When the Nines Roll Over Read Online Free Page B

tell you what, Molly, the Taints might be his band, but you’re the one people want to see. You’re the one writing the songs. I was watching the kids at the club the other night, I was watching who they were watching, and it was all you. Nobody cares about the drummer.”
    â€œI care about the drummer.”
    Tabachnik had worked in this business for ten years and he’d come to believe that loyalty only existed when it was convenient for all parties. He’d never seen a band that he couldn’t break up. He took no pleasure in splitting these people apart, he wasn’t a sadist, but he felt no guilt either. They all believed they were destined to be stars and they were very sad to leave their friends behind but they got over it quickly. They understood that not everybody could be a star.
    Tabachnik looked at Molly Minx and saw that she was looking at him. She was waiting to hear the rest. She would argue with him, but not with much passion.
    â€œYou’re the one with the talent,” he told her. “I like SadJoe, he’s a good kid, but you’re the one with the talent.”
    â€œI don’t even know what talent means,” she said. She waited for him to speak but he kept his silence; he wanted her to give it a little effort. She wrote a song for the poor kid, she could at least give him a mild defense.
    â€œI don’t think I believe in talent,” she said at last.
    Tabachnik believed in talent. A band he was scouting had opened for Buddy Guy in Atlanta and Tabachnik had stayed for the main act, had listened to Buddy Guy play guitar. On the drive back to his hotel, Tabachnik had thought, I’ll never be that good at anything. It wasn’t a big deal—most people would never be as good at anything as Buddy Guy was on the guitar. It was sad to realize you were lumped with most people, but it wasn’t a big deal.
    Still, he understood what Molly Minx was talking about. He wasn’t trying to sign her because of her talent; she saw through that bullshit. He wanted her because she would sell records. That didn’t mean she was talented and it didn’t mean she was talentless. Talent was irrelevant to the equation.
    â€œListen,” he told her, “I’m putting you in a difficult position, I understand that. But it’s not that complicated. Come with me to L.A. and good things will happen for you.”
    She stared up at the batik tapestry that was tacked to the ceiling and didn’t say anything.
    â€œOh,” he added, “do you have a copy of your recording contract lying around?”
    â€œI think so. Why?”
    â€œLet me take a look at it.”
    She got out of bed and he sat up against the headboard and watched her squat beside a blue milk crate and rummage through a manila folder filled with receipts, bills, and certificates. He liked the efficient lines of her body. She looked like she could squat for hours, a peasant shelling peas.
    When she found the contract he took it from her and studied it carefully. It had been printed on a dot-matrix printer with a dying ribbon. One page. A brown stain from a coffee mug neatly ringed the signatures. Tabachnik sighed. People were so stupid he no longer took pleasure in their stupidity.
    â€œWhat’s your real name, Molly?”
    â€œJennifer.” She was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him.
    â€œYour whole name.”
    â€œJennifer Serenity Prajadhikop.”
    â€œWhere are you from?”
    â€œToronto.”
    â€œReally? Okay. Serenity. That’s good. We’ll need to retire Molly Minx.”
    He folded the contract and handed it back to her. She fanned herself with it and said, “I can do that. I was getting kind of sick of it anyway. I’ve been Molly Minx since high school.”

    The next day he took her out for lunch and then to the label’s New York office. The receptionist sat behind a horseshoeshaped desk sheathed in black granite.