I talked my way into Wenco the way Digger would have talked his way into the best restaurant in the city. With equal parts bullshit and bravado and being nice when it counted. Lucky for me, Artie was there that day.
His office was just as cramped and cluttered as the last time I was here, three years ago. He shook my hand and cleared a chair for me to sit in. When he saw my look was kind of grim, he shut the door so no one could eavesdrop what we were saying, though he kept up his gladhandy demeanor while he worked his way around to his side of the desk to sit down. “Your name’s been popping up in a lot of songwriting credits on our labels lately.”
“Oh, has it?” I tried to be casual. “I did a lot of work when I was in LA last year. Didn’t really pay attention to the labels.” That last bit wasn’t me being cavalier: that was true. I didn’t know what label most bands were recording for, and the checks were mostly going to Carynne.