“Uh, yeah, thanks…” and Keith wanted to be somewhere else, out front sipping his charity beer, looking at the empty place where she’d stood on the stage.

“Whatever happened to that chick that sang for you guys, man? God, she was cool.”

“A train ran over her,” Keith said, no emotion left in the words, and the boy’s camera grin had drooped and faded away, the offered hand hanging uncertain between them. The girl on the floor frowned up at him, and he’d sat back down on the scabby chair.

“Can I, uh, can I talk to you?” Keith had asked her then, pointing at the girl with one hand and pulling nervously at the collar of his shirt with the other.

“Sure,” she’d said, getting up, the final Band-Aid wrapped around her right index finger.

And then they’d been walking back down the hall, had paused at the steps that led up to the stage, the way back, and she’d leaned against the wall, thumbs hooked into the pockets of her jeans.

“I’m sorry about Sherman,” she said and looked back the way they’d come. “He isn’t a dork on purpose, not usually.”

“No problem,” he’d said, and then, “Do you guys have a name?”

“You got a cigarette?” she asked, and he’d fumbled at his pockets, but had come back with nothing but an empty pack and a few dry crumbs of tobacco.

“Thanks anyway. Ecstatic Wreck, but that’s just until we think of something better.”

“That’s a pretty cool name,” and he was trying not to show the jitters, the way his hands shook and the cold sweat, wishing his fucking junk-starved body would let him be for five lousy minutes.

“I played with some other guys for a while, but they joined the army,” she said. “Tonight was our first show.”

“Well,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you you’re goddamn good. Better than that.”

“Thanks,” she said, embarrassed, he could tell. “That means a lot.”

“You want to maybe get a beer or go for a walk or something?”

She’d shaken her head, and his stomach had begun to roll again. “Sorry. That’d be cool, but I have plans already.”

“Maybe another time, then,” he’d said.

“Definitely.”

They’d shaken hands, his damp and hers so dry, and she’d started back towards the dressing room. He was up the first two steps, two to go, hoping he’d make the toilet before he puked the beer back up, when he stopped and called after her.

“Oh, hey, what’s your name?” and she’d said, “Daria Parker,” without even turning around.

It had been two weeks before Ecstatic Wreck played again, another Wednesday night at the Cave, and this time he’d fixed and worn a cleaner shirt, and he’d dragged Mort along with him. There had been more people, word of mouth and he’d seen some flyers stapled up around town, pink paper and black letters. They’d sat in the same booth, because the best sound was way back there, and this time Mort had bought him cold long-necked bottles of Old Milwaukee.

The same songs in a different order, and between every one Keith had reached across the table and poked Mort in the shoulder.

“What did I tell you, man? What the hell did I tell you?” and Mort had nodded his head.

“I know what you’re thinking, Keith.”

“What? What the hell am I thinking, then?”

“Your guitar’s still in hock, man, and don’t tell me it ain’t, ’cause I saw it this morning hanging in the window at Liggotti’s.”

Keith had taken another hit off his beer and watched the stage while she adjusted the strap on her bass.

“She’s already got a band,” Mort said. “And they’re too good for you to go bustin’ up.”

“She’s good,” Keith said. “They’re just there because she wants them there.”

“Shit, for all I know you’re just horny.”

“Man, I haven’t been horny in a month of Sundays,” Keith had said, knowing there was so much more truth in that statement than his admission of a junky’s impotence. Daria had played her black Fender like hot midnight, her voice a chorus of hoarse and growling angels, and Keith’s hands had felt empty, lonely for his strings, for the first time since Sarah’s funeral.

“I’d be a shit,” she’d said, “if I just walked out on them like that.”

Keith frowned, sighed and slumped back into the booth. Mort was busy shredding a napkin.

They’d been talking for an hour, talking in tight little circles, figure eights, Möbius-strip conversations, and Mort was almost no help at all. Keith knew that he wanted it just as much, wanted to play again, to plug himself into Daria Parker’s wild energy.

“They’re not the ones you should be worrying about,” he said and lit another cigarette.

“They’re my friends…”

“Sure, they’re your friends. But you know that they’re nowhere near as good as you are, right? You’ve admitted that much already.”

And then Daria Parker had looked at him, had nailed him to that moment and the back of the booth with her green eyes like flawed emeralds, and she’d said, “Yeah, I said that. But I also know that your arm’s got a habit.”

“Whoopee-shit,” he’d said, feeling the old anger start to rise, not wanting to see its face. “I guess that makes you Sherlock-fucking-Holmes.”

“That sort of thing doesn’t stay secret in a town like this. All I’m sayin’ is, I want to know if it’s something you got a handle on, or if it’s got you. You’re asking me to ditch some really good guys. I think I have a right to ask.”

“You some kinda saint?” And Keith knew how close he was to blowing it, blowing it like a cheap hustler, but the words were too close to the surface to push back down. “I had a lot of nasty shit the last few months…”

“Just answer her, Keith,” and that was only the half of what Mort was saying; the rest was there in his face, coiled like twine and baling wire.

Keith took a long drag off his Lucky and let the smoke out slowly through his nostrils; the haze made it easier for him to match her cut-glass scrutiny. Blink, fucker, and she’s got your number.

“Yeah,” he’d said, cool and calm as well water. “It’s under control, okay? I just need to get back to work. It’s not a problem.”

And she’d nodded, a slow and wary nod, and finished her beer.

“I’m gonna think about this for a couple of days,” and the beer bottle had thunked back down onto the table in front of her, glass the color of honey from wildflowers and amber beads of sweat.

“Hey, that’s fair. I’m not asking you to make a decision right this minute.”

“I just gotta think about it, that’s all.”

“You got my number at the shop,” Mort had said and offered her his hand as she slipped out of the booth. “Thanks, Daria,” he said when she shook it.

“You won’t be sorry,” Keith said, as if the deal was as good as done, adding the smoldering butt of his cigarette to the overflowing ashtray.

“We’ll see,” she’d said, quick half smile, and walked away into the night outside the Cave.

Mort caught up with him three days later, found him in front of Liggotti’s Pawn and Fine Jewelry, staring in at his guitar like a child looking in at candy he’ll never taste or toys he’ll never have the chance to break.

“She said yes,” and Keith had put one hand against the storefront glass, leaning closer. “She called me this afternoon and said yes. Just give her a few days to break the news to her band. They have a gig next Wednesday, and she doesn’t want to leave them hanging.”

“I knew she’d say yes,” Keith whispered, smiling, feeling something warm spreading through his soul that wasn’t junk, and he’d said, “So, you gonna lend me the money to get her out of there?”

He’d waited almost a minute for Mort’s reply, sixty seconds full of traffic and dry wind between buildings.

“No, man. I’m just gonna let you get up there and play with dick.”

Keith had grinned and stepped back, away from the window filled with musical instruments and typewriters and portable televisions, all indentured for a few bucks and a yellow hock slip. He’d been standing watch over the Gibson for days, had been threatened with the cops twice by old man Liggotti and the Korean woman who worked for him, threats of jail if he didn’t stop standing around staring through their window all day.