212

6:30 P.M.

Jess didn’t know the real name of the man he knew as DJ Anorexotica, but did know that “An-ex,” as he also referred to himself, would be performing that night at a bar on the Lower East Side called Gaslight.

Of course Jess could not bring himself to use the word performing to describe An- ex’s act without using air quotes. And he couldn’t use air quotes without grimacing at the fact that he was using air quotes.

Jess was still complaining about accompanying Ellie on her mission when they emerged from the F train at Delancey and Essex. “You’ve got his picture. You know where to find him, doing that thing he calls performing. Why do you need me?”

“Because you actually know the guy, and you’re not expected at the Shake Shack for another three hours.” Neither Ellie nor Jess could bring themselves to call the strip club where he worked by its actual name, so they enjoyed making up creative placeholders. “Besides, all you were going to do in the interim was watch that marathon of Real Housewives of Atlanta you’ve had clogging up the DVR for the last two weeks.”

“Well, if it’s clogging up the machine, I should be at home watching important episodes, shouldn’t I?”

“Jess, for me, seriously, quit with the bitching.”

Most sibling relationships, like all relationships, involve a certain amount of give-and-take. But the balance of giving and taking between Jess and Ellie was sufficiently off kilter—in ways that both of them recognized—that the words “for me,” spoken by Ellie to Jess, usually did the trick.

Ellie had her reasons for bringing her brother along on this trip, and that would have to be—and was—enough for Jess.

The bar was a nondescript storefront with a heavy wooden entrance adorned by a burning gaslight. When Jess opened the door, a discordant blend of Spanish-feeling rhythms and cacophonous mechanical noises set to a techno beat spilled out.

“I see that your scumbag of choice tonight has already begun making his noise,” Jess said.

A small crowd of about a dozen people was dispersed loosely across an open rectangular dance floor between them and the stage. Three thin young women with an approximate collective height of eighteen feet who were certainly aspiring models lingered just inside the bar’s entrance. A couple stood closer to the bar: she in a turtleneck and plaid skirt, he in wide-wale cords and a pea coat, and both undoubtedly from the Upper East Side. Next to them were a couple of fifty-year-olds in black cotton, denim, and leather who looked like they could have hung out with Deborah Harry and the Ramones during their CBGB heydays.

“Eclectic,” Ellie said.

“This is the early-bird after-work crowd. You should come back in seven hours.”

“So what’s the story on this place?”

“Alternative. Underground.”

“Like a rave?”

She heard the group of models chuckle next to her. “Oh my God,” one whispered.

“Well, guess I won’t be the happy little center of that Glamazon triangle tonight,” Jess said wistfully. “Raves, for the record, little sister, are so 1994. This place is a riff off of guerrilla gigs.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not exactly easy getting a gig at a top bar in New York, so people go guerrilla, taking over venues that are already staged for another event—usually midtown corporate stuff or high-end Upper East Side fund-raiser shit. Anyway, you sneak yourself in. Leak word online to potential crashers who want to witness the scene. Then you go for it and hope for some attention. Gaslight sort of did the reverse a couple years ago, leaking the rumor that this was a place to be crashed for gigs. Show up and play, draw a crowd, see what happens.”

“How can a performance be guerrilla if it’s basically invited?”

“Well, it’s not. Gaslight’s really just an open mic bar with an edgier rep. You know something, El, this proves you haven’t been coming out enough since you met that Captain Justice of yours. Dog Park’s been playing here every couple of weeks for a few months now.”

“And this guy?” She studied the light-skinned DJ spinning records from the elevated stage.

“We hate him.”

“I mean, does he play here a lot?”

“Must. I think we’ve seen him here, like, three times already. This music’s shit, right?”

She shrugged. “Interesting enough, I guess. A little weird. I can’t even tell what I’m listening to.”

“That’s because he calls it art. He walks around the city with a computer recording street noises, then mixes it into his whole techno world music blend. It’s crap.”

Ellie took a look around the half-filled bar. “Decent enough turnout for crap.”

Jess made a sour face. “These people aren’t all here for him. Maybe those preppy douchebags over there. You only get a half hour at Gaslight unless the crowd gets so worked up that whoever’s supposed to take your spot decides it’s not such a great idea.”

“OK, that’s a little guerrilla.”

“Well, trust me, no one’s going to make a scene trying to buy more time for this Beck wannabe. Unless he’s come up with some new aural assault to close out with, I’m pretty sure this is his last song.”

They waited while Keith mixed and scratched his way to a crescendo, then abruptly halted the music. The crowd clapped politely, and the DJ flashed a peace sign before starting to pack his turntables, laptop, and other gear into a trunk.

Ellie nudged Jess, pushing him toward the stage.

“Oh, my God. Can you at least put me on the department payroll for this?”

She nudged him harder, and he led the way.

The DJ immediately recognized Jess and greeted him with a nervous smile. “Hey, man.” He avoided eye contact by continuing to focus on the packing of his equipment. “I didn’t realize you guys were playing tonight.”

“We’re not. I’m just hanging.”

“Hi,” Ellie said, offering a friendly handshake and an enthusiastic smile. “I’m Jess’s sister. Ellie Hatcher.”

“Keith Guzman.” Keith’s gaze shifted between her and her brother. “Sister, huh? Can’t say I can see the resemblance.”

This wasn’t the first time this observation had been made. Long, lanky Jess with his straight dark hair and angular face, the petite but curvy little sister with blond waves and full lips. And the differences went beyond the physical. Jess was flaky like their mom, Ellie stubborn and determined like their father. Jess, light as bubbles. Ellie, rock solid. Jess, who didn’t see the purpose of coming here. Ellie, who now had the elusive Keith’s last name.

“So, great music. Jess said you work sounds from the street into your mixes?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of my thing. An urban update on musique concrete.”

“What is musique coquette?”

“No, concrete. Like concrete. Literally translated, it’s concrete music. The original idea was that the components of music didn’t have to be singing or instruments. It started in Paris in the forties. The Beatles used it a little, but that was back when they had to use tapes. Now that everything’s digitized? It’s bananas, man. And I specifically use sounds from the streets of New York City. In theory I’m saying something important about the music of everyday life, like what Marcel Duchamp did for found art in the media of the tangible. It’s like found music.”

Ellie nodded along with interest. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Or,” Keith said with a laugh, “maybe it’s just a good jam.”

“And you play your mixes directly from your computer?” Ellie eyed the Apple laptop that still rested on the table between them and Keith.

“Yeah. The recordings are digitized so I can pretty much do whatever I want with them.”

“You can’t do all of that with just this one little MacBook though, can you? I assume you have a bunch of stuff at home, too.”