Dagger Key and Other Stories

As Shellane headed for home a bank of fog moved toward him across the lake, like the ghost of a crumbling city melting up from the past. He was furious with himself. That he had been on the verge of coming between husband and wife, boyfriend-girlfriend, whatever…it spoke to a breakdown in judgment. All it would take to bring the cops nosing around was some asshole like Broillard getting his wind up, and though Shellane could handle the cops, it would be wiser to avoid them. Agitated, unable to calm down, he drove into town, thinking he would eat at a diner; but when he saw the lights of Roscoe’s, a low concrete building with a neon sign that sketched the green image of a snub-nosed pistol above the door, he turned into the parking lot. Inside, he grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a cheeseburger plate. At the far end of the room was a stage furnished with amps and mike stands and a PA, backed by a sequined curtain. A bearded roadie was engaged in setting up the mikes. All the tables were occupied, and it appeared that more than half the crowd were women. The babble of laughter and talk outvoiced the jukebox, which was playing “Wheel in the Sky,” a song emblematic to Shellane’s mind of the most pernicious form of jingle rock. He nursed a draft, watching the place fill beyond its seating capacity. Apparently Broillard did have a following. People had packed in along the walls and were standing two-deep at the bar.

He had intended to leave before the live music started, but when the lights dimmed and a cheer went up, people massing closer to the stage, jamming the dance floor like a festival audience, curiosity got the better of him. Five shadows moved out from the wings. A spot pinned the central mike stand, where Broillard was strapping on a Telecaster with glittery blue stars dappling its black finish. He flashed a boyish grin and said, “How ’bout somebody bringing me a beer. I feel a thirst coming on.” Then he turned his back on the crowd and the band kicked in.

At best Shellane expected to hear uninspired songs about beer and dangerous roadhouses and wild, wild women played with a rough, energetic competence; because of his distaste for the band’s front man, he hoped for worse. But the Endless Blue Stars had a lyrical sound that was way too big for Roscoe’s, their style falling into a spectrum somewhere between Dire Straits and early Cream. Retro, yet carrying a gloss of millennial cynicism. The first song featured a long intro during which Broillard laid down sweetly melodic guitar lines over a 4/4 with a Brazilian feel that built gradually into a rock tempo. When he stepped to the mike, the crowd waved their arms and shouted.  

“Walked out tonight, a frozen blue,
the moon was dark and shooting stars were dying…”

The bassist and drummer added harmony on the next line:  

“…with a cold white fire…”

Then Broillard’s throaty baritone soared over the background:  

“…things ain’t been the same
since I fell in love with you,
I’ve been so hypnotized…”

The mood cast by the song—by all the song—was irresistibly romantic, an invitation to join in a soothing blue dream of love and mystery, and Broillard’s Byronic stage persona was so persuasive, Shellane wondered if he might have misjudged him. But when the band went on break and Broillard came swaggering over to the bar, dispensing largesse to well-wishers, his arm about a pretty albeit slightly overstuffed brunette, caressing the underside of her right breast, Shellane decided this was the thing that made music—all art, for that matter—fundamentally suspect: that assholes could become proficient at it.

Broillard spotted him, dragged the girl over, and said, “Needed a break from all that peace and quiet, eh?”

Shellane said, “Yeah, you were right,” and then, though he was tempted to dishonesty, complimented him on the set.

“I didn’t figure you for a music lover,” said Broillard.

“That song, the one that went into a seven-four break after the second verse…”

“‘Three Fates.’” Broillard looked at him with renewed interest. “You play?”

“Used to,” Shellane said. “I liked that song.”

“Yeah, well,” said Broillard dismissively. “Cool.” He gave the brunette a squeeze. “Annie, this is…”

“Michael,” Shellane said when Broillard couldn’t dredge up the name.

“Right. Mister Michaels is a writer. Crime novels.”

Annie blinked vacantly up at Shellane, too blitzed to say Hi.

Somebody caught Broillard’s shoulder, claiming his attention. As he turned away, he smirked and said to Shellane, “Stick around, man. It gets better.”