He indicated that they were getting out, and he and Sky exited from their respective sides of the car.
“Chase, Sky,” Joe said excitedly, “this is a cool happenstance. A reporter from the major music magazine is in the bar—recognized me and Mark—and is dying to interview Sky!”
“Oh, well, I’m not—”
“Honey, please. No, it’s not like we’re hurting, like we won’t survive, but anytime something like that goes around, songs are played and played on the radio and... Please, it will only take a few minutes, I promise!”
Sky glanced over at Chase and he nodded. “I’ll be right there,” he promised.
“Okay, um, sure, if it helps everyone, then...sure.”
They headed back in together. It was a neighborhood kind of place—not like a bar on Bourbon Street, blasting music and catering to tourists. It was somewhat surprising that a reporter had made his way here, but when Joe introduced him and Sky to the man, it turned out his name was Jimmy Broussard. He had been born in New Orleans but headed out to California for work. Naturally, he latched on anytime he could when a known band was playing in the vicinity.
Broussard was maybe in his late thirties, and despite the fact he’d probably interviewed dozens of music celebrities, he seemed in awe of Sky. He shook her hand, telling her she looked like her father and added quickly, “A beautiful, feminine version of your dad, of course.”
She thanked him and glanced a little nervously at Chase.
“The two of them are a thing,” Joe said. “If you want Sky—”
“Please, Chase, join us!” Broussard said. He pointed to a table at the back of the bar. It was quiet there; music was playing, but it wasn’t a live band. It was controlled from behind the bar and was kept at a volume that allowed for conversation.
“Sky, Chase, what would you like—” Joe began.
“No, not to worry. I know what she likes,” Chase said. “Mr. Broussard?”
“I’m good, got a beer,” Broussard said.
Chase hurried to the bar himself and asked for two beers—in bottles. He brought them back to the table where Broussard was smiling at Sky as they waited.
“Thanks,” Sky murmured.
“Broussard, you’re sure—”
“Got my beer right here, never go for more than one. Anyway...” he turned to Sky as Chase took a seat at the table “...I just loved your dad’s work,” he told her. “You know, some songs are catchy just because you’ve got a beat that people can’t resist. Words don’t even matter—it’s the tune. A tune that makes you move, that is just peppy. But so many of the groups from decades past had some real songwriters in them, too,” he told her.
She smiled at him in turn. She seemed okay with the reporter, which was good on many fronts.
“Yeah,” she said. “My dad loved what he called the storytellers. He was a big fan of Roger Waters and Pink Floyd. The Who and Pete Townshend with Tommy, the rock opera...there were a lot of great writers out there, really. And there still are! Music keeps growing. Oh, that was something else my dad taught me. Every genre has good music, just as every genre has music that will fade. He told me one time that rap really wasn’t his favorite form of music but that there was good rap and that you could combine all kinds of music. He and my mom got to see Hamilton, and he fell in love with it and Lin-Manuel Miranda. He was one of those guys who truly appreciated the talents of others.”
“So I heard,” Broussard said. “He’s also known for helping young musicians—and anyone who needed help, really.”
“He had a lot of pet charities. I try to keep up with them, as does my mom.”
“That’s great. I mean, growing up with that kind of a rock legend...”
“He was a great father. He taught me good lessons for life. I didn’t get away with anything—”
Broussard laughed. “Can’t imagine Jake Ferguson spanking his kid. Did you spend a lot of time in time-out?”
She shook her head. “I was a good kid. There was something about him and my mom. I wasn’t afraid of horrible things happening if I misbehaved, I just didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
“Wow. Great. And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Sorry. I’m usually a great interviewer, right on with questions. I’m in awe. Anyway, what about you? Favorite group, singer—”
“I couldn’t pick a favorite. If I’m looking to some of the artists from past decades... Freddie Mercury, amazing vocals. Roy Orbison! Hmm, oh, wow, Nancy Wilson from Heart. My God, what a voice! There are others, of course, so many...and...”
Broussard laughed. “It’s an amazing world. Glad to be on the sidelines, though...” He paused, grinning. “My dad was an attorney. Loved boats, and we took a lot of holidays down in the Caribbean. He ran into a fellow at a local place where people just sat all together. Started talking to the fellow next to him who said he was a guitarist. My dad told him that he could help him get a real job. Turned out the fellow was Eric Clapton, possibly the best guitarist out there!” He turned to Chase suddenly. “Wow. I’m sorry, didn’t mean to be ignoring you. You are...Hank McCoy’s grandson, right?”
“I am,” Chase said. “And don’t worry about ignoring me at all. No problem.”
“Hey, drums are a big deal. And I’ve heard you. This is off the record—better vocals from you than your granddad, but...hey, who am I to judge?”
Sky was gazing at Chase, and he caught her eyes, and they both laughed. “A guy who has listened to more rock bands than anyone can possibly imagine?” Chase said lightly. “Anyway, I take any and all compliments. Back to Sky.”
“You still play. You still sing.”
“I like life low-key,” she told him.
“So—kids and Jazz Mass.”
“You do your homework,” Chase told him.
“It’s my life!” Broussard said lightly. “Anyway, Sky, thank you. I was in love with your father’s talent. I think this is going to be an amazing gig.”
“You’ll be there?” Sky asked him.
