A flash of gold.
And she was standing alone, facing the rusty pickup parked next to Glen’s car. Power chords blared from the midway’s speakers, nearly drowning out the screams of children riding the ancient Octopus and Scrambler. The world no longer wore the sheen given it by NoMan’s music—the sky was more gray than blue and the grass underfoot dry and yellow. If not for the evidence of her own body, she’d have thought she’d imagined the whole thing.
Glen was right. If Bedford Entertainment could sign these guys, they were saved.
The CD wasn’t bad but it was strangely flat.
“Not evoking much of a reaction,” she murmured as they sped back to the city.
Glen laughed. “After that performance, I’d be amazed if you had a reaction left in you.”
He had a point. And he hadn’t seen the encore performance out in the parking lot.
NoMan had a barebones website that held a picture of the band, a headshot of the brothers—Travis had his sunglasses on—a song list, and an order form for the CD plus a link to their mailing list. There was no concert schedule and the mailing list was the only way to contact them. Ali added the email address for Bedford Entertainment, including in the body of the message their business number, the URL for the website, their MySpace address, and an assurance that Bedford Entertainment was definitely interested in representing them. Professional bases covered, she paused a moment, remembering, then typed We nearly met in the parking lot.
“They’re twins.”
She hit send before looking up to find Glen raising a brow in her direction. “What?”
“You’re flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.” It wasn’t. “Who are twins?” Like she didn’t know. Like she’d been thinking about anyone else for the last twenty-four hours.
Glen moved a stack of eight-by-ten glossies out of the way and perched on the edge of her desk. “Travis and Brandon Noman, twenty-seven, born in Tarpon Springs, Florida.”
“So they’re American.”
“They’re carrying American passports,” Glen allowed. “Their mother was a Greek national named Thea Achelous. Travis is older by nine minutes.”
When he paused, Ali frowned. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. And getting that much was like pulling teeth. They’re living almost entirely off the grid.”
“You said you heard about them from a friend…”
“And that’s who told me what I just told you. He’s a fan in the whole fanatic sense of the word and if he can’t pull information on them, well, it’s not there to be pulled. I’ve left messages with the people who booked them for that fair but we’re talking volunteer labor and they haven’t called me back.”
“All right…” Staring at the exceedingly unhelpful webpage, Ali tucked a lock of hair back behind her ear. “The good news is, if we can’t find them then Mike can’t find them and…”
The intercom buzzed. Wondering what was up—she had nothing on the books until after lunch—she hit the connect.
“What is it, Brenda?”
“There’s a Michael Richter to see you.”
“Speak of the devil,” Glen muttered.
“Don’t even joke about that,” Ali told him, more than half seriously.
She didn’t get the chance to ask what Mike wanted before Brenda added, “He wants to speak with you but he has no appointment.” Her tone, while polite, suggested she’d never heard of anyone named Michael Richter and couldn’t imagine why he’d be dropping by. Mike had heard some of Brenda’s voice work and wanted Vital to represent her until he discovered she weighed just over three hundred pounds. Too much work to make presentable had been his final judgment.
The position of office manager at Bedford Entertainment had been a part-time gig to fill in the corners around bookings but gradually the two jobs had evened out and, currently, office manager was slightly ahead. Unfortunately, it was also about to be made redundant unless they could find an act that actually paid the bills.
“You have an hour open Wednesday at nine,” she announced. “Shall I schedule Mr. Richter for then?”
Glen mouthed an exaggerated, “Burn!” as Ali rolled her eyes. “I’ll shuffle some things around and see him now, Brenda. We don’t want him to have to come back.”
“Alysha.” Arms spread, Michael Richter walked into her office like he owned it. Given that he probably could have bought the building for the cost of his wardrobe and accessories, he had grounds and the shaved head only added to the whole Daddy Warbucks/Lex Luthor vibe. He was entirely unruffled by Brenda’s little one-act play but that was hardly surprising—he had Tom Hartmore to be ruffled for him.