FAREWELL GHOST

Musicians, Clay thought. Obviously musicians.
The first one was tall and lean, with a full beard, hair that fell below his shoulders, and black jeans that looked like they cut off the circulation in his legs. His friend was shorter, but broader, with spiked hair, twelve-hole Docs, and a retro bowling shirt scissored at the shoulders to show his tattoos off.
The girl was last to step into the light, but Clay’s heart clenched when he saw her. This was nothing new—Clay habitually fell for pretty faces and shapely bodies (even regular faces and okay bodies)—but what he felt at that moment was stronger. Pure magnetic pull. The girl had long, very dark hair, some of it braided, some hanging loose. Her jeans and T-shirt described aesthetically pleasing curves, and she moved with a stride that spoke of natural, impeccable rhythm. In a word, she was sublime; in two, drop-dead sublime.
Clay shifted behind the gate to watch her, bracelets clacking, heading for the black punch-drunk van that had delivered her here. They were walking single-file, and the likeness between them and Rocket Throne’s iconic album art wasn’t lost on their voyeur: Two guys and a girl, their clothing, attitude, the shadows reaching out toward the Hopperian darkness beyond the pool of streetlight. Were they doing it on purpose? Would he ever see them again to find out?
“Hey!” Clay called, before he knew what he was doing.
And the spike-haired one jumped a foot off the ground.
The guy with the beard caught sight of Clay’s shadow at the gate and flinched. “Shit!”
The girl barely moved. Just pivoted toward Clay’s voice. Her eyes found and locked on his. “Hey yourself,” she called back.
For a second, Clay had the urge to pull a Boo Radley and bolt. He gripped the wrought iron, willing himself to stay. “I just moved in,” he managed.
The girl’s boots clomped the blacktop as she closed in. Her companions trailed behind, naturally conceding to her leadership. She was about Clay’s age, which was to say a few years out of high school, but still young enough to be mistaken for a college student at places that offered student discounts. “We knew Dave Ganek,” she told him.
“He came by our shop a lot,” Beard added. “He was friendly about everything ’cept giving us a tour of the property.” His sly eyes ran from the girl back to Clay. “How about you?”
“Oh, um…” Smitten as he was, Clay wasn’t letting strangers in in the dead of night. “I don’t have the remote for the gate right now.”
“Got it,” Beard shot back. “You want to, but you just can’t.” He started to leave, but the girl collared him.
“Don’t be a dick. He doesn’t know us and we’re creeping around his property.” She offered Clay a smile that turned his legs to jelly. “You’re new to the 818, huh?”
“I grew up in Philly. I’m Clay. Um, Harper.”
“I’m Savy.” She stuck her hand through the gate.
Clay squeezed the soft flesh, warm at the palm, cool along the back of her hand. “You are?” “Short for Savannah. The tatted-up cat over here goes by Spider and this rude, bearded mother answers to Joe Belasco. ‘Fiasco’ Joe Belasco to his very few friends.”
“Don’t ask us if we’re a band,” Fiasco said. “We’re not.”
“For the record, though, we totally are,” Spider said.
“Cool. What do you call yourselves?”
Fiasco Joe offered Clay a shadowy sneer. “The Quiet Desperations of Calcut—”
“Currently between names,” Savy said. “Do you play?”
“A little guitar…” Clay replied, and thankfully stopped himself before, Six hours, minimum, every single day. But not before he could babble: “…and some vocals. But nothing professional. Just, you know, shower performances.”
At this point, Clay realized he was still shaking Savy’s hand and released her. Her stare kept on him. What she saw—close-set eyes, ski-jump nose, skinny arms, hair too thick and cowlicked to ever be shaped into something cool—couldn’t have inspired her. “We should jam some time.”
Clay nodded emphatically. And he knew what she was doing, buttering him up, shining him on so he’d give them a tour of the house, but who cared? What few friends he had in this life now lived a continent away. There was no one in his immediate orbit except his father, and his father was starting a new job in the morning and would be gone more times than not. So Clay pressed his face a little closer to the gate, a little closer to Savy, the new love of his life, and he felt bold. “Where do I find you?”
“Come down to the shop,” Fiasco Joe told him. “We’re always around.”
Spider pointed out one of the hundred stickers pasted to the back of their doomed-looking vehicle. “Dooley’s Den of Music. Down, down, down on Glenoaks.”
Accepting that there would be no tour tonight, the trio withdrew. Savy turned once before she disappeared into the side of the van. “Be seeing you, Clay.”
And Clay lingered at the gate, waving when Spider tooted the horn and swung around. It was only after they’d vanished that Clay realized none of them had been carrying a guitar.

2
THE PRETENDER
He swore to let a week pass before seeking Savy out. But the morning after meeting her, Clay’s desire was a different animal. He needed to ground the dream-like quality of their introduction, make it real again. More, he needed to know if he was compatible enough to play with Savy. Musically speaking.
Just before noon, Clay drove downhill into Burbank and passed Dooley’s Den twice before spotting the store front, a hole in the wall sandwiched between a laundromat and a toy-train shop. Its sign was faded entirely white and the windows were tinted so dark you couldn’t make out anything in the display. The place looked like a drug front. A facade stolen from a ghost town. Exactly the sort of dump that real musicians hung out in.
The door gave a cheerful bong-doonnnnng! as Clay entered. It was a music shop alright—marching drums, a piano, and cellos crowded the floor space;