Mrs. Rimbaugh sat across from Doug Durst in the only corner booth of Finley’s Diner.  After going over the several pages of legal documents she had in front of her for one final time, she peered over her reading glasses, which were perched on the end of her nose.

            “By the terms of our agreement,” she said, “you keep the Ibanez, but I get all the sound and recording equipment, I retain the rights to all prior recordings, and I get your soul.”

            “Wait a minute,” Doug interjected.  “We never agreed to the soul.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Rimbaugh with a polite laugh.  “My mistake.”

            Mrs. Rimbaugh had been Doug’s 3^rd grade teacher.  She was also the devil.  She had offered to appear as someone other than Mrs. Rimbaugh once Doug had found out her true identity, but he found it was easier to remember that she was Satan as long as she looked like Mrs. Rimbaugh.

            Blake had been the first band member to sell his soul, which was surprising.  It wasn’t surprising that he sold his soul, but that he still had one to sell.  Blake.  No last name.  Blake, however, wasn’t his real name.  His real name was Arnold.  Arnold Kolinski.  Blake had reasoned correctly, though, that Arnold Kolinski wasn’t a great stage name.  Blake had wanted to change the name of the band, as well, but the other band members had flatly refused.  They liked The Lard Cheeses, and if Blake didn’t, he could take his lead guitar and vocals and go somewhere else.  To everyone’s surprise, Blake hadn’t left.

            Even more surprisingly, Blake hadn’t traded his soul for fame and fortune.  All he wanted was for the band to play some really big venues and for their songs to get some air time.  Mrs. Rimbaugh was true to her word.  In the summer of ’76 The Lard Cheeses had toured the Midwest with Peter Frampton.  They had been the opening act, followed by Gary Wright and Santana.  They were the band nobody remembers, the band nobody even knew while they were onstage.  They were the band everybody wished would hurry up and get the hell off the stage so the concert could begin.  Still, they were large crowds.  And a couple of their songs did get air time.  Mind you, it was very late at night and they were underground stations, but that’s the sort of thing that can happen when you’re not specific about terms.

            Steve West was specific.  His soul went for a kilo of Cecimillion, seven teenage groupies, and a top of the line Hammer bass.

            Leslie Meyers, on the other hand, wanted fame and fortune.  She didn’t even ask for new drums.  Just fame and fortune.  And that, too, was dutifully delivered by Mrs. Rimbaugh.  Steve made a modest profit off all that pot, which he reinvested in cocaine, which was reinvested in heroine, which made everybody a fortune, shortly before they were busted, which made them famous.

            “And that’s why,” Doug explained to Mrs. Rimbaugh, “that I want nothing to do with any of your deals.  They all turn out for crap.”

            “All you young men are the same,” exclaimed Mrs. Rimbaugh.  “You have such nice up-bringings and then you use such filthy language.  Besides, how else do you expect these deals to turn out?  After all, you’ve sold your soul to the devil.  You were expecting happily ever after?”

            “I didn’t sell my soul,” Doug reminded her.  “They all did.”

            “But you profited from it,” Mrs. Rimbaugh reminded him.

            “Very little,” Doug was quick to point out.

            Doug realized that he retained no rights whatsoever to anything, and aside from the Ibanez, he had walked away with nothing.  But nothing was what he started with, and the way he figured it, if the VH1 story didn’t bring in enough publicity for him to live on itself, at least it could be a springboard to a revitalized career, one that would be free of Mrs. Rimbaugh.

            Doug left Finley’s with caution; he had no doubt that Mrs. Rimbaugh would not play fair, but that knowledge alone gave him the advantage.  Regardless of what she might try, he knew that all he had to do was reach St. Jude’s and catch the afternoon confession with Father Thomas, then he’d be home free.  As he walked down the sidewalk, Doug mapped out the route in his head.  If he continued west on Urbana, he’d go right by the Night Owl bar.  It would probably be in poor taste to go to confession with liquor on his breath, but chances were fairly good that Father Thomas would never know the difference.  Besides, with the penance he’d have to do for tricking the devil, a few more Hail Marys really wouldn’t matter.