Free Steel Guitar by Linda Barnes Page A

another silent block.
    â€œHow old is your daughter?” I asked, just to be saying something.
    â€œFifteen,” he answered with a sigh. “They all want to be rock stars at fifteen.”
    I considered my little sister, Paolina. Just turned eleven and entering the dangerous age. Would she want to be a rock star too?
    â€œSo you’re an old friend of Dee’s,” Hal said, still breathless but gamely keeping up his end of the conversation.
    â€œYou?” I asked in return. “You know her long?”
    â€œWell, I started with her as a roadie back in the seventies. Worked for her off and on since then. I’ve carried her guitar through fifty states and most of Europe. She’s always been square with me. Far as I’m concerned, creeps I’ve worked for, that qualifies her for sainthood.”
    â€œYou’re the road manager, right?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œWhat is it you do?”
    â€œEverything.”
    â€œYou got an office with a phone?”
    â€œYou want to call the cops?”
    â€œJust report my credit cards. Won’t take long.” All I have is my Harvard Coop card and Visa, and I wouldn’t have Visa if it weren’t for the rental car companies. Try to rent a car without a major credit card, and you’ve got yourself a hassle.
    Hal said, “The Performance Center lets me use a hole-in-the-wall for the week. It hasn’t got much, but it’s got a phone. Hey, could you walk a little slower, maybe?”
    â€œSorry,” I said. The guy couldn’t have been more than five-five, with a barrel chest and short legs that were going twice as fast as mine. “Dee wanted to see me during the break.”
    â€œYou play bass?” Hal said hopefully.
    â€œDo I look like a bass player?” I asked.
    â€œYou look like a lady who answers all my questions with questions.”
    â€œSorry,” I said, which was not a question, but not an answer either.
    â€œDee will want to see me too,” he said ruefully, after a brief pause. “She’ll want Brenda’s ass fried on a plate, and a fat slice of mine next to it. You’ll see.”
    â€œShe tough to work for?”
    â€œDee? Compared to most of the freaks in this business, no. And yeah, she’s a bitch to work for.”
    He led me up a narrow flight of steps, concealed from the lobby by draperies, into an office so small there was barely room for both of us, a desk, and a filing cabinet. I did my phoning, which took twice as long as it should have. He shuffled some small slips of paper into an open drawer, closed it, and pretended not to listen.
    â€œHow do I get backstage?” I asked.
    â€œDon’t interrupt if they’re playing, okay? I was kidding, you know, about wishing you were a bass player. This stuff with Brenda, it’s happened before. Believe me, they love each other like sisters.”
    â€œBackstage,” I said. “You’re gonna tell me how to get there.”
    â€œYeah.” He gave me some fairly complex directions. “And, listen, if you were my daughter, I’d add some advice.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œDon’t chase robbers. We’ve got a police force.”
    â€œI know,” I said. “Thanks for trying to help me out.”
    â€œWhat did I do?” he protested, his grin shining through.
    â€œThanks anyway. You’re up for the Good Samaritan of the Week award. And so far, there’s not much competition.”

Eleven
    I followed Hal’s directions through the lobby, back into the auditorium. Technicians were working onstage and Dee was nowhere in sight. I went through a draped doorway, up a steep short flight of stairs, and found myself surrounded by amplifiers and roadies. A hallway beckoned; I figured there had to be dressing rooms somewhere.
    I located Dee’s by the sound of her voice, opened the door after a cursory knock, and found her yelling at a tiny woman who