Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Read Free

sat.
    “If we owe anything, we can’t pay it. At least not until the last check clears. But we’re good for it, or at least he is,” Simon stated, pointing his finger at Andrew.
    The man smiled and took a seat before motioning to the bartender to replenish the empty glasses on the table. Curious silence held them together, as though they were watching each other through a zoo enclosure. Andrew especially felt the man’s scrutiny. Had they damaged something at the club? Was he some girl’s father? Was he a dealer? He knew Simon had been clean for years, so he couldn’t be a dealer. Christ, please let him not be a dealer.
    The tension finally got the better of Simon, and he asked, “And you would be?”
    “Neil St. John.”
    Andrew fell into his seat, not realizing he was still standing. His mind shot into overdrive. The name…he knew the name, but from where? Images flooded his consciousness first, as they always did, and then came the torrent of words and sounds: his favorite band, a television reporter, a face responding to questions. How do you account for The Fractures’ meteoric rise to success, when a few short months ago they were playing dive bars? Then the screen cut to a face that held a curt smile and feigned interest. They needed the proper help . The caption read Neil St. John. The Neil St. John. But he had retired after helping to produce The Compositions’ last album and was currently living in—oh, where the hell was it…San Francisco.
    No, it couldn’t be , Andrew thought. Bloody Christ. Evidently, Simon and Christian hadn’t put two and two together yet, or weren’t nearly as fazed as Andrew was by the fact that one of the world’s greatest managers now sat a few feet away from them.
    Perhaps that was for the best. The last thing Andrew wanted was for them to appear desperate, and Christian would never be able to control his excitement if he knew who this man truly was. Being in a band had never lost its initial thrill for him despite the sleepless nights, the rotten food, and the endless headaches. Getting someone like Neil St. John to back them would be huge. Beyond huge. Andrew felt his mouth go dry and his ADD make its way out of his hands as they began to play the underside of the table, fast and faster until he forced them flat in his lap.
    “I was impressed by what I heard tonight. It’s raw and needs work, a lot of work actually, but it’s got something, something that could be incredible if you do the right things. You recorded an album. On what label?”
    Andrew blinked, and his mind raced to comprehend the situation before him. “We don’t have one. It’s self-financed.” He was not sure this was what Neil wanted to hear, yet the man’s face gave nothing away. Christ, he had to stop his hands from shaking. Neil St. John. The Neil St. John.
    “No manager, no agent?”
    “Nothing.”
    “How do you do it?”
    “Well…” Andrew took a deep breath. How did they do it? In the beginning, they had hired one Mr. Lou Fratteni, a squat, paunchy chartered-accountant type from Liverpool who claimed he knew the business inside and out. He ended up disappearing one night with most of their money and Andrew’s best Cherryburst Les Paul. After that, they swore off the idea, deciding to manage the band on their own. It worked, or had worked for a while. Andrew knew they couldn’t go on like this forever though; they needed help. It was too much—too much work, too much tension, too much everything.
    “We manage pretty well. We exploit every form of social media we can get our hands on, and we’re obsessively fan driven. Arrange our shows where we can gather the most bodies. Like tonight, we knew a ton of our fans would show up if we could book that particular site. See, we can usually fill up houses that way, that and by word-of-mouth. There isn’t much left over for marketing—a little radio, flyers, and whatever the venue is willing to front.” Andrew wanted to sound