Talent Scout



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  Talent Scout copyright ©2013 by Russell C. Connor

  All applicable copyrights and other rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, for any purpose, without the express, written permission of the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review, or as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

  This is a work of fiction. While some names, places, and events, are historically correct they are used fictitiously to develop the storyline and should not be considered historically accurate. Any resemblance of the characters in this book to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

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  Also by Russell C. Connor

  NOVELS

  The Jackal Man

  Race the Night

  Whitney

  Finding Misery

  Sargasso

  Good Neighbors

  COLLECTIONS

  Howling Days

  Killing Time

  THE BOX OFFICE OF TERROR TRILOGY

  Second Unit

  Director’s Cut

  EBOOK FORMAT

  Outside the Lines (Novella)

  Dark World (Novelette)

  Talent Scout (Short Story)

  Endless (Short Story)

  THE DARK FILAMENT EPHEMERIS

  Volume 1: Through the Deep Forest

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  PRAISE FOR RUSSELL C. CONNOR’S WORK:

  GOOD NEIGHBORS

  Silver Medal Winner: Independent Publisher Awards

  Bronze Medal Winner: Readers’ Favorite Awards

  “Connor’s ability to richly develop each character and plot thread is fascinating even when the horror is reserved…the constricting pressure as the dread piles on makes this book hard to put down and even harder to go to sleep after reading. This is a great novel…”

  -David J. Sharp, Horror Underground

  SECOND UNIT

  “Intricately plotted and vividly layered with suspense, emotional intensity and strategic violence.”

  -Michael Price, Fort Worth Business Press

  “Drips with eeriness…an enjoyable book by a promising author.”

  -Kyle White, The Harrow Fantasy and Horror Journal

  FINDING MISERY

  “Major-league action, car chases, subterfuge, plot twists, with a smear of rough sex on top. Sublime.”

  -Arianne “Tex” Thompson, author of Medicine for the Dead and One Night in Sixes

  THE JACKAL MAN

  “Connor delivers a brisk, action-packed tale that explores the dark forests of the human—and inhuman—heart. Sure to thrill creature fans everywhere.”

  -Scott Nicholson, author of They Hunger and The Red Church

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  “Here’s one.” Finnell pushed his narrow glasses up his nose and read off the laptop screen. “‘Spacious quarters open to any member of the music community. Can accommodate any size group overnight on short notice, with meals included. Call for address and directions.’”

  “Shit, they’re willin to feed us, too?” Dragen twisted around in the driver’s seat of the van to look in the rear, where Finnell lay sprawled on the filthy mattress they kept back there. “Sounds like a fuckin winner to me.”

  “Wait, hold on. In the space for payment at the bottom, they put, ‘Other.’”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So that could mean anything. What if it’s some guy that wants us to give him a blowjob?”

  “Dude, for a free meal and the pleasure of not havin to share a bed with you two ginks, I will happily gargle a little of the ol’ white gravy.”

  “Funny, where I have heard that before? Oh yeah, your mom’s house. Last night. Boom.”

  Dragen grinned. Gave him the finger. Looked up at Rafe. “Whatcha think, man?”

  Rafael Lincozzi barely heard this question. He sat unmoving in the passenger seat and stared out the sloped front window of the vehicle. Out there, the last of the concertgoers poured through the front doors of the convention center where Warp Face had just played their best show so far. The gig opening for Ironhorse had popped up at the last minute, and they’d driven five hours upstate just to spend twenty-eight minutes on stage, but, god, had it been worth it. A furious, sweat-drenched set of the five hardest songs from their self-produced album, and the crowd—the largest they’d ever played for, all greasy, long-haired metalheads of a breed that was slowly dying out—ate that shit up. Rafe had pushed his voice until his throat was raw.

  But the best part had come after the show, when Dave Marchance had grabbed him in one of the back hallways of the arena while Finnell and Dragen were loading equipment on the trailer. Rafe might not’ve recognized the lead singer of Ironhorse without his trademarked face paint if not for the fact that he was still in his stage costume.

  “’Ey man, bloody ‘ell good show you knobbers put on!”

  “I…heh…thanks!” Rafe had stammered. “You too!”

  Marchance shook his long main of jet black hair emphatically. “No, no, my son, I’m not shinin you on, I’m serious as a toaster in a bathtub! You guys are goin somewhere, mark my words! ‘Specially you, with a set a pipes like ‘at!”

  Rafe had been incapable of answering. This was the Dave Marchance, after all. Sure, Ironhorse wasn’t exactly packing them in these days (was, in fact, stuck playing venues like this after their last album dropped like a brick on a concrete floor), but once upon a time, they’d been a mega, world-touring powerhouse. This man’s voice might be for shit now, but he was still a legend of the hard rock scene, a pioneer of the screeching vocals that helped Rafe survive his formative years, and now here he stood, not just complimenting to be polite, but taking the time to make sure Rafe knew it was sincere.

  Marchance seemed to sense the overload in his brain. One corner of his mouth pulled up, bunching all the wrinkles on his face into one big gaggle of crow’s feet. He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it over. “This is our agent, my good son. I’ll tell ‘at bastard to expect you. Give ‘im a call next week and see about gettin yourselves some decent shows.”

  Rafe only nodded. He thought if he spoke he might burst into tears, which was a decidedly un-metal thing to do.

  With that, Marchance sketched a quick salute and walked away. Rafe still hadn’t told Finnell or Dragen about it yet. He wanted to keep it to himself for a while, this moment between him and one of his heroes.

  Now, Dragen reached out and smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey Rafe, dude, you gonna cast your vote here?”

  He came out of the daydream as Finnell crawled forward and shoved the laptop across his legs. Rafe scanned the entry under the lodgings tab on starvingbands.com, an online musician community. Since paying for even the cheapest motel room would pretty much destroy their profit margin, they’d used the website to find free places to stay for their last three out-of-town gigs. Two of which turned out to be the basements of metalheads that snuck them into the house while their parents were asleep, but the last one had actually been a very sweet middle-aged Mormon couple that gave them milk, sugar-free cookies, and cheese sandwiches, and asked only that they not ‘pray to the devil’ under their roof.

  “I dunno, sounds okay, I guess.” He glanced at the dash clock. It was closing in on 1 AM. “Kinda late though. We really shoulda tried to find something before we went on stage.”

  Dragen tucked his w
avy brown locks behind his ear and pointed at the screen. “Says right there, ‘on short notice’! They shouldn’ta put that if they don’t wanna be woken up in the middle of the night, dude!”

  Rafe sighed. “All right, gimme the phone.”

  As Finnell handed him the prepaid cell they collectively owned, there was a knock on the driver’s side window that made them all jump. Standing beside the vehicle were two girls in their late teens or early twenties, one with long black hair that fell in parallel plaits down her back, the other with a short, chunky cut that looked like a rainbow had vomited on it. Both were dressed in Goth chic: shredded t-shirts two sizes too big that hung off the shoulders, short skirts a hair away from futility, fishnet stockings, boots. All black, of course. Jesus, the one girl’s hair probably had more color in it than both of their wardrobes combined.

  Dragen straightened and rolled down his window. “Uh…yeah?”

  “Hey, you guys are Warp Face, right?” Rainbow Brite asked. At least three metal studs glinted from her nostrils, and another on her tongue. “We caught your show. You guys fuckin rocked out there.”

  “Shit yeah, we did!” Dragen howled at the sky and pounded the outside of the van door. “I’m Dragen, this is my boy, Rafe. You want an autograph? Preferably on somethin with nipples?”

  Their eyes flicked across to Rafe, the dark-headed one raising one hand to chew nervously at a nail before giving him a little wave. Rainbow Brite said, “I’m Kate, this is Stacy. Actually, we just wanted to see if you were as hot in person as you were on stage.”

  Finnell darted forward, squeezed his torso between the two front seats, leaned over Dragen, and extended a hand out the window. “’Sup ladies. I’m Finnell. The drummer.”

  Dragen stared at him in disgust. “Dude, a handshake? What are you, in seventh grade?”

  They both climbed in the back to open the sliding side door. Rafe let his drummer and bassist talk to their new friends while he dialed the number from the ad. This would be easier to do without them hanging over his shoulder anyway. The line was picked up on the third ring, and a cautious male voice asked, “Hello?”

  “Hey, I’m really sorry to be calling so late. I got this number from an ad on starvingbands.com. One that offers, uh, free lodging and meals?” He winced at the plaintive tone of his own voice. He wasn’t a beggar by nature, and this kind of gratuitous reliance on the kindness of strangers always felt one step above panhandling. Even if these people did put out an ad inviting it.

  But the voice on the other end completely transformed. “Yes, yes!” it said, cheerful and happy, but with the telltale tremble of the elderly. “Oh good, I always welcome company of the musical bent! To whom am I speaking?”

  “My name’s Rafael Lincozzi. I’m the front man for a band called Warp Face.”

  “Warp Face, you say? Let me guess, you play some variety of heavy metal music? Crashing cymbals, screeching guitars, too loud for your own good?”

  “Yep, that’s us.” Here it came; Rafe expected to be hung up on at any second.

  “How delightful! You may call me Mr. Delacord.”

  Rafe found himself chuckling at the man’s exuberanance. Something about his speech mannerisms was reminiscent of a grand old stage performer; a magician, perhaps. Outside the van, the quiet girl named Stacy locked eyes with Rafe over Dragen and Finnell’s shoulders. Her friend seemed to be doing most of the talking out there, while the two guys nodded along. “Yeah well, we just finished up a gig out here at the Payton Convention Hall and we could really use a place to crash tonight. If it’s a bother, I totally understand.”

  “Not a problem, my dear boy! How many will you be?”

  “Three.”

  “Wonderful, let me give you directions.” Rafe used the laptop to type in the list of roads that Delacord gave him. “At this time of night, it shouldn’t take you more than twenty minutes or so to arrive.”

  “All right, see you then!” Rafe ended the call, realizing only afterwards that he never even asked what that ‘Other’ meant under the payment column of the ad. Too late now; if Delacord was in the mood for a hummer, Dragen would have to step up and deliver as promised.

  “We got it,” he said. Stacy continued staring, but no one else seemed to have heard him over Kate. “We finished here?”

  Dragen leaned back on his elbows and whispered, “Dude, they’re groupies! Our very first groupies! We can’t waste this!”

  “Yeah, well, this guy is expecting us. Sounds like an old man. I don’t wanna put him out.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought we were a metal band, not male nurses at the old folk’s home.”

  Behind him, Kate added, “We’re totally up for going with you guys to party. Aren’t we, Stace?”

  “Uh huh,” Stacy concurred, holding Rafe’s gaze with her large, moist, brown eyes. “Totally.”

  “Sorry, but no partying for us tonight. The only place we’re going is to sleep.”

  “That’s cool, too,” Kate said. “We were hoping we could crash with you guys anyways. Then maybe you could drop us off at the bus station in the morning?”

  “I just told this guy there would only be three of us.”

  “Jesus, let’s just give it a try!” Dragen insisted. “If the old fuck isn’t cool with a couple of additional hotties, I’ll spring for a Motel 6. My treat.” He held his fingers intertwined in front of his chest, pleading where the girls couldn’t see.

  It was Stacy that Rafe looked at as he finally said, “Fine. Get in and let’s see if we can find the place.”