Hurricane #2: The Managers (Patreon)

The rat looked at Serrano’s shower head, down at the drain, back at the head. “This is the one?”

“It’s the only shower in here.”

He nodded, scratching his butt and hiking his belt-free jeans back up partway, then turned the water on. He watched the stream a few seconds, then turned the water off. “Looks like it’s workin’.”

“I know it’s working. What I don’t know is where the hell all the water that was draining out here last night came from.”

He shrugged, rubbing his hands on his T-shirt. It might have been white, once; now it was soot grey and too tight. The look didn’t do him any favors. “Don’t see any leaks in the shower head, and there’s no other place for water to come in. Only other thing I can think of is that somethin’ backed up the drain, then cleared on its own. I can run a cleanin’ snake down there and root stuff out if you want.”

“Yeah, why don’t you.”

Grunting, the rat hiked his jeans up again. “Back soon.” He sauntered toward the apartment’s door, then paused, waiting for someone else in the hall to enter. A middle-aged cat stepped in, decked out in jeans and a polo shirt with the apartment management company’s logo. Serrano winced.

The cat smiled in a used-car salesman way. “Morning, Dave.”

“Yep,” the rat said, shouldering past him.

“So. Miss Layotl.” The cat barely kept up his bland smile. “I hope this isn’t a major maintenance issue.”

She crossed her arms. “It’s your responsibility either way. Mr. Ward.”

“I’m sure Dave will take care of it. However.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Rent is your responsibility, and as I’m sure you know, you’re two months in arrears. We’ve tried to be very understanding—”

“And I appreciate that.” She suspected that had sounded sarcastic, but she grudgingly meant it. For an ass-kissing middle management drone at a soulless real estate investment trust, Ward had been cutting her a shitload of slack.

“—so I hope you’ll understand that we really do need some kind of payment by the first of the month.”

“When you say some kind of payment—”

“The first of the month is Tuesday,” he added. “Four days.”

“Does ‘some kind’ mean everything all at once, one month, or what?”

“The full three months would be ideal, but at least one month would, uh, that would be…” He cleared his throat. “Necessary. One month would be necessary.”

She closed her eyes and growled. Thanks to a few extra shifts last month, she probably had that much in her checking account. She was up to date on utilities, and the cell phone bill wasn’t due for close to three weeks. But she was going to have to get on Eddie’s ass about what he owed her for downloads and the last three gigs. She knew the clubs paid shit, but she also knew—well, thought—she’d sold a ton of merchandise. Shirts, posters, vinyl.

“Miss Layotl?”

She looked back at him. His ears had folded down. Right, she still made him nervous. Good. “Yeah. I think I can do one month. Sure.”

He looked surprised. “Oh. Excellent.” He nodded, fidgeting, then started to step out of the apartment. “So let me know if Dave resolves your…what is it, drain issues?”

“Water pooling there without me running the shower.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

She lowered her brows, giving him a direct stare. “I don’t know. That’s what I put the maintenance request in for.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat, tail curling between his legs. “You’re sure you weren’t just dreaming that?”

Serrano bared her teeth. Just a little.

“Just a joke.” He stepped back quick, ears flat, then straightened his polo and smiled awkwardly. “I’m sure Dave will get to the bottom of it. We look forward to seeing you with your check in the office.” He fidgeted, as if not quite sure how to end the conversation, and just turned and walked away.

She closed her eyes again for a second, then headed back in to grab her handbag. She had maybe five minutes to make it to the bus stop if she wanted to get to Eddie’s office by noon.

• • •

Since Serrano’s last visit a few months ago, Sergeant Eddie had spruced the place up. The outside still looked more like a condemned hotel than an office building, but the hallway carpet had been given a shampoo—startlingly revealing it as red rather than muddy brown—and Eddie’s office door now sported frosted glass, with SHOOTING STAR PERFORMING ARTS MANAGEMENT LLC painted in flowing script. Once inside, the place looked…nice. Every scrap of furniture in the lobby had been replaced. The flooring was new, too. Even the frames for the few gold record awards his artists had gotten looked shiny and polished.

Sherry, Eddie’s squirrel secretary, didn’t glance up from the desktop computer she sat at. She wasn’t looking at it; she was filing her claws. “May I help you?”

“Hey, Sherry. I’m here to see Eddie.”

“Your name?”

Serrano sighed. “Are we really gonna do this every time I come in?”

The squirrel set down her file and looked at Serrano. “Your name?”

“Serrano Layotl.”

“You’re not on the schedule.”

Serrano crossed her arms, leaning over and staring daggers at Sherry. “Kindly squeeze me in a few minutes.”

The coyote knew damn well she looked intimidating to most people despite her short stature, decked out in a black leather jacket, studded collar and bracelets, and heavy denim shorts with a chainlink belt. Most people, though, weren’t secretaries who dealt with self-proclaimed rock gods every day. Sherry turned back to the computer, clicking around the calendar. “Maybe you can come back at three. No, wait. Friday at ten.”

“I’m already here. I’m not going to—”

The door behind her opened and Eddie poked his head out. “Serrano! Hey! Come on in. I only got a minute, though.”

“A minute’s all I need.” She walked around Sherry’s desk, ignoring the squirrel’s evil eye, and followed the old wolf back into his office.

If Serrano’s aesthetics gunned for aspiring punk legend, Sergeant Eddie’s landed closer to rhinestone cowboy, the exaggerated version of a glitzy record producer you thought only existed on old sitcoms. She couldn’t fault him for dressing to match his aspirations, she just couldn’t figure out what the hell those aspirations were. “So.” He waved her into a chair. “Don’t tell me. You’re joining your sister’s new band.”

She rested a hand against the chair’s back, but didn’t take a seat. “First, I don’t have a sister, second, if my cousin’s actually starting a band instead of just jabbering about it, she hasn’t told me, third, no.”

“Mmm. It’s a small business, Ronni, and word gets around when a singer with her rep starts making moves.” He shrugged, remaining standing, too.

Her ears lowered. Chiltepin had a “rep”? Okay, yes, she’d had two major label albums with one band and a solo album with a different big label. But they’d all tanked. By major label standards. Which would have made a wild success by Serrano’s. Also, fuck major labels and fuck Chiltepin. “No. No, I just want to ask about my recent club gigs.”

“What about ’em?”

“I’d like to get paid for them.”

“You want an advance?”

“No, Sarge, I want the cut I’m already owed.” She didn’t think he’d ever been in any military other than maybe weekend cosplay in his youth, but he insisted on the honorific.

“You haven’t done a show in at least a month, right?”

“No, but I’ve done seven shows since my last check. And the last time you left a message for me, it was about how great online sales have been going.”

“You’ve been selling some tracks here and there. Did some numbers on streaming, but that’s like a few hundred bucks.” He waved a hand. “And you know we pay net sixty, kid.”

“I know it’s been more than sixty days since the shows.”

He checked his watch, and waved her toward the door. “I don’t have the dates and figures here, Ronni. I can have Sherry mail you—”

“I need something now, not next week. I’m running on fumes.”

The wolf sighed, pulling out a fat leather wallet and fishing through it. “Let’s see…here.” He handed her five one-hundred dollar bills so crisp they looked like they’d been ironed.

“Thanks.” She slipped them into her handbag. If she ballparked out the show revenue at two hundred a night, this was less than half of what Eddie owed her even after his fifteen percent cut. And it didn’t cover any of the online sales, or at-show merchandise. But it’d keep her going until the next coffee shop paycheck, and that would net around five hundred, too. “So about—”

Eddie was already out the door of his office. “Sherry, make a note that we gave Miss Serrano here an advance of five hundred in cash. I won’t be back in the office today. Got a meeting with that new investor.”

Sherry gave Serrano a sidelong glance and nodded. “Got it, Sarge.”

The coyote willed her tail and ears to stay up as she left the office after Eddie. A wizard had given her a prescription of alcohol yesterday, and she was overdue taking him up on it.