The Living End (Daniel Faust #3)(61)

It was my turn to be baffled.

“Wait,” I said, “you want people to know you lost a bet? I thought the whole point with you guys is that you never lose.”

Calypso looked over at Caitlin. “M’lady fair, you need to school this boy.”

“Can’t say I don’t try,” she said, sipping her whiskey.

“I deal in stories,” Calypso said. “Stories of temptation and ruin, of damnation and repentance, risk and reward. Let me lay one on you. Once upon a time, there was a boy named Johnny. He was a fiddle player, swore he was the best there’d ever been.”

“Yeah,” I said. “‘Devil Went Down to Georgia.’ I’ve heard the song. Everybody has.”

Calypso snorted. “Don’t interrupt a storyteller. For the record, the real deal went down in Tennessee, back in the nineteen twenties. Johnny wagered his soul against a fiddle of gold, betting he could outplay the devil himself. Well, a dark and handsome stranger who he thought was the devil, anyway.”

“In the song, Johnny wins,” I said.

“And that’s just how it happened. Except for one little detail.”

Calypso beckoned us closer. Caitlin and I leaned against the table to listen as he dropped his voice low.

“That boy,” he said with a grin, “couldn’t fiddle for shit. Sounded like beating a sackful of cats with a hickory stick.”

“You…let him win?” I said.

“Mm-hmm. I’d been in a slump. Then there’s good old Johnny, holding aloft his golden fiddle—which he never did learn to play worth a lick—and bragging to everyone from Appalachia to the Florida shore that he beat the devil and won a prize. Put a lot of bad ideas in people’s heads. Bad for them, anyway. Good for my business. And as for good old Johnny, well…pride’s a terrible sin.”

“Art,” Caitlin told me. She left it at that.

“You beat me fair and square today,” Calypso said, “and that’s something that has to happen once in a while, just every once in a while, to spice up the story. It’s the reward to the risk, the pot of gold everyone who buys a lottery ticket dreams about even though they’ll never, ever win. Every once in a while, some clever son of a gun has to beat the devil. That’s what makes everyone else think they can do it, too.”

Calypso finished his drink and laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles.

“Besides,” he said, “I’m walking away with two years of your life tucked in my back pocket. That’s not bad for a lazy night. Best of luck to both of you, and I hope that paper helps you out some. Remember, you can play with Roth all you want, just make sure he lives through it. Don’t step on my toes, and I won’t step on yours.”

“He’s not the person we’re after,” I said. “He’s just going to help us get to her.”

Calypso reached down and tugged up the strap of a big black guitar case. He slung it over his shoulder and stood, pushing his chair back.

“Now, I know you’re on a tight schedule,” he told us, “but I’m just about to go up on stage and do a little set. Keeps me from getting rusty. If you’ve got any love in your heart for the Delta blues, I’d be honored to have you stay a while.”

“We’d love to!” Caitlin gushed, squeezing my knee hard enough to make my leg ache. She beamed like a teenager in the sixties who had just been offered front-row tickets to a Beatles concert.

“Sure,” I said, nodding slowly. “Sounds good.”

I could have used another drink, and besides, I got the feeling I didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

? ? ?

I had to admit, it was worth the time we lost. Calypso’s hands played that guitar like it was a lover’s body, like they only had one night left in the world together and every second, every aching, wailing note, had to make up for a lost lifetime. This was the real blues, down-home raw and ragged, drenched with sweat and sex and the bloodied edge of a switchblade. Out on the dark and silent street, his music still echoed in the back of my mind, floating and fading like a dream that slips away on waking.

Caitlin’s arm was wrapped in mine, and she wobbled against me a little, higher than a kite even though she’d only drunk two fingers of whiskey. I was feeling it too. I felt confused in all the right ways, basking in the afterglow.

“Now you get it,” she said.

“Rock star,” I said. “Right. I hate to say it, but we should find a motel or something. It’s another seven hours back home, and between the lack of sleep and the booze and the…that, I’m in no shape to drive.”

“I am,” she said. “And I don’t need to sleep. I’ll drive us back, and you can nap.”

I gave her a dubious look. Maybe because she was a little too giddy. Maybe because I was a little protective of my car. Still, she held out her open palm in a way that brooked no argument.

“Keys,” she said.

While she adjusted the driver’s seat, I tugged the ribbon on the copy of Roth’s contract. The dense text read just like the real thing, down to the tiniest detail, but it was magically inert. I traced my finger over tight lines of perfect calligraphy, feeling like a medieval monk. The streetlight outside the car window cast a pale glow, giving me enough light to read by if I squinted.