They were in his office – a big office, built to accommodate a band three times their size. Four expectant faces stared back at him from across his desk. Smooth skin, long hair, fraying cardigans – they were clearly riders of that hipster wave first surfed by the likes of Mumford and Sons, or The Black Keys. (And, judging by their proposed single, Bruce reflected, these kids were more likely to drown than to surf.) Unoriginal, unblooded. And unprepared for rejection.

He removed his headphones and sighed through his nose.

“Well?” said Andrew Caldwell, their agent. “Didn’t you love it?”

“The song has potential,” Bruce said.

“Potential? Are you serious?”

“I’m afraid so. Potential, but not much else”

Andrew stood and leaned on the back of his chair. He looked somewhat haggard, with bags under his eyes and at least a few days of growth on his cheeks. Maybe he’d found the bottle, like so many others of his profession. Andrew was one of the best agents in the music industry, representing names that drew big crowds to concerts and (even in the twenty-first century) to record stores. That kind of success can drive a person crazy – can send a weak person over the edge. He hadn’t pegged Andrew that way, but he’d been wrong before. Not very often, but it happened.

“This is a joke, right?” Andrew said, incredulous. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“I’m just being honest,” Bruce said. He turned to the band. “I’m sorry, but Long Neck Records is going to pass on this one.”

“What didn’t you like about it?” said one of the long-haired men, wearing a slack tank top over an emaciated frame. (Not actually emaciated, Bruce thought, but stylishly emaciated – that sinewy look that hasn’t gone out of style since the seventies.)

“I thought the song was overly refined,” he said, ignoring Andrew’s glare. “All that auto tuning, and those god-awful sound effects – you botched it in editing, tried too hard to make it a pop song, and that comes through more than anything else.”

“That makes no sense,” said the girl. A lip ring punctuated her sneer.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “But frankly, it sounds like the recreation of another band’s sound. If we put this out, hundreds of artists could come after us with copyright lawsuits – and we wouldn’t make enough money to pay them off. I’d lose on this one in spades, and I’m not in the business of losing – especially on obviously bad songs.”

One of the men – a cardigan-wearer – half-jolted from his seat, but was held back by a warning glare from the girl. The thin tank top wearer put an arm around his shoulder and eased him back to his seat. But the cardigan-wearer continued to glower at Bruce, his fists clenched and shoulders tensed.

“Criticism is difficult,” Andrew said evenly. “Rejection, even more so. Passions are high, Bruce, and this is a passionate group. Wouldn’t you say that passion is a valuable asset in this industry?”

“Sometimes,” Bruce said. He held a finger over the button under his desk, which would alert security. Passion was a valuable asset, Andrew was right there, but it was a volatile one – more like oil than gold. He’d learned over the years that it was best to keep something handy to extinguish that passion, in case there was ever a fire in his vicinity.

“Listen,” Andrew said, resuming his seat. “I get it, Bruce. I really do. Though I think you’re wrong about the single, I agree that there’s room for improvement.”

The cardigan-wearer turned that fiery gaze toward Andrew.

“Some room, Darcy,” Andrew said quickly. “Just some.”

“This is shit,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving Andrew.

“This is life,” Bruce said, not missing a beat. “Now shut up and let your agent do the talking. Otherwise I can have security drag you out of here by that stupid ponytail in the next ten seconds.”

Darcy looked between Bruce, Andrew, and the girl, then averted his stare, his foot bobbing up and down with frenetic energy.

Bruce turned to Andrew.

“You were saying?”

Andrew blinked, his cheeks drained of colour, then regained his composure.

“Right. Right. Anyway – passion. These guys have it, but they’re new to the industry. You know how it goes – kids get nervous, overcorrect, put something on the table that they think an executive like yourself would want to hear.”

Bruce nodded. He’d seen it before, young groups anxious to capture and recreate the sound of Taylor Swift or The Black Keys or Lady Gaga. But never with representation like Andrew Caldwell. That, at least, was a first.

“C’mon, Bruce, do I look like someone who would waste my own time? You and I both know my record; I haven’t brought you a dud in almost a decade. Trust me on this. Give these kids another shot. Let’s head down to the recording studio and let them play another song – no special sound effects or anything – and then you can make your judgement.”

Bruce mulled that one over. Andrew wasn’t often wrong about a band, so there was a chance he heard something Bruce didn’t. He sincerely doubted it, but there was always a chance.

After a pause, Bruce said, “Okay. One song.”

Andrew heaved a sigh of relief. The band high-fived and cheered (even the morose Darcy), that incipient rage melting away.

“You won’t regret this, Bruce,” Andrew said as the band stood to leave. “You or Long Neck Records.”

“Let’s hope not. I’ll give them a few minutes to warm up and get settled. After that, they’d better blow my socks off.”

“Let’s go, Andrew,” Darcy said, holding the door open.

Andrew Caldwell nodded and held out a hand for Bruce.

“I’ll see you down there soon?”

“Soon,” Bruce said, shaking Andrew’s hand.

With that, they left.

Bruce waited until he heard the elevator doors close – plunging the band towards their in-house recording studio in the basement – before he opened the note Andrew had slipped into his palm.

The message was short but clear enough: HELP ME.

–

“So how do you want to do this,” Vic said as they rode the elevator down.

Bruce smiled at that – had to, no way to stop himself. Vic, his head of security, would never ask if he should call the police if he could handle a situation himself. Cleaner that way, sometimes – quieter, almost always.

“Let’s just see what’s going on,” Bruce said. “Play it safe.”

He was rubbing the note – a pink Post-It that he recognized from his secretary’s desk – between his thumb and forefinger, like it were some sort of talisman. He had a rabbit’s foot as a kid but ended up throwing it away when he realized the right lie and the right song were more reliable – especially with girls. But the note made him nervous, like it was imbued with a kind of power. Panic. Fear. Desperation. He couldn’t seem to leave it alone.

“It might just be a joke,” he said with a halfhearted chuckle. “Like maybe those kids were driving him crazy and he needed help to escape them.”

“Could be,” Vic said, a slight dip in his tone suggesting disagreement.

“They seem obnoxious, and they’re not all that talented, based on their single.”

“The one with the ponytail – I didn’t like him.”

“I didn’t like him either. Darcy – that’s what Andrew called him.”

“Dumb name.”

“Agreed. Probably an allusion to Pride and Prejudice. These kids – act like they’re the only ones who went through high school English. I swear, I hear from a singer going by Hester Prynne at least once a year.”

Vic grunted again. “He seems too dumb to lie. Probably his real name.”

“Tell you what,” Bruce said as the elevator reached the basement. “Let’s make a bet. If I’m right, you owe me twenty bucks. If you’re right, I’ll owe you two hundred. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The elevator doors opened. The studio was divided into two halves, separated by a glass wall: the actual recording studio, filled with drums and guitars and tambourines, and the sound booth, where the geeks fiddled with knobs and levers to capture the perfect sound. The band were already behind the glass wall, adjusting their instruments, while Darcy sat before the dials in the recording studio, carefully adjusting the controls.

Andrew stood in a corner, tapping his foot on the checkered linoleum floor.

“Who’s this?” Andrew said, nodding toward Vic.

Darcy looked over his shoulder and seemed to tense. Vic stood by the elevator door, his wide shoulders and tree-trunk legs blocking nearly the entire metal slab.

“This is Vic, my head of security. I don’t go anywhere without him.”

“And – and is he the only one – the only person joining us?” Andrew asked.

“Why do you care,” Darcy said coolly.

“I don’t. I don’t. But, you know – I don’t want an audience to throw you guys or anything. I’m just –”

“Look,” Bruce said. “I came down here as a favor to Mr. Caldwell, but I’m not blessed with an uncluttered schedule. Either we get this show on the road, or I’m headed to my next appointment.”

That got a reaction from Darcy – a slight twitch of his eyebrows – but Bruce couldn’t tell what it meant. Was he suspicious? Was he nervous? Maybe he was wondering if it was normal to bring a bodyguard – a massive one, at that – to a small demo session. But whatever he thought, Darcy stood and joined the rest of the band in the recording studio.

Andrew stood beside him, watching as Darcy whispered something to the girl, who was seated behind the drums, and slung a guitar over his shoulder.

“They can’t hear us, right?” Andrew asked.

“Not yet. The intercom isn’t on. What’s going on, Andrew?”

“They kidnapped me six days ago,” Andrew said. Bruce didn’t have a chance to react before he said: “Don’t look away – look straight ahead. Right at them.”

Bruce felt cold panic break down his spine.

“If they suspect anything’s up, and I mean anything, they’ll start shooting. They’re armed – all of them. Said they’d kill us both – or the three of us, I guess, counting Vic.”

“Did you hear that, Vic?” Bruce said as loudly as he dared.

“I heard,” he said, unperturbed. Bruce’s anger flared at his insouciance; Vic was a physical menace, sure, but he stood little chance against four gunmen. Surely even a meathead like him could figure that out.

“What should we do?” he spat.

“Don’t know yet.”

“You don’t know yet?” Andrew said through clenched teeth.

“Nope,” Vic said. “Never been in this situation before.”

“Well for Christ’s sake –”

“Enough,” Bruce said. “We need to buy time.”

Darcy adjusted a few knobs on the guitar. The drummer stretched her fingers. The other two stood impatiently, their backs straight, posture impeccable. Were the guns tucked into their pants? He looked more closely at Darcy, who also kept his spine straight, and the girl, perfectly upright on her stool. If so, maybe they had a chance; it might take them a moment to pull their weapons and start shooting if their fingers and minds were otherwise occupied.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Bruce said, trying to move his lips as little as possible. Darcy’s eyes flitted between the sound booth and the guitar, but he didn’t seem alarmed. Not yet. “We’ll wait until they’re mid-song, when they’re distracted, and then we make a break for it. Open the elevator on my signal, Vic.”

“You want me to radio for more guys once we’re clear?” Vic asked. “Got a radio in the elevator.”

“No – no. They’re armed. This is a job for the police.”

“Police have guns. We have guns. What difference does it make? I can take care of them a lot faster.”

Bruce hesitated, then said: “Put your men on standby in case they make it upstairs. If they follow us up, we’ll do what we need to do.”

Darcy strummed his guitar, found the tune unappealing, and resumed tuning. The drummer tapped the bass drum. The tank-top wearer massaged the back of his neck.

“How did this happen,” Bruce hissed at Andrew.

“I’m sorry, Bruce – truly, I am.”

“Don’t waste time apologizing – just give me the facts.”

Andrew spoke, quickly and quietly. “They sent me a demo around two weeks ago – the song you heard upstairs. Of course I said no, but that didn’t sit well with them. They jumped me on my way back from the office, tied me up, smuggled me into an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. Darcy threatened all sorts of nasty shit, told me he’d kill me if I didn’t get him a record deal, but nothing happened. Well, nothing until yesterday, that is – I really thought he was going to cut my throat. If you haven’t guessed, he’s the one calling the shots.”

“I got that far on my own,” Bruce said. “Why did you bring them here? Why us?”

“Don’t be coy, Bruce. You and I both know that the most ruthless men in the industry don’t stop being ruthless at the foot of their office. I picked you because you’re ruthless.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said facetiously.

Just then Darcy knocked on the window. He pointed to a red switch, which Bruce then flipped.

“Okay,” Darcy said, his voice streaming through speakers hidden in the corners of the sound booth. “This is another track we’ve been working on, called “Taste of Your Tomorrow.”” He plucked the guitar strings. The drummer thumped the bass drum.

And then they started to play. Electric notes floated through the room. Darcy began to sing.

And Bruce felt himself begin to drift.

Andrew tried to move, like they had planned, but Bruce grabbed him by the shoulder and held him in place. He never looked away from the glass wall. Bruce was hooked – hooked in a way he hadn’t been in years. Darcy’s voice was steady and smooth, the kind of honey that sent the girls wild (and, more importantly, to the record store). The bass player hummed a steamy tune, deep and warm like a low fire on a cold night. Even the rhythm guitarist’s chord was distinct but not overly so, tying the whole thing together with a neat little bow. The perfect song. This band – stripped from all that computery nonsense – was the real deal.

And then it was over – before he even realized what was happening.

“Boss,” Vic said over his shoulder.

“Bruce, what the hell –”

He waved a dismissive hand at them and pushed the intercom button.

“Play that song again,” he said. “Right now.”

Darcy paused, looked around at his band mates, and kicked it off. The same thing happened, the same magic. The lyrics, the chords, the drum beat – each element perfectly folded and melted into the other. Already he could hear someone mumbling the chorus on the subway, or waiting in line at a Starbucks, or sitting in a cubicle waiting for the last minutes of four o’clock to expire. Already he could see the charts on his computer – digital sales, retail sales, concert sales – charts that rose higher and higher like a jagged mountain range. Already he could see himself cracking open a bottle of wine from the rack in the studio, proposing a toast while their song played in the background. His song.

“Play it again,” Bruce said.

And they did.

“That’s a good one,” Bruce said through the intercom when the had finished. The last strum of the electric guitar was still humming through the speakers. “That’s one hell of a song you’ve got there.”

The band celebrated on the other side of the glass. Hugs. High-fives. Long hair whipping like horse tails. They’d need a new look – something more distinct but not overly so. He could break that to them gently – definitely with Vic in the room. Maybe he should install metal detectors in the lobby, though that would certainly incite some chagrin from his heavy-metal artists, what with their lip-rings and eyebrow piercing and –

“You can’t be thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Andrew said, slapping off the intercom.

“How would you know what I’m thinking?” Bruce said. “You a psychic?”

“Come on, Bruce, don’t mess with me. You liked that song – you liked it a lot.”

“Like I said, it was a good song.”

“They kidnapped me. Hit me over the head and tied me up and held a knife to my throat until I agreed to represent them. They didn’t even give me water until I almost passed out from dehydration.”

“So they’re not responsible pet owners,” Bruce said lightly. “What kid didn’t forget to feed his goldfish or fill up the water bottle on his hamster cage? These things happen, Andrew.”

Andrew stared at him, his jaw hanging open. Bruce could feel Andrew’s mounting rage, like heat off sunbaked pavement.

“If you think for a second that I’m going to -”

Bruce slapped the intercom button and said: “Would you all mind coming in here for a moment?”

The band left their instruments and gathered in the sound booth. All sat in various chairs except Darcy, who stood with his arms folded, eyeing Andrew warily.

“So,” Bruce said, pulling the note from his pocket. “Andrew told me what’s going on here, and I’m assuming I’d be dead right now if I hadn’t liked that song of yours.”

He stared at Darcy, watched him think, watched him weigh the odds.

“There’s no point,” Bruce said, finishing the thought for him. “And, more importantly, it’d be a waste. I know what you were trying to do with that first song, but you did it the wrong way. Put too much technical veneer over it.”

“That song was fine,” Darcy said, obstinate to the last.

“That song was garbage, and the sooner you accept that the sooner we can do business. That song in there, “Taste of Your Tomorrow”,  that’s your sound, that’s what you need to keep making. Let the professionals take care of the digital work, but I don’t think it needs more than a little touching up. Once we have an album, we can -”

“There isn’t going to be an album,” Andrew said.

Bruce sighed. He knew how to handle artists – even violent artists – but agents weren’t in his wheelhouse.

“You bring up a good point, Andrew. Before we can move on, we need to do two things, or three things. Whether the third is required is dependent on everyone in this room.” He faced the band. “Remove all of your weapons and give them to Vic, that large gentleman by the door. You won’t be needing them anymore.”

The group, eager to comply now that their goal was within sight, removed the pistols from their waistbands. The girl, eyebrows jumping in sudden remembrance, reached into her blouse and removed a stiletto in a thin sheath. Vic accepted them wordlessly, unfazed, maybe even a little bored. Maybe he was looking forward to the action, Bruce thought. And maybe he’d get it – if that third step was required.

“Okay, okay,” Bruce said. “That’s step one. Now, step two – I need you all to apologize to Andrew here for the way you’ve treated him.”

“Apologize?” Darcy said.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Andrew said, rubbing his temples.

“That’s right. Apologize. All of you. Apologize or this deal goes nowhere.”

Their eyes drifted around the room, connecting with each other, some looking at Vic. He had the knife, unsheathed, in one hand and a pistol in the other. Bruce made a mental note to give Vic a raise; he knew how to scare the shit out of people, if nothing else.

“I’m sorry,” said the skinny bassist. “We shouldn’t’ve done what we’d done. We know that now.”

“Yeah,” concurred the rhythm guitarist. “Absolutely. Huge apology, man.”

“We were wrong,” said the drummer. “That’s not any way to treat a person. It – it was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.”.

“You bet your ass it won’t,” muttered Andrew.

They all turned to Darcy. His arms were folded. His cheeks were suffused with a baleful red, like wine spilled on a tablecloth.

“Darcy,” Bruce said evenly. “Whether or not that third thing happens is totally up to you. I don’t want to, but I will if I have to.”

He huffed through his nostrils. “Fine,” Darcy said. He turned to Andrew. “I’m sorry we had to kidnap you. I’m sorry you were made uncomfortable for a few days so we – the four of us – could accomplish our lifelong dream. I’m sorry we had to be somewhat drastic so you would do your job right.”

Andrew snarled. “You snot nosed -”

“Darcy,” Bruce said imperiously. “How about you try that again.”

“Nah – fuck that,” he said. “I did what I had to do. If I hadn’t, we’d be stuck doing gigs in coffee shops and strip malls. And when that got old, we’d wander into our respective cubicles, pickle our brains for a few decades, and then wonder where our goddam dreams went. I took action instead, and I’m not going to apologize for that.”

“Don’t be stupid,” hissed the girl. She eyed Vic warily.

“I’m not being stupid, Carla. Grow a backbone.”

“She’s right,” Bruce said. “You are being stupid. The only way this was going to work was if you could patch things up with Andrew. But I’m assuming that’s not going to happen.”

“Not a chance,” Andrew said, fists clenched. “You’re going to rot in a cell. Good luck signing with a label then; I’m sure producers will be tripping over themselves for an aged hipster who’s been -”

“He gets it, Andrew,” Bruce interrupted, running a hand through his thinning hair. “He gets it.”

Bruce turned to Vic, who nodded once in response. He never doubted that his head of security understood him implicitly.

“Last chance,” he said to Darcy.

But the kid was too far gone, too consumed with youthful pride to turn back now. Bruce thought it might take a few decades before he could truly realize his mistake, for the guilt to fully weigh around his neck like the albatross that it was. He shook his head.

“Okay,” Bruce said. “Go ahead, Vic.”

Vic crossed the room in three strides – his boots heavy on the tiles.

He grabbed Andrew by the hair and brought the stiletto across his throat.

A stream of blood spilled from his neck – nothing like the movies, Bruce thought – slow and viscous, almost like oil. Andrew went pale, that rage curdling into shock and panic. He gasped a ragged gasp.

Vic dropped him. He shook on the checkered tiles, a puddle quickly forming around his head.

Bruce grabbed Darcy by the back of the neck and forced him down, forced him to watch as Andrew died.

“This is what happens,” Bruce said through gritted teeth. “This is what happens when you don’t listen.”

The puddle began to grow, spreading slowly and smoothly like honey, painting the tips of their shoes.

Eventually Andrew stopped twitching; his choked breathing subsided.

Darcy sobbed – dry sobs, the cry of someone unaccustomed to crying. Bruce threw him towards the others – their faces pallid and still. Darcy lay on the ground like a ragdoll.

“Now that was ugly,” Bruce said. “But I’ve seen uglier.”

“You – you just – he was your -” muttered the bassist.

“That’s right. He was my friend and I had him killed anyway. If that doesn’t tell you anything about my priorities, then perhaps Vic’s work isn’t done here today.”

The band, again, sat in silence. Darcy rose and sat beside the drummer. He tried to hold her hand but she tugged it away.

“You,” Vic said, raising a bloody finger to Darcy.

Darcy stared back, visibly shaking.

“Darcy – that your real name?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Darcy nodded.

“Told you, boss,” Vic said. “That’ll be two hundred dollars.”

“Add it to my tab. I’m assuming you can clean this up?”

“Yeah. No problem. Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Perfect. And I’ll give you the address of a certain abandoned factory in a few. Burning it down might be the safest course of action, but I’ll defer to your judgement on that.”

With that, Vic dragged Andrew by his feet out of the studio. Good thing Bruce had the rug ripped up years ago, when he took over Long Neck Records; the body left a trail, like some sort of hellish slug, as Vic dragged him away. He’d never see Andrew again, but that was okay. It wasn’t the first time Vic had to perform a little trick like that – and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Besides, this was business. Not personal. Never personal.

“So,” Bruce said, clapping his hands together. “How do you kids feel about signing a contract without an agent? Should save you a cool ten percent.”

No one responded. Darcy stared at his sneakers, the soles coated in Andrew’s blood.

“I know, I know,” Bruce said. “Shocking stuff. But hey – it’s like you said, Darcy. I did what I had to do. Surely you can sympathize with that.”

He folded his arms and stared into the recording studio. That song – he couldn’t get it out of his head.

“Tell you what. Let’s put all this on pause for now. How about you guys play that song for me one last time – this time with the recorder on.”

“Hey – hey, listen,” Darcy said, diffident. “I don’t think we have it in us right now.”

“I don’t really care,” Bruce said. “And I wasn’t really asking.”

And as they strapped themselves into their instruments, looking exhausted and shell-shocked and unspeakably defeated, Bruce opened a bottle of wine. He’d need to get the address of where they had kept Andrew, but that could wait. For now he wanted to listen to that song one last time – at least until he could get the recording on his iPod – and to drink a glass of overpriced wine while they played. And if they didn’t get it right this time, he’d make them play it again. And again. And again. Bruce knew that breaking a band was like breaking a horse – all he needed was persistence and a whip.