Show Business is Murder

Joe, relieved to leave the dank underground behind, bloomed in the bright sun and his performances sharpened, to Sody and Lian’s delight. Within a week, a portly man dressed in all black stopped to hear not just one song, but several. He stood close by for nearly an hour, reminding Lian of a Catholic priest in his black three-button suit hanging open over the black silk mock-turtleneck tee. His head nodded to the beat of their music, obviously enjoying himself. Then a sudden realization caused Lian to drop out of the performance of “Baby Jones,” too breathless to sing. It was him! Her “luck” had brought him!

Sody glanced at her in concern, but after a deep gasp for breath, she rejoined the chorus, her voice energized and full of new emotion.

At the finish, the man gave her his card, as she’d known he would. “I represent Krim Recordings. How about a meet tomorrow? Four-ish good for you? Bring your instruments.” Lian nodded with as much coolness as she could muster. Sody and Joe gaped. As soon as the man turned the corner, disappearing from sight, Sody snatched the card from Lian’s fingers.

“Krim! Omigod!”

“Aye! We got to-what do we got to do?” For the first time, Joe looked flummoxed.

Lian gazed at her partners in disgust. She thought Sody might cry, from the look on his face. “Well what did ye expect!” she shrieked at them both. Staying in her Irish persona was more important now than ever before. “What’s the point of this if not to step up?”

Joe stared at her, blinking. “Oh, aye. Sure!”

Sody swallowed hard. “I can’t sing anymore today. I can’t.”

Lian said, “And why should ye? We’ll be superstars after tomorrow!”

Sody froze, absorbing that thought. After a long moment, he glanced at Lian and nodded. “Right.” He packed his bass guitar into the battered case. “Go home, Joe. Get some rest. You too,” he ordered Lian. “Go on.” He gave them each a paternal wave, permission to leave. Joe, hugging his keyboard to his chest in excitement, nearly ran down 42nd street.

Lian didn’t move. She gazed at Sody, her eyes interested.

“Go on, Lian,” he repeated. “You need rest, too. See you tomorrow.” He patted her shoulder, not noticing how she jerked her shoulder from beneath his hand. He jaywalked across the street to enter the small coffee shop he liked to frequent. Lian, still not moving, watched him through the shop window until he began giving his order to a waitress.

Then Lian turned and descended the stairs to the subways, took a train back to her old spot, the West 50th Street stop. When she got out, she opened her case again, seeded it with the two crumpled dollars, and began to sing alone: ‘Leave me now, I’ve moved on anyhow. Lah tee dah, down the MTA highway, the next stop will be better, Lah tee dah…’ Her song. The song. Her voice lifted and the tunnel seized it to send it soaring. Passengers paused to hear the whole song before moving on.

And “Baby Jones.” The two gits hadn’t realized she’d written that song herself. It had caught on too fast to keep other street groups from stealing it, but it was hers. She’d registered that and the “Lah Tee Dah” song, and over twenty others she’d written, with the copyright office, the real one in Washington DC at the Library of Congress. She’d gotten a guy over at a Staples store to help her find and then fill out the papers. It had taken a few flattering lies, a few evenings of flirtation, but no sex, to get it done. Lian had no intention of sleeping her way to anywhere.

Her grandmother had taught her, promise anything, but give them nothing. Lian, a very young Hermione Listenberger at that time, had taken this advice to heart. Her bubbe was smart. She’d survived exceedingly well in a male-dominated world, with much worse circumstances to deal with back then, Lian knew. Bless you, thank you, Lian sent her gratitude floating through the air to her bubbe. Bubbe was her “luck.” Her bubbe’s was the voice she’d listened to all her life, her mother having proven to be of no help in any way-well, except to show the stupidity of trying to use sex to get ahead. Although Lian supposed that knowledge was useful, too.

All afternoon Lian sang only her own songs, no Abba, no Dylan, no anybody else but herself. And the crowds paused, entranced, and left dollar bills in their wake. After every song, Lian nodded her gratitude at her “luck,” her beloved ‘bubbe’ watching over her from farther down the empty track. Then she went home.

The next day, she didn’t show up at the Grand Central entrance doors. Like lost sheep, the two men split up to look for her, figuring she must be in trouble. She’d never missed a day, and certainly wouldn’t miss today, their last rehearsal together to hone them for the afternoon meeting with the recording executive. They split up. Joe, by choice, set off to cruise the streets around Grand Central and Sody took the tunnels.

About an hour later, Joe reluctantly descended into the tunnels himself. They’d all three almost exclusively ridden the 9 train, so he anticipated finding both Sody and Lian with little trouble. At the 59th Street station, he heard an unusual commotion. Not that the tunnels weren’t always echoing one racket or another, but this was different. These sounds were of terror, like animals trapped in a burning pen. As he threaded his way to the front of the crowd, Joe glimpsed a body being strapped onto a gurney in preparation to be lifted up the steep stairs to street level.

“What happened?” he asked a plump fiftyish Hispanic woman near him whose frozen expression reflected his own.

“He fell,” she whispered, fear stark in her creamy brown eyes.

Just before the medic pulled the covering over the body’s face, Joe recognized the corpse. He stifled a sharp cry and stumbled backward to nearly fall over the Hispanic woman, who hadn’t moved.

“He-Madre de Dios, he fell!” she whispered again to herself. She shuddered, then suddenly retreated to huddle against the gate, far from the edge of the track platform and began mouthing words only she could hear.

Prayers, Joe guessed, and from a youthful habit, himself shakily began, “Holy Mary, Mother of God…”

Then Joe’s mouth couldn’t quite close and he suddenly felt claustrophobic in the tunnel. Grimy oil-slick stairs going down to lower, filthier tunnels, and more stairs to other dark exits and entrances taunted and closed in on him like living threats. He hoisted his keyboard in his arms like a long heavy baby and darted for the stairs to the street.

When he emerged, he raised his face to the sun and breathed until he could calm himself. A small hand touched his elbow, and he jumped, choking back a fearful cry. When his vision cleared he discovered Lian gazing at him in astonishment. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Sody!” Joe’s voice cracked. He coughed, then tried again. “It’s Sody, lass. He’s gone.”

“Gone? What?” Lian suddenly huddled against his hard-muscled arm as if frightened. “You mean he’s dead, don’t you! How?” she demanded, but her voice was soft, trembling. “He was awfully tense about the audition. Did he…?

Joe’s testosterone kicked in and he straightened his shoulders. “Nay, lass,” he began, “He had no reason to- the crowds… he fell. It was an accident.” He shook his head. “He was looking for you. We both were. Where’ve ye been?”

Lian looked at him strangely. “Resting. For our audition today. Weren’t you?”

“Nah. We came to play as always. Like a rehearsal. If ye wanted to rest today, why didn’t ye say so yesterday? We worried! If we hadn’t, then maybe Sody might still be… might not’ve…”

Lian shuddered. “You mean it’s my fault, then? I’m sorr-“

“Nah. Didn’t mean that. Forgive me. No fault to yersel’. He slipped, is all. It’s so dark down there, and crowded, the floors coated with grease from the trains. I hate the tunnels, truth be known.”

He put one arm around her and she leaned against him and they stood entwined in silence. “I’m scared, Joe,” Lian finally said, her voice small. Joe’s arm tightened around her and he let his keyboard slide to the sidewalk.

He kissed the top of her head and swallowed hard. “Lian, my angel, no reason to fear wi’ me around. Ye must know how I’ve felt about ye since the first day… doesn’t seem right to say so now with Sody gone… but…” He shook his head. “I’m here for ye, Lian. Always. I think ye know that, don’t ye.”

Lian lifted her head at that and sang softly to him, “Always, and forever, in darkness of night, in darkness of daytime, in darkness of sight…”

Joe’s eyebrows lifted and he gazed tenderly at her soft mouth as it moved, digging words out of her brain, making a new song.