Asturias Read Online Free Page A

saying. “Best of seven, loser starts. Touch it, you move it …”

4
    TO DIE FOR …
    MAX’S STORY
    We set up the studio session for Friday evening.
    It was Symonds’ idea. Put the pressure on, see how the kid reacted. This time, the guy was taking no chances.
    We sat in the booth and left Alex alone in the studio, with his guitars. And it wasn’t one of the little studios, either. You could fit a full symphony orchestra in there, and still park a fair-sized truck.
    Alex looked small. And young.
    Until he picked up his guitar.
    He was only checking the tuning, but it was as if … I don’t know. As if some kind of transformation came over him as soon as he touched it. He stood there calmly, facing us through the glass of the booth. Waiting.
    Symonds leaned forward and spoke into the mike on the control console.
    â€œPlay us something.”
    I never knew the guy to say please, and he wasn’t about to start when he was out to put the wind up a victim. It was an impossible demand. No guidance; no clue as to what he expected, just “Play us something”.
    The kid looked at him through the window.
    â€œAny requests?”
    There was a trace of attitude in the tone and I felt Symonds bristle.
    â€œYou choose.”
    You could sense the gears working behind the kid’s expression. He adjusted a couple of dials on the amp, pushed a button on the foot-pedal, and began.
    Fifteen minutes, without a pause.
    I recognised Carlos Santana, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Page, Jimi Hendrix and Brian May, a little Mississippi Delta blues, Richie Sambora, even a couple of bars of Joe Walsh, before he finished on a jazz progression that moved seamlessly from one end of the fretboard to the other, and finished on a chord that made my heart stop. All without missing a beat.
    Then, before anyone had chance to recover, he had swapped guitars and found a stool. He was halfway through something Spanish — and very fast — when Symonds called a halt.
    â€œThank you, Alex. You want to come in here?”
    Thank you?
    Symonds must have been in shock. He didn’t even say thank you when “Blood on the Streets” went platinum and he got to accept the award.
    The kid took his time. He laid the acoustic in its case and brushed his hair back from his face before he came into the booth. It was the first time since he’d picked up the guitar that I’d seen any sign of nerves from him.
    Claire sat quietly at the back of the booth and said nothing. She was watching Symonds like a hawk, and I got the feeling she didn’t like him.
    Well, just form a queue to the right …
    Of course, I didn’t know her name at the time. As far as I knew, she was just some girl the kid had brought along for the ride. Someone he wanted to impress. Later, when things went so bad, she more than earned the price of her ticket.
    But all that was in the future.
    At that moment, all that mattered were the next words that would pass Symonds’ lips. I knew he was impressed with the kid’s talent, but he had a thing about attitude, and I found myself holding my breath when the door opened. Praying that Alex had the brains to keep his mouth shut and let the big shot act like a big shot.
    Alex paused in the doorway, then came in. The girl touched his hand as he passed, and he held onto her finger for a moment, then let it go.
    Symonds stared at him for what seemed like an age. Then he smiled.
    â€œPretty impressive, kid. Where’d you learn to play like that?”
    Alex returned the smile and sat down facing him.
    â€œIt sort of runs in the family … My mother’s side.”
    â€œWhat was that last piece? You didn’t learn that playing sessions.”
    You could see the kid relax. He was on safe ground.
    â€œIt’s traditional. I learned it when I was ten or eleven.”
    Symonds just nodded. He’d made his decision. We were on our way. He stood up and spoke to