into the space, then pulled onto the sidewalk to give me room. But it wasn’t a parking zone. I saw that when I was halfway in.
“Come on!” She waved, urging me to take it. “Screw the hydrant! You won’t be here long.”
I angled in, turned off the car.
“Five minutes,” she said. “Ten max. The traffic will clear out. You can turn around then. Be out of here in no time.”
I got out of the car, turning to keep my left side toward her, the way I still do when I meet a woman I’m attracted to. It’s not that I’m self-conscious. I just like making clean first impressions. “You said these people are here for a show?”
“Yeah. Curious?”
“You could say that.”
“Want to come with me? I could give you a lift if you don’t mind parking here.” She took a last drag on her cigarette, then flicked it away. “Actually . . . truth is . . . if the cops come by, I don’t think they’ll be writing tickets.”
A moment later I was sitting behind her, hugging her waist as she eased between the cars. She told me that her name was Ariana. She was a blogger, not a Silverhead.
“What’s a Silverhead?”
“That’s the obvious question, isn’t it?”
A warehouse appeared at the end of the street, standing in a concrete lot that had crumbled into something resembling gravel. Cars were parked everywhere, wedged in tight around walls covered with boards, no-trespassing signs, and a fresh layer of graffiti reading:
Bobbie Quicksilver Jams Tonight
Ariana stopped her bike, got off, and looked around at the crowd. “What do you think? A thousand people?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s a lot for one of these, though the one in Allentown was supposedly bigger.”
I considered the graffiti. “So Bobbie Quicksilver? He’s some kind of performer?”
“Yeah. Some kind. Performs all over. Rust-belt towns mostly.”
“He’s on tour?”
“Not exactly. He only does guerilla shows. No advance notice, flash-media announcements only. The time and location for this gig went out less than two hours ago.” She unzipped her jacket, took out a palm-size Nikon. “Stay close.” She took my arm, pulling me in tight beside her. “Silverheads don’t like having their events recorded.” She held the camera between us, clicking the shutter. “Don’t look at the camera. We’re just two Silverheads hanging out before the show. Talk to me.”
“Okay.”
“Does that pass for talk where you come from?”
“No. Sorry. Uh . . . who do you write for?”
“I’m independent.” She stopped snapping pictures, put the camera back in her pocket, took out a Sharpie. “Here.” She wrote a URL on my palm. “Check this out when you get home.” She folded my hand closed as if to keep me from dropping the address. “What about you? What do you do?”
There were two answers to that. I gave her the safe one. “I’m a musician.” I was looking directly at her now, the right side of my face fully in view.
“Really?” She studied the scars running like train tracks along my neck and jaw. “You didn’t get those playing ‘Free Bird.’ ”
“No.” I laughed. It was genuine. She had put me at ease. “The scars are from another life. It’s behind me now.” I had a few business cards in my wallet, printed out at home from a design template and featuring a photo taken with my iPhone. I’d made them special for my audition earlier that afternoon, had given one to the band manager, and was prepared to offer the rest to the other musicians if they’d seemed interested. They hadn’t. I had plenty to spare. “This is what I do now.”
She took it, tilting it toward the evening light. “Lorcan? What kind of name—”
“Irish.”
“You Irish?”
“No, just Lorcan.”
“You live on Spahr Street? I know that neighborhood.” She put the card in her pocket. “Listen, would you want to maybe do an interview, give me a musician’s assessment of Bobbie Quicksilver.”
“What I think of his performance?”
“Yeah. I’m not really in a position to judge. I don’t usually cover music.”
“Sounds like you want me to catch the show.”
“Sounds like you catch on fast, Lorcan.” She put her camera away and started toward the building. “Coming?”
I followed, joined the crowd, and entered the warehouse. A portable stage stood at the far end, covered with instruments: guitars, keyboards, turntables, drums.
“How big’s his band?”
“Not his. It’s all Silverheads. Anyone who wants to play can. They jam. He sings. It’s all improv. At least, that’s what I’ve read. This is my first time too.” She took my arm. “Stay close.” She