A Fistful of Rain by Greg Rucka Read Free Book Online Page B

rushing from Van to Click to me, handing a towel and a bottle of water to each of us. “This is the memory I’m keeping, the one for my deathbed. This is my moment of triumph.”
    We shared in our glory between gulps of water, laughing, praising, remembering the moments of brilliance, the near-disasters, the fantastic saves. Graham ran the circuit, slapping shoulders and pouring drinks. I’d finished one of my fifths of Jack Daniel’s onstage during the show, but the rider in my touring contract specified two to be supplied at each venue, and Graham handed me the remainder without my even having to ask. My rider also specified two liters of Arrowhead water and a carton of American Spirit Yellows, hinge-lids. I liked the fifths because they were easy to carry and easy to stow onstage. The Arrowhead normally got finished while onstage, too, like it had this night. Of the cigarettes, I’d keep a pack or two, then give the rest to the crew.
    “Mimser,” Graham said when he gave me the bottle, “I’m calling Prudential, fuck that, I’m calling Lloyds of London first thing tomorrow, on my honor, I’m calling them and insuring your hands! I saw smoke tonight,
smoke
coming from those strings.”
    I laughed around the mouth of the bottle, fell into a chair. Graham leaned in and smooched my sweaty forehead, then headed for Click. Click was halfway through rolling himself a cigarette, and when Graham uncharacteristically gave him a hug, tobacco went spilling out of the paper and onto his lap, and I laughed again, Van joining, too.
    “The hell are you on, man?” Click demanded.
    “A beer, a beer for the beat.” Graham was spinning around, searching for a bottle. Click’s rider was the simplest of the three of us—he’d specified nothing but a carton of Bridgeport India Pale Ale, and he’d done it as a joke, because it was a local Portland microbrew, and he figured to give the promoters a headache. It did, I’m sure, but there was always a carton waiting for him. He was sick to death of the stuff.
    “Nah, I’m good with water, Graham, and you need a tranquilizer.”
    Graham whipped around again, clapping a hand down on each of Click’s shoulders, once more disrupting the rolling process. “This is the love, Click, and you must accept it. You were outstanding tonight, you could have gotten the dead to their feet the way you were playing tonight.”
    “You are
so
high,” Click told him.
    “On life!” Graham said, gave Click one last pat and moved, finally, to Vanessa, where she was sprawled in a chair, her shoes already off, finishing her second bottle of water. Her rider specified that the water be Evian. It also specified a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, a bottle of Glenlivet, and a dozen fresh-cut red and white roses. She’d drink the water, but never drank the alcohol. She wouldn’t give it away, either; she’d dump the contents either down the drain or down the toilet, and once or twice I caught her using it as a perfume.
    The roses normally figured into the encore, when Van would go to the edge of the stage and give a couple to whoever had caught her eye during the show. It was the code—a fresh young male carrying a couple roses, red or white, got access backstage, and often access to even more than that.
    Graham opened a third bottle of Evian for her, swapping it out for Van’s empty, then crouched down beside the seat, his hands in front of him, cupped, as if he would catch whatever she might spill. Van took another swig from the bottle, then looked to Click, then to me, grinning. She was still a little out of breath from our close, and perspiration still shone on her arms and face. She looked at Graham and the grin got bigger.
    “You may praise,” she said, regally.
    Click and I laughed, and Graham didn’t miss the cue.
    “I think a shrine, Vanessa. A shrine dedicated to you, a shrine befitting a goddess. You have ruined Christchurch for the next girl, there is no one to follow you.”
    “You were