"Fine Print"
by Jack Manx
He needed to be a better player, and this was how he was going to do it.
The room stank of cigarette smoke.
Are people even allowed to smoke inside anymore? Ryan wondered.
Red florescent lights set against deep blue lighting on the walls advertised drinks of all kinds. A dozen eyes pinned him to the spot.
He almost lost his nerve, until he balled up his fist and took deliberate steps towards the bar, clutching his violin case. An old woman sat there, nursing some amber fluid and eyeing Ryan suspiciously.
Yeah, keep staring lady.
"You even old enough to be here, kid?" the bartender asked. His greasy hair was matted back in what must have been the style of his day.
Ryan inhaled deeply. I can't believe I'm doing this.
"I was told to speak to Chester," he said as formally as he could muster.
The old lady softly cackled after hearing this. "They get younger and younger. Don't they, Roy?"
The bartender grinned. "Oh? You're here for the blues man? Well then, go right in!"
He pointed a thick finger at a doorway with a bead curtain hanging across it. A hearty laugh followed as Ryan made his way through the beads with purpose.
I don't like how funny this all seems to them, Ryan thought. But I need to see Chester.
If what Paula said was true, he could teach Ryan to play like the devil himself. How a blues man could know violin was a mystery, but he had to take the chance.
A closed door confronted him shortly down the hall. Scrawled across the wooden frame in black paint were the words 'Chester M. Klien.'
Here goes nothing. Ryan took a deep breath and knocked on the wooden slab.
"Whatisit?" a voice belched from the other side.
Ryan hesitated for a moment before saying, "Paula Hart told me to speak to you?"
There came a rustle on the other side of the door before the voice croaked, "Come in already!"
Ryan slipped into the room. It was hazy with cigar smoke.
Black and white pictures of apparently important people hung on the walls, and a single red desk lamp lit the entire room. The shadows cast on the old wooden paneled low on the wall, stretching from corner to corner beneath maroon wallpaper.
Oh god, I've walked into the 1940's.
A mahogany desk divided the space in two, with a stout man in a cheap suit on the other side. He seemed to lack a neck; his head was a bulbous mound of flesh coming straight from his shoulders. A fedora sat atop the mound, the brim low to mask the dark sunglasses the man wore.
He folded his fat fingers together on the desk, revealing many gaudy rings and fingernails that needed a scrubbing. The man smiled through crooked teeth, saying, "Paula sent ya?"
A cough and a nod were Ryan's answer.
The Blues Man pointed to a chair and said, "Have a seat! How do ya know Paula?"
Ryan sat, clutching his violin case to him. "I have class with her," he explained. "She's a good teacher, but she said you were better."
Chester's eyes twinkle through the sunglasses. He picked up a lit cigar from his ashtray to take a long drag on it. He leaned back in his chair, far too little for the likes of him.
"A fiddle player, eh? What's ya name, kid?"
With less hesitation than before, he managed, "Ryan Paul."
The words had barely finished leaving his mouth, Chester bellowed, "Ryan Paul! Chester M. Klein! Nice to meet ya!"
He extended a fat hand across the desk, his suit coat sleeve riding up almost to his elbow to reveal stark white cuffs.
Suck it up, boy, Ryan thought. If this guy really is Paula's musical genius, time to make a good impression.
Ryan met the hand and was immediately enveloped by two grubby sets of fingers in a fierce, strong shake. He steeled his nerves against recoiling or flinching as his arm—and body—shook.
"Ryan Paul, what can a fellow do for ya?" The Blues Man's hands folded in front of him again as he leaned back to his seat taking up the entire other side of the desk.
Ryan cleared his throat.
"Paula told me you could teach me how to play the violin better than anyone in the city. So…" he said, "I was wondering how much lessons were?"
Ryan kept his tone formal, though he wasn't sure why. It wasn't to impress the man. Chester seemed to impressed that anyone was sitting in his office at all.
But Ryan really needed those lessons. He'd never stick out at the Manhattan School of Music if he didn't!
"Lessons, eh? Fiddle, was it? Hmm."
Violin.
The Blues Man pondered, rubbing his lack of a chin. The moment hung with Ryan's anxieties and Chester's cigar smoke before the man flashed a toothy smile.
"Listen, kid, I'm just a simple music man," Chester said. "What makes ya think I could teach ya anything ya don't already know?"
"But… Paula said you could." Ryan's brow furrowed as he said, "Why else would she send me to you?"
Noise escaped the jowls of the Blues Man, a jovial hacking that must have approximated laughter. "Ah, I'm screwing with ya, kid! Of course I can teach ya! Anything for old Paula!"
He tilted his head towards Ryan, and signaled him to move closer. Ryan obeyed, leaning in.
"Listen, Ryan, ya got to gimme a taste first. Ya know? So as I can see if ya have potential for what I have to offer."
Please don't ask me to suck your dick…
Chester signaled to the violin.
Ryan looked at the case. Relief washed over him. "Oh! Of course!"
Feeling a little sheepish, he opened the black holder to reveal his grandfather's violin. Lovingly, he lifted the instrument, fingering the bow and cradling them both.
Then, as he had been taught for so long, Ryan slid the bow across the strings in a long, sweet note. The beautiful music escaped in jumps and whirls from the strings as he played a song for The Blues Man, one that was bright but tinged with a somber tone.
The Blues Man's head bobbed to the music. He even hummed along a little.
Ryan had always been exceptional at violin. Even at a young age he had performed well enough to ensnare an audience. But when it came to college, he didn't stick out. He found himself at the middle of the pack, barely playing well enough to get by.
But there, in that smoky bar backroom, he played as though his life depended on it, mustering up a masterpiece to impress Chester. He needed to be better. He had to be better. And Chester could make him so.
When Ryan was done, The Blues Man applauded too loudly for the small room.
"Bravo! Bravo!" He exclaimed, "That was very good kid! Great, in fact! Ya gonna do fine here."
Ryan smiled and bowed in his excitement. "Thank you! So, you'll teach me? How to be better, I mean?"
With a nod, the man's words belched out, "Of course, kid!"
Chester stood to his full height, which was the exact height as sitting in his chair. He waddled over to a filing cabinet, shuffled through papers, and muttered.
My own private tutor. Mom and Dad'll be impressed that I did this on my own. I can't wait to tell Paula!
Ryan looked at the pictures on the wall, each showing the grinning Chester shaking hands with young musicians. Some of the young men and women held guitars, others saxophones, and others still had a number of instruments.
Someday, I'll be up there.
Ryan asked, "Did you teach all of these people?"
The Blues Man looked up at the wall. He chuckled a little. "Every last one a star!"
He pulled up a folder with a stack of papers in it. He flopped it down on his desk and waddled back to his chair.
Chester thumbed through the papers until he was satisfied that he had what he was looking for. He slid the paper in front of Ryan, pointed a stubby finger at a line on the page, and offered a pen.
"Just need you to sign there," Chester said.
His voice made Ryan itch with anticipation. He eagerly grabbed the pen. Ryan had put pen to paper before he realized what he was doing. He stopped before signing his name.
Ryan looked up at Chester inquisitively, saying, "What am I signing?"
"Just a standard contract. I like to have all my students sign an agreement saying that I am their manager while I teach them." The Blues Man hacked out some more laughter. "I like to tour my protégé's around while I show them the ropes, ya know?"
Ryan nodded, the idea of tour exciting to him, and looked back at the pictures on the wall. "And you can really teach me to perform better?"
Chester leaned in, puffed his cigar and said, "When I'm done with you, you'll be the best. You'll play for kings and queens, kid! All you have to do is sign the agreement."
I don't know what kings and queens Chester thinks he knows, but I don't want to pass up a chance to be the best.
As he drew the pen across the paper, Ryan asked, "How long am I going to be touring with you?"
Chester drew off his cigar. "Year and a day, kid. Year and a day."
Ryan finished signing and passed the papers back.
Year and a day? What is that some old timey way of saying a long time?
Chester hacked some more. Grabbing the papers, he filed them away then walked over to Ryan, still seated.
Ryan was abuzz, barely containing his joy. "When do I start?"
Chester placed a fat hand on Ryan's shoulder.
Ryan felt the gold rings digging into his skin through his shirt, and the stench of stale smoke assaulted his senses.
"Right now, Ryan." Chester squeezed Ryan's shoulder hard enough to make him wince at the pain.
"Ow! You're hurting-"
The Blues Man grabbed Ryan by the neck and threw him across the room with little effort. The strength the stout man possessed was otherworldly.
Ryan slammed into the wood paneled wall and crumpled to the ground. He rolled over and recoiled in horror as The Blues Man strode across the room.
Jesus Christ! I could have hurt my hands! What does he think he's doing?
Chester grabbed Ryan by the neck once again. With more force than his stumpy hands should have been able to muster, he gripped Ryan's windpipe firmly.
"First lesson, kid: Don't sign something ya haven't read!"
Chester hacked up some more laughter as he slammed Ryan against the wall a few times for good measure. Each crack landed on Ryan's head and shoulder blades.
Ryan gasped for air as he began to lose consciousness. As his vision blurred, the acrid smoke of the room became more focused. He began to see things through the haze he hadn't seen—or hadn't wanted to see—before.
How could Chester know all those instruments?
The Blues Man's fingers closed tighter around Ryan's neck. Short, stubby fingers on short stubby arms. Arms that couldn't possibly play the violin.
It was all a scam. How could he have been so stupid?
Ryan saw the pictures across the room. Pictures that he realized, too late, had dates on them.
A tall man, sitting behind a drum. Chester grinning and holding his hand in a firm shake. The caption reading Boston Avalon, 1987
A pretty woman sat behind a piano with the toad of a blues man behind her. Written at the corner was the date December 31st, 1950
And on August 18, 1923, The Blues Man shook hands with a thin black man holding a trumpet.
Ryan cursed himself and blacked out.
The Blues Man removed his hat, bowing before the strange audience. Women impossibly thin and beautiful; men with translucent skin showing blue veins that turned into tentacles; creatures with beaks, claws, and horns. All sat in ornate thrones made of intertwined roots and silver filigree.
Eyes enormous, beady, bizarre, and foreign looked upon the suited man as he dipped low in reverence.
Chester lifted his ringed hands high, and silence fell on the proceedings.
"For Your Highness' enjoyment, on this sacred day, I present to you a musician!" The Blues Man grinned a toothy grin as he formed the words, "A Mortal Fiddle Player."
A chorus of gasps, whispers and general coos of excitement escaped the alien gathering. Chester signaled to the stone brutes in the wings, who worked hand over fist to pull the curtain open.
Ryan stood, his feet shackled in the finest and most ornate chain. He clutched his violin in his hands, his only lifeline to a time before his prison term.
Chester walked past Ryan as he lifted his instrument. He whispered, "What did I tell ya? Kings and queens, kid."
Ryan slid the bow across the strings, drawing from it the most beautiful music he could. He played his heart out, in the hopes that he could please the court's king and queen enough to grant him freedom.
In your dreams, kid.
Ryan's thoughts were bitter as he continued playing, prisoner to the Faerie court, longing for the forgiving silence that would follow the performance.
Author Notes: Thanks to OllieLemur for editing.
Thank you, readers! Please check out my other Changeling: The Lost fanfics, including "An Honest Night's Work". I am new to writing fanfiction, so all reviews are appreciated. - Scrapmask