magazines. It would have screamed bordello were it not for a score of guitars hanging on the walls and an old Moog synthesizer in the corner. He’d never seen a real one.
One of the loveseats was occupied by a couple in the later stages of semi-dressed foreplay.
“Need the room,” Cass announced.
The two looked over at her with puffy mouths and dazed looks, like they weren’t understanding clearly. Doo couldn’t tell for sure if the confusion was caused by sex, drugs, or both, but if he’d been betting his own money, he’d say both.
“Come on.” The guy gave Cass a lazy smile. “Join us.”
“Out,” Cass said, more insistent this time, adding a sweeping gesture to indicate the way to the exit. “Don’t make me go get Bawdy.”
Doo had no idea who Bawdy might be, but noted that the threat registered on the faces of the pair. With deep sighs, they pulled on shoes and adjusted clothes with all the speed of Death Valley tortoises.
Cass rested her hand on her cocked hip while she rolled her eyes. He chuckled, but followed her lead and waited patiently. When they’d finally half-stumbled out, she closed the door and motioned to the sofa. While Doo sat, she opened the heavy curtains and let light into the room. “There. That’s better.”
Sitting down. “How’d you find me?”
“Jerry Slick.”
“What did he tell you I could do for you?”
“Hook me up with guys lookin’ for bandmates?”
“Hook you up?” Her eyebrows raised. “Never heard that expression before. I like it.”
Doo immediately realized he’d made a twenty-first-century slang mistake. He hoped like hell she’d forget about it before Lyric found out he might have accidentally changed pop culture history.
“He called you a matchmaker.”
She chuckled. “He did, huh. Well, I’ve probably been called worse.” Her eyes locked on his in a penetrating way. “So. What do you have to offer the world, Doo Darby? Musically, that is.”
“I can play.” He didn’t say what instrument, but she surmised the answer by the way his eyes drifted to the guitars on the wall. “I can sing. And I like to write.”
“Hmmm. Here’s the thing. A lot of people think they can play, but they can’t. A lot of people think they can sing, but they really can’t. A few people think they could write songs people would want to hear…”
“But they’re wrong?” Doo finished for her.
“Yeah. They’re wrong.” Doo responded with a wide smile that was boyish and disarming. “That heartbreaker smile could take you a long way, but only if it’s backed up with premium chops. You ever been in a band?”
“Not per se.”
“Meaning?”
“I get asked to front a few songs for bands pretty often, but until recently I didn’t have the freedom to, ah, go fulltime.”
“Why not?”
“Got a sister who’s a single mom. She worked nights. If she’d had to pay for babysitting, she’d pretty much be in the hole.” He shrugged. “You know how it is.”
Cass nodded in agreement that she knew ‘how it is’. But in fact, she did not know much about the world from the perspective of financial struggle.
Her father was a congressman from Virginia. Her grandfather had left her a trust fund administered by a unicorn – an honest lawyer who was seeing to her best interest. The man was conscientious about preserving Cassidy’s wealth, but was also fond of her and wouldn’t say no to any reasonable request.
Cass was at odds with her family. Her father fussed and fumed and ranted that she’d cast aside everything she’d ever learned about being a ‘lady’ to be a gods-cursed, war-protesting hippie. He tried to get the Trustee to refuse Cass support until she’d ‘reevaluated’ her choices, but the attorney, who was the same generation as Cass’s grandfather, was resolute.
His response to Cassidy’s dad was, “Nothing in the Trust indicates that she can’t make choices about how to conduct her life. If she was spending recklessly, or attempting to, I would step in. The girl’s not a hedonist. She’s an idealist. And practically frugal. There’s no legal basis for denying her the money her grandfather intended her to have.”
“Frugal? What does that mean?”
“If you have questions about Cassidy’s life, you should ask her. And, this is not legal advice, but I believe that my friend, your late father-in-law, might want me to say that if talking to your daughter is an issue, you have far bigger problems than how her Trust money is being spent.”
Cass’s father hung up on the Trustee. It might have been childish, but it was