What You Wish For

By Aaron S Gallagher

Frank Wilmott is a musician in Philadelphia in the 60's, eager to earn his way in the world with his knowledge, talent, and skill.

 

Jan Walker is a bass player, and when she and Frank begin to play together, it seems like a match made in rock and roll heaven. Torn between his loyalty to his family and the undeniable call of the music he loves, Frank is forced to make a choice- keep what he has and count himself lucky, or make a grab for the once-in-a-lifetime chance to have everything he never knew he really wanted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indies United Publishing House, LLC
• Release date: Nov 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781644563922

Book preview

What You Wish For ©2015 by Aaron S Gallagher. All Rights Reserved.

Second Edition  November 2021

Published by Indies United Publishing House, LLC

All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher or the terms relayed to you herein. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover designed by Aaron S Gallagher

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Visit my website at www.aaronsgallagher.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN: 978-1-64456- [Paperback]

ISBN: 978-1-64456- [Mobi]

ISBN: 978-1-64456- [ePub]

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021948432

www.indiesunited.net

Dedication

To Jennie Rosenblum, who took a chance on this book.

And to The Band

If you know, you know. If you don’t, well, then, you don’t.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Book I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Book II

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Book III

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Copyright © 2015 by Aaron S Gallagher

Also by the Author

Book I

February 1965

Chapter One

Big Bill Broonzy - Blues - 8/15/1958

Memories of you fade from my mind

The slow sweet smile begins as

I came upon you from behind

Standing at the edge of Chorus Bridge

Always the same and yet brand new

We started out with a smile as

We began every single thing we’d do

Standing in the middle of Chorus Bridge

Holding you for just one day

Not wanting to let you go as

I can see you fading away

At the far end of Chorus Bridge

It ends too soon, our sweet song

That single note fades away as

I stand there watching you

Walk away from Chorus Bridge

Chapter Two

Son Sims - Blues - 12/23/1958

For years after, everyone talked about the last time Richie Stillwater played in Lannigan’s.

The house band nailed the tone like a bulls-eye. Despite the bitter weather of February, the temperature in the small club topped ninety as everyone moved, danced, and sweated. The blues poured hard off the stage. The guitar wailed like a cat in heat, the kick drum felt like a punch in the gut. Richie’s bass guitar felt like the voice of God reverberating almost below the range of hearing; something felt more than heard.

Stillwater hadn’t even come to play that night. He only came to Lannigan’s looking for a fix. His regular guy got six months for trying to sell to a cop. That didn’t matter to Stillwater except that he didn’t have a backup dealer. Lannigan’s could usually be found full of record-company types, jazz players, and good-timers so he knew that he would find what he needed.

He was thirty and had been a fixture in Lannigan’s for going on fifteen years. He started hanging out in the bar in high school, listening to the bands that he never seemed to find on the radio or in the record stores. Players with no names would get up every night and go for hours, getting drunker and drunker, or higher and higher. The air would be thick with smoke of several sorts and the noise would be like a religious revival. The music was at the same time old and yet all new. Elvis invented rock and roll and it had grown from there. The roots were there for anyone to see. Jazz, blues, funk, folk, rock. He gave it a name and dragged it into the light, but it didn’t matter. It sometimes seemed like everyone played. Anyone played. Anyone who played, played at Lannigan’s. Everyone who played, played at Lannigan’s.

Richie Stillwater picked up his first guitar in fifth grade. He learned to play decently but soon switched to bass because he liked the longer neck and low end sound. Within two years he lugged a black fretless bass of uncertain pedigree with him wherever he could, along with a small amplifier that he would set up and play through for hours either out loud on the streets or in his room. He began playing along with the radio but picked up the skills quickly that allowed him to start freestyling. His grades dipped lower and lower as he spent more time playing. His parents argued and cajoled and managed to keep him in school for a while. At sixteen, Stillwater began to sneak out of his house nightly to prowl the bars in South Philly looking for good places to hear music. He found Lannigan’s Pub, a run-down squat building standing alone between two empty lots, and knew he was home.

Lannigan’s Pub showcased local talent during the week. Richie became a regular. He’d sneak out at 11 after his parents were asleep and walk down past the El towers and into the bad side of the worst part of town. Lannigan’s existed in the no-man’s-land of the thin strip of land between bad and worse. It didn’t matter that he sometimes didn’t get there till 12. The music didn’t really start to kick up its heels until then anyhow.

One night on a lark he brought his guitar. Sitting in a wooden chair two feet from the lip of the stage he watched the players pouring their hearts out, his fingers unconsciously picking along. The bass player for that night noticed the skinny kid twitching in time to the music, bird-dogged the guitar in a cheap pressboard case beside him, and at the set break sauntered over and picked it up.

Richie didn’t say anything. The player opened the case, looked at the guitar, and looked at Richie.

Y’all play this axe, bo? the man asked in a southern-fried voice rough from cigarettes and screaming.

Richie grinned. Yeah, I play.

With a smirk the bass player grabbed his amp chord, plugged it into Stillwater’s guitar and wrenched the volume knobs up to full. The feedback startled the band, who were busy taking a drink-and-toke break. The bassist, a circuit player named Greeves, handed Richie his guitar and said over his shoulder in a loud voice, Hey, guys. Let him play.

He gestured to the miniscule stage and shoved Richie up. He sat in Richie’s chair, drained the glass of Iron City beer Richie had left, and waited for the show with a snide look on his face.

Richie looked out at the crowd, whose temper at the best of times was short, and swallowed hard. He looked at the band, at angry dark faces. Angry, but not impatient. Richie never thought much about skin color, but he knew other people did. Most of the crowd at Lannigan’s that night, and most nights, was black. While Richie had never had a problem, he had also never been so intrusive or obvious before.

He said in a low voice, Uh… can I get a beat? It’s a blues riff in B.

The band all grinned at him at once, startlingly white smiles against the dark skin. Then he sealed his fate, because it was Richie Stillwater’s nature to push it.

And try to keep up, huh?

The kick drum pounded so loudly that at first Richie thought someone had taken a shot at him. But it happened again and again. Then the lead guitar came in, clear and sweet, with a high riff that just about tore the top off Richie’s head. The sax player started in and then Richie pounded the crap out of his hand, jumping on the beat before it could fly by him. His eyes closed as his hands began to hammer out an intricate rhythm.

Richie had started playing bass plucking. He’d never used a pick. He liked the feel of his hands on the strings. He soon discovered the rare joys of slap, which changed the voice and style of the instrument completely. The bounce and hop of the rhythm spoke to him. It felt to him like his heartbeat came out of the amp if he played just right.

He just let himself float along, always a half-step in front of the guitar. His bass line bounced along the room like a rubber ball and the last thing Richie heard before he fell into the music was Greeves’ exclamation. "Boy can play."

And that was that.

Richie dropped out of school shortly after and began playing at Lannigan’s every second he could. The owner, Allan Lannigan, got tired of Richie hanging around the stage every night waiting for an opportunity to play. In a burst of inspiration, he decided to build a house band. It was one thing to let anyone who could play have the stage, but on more than one occasion the acts had fallen through, or the players were dreadful, and he had to close down the stage. He lost half his revenue for the night.

Lannigan knew his eye for talent was lacking, but he thought he could start a moneymaker showcasing the kid. He offered Richie the spot. The house band consisted mostly of a forgettable collection of local players. They played covers and show tunes, lively enough, but mostly filler. The traveling bands were what people wanted to see. Although he sat out most of the gigs at first when a band came through, enough of the road players came in early to hear the house band and size up the crowds that Richie started getting a reputation as a player. They let him sit in, tentatively at first, but soon he was being asked to sit in with the travelers.

One of these many nameless bands, passing through but showcasing all weekend at Lannigan’s, took Richie on a whirlwind tour through the bars and honkytonks of the darker parts of Philly. Places Richie had never even heard of. They took turns getting him drunk, which he was used to, stoned, which he was acquiring a taste for, and finally introducing him to the needle.

His first taste of heroin wasn’t anything to write home about. Just a few grains, really, and stepped on enough times to make it almost milk. But it hit like an explosion behind Richie’s eyes and he was solidly hooked.

Heroin was a killer. Always had been. Musicians, actors, writers, dock workers, bums… no one was immune, no matter how good they were, or rich they were, or famous they were. He vowed that it wouldn’t happen to him. He set elaborate rules for his personal use and stuck to them rigidly.

Soon he had a reputation as a functioning addict as well as a great bass player. He picked up a few connections in town and was soon being courted by a dozen people a night all asking if he had any to sell, just a little, just a taste.

He managed to keep such people away from him by claiming not to be holding either and mostly he told the truth. He bought sparingly and only enough to get by. He kept a small balloon behind the backplate on his guitar. That balloon, filled with twenty dollars of premium-grade, turned out to be his ticket into the rarified circle of professional players.

One night after playing a set with a forgettable road band, Richie went to the bar for a shot and a beer. While he leaned there sweating through his silk shirt, a weasel-looking short guy with the world’s thinnest pencil moustache came up to him. I hear you’re a guy I can see about a horse, he said in a thick Scouse brogue.

Is that so? Richie asked. He knocked back a shot of cheap whiskey and sipped the beer with a wince and shudder.

That’s so.

Well, ‘they’, whoever they are, were wrong. No idea what you’re talking about. Excuse me.

The weasel nodded amiably. Copper, yeah?

Richie frowned at him. What?

You think I’m a copper, I’m out to do you for it. The weasel nodded his head in time to a beat only he could hear.

Uh, sure. Right. Whatever you say.

Listen, mate, you want to go see a show?

Richie eyed him. I… don’t even know what you’re talking about. I’ve got another set in like five. Nice talking to you. He turned to leave, but the weasel grabbed his arm.

Look, mate, he said. You know who I am?

Couldn’t tell you, Richie said. Nor could I care less.

The weasel said, Dolby. Dolby Kinter. Nice to meet you.

Richie stopped in his tracks. Dolby Kinter, manager for the Spots. Richie had all three of their records.

Are you shitting me?

Kinter laughed. "Not even, old son. Now, right now, I have a studio rigged to blow. I have Manfred Thomas ready to lay down some tracks. He wants to record tonight. He sent me for a taste. He can’t play without a taste. And lo, I find not only what he needs, but what I need. All in one package."

Look man, you a fag?

Kinter looked blank. He laughed. I getcha. I getcha. No, son. Not even. But what I am is short a player. Graham Knox passed out, back around 9. So I’m in dire need of a bass player, yeah? And also a taste of the sweet for Manny. So what do you say? Am I barking up the wrong tree, mate?

Barking- Richie gaped. "Are you asking me to play? You want me to play with the Spots?"

I’ve been kicking back, waiting for you to get off that stage for an hour, Kinter said. All I needed was some product for Manny. But I’ve been watching you play, mate. You’re good. We’re putting a couple tracks down tonight. Graham passed out. His loss. Business marches on. I need a ringer. I need some H. You’re both. So what do you say, old son? Are you up for this?

Some decisions should be pondered and considered carefully, and taken in their own time. Some don’t take that long.

Allan! Richie called to the manager, behind the bar serving drinks. I’m out. Sorry.

What the hell, Stillwater! Get your ass up-

Allan Lannigan knew everyone important that came into his place because he’d been booking musicians for years. He knew the managers, and he knew the producers, and he knew the players. He saw Richie with an arm around Kinter’s shoulders and skidded to a halt. He knew why people came to Lannigan’s and it wasn’t for the beer and the décor. It was good to keep what he considered the talent happy.

Kick their ass, kid! he yelled.

Richie stopped only long enough to grab his guitar and he was gone.

Chapter Three

Buddy Holly - Rock - 2/3/1959

The Spots, a rhythm and blues band out of Mississippi, waited at the studio exactly as Kinter promised. The Spots had taken a break from their whirlwind tour of Jersey, Pennsylvania, and parts of Kentucky to record their fourth album. Manfred Thomas, all two hundred sixty pounds of him, stalked back and forth in the studio like a caged animal with his golden sax hanging from the strap around his neck, bouncing off his prodigious belly. Sweat gleamed on his dark skin as he paced. Digger Brahm, the drummer, lay face down over his stool, slowly spinning on his belly. His hair hung over his face and swayed like a curtain in the breeze. Alfred Catt, affectionately known as Alley, sat in the corner sullenly picked bluegrass notes out on an old abandoned acoustic Hohner that looked like it had been left out in the rain. It sounded like a dream, though, and Alley had decided it was his by squatter’s rights.

Manfred looked up at the sound of the booth door opening.

Well? Well? Fuckin Kinter. What’d you find, you pale little fuck?

Kinter said soothingly, Relax, Manny. I got what you need. When do I not?

Manfred looked Richie up and down. What’s with white bread here?

Richie laughed. Manfred’s face thundered over.

Problem, white boy?

Nope, Richie said. I just think that it’s an honor to be insulted by someone whose playing I admire. I think it’s funny.

The comment caught Manny just right and he laughed. You seem like an okay cat, he said. What do you do?

I lay down bass, Richie agreed, and lines, too.

Manny looked interested now. You holding?

Richie reached into his pocket and pulled out the balloon.

My own private stock, he said. Manny reached for it. Richie pulled it away.

Man, I’m going to warm you. This is fifty percent, Richie said. Most street dope got cut eight ways to Sunday, with everything from powdered milk to rat poison to baby laxative. Richie had bought a hundred dollars pure. The purity ensured his buys were small, so he wouldn’t be tempted. He cut it himself using his personal favorite additive, malt powder. He thought it gave the high a weird aftertaste.

Fifty? Manny looked stunned. You a dealer?

Nope, Richie said. I’m a connoisseur.

Kinter reached back under the console and pulled out Manny’s works: needle, spoon, rubber strap. Manny hungrily stared at his tools. Richie thought abstractedly that here was a man with no rules. It wouldn’t end pretty.

How much, man? Manfred said. My man Kinter’ll hook you up.

Richie made a fist around the balloon.

Are you trying to fucking insult me, you asshole? Richie snarled. Manny and Kinter both gaped at him.

I… what? Manny stammered. His face clouded over. Kinter looked worriedly from one to the other.

Richie said, This is a gift, man. I’m offering to share. Fucking money. Fuck you.

Manny cracked up and Kinter looked starkly relieved.

You’re all right, man, Manfred said. He looked at the bass. You play that thing? Really play?

Yeah, Richie said. I play.

Manny looked down at the prostrate Graham Knox. He kicked Graham in the ribs. The man groaned and rolled over, clutching an empty rye bottle.

Welcome to the Spots, man, Thomas said. He stuck out a huge hand. Richie grabbed it and wrung it. Richie poured a small amount onto the mirror Kinter handed him. He divvied up a small portion of the powder, a miniscule amount for each of them.

What, you a lightweight? Digger asked from the drum stool. He watched them carefully. He didn’t use but he was the group’s babysitter and liked to be around whenever they took anything. He hated dealing with people, he often said, but he could deal with whatever they put in their bodies. He knew the personality of a hundred drugs.

No, man. Rule One. Never use more than you need. I don’t need to blast off, just get my wheels rolling, Richie said.

Manny snorted. Rules. Cook that shit, man.

Richie didn’t argue, he merely prepped the fix. He used the edge of a long fingernail to scrape the grains into the bowl of the spoon. Holding a match under Manny’s spoon, he watched the powder liquefy. He took the needle and drew the plunger back, watching the liquid slowly fill up the syringe.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Richie said.

Manny took the needle. "Warn me. Shit."

Richie shrugged and opened his own works and prepped his own fix. He never shared his tools. He couldn’t stand the idea of sharing anyone else’s works. His own fix was much smaller. He didn’t want to blow his chance of running with the big boys by nodding off at the wrong moment. He needed to see the headlights, not smash into the windshield.

He slowly pushed his spike home. He closed his eyes, let the rubber tube snap off, and waited for the slow rush. He felt it like a wave of warm water, lapping from the base of his skull around the front, covering his face and spreading down his chest to envelop his body.

He opened his eyes to see Manny crying, tears spilling down his cheeks. Kinter, alarmed, grabbed the big man. Manny? Manny? What’s wrong, big guy?

Manny elbowed Kinter out of the way. You’re beautiful, Manny said to Richie. He grabbed Richie by the cheeks and kissed him.

Richie laughed it off. Manny swayed in time to the beat of his own heart. Digger looked interested, like he was ready to go. He sat down at the drums and picked up his sticks. Alley and Richie picked up their instruments. Kinter tossed a jack to Richie, who plugged in and tuned. Then he started running scales to limber his fingers. The sound seemed to emulate from the air itself, and he could see it pulsing. Manny rocked on his heels.

Kinter called from inside the booth over the intercom. Manny, you ready to put something down?

Too right, Manny said, and spit out his reed. He assembled the mouthpiece of his King Super 20 alto. He adjusted the neck, clicked his valves and said, Give me a beat, Digger.

Digger started him off slow, with a couple of snare rolls, and jumped into a freeform jazz beat.

And Manfred Thomas started blowing sax.

Richie stood transfixed. An alto sax is a fearsome noise in close proximity, raw and primal and urgent. An acknowledged up-and-coming master of the instrument, Manfred had twenty years behind him, and the casual way with which he could raise his voice scared some players right into the background.

Suddenly behind that angelic horn, a rough and tumble roadhouse guitar started. Richie looked over and saw that Alley was lying on his back, his fucking back, on the floor and playing a Fender Jazzmaster like the thing was attacking him. It looked like he picked a fistfight with the instrument, but at least he was winning.

Digger watched Richie with curiosity while he drummed. Alley stared into nothing. Manny seemed deeply into his own little world where nothing mattered, and he prayed to Orpheus using the voice of the instrument that now seemed to be a part of him.

Through the glass wall Kinter rolled his hand at him as if to say, You’re walking with giants now. Prove you can keep up.

Richie took a deep breath and reached for the tempo. He began to slap the strings, giving the line a huge bombastic pounding feel, almost reggae, almost island, almost… almost rock. Almost jazz. Almost everything. Funk. Soul. Heaven.

He began to play.

Chapter Four

Richie Valens - Rock - 2/3/1959

After the session with the Spots, Kinter passed Richie’s name around to a couple of other producers in town. Richie became the go-to bass for session work in Philly. Everyone wanted him to play. His reputation as a steady player spread through the grapevine. Soon he started turning session work down because he was in such demand. He was sought after for bands both established and up-and-coming, but he refused to leave Lannigan’s Pub. He played there night after night, and the who’s who of the music set knew where to find him when they wanted to cut a record. Money never appealed to Richie. He liked to play with people who were serious and he didn’t need the money, so he worked mostly for session wages which made him hugely popular with producers and managers.

He played with a laundry list of real players through his years, from rock stars to jazz stars to hillbilly country boys to bluegrass bands to polka outfits. James Brown wouldn’t work in Philly without Richie backing his band in the studio or on stage. Local jazz artists sought him out. It was Philly, after all. Home of John Coltrane. Sun Ra. The Heath brothers. The list was endless and that was just the jazz scene. There were blues players, rock players, composers, orchestras… the music culture in Philadelphia nurtured dozens of excellent innovators and players in every aspect of music.

He recorded on dozens of records that would outlive him. He loved every second of it. Richie never did move out of his fourth floor walk-up. He lived in a ninety dollar a month slum for his entire life. He owned almost nothing except clothes and his guitar. He dumped most of his money into Lannigan’s. He put in better equipment, a safer stage. He mostly took his thanks from Allan Lannigan in free drinks.

July of 1963 scorched the town. Everywhere, people’s windows and doors stood open. Sweat stains marred even the nicest of clothes. Even at midnight Lannigan’s pub was a sauna. Women fanned themselves; men tried to drink themselves cooler.

While playing around with the house band he looked over to the little wooden chair in the corner where he once sat waiting patiently for a chance to play. Déjà vu washed through him like a cold wave. A man sat there watching him intently. Richie could be looking at himself, a decade earlier. The man had a guitar case with him and he sat watching the band hungrily. Richie smiled. Really good players helped one another out. He had gotten his break from a curious musician and now he was looking down the other end of the stick.

Between sets, he sauntered over.

Richie corrected his impression. Man? He was a teenager, maybe. If he was twenty, Richie would eat the guitar he had with him. He wore a close-cut black suit, stylish but formal. At just five and a half feet, he wasn’t tall. His brown hair was cut so short that it stuck up from his head. His eyes were brown as his hair. He looked like… Richie pondered. He looked like one of the band photos on the early records coming out of the English rock wave in the early sixties. Tight, close suits, short haircuts, serious faces. Skinny kids with spots on their faces, guitars in their hands, and murder in their eyes. You looked at the photos and thought, these kids couldn’t be but sixteen or seventeen. And you put the records on, and the music… man the music… The kid looked exactly like that. Like a Yardbird. Like a Beatle. Like a Stone. Like a Bluesbreaker. Like a Kink. Like a serious player.

By his feet the guitar case sat like a patient, watchful dog.

Richie leaned down in a gesture echoed from his past, and picked up the kid’s beer. He drained it. The kid just watched him.

Whatcha doing, kid? he asked.

Watching, the kid replied. Waiting.

You a player? Richie asked.

Yeah, the kid said. I play.

What’s with the get-up? Richie asked, gesturing the kid’s outfit. The kid looked down, and back up at Richie.

You got a problem with my suit? His lower lip stuck out a little.

You look like you’re going to work, Richie scoffed.

The kid looked him in the eye. It was the kid’s first time going into a place to try and play live, but no one knew that. The suit he wore was the nicest outfit he owned. He’d dressed nicely because he thought people might take him more seriously if he were dressed well. Richie’s snide remark caught him the wrong way and it showed in his gaze as he leveled a look at Stillwater. There was fire there, and determination. Richie blinked. The kid was intense, he had to give him that.

"I am going to work, the kid said. He looked implacable. I’m serious about what I do. This is how I dress when I’m serious."

Richie stared at him. The kid didn’t seem to be joking with him. Shrugging, Richie said, If you say so.

I do, the kid told him. So can I play?

Richie laughed. He liked gumption and the kid had a ton. Come on, kid. Let’s see what you got.

He walked back to the stage. Hey fellas, Richie said. Let him play.

The kid opened his guitar case and took out an old Fender Telecaster, blonde and rosewood, worn but serviceable. Richie snorted. Richie thought telecasters were for country music but the twangy sound had been growing in popularity. The kid picked up the amp cord and plugged in. He strummed it, listening. Tweaked the A. Strummed. Smiled. He adjusted the tone knob slightly and nodded to himself. He busied himself with the amp, adjusting the knobs to his satisfaction. He wouldn’t budge until he had the sound just right. Until he had his sound. Richie was impatient by the time the kid finished fussing.

Well? Richie said.

Uh… you’ll know it when you see it, the kid said, and he began to play.

Hesitantly at first, then with more skill and style. He began alternate-picking, then strumming full chords. Suddenly his hands exploded across the strings and he was playing flamenco-style, beautiful rivulets of music echoing over the stunned crowd. After a moment, Richie realized that the kid was playing a classical-style rendition of Here Comes The Sun, George Harrison’s contribution to the Abbey Road album. Richie was dumbstruck at the technical proficiency the kid showed. He had no way of knowing that the kid played this piece before. It was originally a performance piece he’d arranged for a class. It only looked to Richie like a brilliant piece of improvisation.

Richie laughed aloud and fell in line with his bass. The drummer threw a beat behind it and they began to gel. They played for two hours straight, songs and jams, just getting to know each other through the music. Afterward at the bar, Richie bought the kid a beer. They drank deep, the both of them soaked to the flushed-red skin and stringy, damp hair.

What’s your name? Richie asked.

I’m Frank, the kid said, Wilmott. Pleased to meet you.

You’re good, kid, Richie said. Who do you play with?

I don’t, Frank said. I’m still in school.

You’re a college boy? Richie asked.

Sort of. I’m at the Curtis Institute, Frank told him.

Founded in 1924, the Curtis Institute, Philadelphia’s oldest and most rigorous musical institution for gifted students, turned out players of every caliber from classical to modern. Virtuosos of every instrument studied there. Wilmott attended on a scholarship.

What’s that like? Richie asked him.

It’s pretty okay. Lot of playing. Lot of studying.

Wilmott wasn’t very chatty, Richie noticed.

You’re a concert guitarist, Richie said. Whatcha doing coming in a dive, playing for drunks?

I’m a composer, actually. Wilmott grinned. I just play guitar to unwind. Sometimes I play in class. And this is… is… homework.

Richie laughed.

They listened to the house band play a pickup tune with a couple of old blues players, a harp blower and a singer. It wasn’t bad. Not the best, but not bad. Frank turned back to the bar to pick up his drink and his elbow jogged the arm of the man next to him, dumping his jigger of rum all over his shirt.

Hey, sorry, Frank said.

Fuck’s your problem? the man snarled, and shoved Wilmott. Frank staggered but kept his feet. Hands raised, Wilmott slowly backed away. The woman standing next to him plucked at his sleeve. Bobby, don’t-

He shrugged his arm out of her reach with a curse. She shut up and looked uneasy. Frank noticed her face looked beautiful, but only from far away. Up close, she wore too much makeup covering bad skin. Bad skin or bruises.

I said I was sorry, man. I’ll buy you another-

Asshole, the drunk spat.

Bobby- the woman began again, until a hard slap cut her off. Frank growled and said clearly, Fucking coward.

Bobby laughed and launched himself at Wilmott. Frank’s face showed shock. In his peripheral vision he could see Richie watching with interest but he said and did nothing.

The man threw a looping right hook at Frank that Frank easily ducked. He came up with a left that caught the drunk on the chin- and did nothing at all. Richie laughed. The kid was trying to keep his hands safe. He wasn’t putting his weight behind it. Richie didn’t blame him. He was about to get a mud puddle stomped in his chest, though, and that wouldn’t be any good for him either.

Batting Frank’s fist out of his face, the drunk lunged at Frank, hands outstretched and grasping. Richie watched in fascination as Frank’s eyes closed and he seemed to accept the inevitable.

The inevitable, however, wasn’t. The drunk appeared to be caught in mid-air, frozen in his leap. Richie had a second of confusion before the asshole was yanked backward by his shirt.

He hit the floor in a tangle with his shirt ripped up the front. He looked up from the sea of legs around him and started to shout something, except a fist dropped out of the sky and landed squarely on the bridge of his nose.

How d’you like it? his assailant said, almost off-hand. No fighting in Lannigan’s.

Even in the bar full of music and people, half of which didn’t even know there was a fight going on, the crunch carried. The rest either didn’t care or were actively cheering it on.

Frank opened his eyes to see the lithe, supple form of what looked like an in-his-prime middle-weight boxer doing a number on the drunk. He threw three punches, all of them fluttering down like pretty little butterflies and landing like Buicks. Bobby the drunk was out. He was out after the second one, really.

The boxer-type grabbed him by his hair and belt and dragged him to the door. He waited a split second for people to clear and tossed the guy out the double doors being thoughtfully held open by nearby patrons. Frank saw the guy bounce before rolling off the sidewalk and into the gutter. The doors closed.

The muscled boxer-type turned on Frank and made for him, smoothly gliding through the push of the crowd. Frank gulped, figuring it was his turn.

He was six feet two and looked about ten feet to Frank. The tight shirt sculpted to his muscles left no illusions about the condition of his body. He wore his red hair shaved to the skull and his pale skin, freckles, and blazing green eyes left nothing of his heritage in question. He stalked up to Frank like a jungle cat. Frank swallowed again. He stood over Frank and grinned.

You’re shit in a fight, aren’tcha? he said in a very light Boston-Irish accent. Frank gaped. Richie laughed and slapped the tall man on the arm.

Leave him alone, Cross. He’s a player, not a fighter. Turning to Frank, Richie said, Frank, this is Cross. Cross, Frank. He’s with me, is Frank.

Good enough for me’n the boys, Cross said.

Cross is our bouncer, Richie said.

Cross? Frank asked. Is that short for something?

Cross shook his head and tugged the bottom of his shirt up. Frank examined the huge cross tattooed on the man’s chest, wide and impressive, with delicate filigree edges and Celtic knot-work around the inside.

Ah, Frank said. Cross.

As in ‘you don’t,’ Richie put in, smiling. You do, he makes you bounce.

I saw that, Frank said. His hands shook with post-adrenaline comedown.

That? That was nothin, Cross said. "That was taking out the trash. Get a party band in here on a Saturday night, fill these losers fulla whiskey, and then you’ll see something impressive."

I bet. They leaned on the bar and watched the blues band slowly wind down. Frank leaned over and looked at the woman. She dabbed away the trickle of blood from her cut lip, and repaired her makeup with help from a hand-held mirror and a small brush.

Are you okay? Frank asked.

I’m Holly, she said by way of explanation.

I’m Frank, he said, grinning at her.

Nice to meet you, she said coolly. She looked up at Cross, who towered almost two feet over her. Thank you, Cross.

Without taking his eyes off the band, Cross said, You keep me in mind, he touches you again.

She nodded. She shook hands with Frank, which amused him. Richie kissed the back of her hand, flamboyantly bending low over it in a parody of style. On stage, the blues number came crashing to a triumphant halt, and the room exploded with applause.

That was how Richie, Frank, Holly, and Cross became friends. Frank, only seventeen years old, started coming to Lannigan’s as often as he could. His professors disapproved of his extracurricular activities but his grades were excellent. Although his style of playing was cold and precise at first, he warmed up. Soon he became a favorite player, known for his enthusiastic and energized playing. He liked the tips that the crowd sometimes left, but Lannigan wouldn’t pay him unless he signed on for a regular gig. Frank demurred, telling Allan that he had plans for his life and they didn’t include playing in a bar every night. A regular gig… a regular job… would interfere with school.

At Curtis, he knew what he was. He wrote music, sometimes for hours. He spent his days in lecture halls and music halls, learning the intricacies of translating the music in his head into the complex arrangement of instruments in an assembled symphonic band.

The stress of his studies caused him to seek refuge in the guitar with increasing frequency. The two worlds began to bleed into one another. One night at Lannigan's, Frank stood up and played a composition he’d been working on. A classical piece more suited to an orchestra, it nevertheless caused dropped jaws across the bar. To be fair, most of them had never heard a classical composition played through a Fender Telecaster and Marshall stack. He played with his eyes closed, and the beautiful, haunting melody flowed from him in spools of majestic melody. When he finished, Allan came over to the stage.

So… that was an original Wilmott? he asked in hushed tones.

Yes, Frank said, loosening his tie. I wrote it. It’s a style I’ve been studying called-

Allan held up a hand. You know what? I don’t think I care. I’d rather just remember it. I understand now. That’s what you want to do?

That’s what I want to do. That’s what I’m going to do. I’ve got a year or so to graduate. When I do, I’m going to write symphonies, Frank assured him. I like the guitar but it’s not a job. I can play piano, harpsichord, a little trumpet too.

Allan looked a little stunned. You can play those like this?

Naah. Guitar’s my favorite. I prefer Spanish or Classical guitar, but I can play most styles. I know the rest of the instruments okay. Maybe not trumpet, Frank amended, but I’m not terrible. But playing, that’s not what I want. Playing an instrument is great, and it feels amazing to be able to put a voice to the music in your head. But up in front of a full orchestra? Conducting them? You can make music that just… just soars. Playing guitar is all right, but when you conduct, you play them all. It’s a powerful feeling. The best feeling. Most of the time, you play the classics and that’s okay. Mozart. Bach. Handel’s a favorite of mine. But sometimes, you get newer stuff. Most people don’t know that classical music isn’t dead. There’s more new music coming out all the time. And to be able to write a symphony? I’ve been listening to this sound in my head for years, and it’s not played on a guitar, you know?

All right, Allan said, all right. I’ll stop pushing you to join the band. I want you to play here whenever you can. I’ll give you ten bucks a night, you play a two hour set.

As long as you understand it’s just a temporary thing, Frank grinned. I’m gonna be here for a while, though, so I accept. What do you feel like hearing? I want to cleanse my pallet.

Allan considered. Do some Beach Boys. I love their stuff.

Frank nodded. You’re the boss, he said with a grin.

He began to play.

Chapter Five

The Big Bopper - Rock - 2/3/1959

Two years later, February of ‘65, the night Richie walked into Lannigan’s looking for a fix, Frank Wilmott was busy cutting heads. He stood front and center on the stage, dressed in his usual black three-piece suit. His coat was open and flew behind him like a pair of wings. His tie flapped loose over one shoulder. His short hair lay plastered to his skull. He looked like an accountant in a hurricane.

He laid into some anonymous punk kid who looked too young to raise a decent moustache. Frank played with him, dancing around his licks with ease and flash, not really putting his all into it. The audience could tell he was taking it easy on the kid, but the kid couldn’t. He played furiously, for all he was worth, thinking he was giving Frank a run. Frank never tried to humiliate anyone, but you could tell when someone had no chance.

Finally, Frank started playing more and more quickly until the notes were coming in too fast for the kid to really hear anymore, let alone emulate, let alone top. Finally the band cut out and Frank sailed off unaccompanied, culminating in a resounding crescendo of musical assault.

The kid just set the guitar on the stand and left.

The band kicked in and Frank played along a bit, and then they finished the number. Frank said into the mic, Back in fifteen. Pick a victim.

He slouched against the bar. Lannigan slid him a beer.

Frank nodded. Thanks, Al.

Holly walked by leading a man by the arm. Allan watched her take him to the door. Third one tonight, he remarked.

Holly’s busy, Frank said diffidently. He drank a third of his beer and stared at the bar. Good for her, I suppose.

Al leaned over. Frank…

What?

You’re not sweet on her, are you?

Frank shrugged. Al shook his head. You’d best take up a different hobby, Frank. Better for your health.

Frank watched Holly sashay out the door with her john in tow. She looked back for a second and they made eye contact. She winked. Frank looked away.

I told you, Al said. Woman likes her work.

Frank didn’t say a word about it. He watched the band setting up for the second set. Richie slid up to him.

Frankie, what’s shakin’, he asked.

Frank stared at the door. Not a lot. You here to play, Richie?

Naah. I’m just looking to meet a guy, that’s all. Richie scanned the room.

Who you looking for?

Just a guy, Richie said. Frank got it then. Frank didn’t smoke anything, didn’t shoot anything. He liked whiskey. He didn’t understand why anyone would want to taint the high he got from playing. He tried to change the subject.

You playing tonight? he asked again.

Richie shook his head. Naah. I told you I’m just here to meet the man. I’m not playing tonight.

Frank frowned. Since when do you turn down a chance to play?

Richie sounded annoyed. What’s it to you, Frank? I’m just not playing tonight.

What’s it to me? Look at this place, Frank said. It’s a ghost town. There’s nothing doing. I’m falling asleep up there, cutting these kids down.

Richie looked at him sideways. You challenging me, Wilmott?

Frank grinned. Maybe. If you’re up to it.

That’s a damned good idea, Cross said. Neither of them had seen the man come up. For a huge man, he moved like a ghost. Get some blood pumping in here tonight.

Richie said, All right, all right. Pushy bastards. Give me ten minutes, I’ll show you what it means, cutting heads. You’re gonna wish I hadn’t.

Done deal, Frank said. He grabbed his beer and headed for the stage.

After he was out of earshot Richie turned to Cross. I’m looking for the man, Cross.

Folding his arms over his chest, Cross stared impassively at Richie.

Come on, man. I need some. Who’s around? Richie insisted.

Cross sighed. Wendo’s in the men’s, he said and went back to watching the door. Richie grinned and headed to the back of the pub.

Chapter Six

Guitar Slim - Blues - 2/7/1959

Wendo Ipswitch, dealer and part-time pimp, leaned against the battered porcelain sink in the men’s room. He wore a big, roomy winter coat, completely out of place in a hot club. Every pocket of the coat bulged with pleasures, powders, pills, and sundries. His custom carried him from 8 at night until 3 or 4 in the morning and he paid high to the local cops for protection. Everyone knew not to mess with Ipswitch.

Richie pushed the door open and waited for the crowd around the dealer to thin out. Finally, Ipswitch looked over