“Well, I have a lineup,” he said. “We’re always looking for new talent, of course, but I really need somebody who knows how to play the blues,” he said, “not just any musician. That won’t cut it around here.”
“Got it,” she said. “What I should have done was brought you a tape of his music.”
“Or, if he’s the one interested in the work,” the manager said, “he should have come in person.”
“Oh, of course,” she said cheerfully. “But his rehab is pretty intensive right now, and I just wondered how the system even worked. Like, whether you paid them or if they live on tips alone, and how often, how long the sets are, and what nights he would play here.”
He laughed. “In other words, you’re checking it out for your friend. That’s all cool,” he said, “but, before I’d bring him in as a repeat performer,” he said, “I’d want him up there on that stage, playing in person, before I offered him a chance at playing at night.”
“Understood,” she said with a smile.
Frowning, he tapped his pen on a pad of paper and said, “Like I said, I do have a couple regulars who play here a couple nights. But one of the guys I’ve got now is planning on leaving.”
“When is he leaving?”
“I think at the end of next month,” he said. “I’ve been trying to convince him to stay, but, for two nights a week, it’s hardly enough to keep anybody’s rent paid.”
“I wanted to ask you about that,” she said, settling into the visitor’s chair. “Do you pay them?”
“I do, but it’s for the evening,” he said. “And I’m not telling you how much because that’ll be between me and whoever.”
“And what about tips?”
“The tips are his,” he said. “Some nights you get a lot, and some nights you may not get any.”
“He used to get hundreds, occasionally one thousand in tips.”
At that, his brows rose. “He’d have to be real good for that.”
“Oh, he’s good,” she said. “But, like I said, he’s busy with rehab and currently still using a wheelchair, working on getting into crutches and hopefully walking.”
“That’ll always garner sympathy too,” the manager said.
“And that’s not something he wants,” she said. “Pride is a hard thing for a guy like him.”
“Well, if and when he gets there,” he said, “he is welcome to come by and show me what he can do.”
“That’s great. Thank you.” She hopped her feet and said, “Do you happen to have a card?”
He handed her a card, and, as she walked to the door, he asked, “You sure he’s any good?”
“I think so, but come and see for yourself,” she said. “He’s playing between four and five-thirty on Saturday afternoons at Hathaway House,” she said. “We can’t have him playing all the time because some residents object to the noise,” she said.
He just rolled his eyes at that. “Always one in every crowd, isn’t there?” he murmured.
“Indeed,” she said, “but, nonetheless, for the next couple Saturdays he’ll be playing before dinnertime at Hathaway House.”
“We’ll see,” he said and gave her a dismissive wave.
She took the hint and headed into the main room again. She checked out the area and noted it had a very nice simple stage with lots of seating. She’d been here in the evenings, when the place was standing room only, and remembered that she had really enjoyed the live music. She didn’t remember how long it lasted, but she thought it may have been well past an hour and a half, so that was a concern. But, then again, Lance didn’t have to necessarily play the whole evening. She was about to turn and ask the manager if he ever used multiple entertainers in one evening, when the bartender asked her if she needed anything.
She headed to him and said, “I was wondering about the live music,” she said. “Do you ever have more than one player in an evening?”
He nodded. “All the time. Everybody’s got their own style, and not everybody wants to play for hours on end,” he said. “Usually three hours is max for a gig for one,” he said. “Sometimes we’re open until one or two o’clock in the morning,” he said, “so it depends.”
“Got it,” she said. “That probably explains why the manager didn’t want to talk about money and how much he’d pay someone to be here. It’s not comparing apples to apples.”
“He’s fair, and they do fine,” he said, “and they do well on tips too.”
“Yeah, but what are we talking about—a hundred or two?”
“I’d say seven or eight hundred. I’ve seen some of the guys in here break a couple thousand, and then we have some who are only so-so, and they’ll get a couple hundred,” he said. “And, if it’s a bad night and a big game is on the TV, nobody will be here, and you’ll be lucky if you get any tips at all.”
“So, nothing you can really count on.”
He laughed. “No, nothing you can count on. But, if you’re any good, you’ll have a following, and everybody will show up each Friday and Saturday night like clockwork.”
“Got it,” she said, and, with a smile of thanks, she headed to the second bar, not liking it quite as much. But, with the same information, more or less, she headed back to Hathaway House, sneaking in just in time to grab dinner before the kitchen closed.
Dennis looked at her, surprised. “Where did you sneak off to?”
“I had to run into town,” she said easily, as she reached for a big chicken breast and steamed veggies. “As usual this looks wonderful.”
“It is,” he said, “because Ilse sets up that menu, and she won’t let anybody do anything less
