Christie Road

"Thanks," Mike said as the waitress set two fragrant baskets of steaming bread sticks on the table. Four hands dove in immediately, and the conversation paused for a moment as they savored the soft goodness. Finally, the silence was broken by the newest member of the Cinelli's mafia.

"Guys, here's the bottom line. We'd like to record an EP to distribute through Lookout, with an up-front advance on royalties of $2,500. We can wait to see how it performs before we sign a contract for anything after that. My guess is this is going to sell, and sell fast. We'll publicize it through the 'zines, and I've got two more shows with Gilman lined up for you that should stir up interest."

Mike and Billie exchanged nervous glances, while Tre calmly dipped his bread into the bowl of pizza sauce. "What about touring?" Billie asked. "Isn't that something we should be talking about?"

Lawrence nodded. "You're getting ahead of me, but in a word, yes. Again, we need to give the record time to drop and gain some momentum--after all, it's your first release. But with that under your belt, we'll call and book some shows for summer and fall. How are you fixed for transportation?"

"We'll manage," Billie said a little sheepishly. The old bookmobile was well-maintained by Tre's dad, and would probably give them little or no trouble, but it was less than sexy, for sure.

"Okay, then, I guess all that's left is the autographs." He slid the pages of the distribution agreement across the table with a pen, and Billie and Mike scrawled their signatures across the bottom.

"Tre, we need you, too," Mike said, kicking him under the table.

The drummer looked up in surprise. "What?" he said, red pizza sauce lining his upper lip and spotting the front of his shirt.

"Do you want to make this record or not?" Billie asked impatiently.

"Sure!" Tre grinned. "I'd love to! When do we start?"

"As soon as you write your name down here--and don't print, either!" he warned.

"Aw, you're no fun. You're like my math teacher from sixth grade!"

"Yeah, and I'll be like your worst nightmare if you get food all over it," he growled. "So how many gigs do you think we're talking about?" he said, turning back to Lawrence.

The older man rubbed his temples for a moment in thought. "I know about twelve that I'm positive will want to sign you up. There's about twenty, twenty five more that stay pretty booked, but once they hear your demo I think it's probably a done deal. And once word starts getting out, there's maybe forty or fifty other clubs and bars that'll want to get you fresh out of the gate."

Billie did some quick calculations on his fingers. "Shit, we'll be gone for like, a year!" Mike's jaw sagged at the idea.

Lawrence nodded calmly. "Yeah, that'd be about right. Why, you got some little hottie you can't leave?" he grinned. Billie's face slowly turned crimson. "You do, don't you?"

"No, I'm just thinking about not being around to help my mom--"

"Oh, no way, I'm calling bullshit on that!" Mike interrupted. "You know good and damn well your mom is twice the woman most mothers are, so it'll be less work for her without your crusty ass laying around. It's all about Lani, and you know it!"

Billie's eyes flashed. "You want to watch that," he said, his voice low and even so it was impossible to miss the threat.

Lawrence was still smiling at them, and shook his head. "Boys, I hate to tell you this, but you're going to have to make a choice. Steady girls and the road don't mix. I've seen plenty of guys try to do it, and it never works. There's just too much opportunity out there, and contrary to popular belief, absence does not make the heart grow fonder."

"Whoo hoo! Opportunity sounds good to me!" Tre crowed, pumping his fists in the air. "Bring it on!"

Billie rolled his eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of being a slut?"

Tre looked genuinely astonished. "Why would I ever get tired of that?" he asked innocently.

"Forget it," Billie grumbled, waving backhandedly. "Larry, it's not a problem. I'm just not a groupie kind of guy." He thought of Lani's soft blond curls, her tan arms winding around his neck, and couldn't imagine wanting anyone else more.

Again, the wise smile spread across the older man's face. "Okay, have it your way. I've known a lot of guys who felt the same way. Funny thing is, every time I'd see them at a party, they'd have a half-dressed girl on each knee."

Mike smirked. "That'll be you, Bill," he said, leaning over to elbow his friend. "You know they can't resist you and your devilish charm."

Billie didn't look up. "I don't give a fuck what 'they' can or can't resist. I'm not interested."

"Okay, guys, I think we're done for today," Lawrence said, pushing back from the table. "Call Diana at the studio and she'll walk you through the process and reserve you some time. Just let me know if you have any questions, and I'll drop by when you come in." He shook hands all around, and just as the pizza arrived, he waved his goodbyes and headed outside.

"So that's how it happens," Mike said, still a little amazed at it all. "I always wondered what it felt like when you got a break. I guess now we know."

Twenty minutes later, the pizza still sat half untouched, but the excitement around the table more than satisfied them. They were completely absorbed in making plans, hashing out the songs they wanted to work on, and food was the last thing on their minds. Finally, noticing the light beginning to fade, Billie reached for his wallet and fished inside for his share of the bill.

"What the fuck?" he mumbled, looking around on the floor and reaching into his pocket. He opened his wallet wider and confusion pulled his brows low over his eyes. "I had a twenty in here last night! I know I did, 'cause I stuck it in there for gas!"

Mike threw a skeptical look at him. "Sure, Billie. The old 'gee, I forgot my cash' maneuver."

"Man, I'm serious. You know I don't walk around completely broke. I can't figure out what happened to it!" He stuck his hand into his other pocket, rocking up on his hip to reach the very bottom.

"Look, I'll spot you this time," Mike drawled. "Just don't forget it later on."

"Thanks, Mike. Shit, maybe it fell out in the car. C'mon, I'll give you bozos a lift home and you can help me look."

Somehow he hoped that by the time he got back home, Jasmine would have turned up, slinking back home like some rebellious prodigal. The news was not good, though, and in spite of the excitement of his meeting with Lawrence, what he felt most keenly was worry.
It had been over twenty-four hours, and now the police would be looking for her. But it was such a long time, and if she were hurt, if someone had picked her up, she could be so far away by now, or worse... He had to shake the thought away, like some bad dream that wouldn't fade.

"Billie," his mother called, her voice flat and sad. "Could you please go down to the basement and bring up the basket of ironing for me? I've got to finish the dishes and sweep the kitchen."

"Sure," he nodded solemnly. It made the events of the afternoon seem surreal, to come back home to the pall of worry and grief that hung over the two homes. He took the rickety wooden steps carefully, switching on the bare light bulb at the bottom, and pulled the sweet-smelling clothes from the dryer absently.

His mind wandered back over every street, every alley, every empty space he could think of, trying to imagine where Jasmine might have hidden herself away from the hurt she couldn't take anymore. He'd been thinking about her all day, remembering how she had loved playing trucks with him when she was little, and how they had shared spaghetti-O's at lunch when she stayed at their house. Guilt had crept in when he thought of how impatient he had grown with her in the last couple of years, avoiding her whenever he could so that he didn't have to explain her to his friends.

It was fair to say he wasn't feeling very good about himself.

Heaving the basket onto his hip, he turned back toward the steps. As he reached for the light switch, he heard a faint rustle in the dark shadows that pooled behind the furnace, and he shuddered. They had never seen rats or mice down here, but the house was getting older, and maybe they needed to set some traps.

Ollie was putting the dishes away when he came back upstairs. "Thanks, honey," she said kindly. "Take your jeans and tee shirts out and fold them, and I'll iron the rest in a few mintues."

Any other time, he would have complained, but tonight he didn't have the heart. Mechanically, he sorted through the basket and pulled out his well-worn shirts and Dickies, folding each and stacking them haphazardly on the table.

"Mom, did you happen to see my Pennzoil sweatshirt when you did these?" he asked, rooting around again at the bottom of the basket. It was one of his favorites, soft and warm, and perfect for the weather this time of year.

"Yes, it's in there," Ollie answered over the sound of plates chinking in the cabinet. "Keep looking--you'll find it."

But it wasn't among the other clothes in the basket, and when he looked back toward the basement door, thinking it might have fallen out, it was nowhere to be seen. He knew he'd emptied the dryer, so it wasn't still in there.

"Oh, well," he sighed, scratching his head. "It must have gotten in with Anna's things. I'll ask her when she gets home."

"G'night, mom," he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Knowing what was on her mind, he tried to reassure her. "Maybe she'll turn up tomorrow, or at least call and let them know where she is."

Ollie's sad eyes looked up at his. "I sure hope so. Every minute that passes I seem to imagine some other terrible thing that might have happened to her." The glistening on her lashes threatened to spill over and down her cheeks. "I can't imagine how I'd feel if it were you or one of the other children."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I guess we could try putting up flyers at Gilman and some of the other clubs, in case any of the kids run into her." He was almost desperate to help in some way, but there was so little they could do.

"That's a good idea, honey. We have to try everything." She wiped at her eyes with the dishtowel and turned back to the counter top she was washing.

Billie stood looking at her for a moment, perhaps really appreciating her for the first time in a long while. She had worked so hard to try to make a good home for him and his brothers and sisters, and he realized how much she had worried and hurt over each of them.

"Love you, mom," he murmured, patting her shoulder.

"You too, Billie," she replied, sniffling. "Sweet dreams."

But he knew that wasn't to be.