Free In the Dead of Night by Aiden James Page B

building.
    “Yes.”
    I heard the echo of his voice and footsteps moving down the darkened corridor to our room, picturing his shoulder length wavy brown hair bouncing as his long strides carried him forward. Gangly in stature, he possesses the classic rocker look, with chiseled Jim Morrison facial features. I’m not the only one who thinks he resembles the legendary Door’s front man, and I must say he takes full advantage of his looks and innate charm, charisma, or whatever the hell it is that keeps a steady stream of females coming and going in his life. It’s the only area where we’re polar opposites, since I’ve always been a monogamous kind of guy.
    There are other differences, too, but very slight, since we’ve blended a bit over the years. I guess some folks would call that mutual respect, as with our favorite sports teams and such. Like I’ve acquired a taste for the Falcons and he keeps tabs on the Broncos. Even my interest in the paranormal has gradually become interesting to him as well. Now if I could just get the other dudes to buy in to ghostly investigations…. It’s my assumption that they all respect Fiona’s talent as a gifted psychic, since she’s done at least one reading for each member of the band.
    If they’re telling me the truth, and I have little reason to doubt them on this, she’s been quite accurate. Hell, everyone except our drummer has had her read for them a few times, and they’ve referred her to family members and friends, which speaks to some customer satisfaction. My daytime employer should be so lucky.
    Anyway, by the time I reached our rehearsal room, Ricky had already claimed his Strat and climbed onto the stage. Everyone else gathered their instruments, and Max Racine, our lead guitarist, pointed meanly for me to take my place next to our drummer, David Harris, who prefers the name “Mongo” .
    I removed my five-string fretless from its case and leaped up on stage to join everyone else, hoping I’m as graceful at our upcoming gig, set for the weekend after next. A party affair, but one of the larger garden varieties, we’d been given the ‘heads-up’ from our manager, Michael Dickinson, that a few A&R folks (label people for those unfamiliar) would be in attendance. At a frigging party, no less. But that can happen when the invitees have deep connections via the industry here in Music City to their kin in New York and L.A. Or so I’m told.
    “We’re gonna start with ‘Primetime’ and move on to ‘Natural Religion’, ‘Mary’s Candy’, and ‘Little Miss Walker’,” Max advised, his blonde Mohawk shimmering in a strange mix of blue-green hues from a pair of colored spotlights just above his head. A slim cigar balanced precariously between his thin lips, he regarded me like I’d just grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead. Perpetual contempt for the married guy in the band.
    He’s always reminded me of what Rod Stewart would’ve looked like if he were part of Billy Idol’s band. The most surly and eccentric rocker among us.
    “Any particular reason we’re moving through this arrangement of our tunes?”
    I admit to a little smugness here, since I co-wrote three of the songs, and the other was completely written by me a few years back. Actually, all of Quagmire’s tunes are creations of Ricky and me, with a few newer ones that Max has contributed to. Mongo prefers credit on arrangements, since actual songwriting is not his forte.
    Mongo’s the one guy that Michael wasn’t keen on at first, in terms of image. Balding with non-descript eyewear and plain facial features, he sort of resembles a thumb with a bandana. Mongo could blend easily into any crowd, never to be noticed or missed. But the guy can’t be topped as far as laying a syncopated beat and creating a powerful groove. Really, his work has inspired us all to get better. So, in effect it’s like this: no Mongo equals a lesser product and no promising record deals.
    “I think the