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We picked up our bags and headed out to the waiting Lincoln Town Car, where Preston got into the front passenger seat and Crank and I slid into the back.
    “So, Allan says you guys are fantastic,” Preston said to Crank.  
    Crank grunted, then said, “You’re one of his guys?”
    I rested a hand on Crank’s knee.   “Preston manages the Rourke band. He’s been a big help while we planned the tour.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Crank said, raising his eyebrows. “Preston, where you from? I can’t place your accent.”
    “Connecticut,” Preston answered smoothly. “I went to Harvard, but then headed out west… I always wanted to be in entertainment.”
    “Harvard, huh?” Crank said.   He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “So you and Julia must have a lot to talk about. While you’re being…uh…helpful.”
    I couldn’t help it. I rolled my eyes. Crank’s nostrils actually flared a little.
    Preston was oblivious to Crank’s mental breakdown. “A little,” he replied. “Things change a lot in just ten years, but still, there’s a bond between people who attended there.”   He gave me a warm smile.   Priceless.
      “Right. I was a pit rat,” Crank said. “I wouldn’t know nothin’ about that.”
    “Crank,” I murmured.  
    “That’s right, you’re from Boston. What clubs did you play there?”
    Crank shrugged. “Metro. Bill’s.”
    “Not the Rat?”
    “Rat’s closed down, has been for years. They put in a frickin’ hotel.”
    The conversation drifted from there, not openly hostile, but not easy either. Matters stayed the same for the next couple of days. The band was busy doing final rehearsals and then on Saturday actually prepping at the stadium. The stadium. Because it was a sold out show—more than 35,000 seats sold at the Sam Boyd Stadium. Up until that Saturday night, the biggest show Morbid Obesity had ever played was for maybe a thousand people.
    I had what seemed like a million details to attend to. Vendors. T-shirts. Roadies and the placement of equipment. Dressing rooms for the band. Someone had spilled a case of beer on an open case of dynamic mics. Thankfully, old-style dynamic mics could stand up to almost any abuse and they’d be okay, once they were cleaned and dried out… But in the meantime, I had to scramble to find an open music store to replace the mics until they were working again. I was running around like a maniac and I most definitely didn’t have time to babysit Crank, who’d suddenly become a giant dick the moment Preston arrived.
    I scheduled short meetings with Preston at 2 pm and again at 7 pm so we could be sure any last minute details were covered. I had to meet with him because nothing was going right. But Crank?   He didn’t like that idea at all.
    At our two o’clock meeting, Preston made a useful suggestion. “You guys are used to moving around on tiny little stages in clubs,” he pointed out. “And you can see it here. We’ve got this giant stage, and they aren’t using it.”
    I watched the band, nodding.   It was true. Right now the band was in the middle of the fourth or fifth run-through of Crank’s newest song, and on this huge stage, they looked like they were all huddled together in a tiny corner.  
    Ten minutes later, the band had finished their set and Preston had gone on to other things. I climbed up on the stage and gathered the band. Crank was sweaty, grinning, and they all looked exhilarated. Crank and Serena fist bumped.
    “Great practice!” I said.  
    “I’ll say.” Serena had an easy grin on her face.
    “I’ve got one suggestion,” I said. “Can we spread it out a little? We’ve got a huge stage here, let’s use it.”
    Serena looked thoughtful and started to nod, but Crank cocked an eyebrow. “Is that Preston’s suggestion?”
    I blinked. “It is, but he’s right. From up in the seats, it looks a little weird with the band crammed into just one section of the stage.”
    “I didn’t know we were taking