Or maybe I'm kidding myself. Maybe what swayed me more was that roll of money - the prospect of paying my rent on time for once and not having to borrow gro
cery money from my mother.
I heard myself saying, "What exactly do you want me to do?"
Chapter 7-8
Chapter 7
The Les SaintPierre Talent Agency was a gray and maroon Victorian on West Ashby, across the street from the Koehler Museum.
Even without a sign in front you could tell the old residence had been converted for business. The powercolour combination, the uniform blinds on the windows, the wellkept but totally impersonal landscaping, the Texas flag windsock hanging on the empty front porch - it all screamed "office building."
There were two cars already parked at the bottom of the hill in front. One was a tan Volvo wagon. When I met Milo on the sidewalk he was staring at the other - a glistening black pickup truck that looked like it had been converted at great expense from a semi rig. It had wheels just shy of monster size, tinted windows with security alarm decals on the corners, orange pin striping, mud flaps with silver silhouettes of Barbie doll women on them. The cab looked like it could sleep four comfortably.
Milo said, "This isn't my day."
Before I could ask what he meant, he turned and lumbered up the steps.
Inside, the Victorian was all hardwood floors and creamcolored walls. A staircase led up from the main foyer. The double doorway on the right opened into a reception area with a couple of wicker chairs, a mahogany desk, a fireplace, and a Turkish rug. A very big Anglo man in his early fifties was sitting on the edge of the desk, talking with Gladys the receptionist.
When I say very big and I'm standing next to Milo I have to correct myself. This guy wasn't like Milo, but he was big by any other definition. Tall and barrelchested. Thick neck. Powerful hands. He had the build of a derrick worker.
Despite the heat he wore a denim jacket over his white shirt, new blue jeans, black Justin boots. He was twirling a Stetson on one finger while he talked.
When he saw Milo, his smile hardened.
"Hola, Mario."
Milo walked placidly to the desk and picked up a stack of mail. He didn't look at his visitor. "Fuck you, Sheckly. You know my name."
"Hey now - " Sheckly spoke with the twangy, hard edged accent of a GermanTexan, someone who'd grown up in the hill country around Fredericksburg, where many of the families still spoke a brand of cowboy Deutsch. "Play nice with me, son. I just dropped by to see how things were coming along. Have to make sure you're doing right by my girl. You remind Les about that contract yet?"
Milo kept flipping through his mail. "Les is still in Nashville. I'll tell him you dropped by.
The contract's right next to the toilet where he left it."
Sheckly's laugh was a rich chuckle. He kept twirling the Stetson. "Come on now, son.
You want to dispute our agreement, you've got to put me in touch with the boss man.
Otherwise I'm expecting Miranda in the Split Rail studio come November first and I'll tell you what else - you send Century that demo and I'll send them a copy of my contract, see if they want to sink their money into a girl who's gonna bring their legal department a mess of business."
Milo opened another letter. "You know where the door is."
Sheckly got up from the desk slowly, told the receptionist, "You think about it," then started walking out.
In front of me he stopped and offered to shake. "Tilden Sheckly. Most people call me Sheck."
Up close, it looked like all the unnecessary pigments in Mr. Sheckly's face had drained into his tan, which was dark and perfect. His eyes were so bleached blue they were almost white. His lips had no red at all. His hair had probably been thick and chocolaty at one time. It had faded to a dusty brownishgray, uncombable tufts that looked like clumps of moth wings.
I told him my name.
"I know who you are," he said. "I knew your father."
"Lots of people knew my father."
Sheck grinned, but it wasn't friendly. He looked like I'd missed the joke. "I suppose so.
Most of them didn't contribute as much as I did."
Then he put on the Stetson and said goodbye.
When he was gone Milo turned to Gladys. "What did he mean, 'think about it'?"