth were the same white shade as her shirt, and her arms and legs were so tan it made me question her genealogical background. To her credit, as soon as she spotted me, a wide, genuine grin crossed her face, and she made a quick beeline to me.
“Codi Cassidy as I live and breathe! I’m Jackie May, and I’m so happy to make your acquaintance.”
I extended my hand for a shake, but before I could even blink, she had wrapped both her arms around me in a hug that I doubted I could escape from on my own. Finally, I exhaled, and somehow, she drew me in closer.
“I’m such a big fan,” she said when she finally released me.
“Thank you. It’s always nice to meet a fan.”
“When Hawth said he’d booked you for tonight, I got so excited. I listened to your CD over and over again. Are you going to play the whole thing for us?”
“About half,” I answered. “My partner will play some of his songs too, and, of course, we’ll play a bunch of covers. You have us booked for over three hours. That’s a lot of time to fill.”
“It sounds like it. I’ve been to lots of concerts where bands play for over three hours.”
“Probably, but there were probably other bands on the bill too, right? Hardly anyone plays alone for three hours, unless it’s the Boss. Don’t worry. We’ll give you a good show tonight. And if you have any requests, simply get my attention, and I’ll see if we can work it onto the set list.”
Jackie’s grin got even wider. “Really? You’ll do that for me?”
“Yep. Sure will.”
I smiled, although I wasn’t offering anything special to her. We took requests at all our shows, and usually we honored them since they were often the same requests from venue to venue. They were usually the classics by Willie, Dolly, Reba, Garth, and other mainstream country artists. Some requests would often venture into classic rock selections as well. Of course, there was always the one smart guy who would request Free Bird, which we more often than not honored. That one was always a showstopper.
“Oh, silly me, I forgot about your money,” Jackie said as she slapped her palm against her head. “Hawth says I’d forget my own brain if God didn’t cage it in my head.”
“That’s not a nice thing for your boss to say,” I answered.
Jackie let loose with a laugh that was half hysterical and half donkey bray. She kept at it until she got a stitch in her stomach and had to stop and bend over to catch her breath.
“What did I say?” I asked.
Jackie straightened up and inhaled. “Oh, sugar, Hawth isn’t my boss, he’s my fiancé.”
That one took me by surprise. I felt my cheeks redden in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. You see, I thought...”
“The same thing most people think when they see us together. It’s okay. I’m used to it. And now you’re probably thinking what someone like me would see in someone like him, other than the obvious big bank account, right?”
I didn’t say anything, but I’m pretty sure my facial reaction gave it away. “No, that’s not what I was thinking at all.”
Jackie’s grin returned. “You’re the cutest little liar I’ve ever seen. I may be a blond, but I’m not an idiot. I know what people say about me, especially behind my back. Sure, I get I don’t look like I would belong with someone like Hawth, but believe me, if you knew him like I know him, you’d fall madly in love with him, too.”
I doubted it, since he was far beyond what I considered as my type, but I nodded and smiled, anyway.
“You’re right. You can’t really know about falling in love until you really get to know someone. I should have remembered that, since I’ve written about two dozen songs about it.”
“Exactly. Now, about your fee for tonight.” Jackie reached around to her back, and when her hand came back into view, there was an envelope in it, like a magician making an elephant appear from thin air. She held it out, and I hesitated for a second, then took it and went to shove it into my back pocket.
“Aren’t you going to count it?” Jackie asked as her brow furrowed and for the first time, a frown appeared.
“I trust you. I don’t need to.”
Her shoulders slumped, and although it didn’t seem possible, her frown deepened. I got the message, retrieved the envelope, opened it, and pulled out the stack of hundreds. In a dramatic display, I fanned through them, pretending I was counting, then felt something was off. I put the stack back together and paid closer attention when I actually did count them off the second time until I discovered there was indeed an error.
“Wait, there’s a mistake here. There’s twice as much as there should be.” I went through the pile a third time, took from the top what the contract said they owed me, then held out the rest of the bills.
The grin returned to Jackie’s mouth, and her eyes brightened again. “Gotcha!” She waved both hands in front of her. “I’m not taking that back. It’s yours.”
“It’s too much. I can’t take this.”
Jackie looked offended. “Let me ask you this. Do you ever take tips? Or put out a hat or open your guitar case for passersby to toss pocket change into?”
I wondered if she realized that I was well past the point of my career where I had to play on random street corners, but I let it go.
“Rarely, and never when we have contracted gigs such as this,” I said.
“What about T-shirts? Do you ever sell stuff like I’ve seen at other concerts? T-shirts and hats and stickers and whatever else?”
She had me there. “Yes. That we do. Except in cases like this. There’s a difference between playing a private party, which we don’t sell merch at, and playing a county fair where we do.”
“Well, I’ll make you a deal. You give me a T-shirt, autographed, and you consider that money payment for both. Come on. You’re not going to win this argument. No one ever denies me of what I want.”
I wanted to argue, and give the extra money back, but then I spotted Bozeman and Laurel lugging gear and I needed to jump in and help them. Besides, with the extra money, I knew we could afford to skip out on a gig or two if we wanted to.
“All right. You win. What size shirt do you want?”
