Black Gold Read Free Page A

wasn't really a lie, since none of the recordings were here in Conway. They were all sitting in a storage unit back in Red Fork, Arkansas, along with his father's war medals and the silver comb and brush that had belonged to the mother he didn't remember, who had died when he was three years old.
    "Well, we can work around that."
    Chase pushed through the door, back into the din of the bar, but he didn't want to be a complete jerk, so he turned around and faced Carl. "Look, it was sure nice to meet you, and I'm flattered that you liked my singing, but that was just for fun. I don't do it professionally."
    "But you might be able to. Not to be crass, but what can you pull down, working on an oil rig up here? Thirty, forty thousand a year?"
    More like eighty , Chase thought but didn't say. Since the boom began, a shortage of workers meant you could make a lot of money if you were willing to work hard. In a couple years, he'd have saved more money than he'd earned in the entire ten years since high school. Which was a hell of an irony, since—thanks to Gerald—he didn't have to work much at all any more. If he was careful, he could probably make his inheritance last another ten years.
    But now that Gerald was dead, that chapter of his life was over.
    "I do all right," he said, in a steelier tone than he intended.
    Carl didn't look offended. "What I'm talking about is you doing more than all right. I'm talking about getting you in front of a crowd that can appreciate you, making the kind of money that really adds up." He stepped a little closer, which Chase had to give him credit for, since he was pretty sure he didn't smell very good. He, Jimmy, and Zane had just come off a three-week hitch without a day off, and he'd barely managed a shave and a clean shirt before coming out tonight.
    "But that's not what you really want, is it?" Carl continued. "You want to sing. I've known enough guys like you to see it. The way you handle the guitar. Your first line as smooth as the last. Need to find out who writes for you, by the way, but we'll get to that."
    Chase edged away from him. "Don't know what you're talking about," he muttered, not meeting Carl's eyes. "It's just a hobby."
    "Hobby, my ass. But all right. You go party with your friends. Enjoy your birthday. You have my card. Give me a call tomorrow, and we'll get this thing rolling."
    "I really don't think—"
    Carl tipped an imaginary hat. A black one, no doubt. "Don't fight it, my friend. You were born to be a star."
     
    *   *   *
     
    "We are never going to drink our way out of this," Zane said, gazing at the row of shot glasses. Each held top shelf tequila courtesy of Carl Cash, who'd slipped the bartender a stack of bills before leaving.
    "I got a solution for that," Chase said. He turned to the audience, which was settling back into their seats as Sherry/Stiletta came back on stage and started tuning her guitar. She was a good kid—he just hoped she was tough enough for the big city ways and hard-edge business side of Nashville. Ever since she'd taken up residence in the Tar Barn, she'd been like a little sister to the rest of them. A guy like Carl Cash, if he pushed her too hard, could have her in over her head before she had time to catch her breath. Chase made a mental note to go visit her in the Tar Barn tomorrow and make sure she was handling it all okay.
    But that was tomorrow's problem. Today's was lined up on the bar. "Hey, Grover, Rickshaw, Tadpole—drinks on me!" he shouted, getting the attention of some guys he worked with on the rig. Even though they could all afford to drink in the swankier establishments in town, where oilmen lined up four deep at the bar trying to talk to the few women, these were the sort of boys who preferred to drive a few miles out of the way to find a place that reminded them of home.
    "Hey, happy birthday, man," Rickshaw Jones said, picking up a couple of the shot glasses and draining them in a row. "What are you now, old man,