Free Radio Boys by Sean Michael

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
    Torquere Press Publishers
    P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770.
    Radio Boys Copyright © 2003 by Sean Michael
    Cover illustration by BSClay
    Published with permission
    ISBN: 978-1-61040-886-8
    www.torquerepress.com
    All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. LLC, P.O. Box 37, Waldo, AR 71770
    Second Torquere Press Printing: March 2015
    Printed in the USA
    Radio Boys
    By Sean Michael
    Chapter One
    They started out with Nat King Cole, sang a few Perry Como standards for dad, then moved on to Sinatra. Paul was relaxed, settled on his stool, Bill and the boys solid as granite behind him, never missing a beat.
    The slight smokiness of the bar, the heat of the lights, the smell of olives and gin and perfume -- Paul loved the Lucky Lady with a unique passion, from the worn velvet seats to the way Linda the bartender flirted with Dad. Two Saturday gigs a month for what... nine years now? Ten? And it still felt good.
    Their audience was older, Dad’s age and a little younger, but they applauded for them, liked them and, since they were always the first set, Paul could usually talk Dad into staying for the late set, to hear the bluesier and younger groups -- like tonight’s fucking stunning Billie Hollidayesque vocalist.
    He finished with “Send in the Clowns,” standing and bowing at the smattering of applause. “Thank you very much. I’m Paul Michael Stearn and this is Bill and the Beltons. We’ll be back again on the twenty-third. Have a good evening.”
    Then the heat of the lights faded and he turned, tilted his head, grinned. “Good set, as usual, Mr. Keuper.”
    A soft, worn towel was pressed into his hand. “Yeah, Sherlock, it wasn’t bad at all. You need a haircut though, you’re looking raggedy around the edges.” Bill’s voice was warm and rich and full of teasing. “You sticking around to hear the next set? I’m filling in for Kathy’s bass player. He’s in jail.”
    “No shit? Again?” Paul shook his head, mopping the sweat off his face. “Kid’s living a rock and roll life in a blues club band. Yeah, Dad and I are staying. You ready?”
    “Yep, c’mon.” With that, his hand was put on Bill’s corduroy clad elbow and he was led down to Dad’s table, fourth one over, third back.
    “Hey, we were good?” He settled easily, Bill greeting his dad quickly before disappearing. Probably going to neck with Kathy in the break room. Lucky bastard.
    “As always, son. You need to watch the tempo on ‘Fools Rush In’ and you might gargle tonight and rest your voice before you go on the air tomorrow night, you’re a little hoarse, but overall I was pleased.” A mug of hot tea was set near his fingers. “We’re staying for Kathy’s band?”
    He nodded. “If you don’t mind, yeah.”
    “Cool.”
    Paul grinned, settling back and pulling off his tie, popping the top few buttons of his shirt. “Yeah, Dad. Cool.”
    “Hey there.” The voice was that of a stranger, male, young. “Look I’m here by myself and wondering if I could join you if you two aren’t expecting anyone else?” He could hear the smile. “Your next round of tea’s on me.”
    Paul grinned and nodded. “Can’t deny a man willing to spring for the tea. Have a seat.”
    “Great, thanks.” The guy sat next to him on the bench, close enough they were touching at shoulders and hips. “Oh, I’m Thor. Thor Sorenson.”
    Warm. Thin, too. And he was a swimmer -- there was a hint of chlorine hidden under the Cool Water cologne.
    Paul held out a hand with a smile. “I’m Paul