Join The Band
by Sean Monaghan

"Give me a minute," Toby Toby said pulling his Camaro up at the end of an alley. "I'm going to score so we can celebrate tomorrow."

I looked down the alley, some dumpsters and abandoned supermarket trolleys. "Don't do it Toby," I said. "It's nasty down there."

"Felix," he said. "Stage name. Toby Toby."

I shook my head as he got out of the car. He closed the door and looked back in. "I gotta maintain the image," he said.

"That doesn't have to include getting drugged up." Toby was the only one in the band who got high, but he was our energy, our light.

"Tomorrow is our big night. We're opening for-"

"I know how big tomorrow is-"

"Crimson Tat. They'll want us to get ripped with them." He turned and that was the last time I saw him alive. He was down the alley maybe three minutes before I heard a gunshot. When I looked I saw muzzleflash from the second shot. Then a big man thundered out of the alley, glanced back and followed the sidewalk around the corner.

I found Toby Toby prone, his blood draining into the old newspapers and rat faeces. He died in my arms.

After the cops and the clean-up, I drove Toby's car to find the others. Tomorrow's gig, our first in Vegas this year, was supposed to make our name, get us in front of booking agents and the record people. Opening for Crimson Tat at The Hard Rock Cafe. Opening at a big venue and our guitarist gets offed by his dealer's man.

"I know a guy," Jimmy told me. "Plays lapsteel."

I pressed my palms over my eyes. Toby was dead and Jimmy tells me he knows a guy. Our set is six originals. Twenty-five minutes. Toby Toby would leap around stage in a maniacal frenzy controlling the audience, exploding the show. Lapsteel couldn't compete. I looked at my watch. "We go on in nineteen hours."

"So?" Claire said.

"We can't be ready."

"Give him a chance," Jimmy said. "He's listened to our demo. What's to lose?"

So Jimmy phoned and we took the Camaro around. Our demo was playing through the monitors in the home studio and a pedalsteel was set up on a big complicated stand.

The studio was small but professional, with some nice Adam's monitors and a desk that looked like a retrofitted Soundcraft 32, with parts I couldn't identify. This guy was serious.

"Mike MacRuddy," Jimmy said, "This is Felix."

As Mike turned I saw that his left arm was shorn off at the shoulder and I understood the reason for the modified desk.

"Hi," I said, and shook his right hand. "Where's our guitarist?"

"That's me," Mike MacRuddy said.

A one-armed guitarist. I sighed. Why did I let Jimmy get my hopes up?

"It's okay," Mike said. "Let's see if I can do this one." He sat down at the pedalsteel and began playing along with the song. It was All The Bullets Bright, not our most complex song, but as he began I realised that the guitar stand included extra pedals and some computer hook-up. Those custom-built clamps pressed onto the strings to build chords. It was pretty tightly engineered. There was even a slider with a steel on it that he could move with his knee. The thing was, with the clamps, pedals and slider he was keeping up with Toby Toby on the CD. One-handed.

"Magic," Claire said.

Jimmy grinned at me. "Def Leppard." I remembered the old band with a one-armed drummer who had a customised kit. He could out-drum me.

"Okay," I said. "Let's give it a try."

Back at the hotel, we spent the night letting Mike work his way into our set. Really, though, it was us learning from him. He'd found a whole new way to make the guitar his own. It wasn't like any lapsteel I'd heard before. Sure, he could slide like a demon, but what he did with our songs defied belief.

"You made a pact with the devil?" I said to him on a break.

Mike smiled. "Just with myself."

Exhausted after all night making the new line up work, we still rocked the casino. Back in the dressing room we were pumped. A different band, edgy, exhilarating. Jimmy had launched himself and his bass around in a way I'd never seen and Claire had sung like an angel, crooning at Mike on his stool. Without even time to grieve for Toby Toby we'd seduced our audience.

We were tearing apart the remains of the rider when a big guy strode in. I remembered him from the alley.

"Toby Toby still owes us money."

"He's dead," I told him.

"Boss says you can pay it off. With band contracts his estate keeps earning. Especially now you're hitting the big time. We'll figure out a percentage."

I stared, dumbfounded.

"Or do I gotta start breaking fingers?"

"No need for that," Mike said, standing up. Mike was big, but beside the man he seemed tiny.

The big guy smiled and rubbed his hands together. "Your boy was into us for over ninety grand."

Mike stepped forward. "The debt died with him."

"You're not understanding me."

"I think it's time you left."

"Mike," I said.

The man shoved Mike. "Payments can begin right now."

Mike drew his arm back and smacked his fist into the centre of the big man's chest. It was so fast and sudden, and so balanced, that for a moment I wasn't sure it had happened at all.

But the man's face went blank and he crumpled. He shook for a moment, then fell still.

"Oh, boy," Claire said, going over. "Dead."

"I was done with brawling long ago," Mike said. He touched the vacant shoulder. "I didn't mean to bring any trouble."

"Cardiac arrest," Jimmy said.

"Yeah," Claire said. "I witnessed it. He just collapsed."

I looked at Mike, nodding. "I guess you'd better join the band."

BIO: Sean Monaghan wishes he could play a real musical instrument.  His stories have appeared in Horror Through The Ages, Bewildering Stories and PowderBurnFlash, amongst others.  More information at his website, www.venusvulture.com
copyright 2010