The Boss's Daughter by Aubrey Parker

Author:Aubrey Parker [Parker, Aubrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub

CHAPTER 22

Riley

It’s Saturday night, but the Overlook has been closed for the past few weekends for renovations. I read about it in the town paper, which Dad had left on the coffee table. The guy who runs the place, Danny, is a town renegade. He must have deep pockets because the loss of profits doesn’t seem to bother him, and the hall has always done things in unusual ways. That’s why the musicians love it. Because it’s not a typical concert hall and doesn’t obey the usual music scene standards. Which, for some, means they can get away with whatever they care to try.

The small bar and concert hall is on a corner, bright yellow, and kind of offensive-looking if you aren’t from Inferno Falls and didn’t grow up getting used to its garish appearance. There’s a tiny patio out front with a low fence separating it from the sidewalk, but during renovations the outside chairs seem to have been stacked in a pile to the door’s left. I haven’t been back long enough to have seen it this way as more than pictures in the paper, but reading the article, I got a distinct Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory vibe. Danny is eccentric and reclusive (when he’s not in club mode, at which point he becomes almost obnoxiously outgoing), and the place was an institution when I left for school. With the doors shuttered and nobody in the outside chairs, I imagined it feeling quiet but rebuilding inside. And here we are, at the big wooden door at the odd building’s corner, apparently holding a Golden Ticket and waiting for Oompa Loompas to show.

But the door isn’t opened by an Oompa Loompa. Instead, I find myself facing a middle-aged man not much taller than I am. He has a tiny mustache, distinctly unfashionable, and is wearing glasses that are even less so. The man has short, brushy brown-going-slightly-gray hair and is wearing a white tee.

“What do you want?” he asks, peeking through the crack. “The place is closed until next Friday.”

“Richard,” Brandon says.

The small man looks over, opening the door wide enough to see my companion. His face instantly changes. The door flies open, and the man rushes forward in a bustling, busy manner to clap Brandon’s back in welcome.

“Brandon! Where the hell have you been?” His manner is half-companionable and half-chiding. I suppose guys would call it “ball-busting,” like Brandon had neglected something by being away for too long.

“I was here last week.”

“Not when I was here.”

“I’ll be sure to check with your secretary next time.”

Richard, whoever he is, puts his hands on his hips and looks Brandon over. He glances at me again, but it’s a bit reserved, almost suspicious. To Brandon he says, “So, what’s up?”

“Anyone fiddling tonight?”

Very businesslike: “What, literally? No. No fiddles.”

“Not literally playing fiddles, Richard.” Brandon rolls his eyes. “I just meant playing a bit. Trying their sets.”

“Dimebag was trying some shit earlier.”

“But he’s done.”

“He’s done,” Richard agrees. There’s a moment where they both kind of nod to each other with unspoken understanding.

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