home yet.
Ross squeezes himself between Philip and the singer with another round of shots.
“No more of this,” Art says, stepping in. “I mean it. No more!”
“Little Bitty Pretty One” ends and Sonny James’s “Young Love” begins. It’s not yet noon and the regulars are watching the Danes. These men, veterans of the First World War, have been here since eight.
Larry starts dancing with the manager of the Sparklers. Art looks like a child in his arms. The drummer of the Sparklers unbuttons his shirt.
“There he goes,” Ross says to Philip. “He’ll be a drunk in no time.”
The Sparklers are getting loose. Strange dance moves. The guitarist is kissing a poster featuring an actress from a new monster movie, From Hell It Came.
The front door opens and daylight cuts a fresh silhouette of a man in the door.
Philip doesn’t see him.
“Think we’re ready to record?” the Sparkler asks Larry.
Larry smiles but shakes his head no.
“In about another twenty years.”
He twirls the kid.
Philip feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns.
The face he sees, the pale blue eyes, the set jaw, the manicured hair, is more familiar than it is friendly.
Military, Philip thinks. He hasn’t seen a face like this one in a long time. Veterans are one thing, and they change through the years. But the men who give orders do not.
The Path, it seems, is unsteady now. Different footing.
“Philip Tonka?” the man asks.
“Yeah?”
A serious expression grips the lower half of the man’s face, but his eyes still sparkle. Nothing shines, Philip thinks, exactly like military.
Could it be? Here?
“You a fan of the Danes?” Philip asks, hopeful, yet staring at a ghost, an era he thought was over.
The man nods.
“Yes. I am.”
Philip notices the man’s pressed suit. The lint-free overcoat.
“You looking to record a song?” Philip asks. But he’s only stalling.
“My name is Jonathan Mull. Join me for a drink?”
“We’re in the middle of a session.”
Mull surveys the bar. Takes it in.
“This will only take a moment.”
But Philip knows it’s going to be longer than that.
He leads the man to a booth. On the way, Duane watches. Philip meets his drummer’s eyes and they share a silent worry.
Military? Here?
“You’re an army man?”
Mull slides into one side of the booth, Philip the other.
“Good eye. Military intelligence. Most of my colleagues know me as Secretary Mull. This is about an opportunity for you and the rest of the Danes.”
“A gig?”
“Of sorts.”
“Where?”
“Well, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Let’s talk, then.”
“Africa.”
Philip has a hard time believing this. Maybe it’s the shots. Maybe it’s the military.
“That’s gonna cost a lot of money.”
“We’re certainly going to pay you. A considerable amount. A lot. But this gig is a little different from what you’re used to.”
“How different is different?” Hope in Philip’s voice. What already feels like a memory, the last vestige of levity.
Mull tents his fingers on the tabletop.
“You won’t be playing any music with this gig. You won’t be making any noise at all. In fact, you’ll be listening for a particular sound instead.”
Philip looks to his bandmates. He feels a sudden longing, as if painfully watching the way the world used to be.
The Path.
Has he stepped off?
“What kind of sound?” Philip asks, turning back to face the military, to face the change.
“A sound you’ve never heard,” the man says.
And Philip doesn’t doubt it. Doesn’t have any reason to believe that anything is familiar where this man wants to send them.
“Can I hear it?”
“Not here.”
“Why not?”
Mull pauses.
“As you know, Private Tonka, the army’s primary function is to protect the country’s citizenry.”
Philip smiles, but not because what the man has said is funny.
“What kind of sound could put people in danger?”
Mull places his elbows on the table and for a beat Philip sees the top of a reel jutting from the breast pocket of his suit coat. Mull’s eyes travel to Philip’s lips, as if asking him to remove the smile.
It isn’t applicable here, he says without words.
“A malevolent one, Private Tonka.”
Philip is still thinking about that reel.
“You make it sound like it’s alive.”
Mull leans back in the booth again.
“Let’s go somewhere quieter to talk.”
As if cued, the ruckus behind them rises. Larry is lifting one of the Sparklers by the waist.
“Wonderland,” Mull suggests.
“To talk,” Philip repeats.
He could stop this now. Whatever this is. He could say no. I like it here. I don’t wanna go anywhere else. You can’t make us.
“To
