Dead brilliant, p.18
Dead Brilliant, page 18
“Hey, Delray, killer show! Would you sign my mom’s butt?”
Marie slid her hand under the table to distract a subdued Uncle, whose attention was threatening to wander, while the rest of the table avoided the spectacle. Delray found it necessary to inscribe his full name, along with the recipient’s and a lengthy message, to her giggling pleasure. Justin cozied up to a cool Julie but kept giving Marie knowing slit-eyed looks. Numerous Lone Stars into the evening, a somewhat mellowed Delray leaned over to Bobbie. “Hey there, punkin, are you feeling the joy like I am, ’cause this here’s turnin’ into a bit of an energy vortex for me. We could head back to my hotel and connect a little more deeply.”
“Actually, Delray, I think that’s about all she wrote for me, so thanks for everything. You got lots of people dyin’ to connect with y’all here.”
“Ah hell, Bobbie Jean, don’t get all skittish on me. I know we had some issues, but that don’t mean we can’t get neckid and do a little purging of our love toxins together. We could order up a lemon icebox pie and see what happens.” Delray leered at her, and Bobbie caught Julie’s bemused look.
As Delray clutched her sleeve, she bumped her elbow into his latest Lone Star, sending it flowing onto his lap. He jumped up and teetered dangerously, sending the remains of his pizza onto Justin’s shirt. A look of disgust was the record exec’s only response while Delray tried to clean it off with his beer-soaked napkin. As Bobbie saw her exit opportunity, Julie slipped her a phone number, and hasty goodnights were exchanged.
Forty-Four
For the first time in weeks, Roc looked at himself and registered surprise. He peeled the post-it from the mirror.
Death is nature’s way of saying your table is ready. — Andy Warhol
He smiled as he noticed that the salt-and-pepper patterns in his hair had migrated to his unshaven face. His eyes resembled tunnels, and was that furrow between them the product of squinting, extreme fatigue, or time? Roc realized that he didn’t give a shit as he wandered onto the porch in the late afternoon with his first coffee of the day. He noticed the mockingbird, his mimic friend in the magnolia tree, going through his repertoire. Roc observed that his singing was even better at night, and he felt a kinship there. Is this what’s it’s like being old, when your world shrinks and things close at hand take on more and more importance?
He thought about his mother in Duluth and wished that he could tell her that he wasn’t gone. Of course, then a quite lucrative enterprise would dry up for her. He’d seen her again on TV the other night; she’d moved on from limited edition guitar picks and lyric sheets to the real high-end stuff — locks of hair and “one-of-a-kind primary school spelling tests.” No, better dead, he thought wryly. For some reason he was enjoying holding out on Uncle, knowing that the manager was increasingly desperate for archival material. This latest work felt too much like something new to be relegated to the “from the vaults” releases, even if that work was guaranteed a huge audience. He dreamt of putting out something under a band name for Stick and himself, but how would that work? He headed back in and picked up a notebook then grinned as he thought about where he could put his latest addition to the post-it exchange,
Ambition is the death of thought. — Wittgenstein
Uncle, never one to let much stand in the way of ambition, was tucked into a table by the window at God’s Green Urth, nursing a beverage that smelled like fertilizer, and watching for Emma’s arrival. Too embarrassed to use his cell in the tiny café that she had chosen for their meeting, he was forced to surreptitiously ogle three granola mamas, breast-feeding their eager urth urchins at the next table. Emma’s Doc Martens looked like gravity boots, holding down her tiny frame as she arrived at the table. As at their last meeting, her eyes seemed to take him into their true blue depths and blink him back out like a speck of dust onto Santa Monica Boulevard.
“Karl.” She shook his hand firmly, thwarting his attempt at a more intimate Hollywood hug, and he winced at the sound of his own name.
“Emma,” he smiled with all the warmth he could muster. “I see L.A. is treating you well. I don’t remember ever seeing freckles on your mother.”
Now it was her turn to wince at the mention of the one person she’d been avoiding contact with these last weeks. The waiter recited a list of specials that included vegetables Uncle was sure had been made up on the spot, and Emma ordered a beet and watercress shake. That wasn’t going to sweeten her up, Uncle reflected, as he reached into his bag. “I thought you might like an advance copy of the memorial DVD. Quite a show, wasn’t it?”
“Wonderful,” she nodded, sipping on some water, “in a kind of morbidly cheesy way.” Uncle tried to laugh along with her but sensed the tone not going in his direction as she continued. “So, are you going to roll out with a $19.95 list? How are the advance orders?”
“Uh … maybe half a million,” Uncle mumbled.
“That’s just domestic, right? And I’m guessing you didn’t have to grant any controlled composition rate.” Uncle shrugged in mute agreement as Emma hit the calculator on her PalmPilot. “I’m assuming a twelve and a half percent royalty as usual, right?” She hit a few keys then looked up at a stunned Uncle. “Did you build in bumps at each 100k?” Uncle again nodded as Emma brushed a slice of hair away and stared into him. “You know, Karl, if you add that to the seven hundred and fifty K advance you just got on Higher than Heaven, subtract your richly deserved twenty-five percent commission, and allow for returns, my attorney should still be emailing me a notice of deposit of around a million and a quarter by Monday … wouldn’t you say?”
Uncle forced himself to take a deep slug of his manure smoothie to buy a moment to think. “Very astute, Emma. If you’d ever like a job, I could certainly use you in business affairs at the new label I’m starting.” If it was a joke, it lay there. If he was serious, she let him dangle. “You know, the record business is very complicated. Issues like recouping of costs, earning back of advances, and as you mentioned, the ever-present risk of returns, all factor into the bottom line. You are quite correct that Higher than Heaven is a huge sales success story, but the two albums that preceded it were not. And as the good people at Graceland will tell you, while an artist who has passed away can still have considerable earning power, there continue to be substantial outlays required to maintain the revenue stream,” he paused to add weight to his conclusion, “for all concerned parties.”
Emma nodded, her calm presence masking some inner agitation, but completely disconcerting Uncle, who was used to being the manipulator. He pressed on. “Label reserves aside, the costs of the show itself were considerable, and there was a major donation to the World Wildlife Fund, which I’m sure your father would have wanted. I think to expect funds to be processed that quickly would be a little unrealistic.” At this point, his voice carried a certain patronizing tone, but Emma remained unruffled.
“Points taken, Karl.” She smiled reassuringly, and he relaxed too soon. “I’ve been assured, however, that you would have made certain that the box set, as well as the concert CD and DVD, wouldn’t have been cross-collateralized, and if I recall correctly, the account was less than six figures in the red anyhow, a drop in the bucket at this point. I’m guessing the concert paid for itself, to say nothing of the piece of the ad revenue from the MTV special I’m hoping you negotiated for Strange … Savage.” She separated the last two words to give them a specimen-like ring. Uncle knew that any thoughts of Emma agreeing to sign off on an advance were long gone; he was thinking of how he could escape with his manhood intact. But it was too late. “Mr. Stasiuk said he needed to speak with you concerning some irregularities in the merch agreement. Shall I have him call you at the office today?”
Uncle clenched his jaw tightly and forced out the words. “I’m sure your father would be very proud of you, taking care of his legacy so attentively.”
“Here, let me get that,” said Emma, picking up the bill. “Nice of you to think about the pandas.” Uncle creaked as he got up. “It’s his future I’m more concerned with, Karl. If you keep your hands on the wheel and out of the till, it all should be fine. Stay in touch.”
Emma breezed out the door of the café and let out a breath she felt she’d been holding in for the last thirty minutes. Stick handed her a helmet as she smiled and climbed behind him on the bike, and they sped off down Santa Monica Boulevard, heading west.
Uncle paged Roscoe and waited in the sun, squinting, till the car pulled up in front of the café. It had taken his knees so much time to straighten once he’d gotten up that he hadn’t witnessed Emma’s departure with Stick. With an organic war starting in his stomach to match the hostilities being played out in his head, he also turned west. A call to Eddie resulted in a noncommittal reply to his anxious request to speak with Roc or to receive any shred of news about material for the Echoes release. It was only a matter of hours or minutes before Justin would call, wanting an update on Uncle’s mission to have Emma sign off on another advance. Seeing Marie last night, first onstage with Delray then later at her apartment, had cheered him considerably; the twinge of guilt was minor as he flicked on the newest surveillance gadget attached to his phone, and the sounds of Marie’s morning made their way into his headset. He’d already heard her arguing with her father in French on her own phone, in which he had implanted the device. Now, she was singing along in the shower with her beloved Serge Gainsbourg CD. The agony of hearing it was mitigated only by Uncle’s fertile imagination. He directed Roscoe to a quiet Santa Monica street and asked him to pull over and raise the privacy window. Uncle switched off the Marie link and rested his head on the seat while performing some Mork Pook-prescribed tuina self-massage on his aching knees, only somewhat resembling an overturned cockroach struggling to right itself. Abruptly straightening, he leaned over to the driver’s window. “Hey Roscoe, would you follow that silver Toyota; stay a couple of cars back and then pull up when I signal. Thanks, man.” Uncle extracted the Hot Wheels card and dialed the number.
Bobbie figured she could get in at least one call before hitting the Coffee Bean on Montana, and switched on her phone. She might have waited until she was fortified with caffeine and sugar if she’d known who it would be. “Well, if it isn’t my bald eagle. Do your manly tail feathers need a little affection today?”
The half-whispered voice chilled her. “Actually, my talons need some sharpening today. I’ve got my prey in sight.”
“Why don’t you close your eagle eyes and relax. Let me stroke your tail a bit.” This had worked on his first call, and Bobbie didn’t want to spend any more time than she had to with her weirdest client.
“Why don’t you join me in my nest today? I don’t feel like flying solo.”
“Now you know that’s against the rules, mister. Why don’t you put your wings on glide, and we’ll have a nice flight, all right?”
“Are you wearing that cute little denim vest you had on last night, you sweet thing?”
Bobbie had to swallow and catch her breath. “Now, I’m not sure how you know what I had on last night, but I think we’d better end our little phone fun for good right now. I never meet my clients, and I’m not about to start with you.”
He wanted to continue the game for a while as they pulled off of Ocean Avenue onto Montana. “Not till I get a little closer look at you, honey. Did you know that an eagle can spot a little bunny rabbit trying to escape from almost a mile away?”
Bobbie gripped the wheel tighter and felt her throat getting dry; she searched for a place to park near 15th Street and a chance to catch her breath. Her caller made a low moaning sound over the phone, and she wondered why she didn’t just hang up. Of course he’d probably just call back, and it would start all over again. “There you go, you must feel better now you’re not moving.” She put her car in park and tried not to panic. “And you don’t have to worry about meeting me. We’ve already met; we just have to get to know each other better, Bobbie, that’s all.”
Snapping her phone shut, Bobbie jumped out of her car as if it was about to blow up. A midnight blue town car pulled up beside her, close enough that she had to lean her back into her mirror, and the window eased down. “Some say that eagles and vultures are related,” said Uncle, rubbing his head slowly and smiling, “but I don’t believe that, do you?” Bobbie just stared at this seemingly deranged man as the window went up again and the town car pulled away.
At the corner of Montana and 24th, Uncle had Roscoe pull over so he could lean out the open door and vomit. Waving his concerned driver off, he closed the door and fell back into the seat. Terrifying Bobbie hadn’t been on his agenda when he had first called her phone sex service, but it had become necessary when Delray had passed on her story about seeing Roc at the 7-Eleven. The manager and his newest star had chuckled over a few Jim Morrison and Syd Barrett anecdotes, but Uncle knew there was more to it, and he was afraid that it could mean the beginning of the great unraveling. Or had that already begun? He didn’t know anymore, and didn’t want to think about it, so he switched on his Marie surveillance to kill time until they met later that afternoon for their coastal getaway.
His stomach was beginning to right itself as he pulled on his headset, leaned back, and closed his eyes. At least she was speaking English. Sort of. “… and you are believing that he is working at this 7-Eleven?”
Next came Julie’s laugh and then, “No no no. But that’s where she says she saw him. I mean she was his chick, and she should know, right?”
“So, should I advise this to Uncle, do you think?”
Julie turned serious. “No way. Listen, Bobbie’s really cool and I really feel for her, you know. I just thought it was so weird. And Uncle never said anything to you about any of this?”
“Not even.” Marie paused. “Maybe Roc could be writing me another song then, eh?”
Uncle leaned forward in his seat, turning up the volume as the girls’ conversation faded in and out. “Ooo lala, c’est moi et toi.” Julie laughed at her own singing, which to Uncle didn’t sound any worse than his beloved’s vocals. “Listen, honey, you can get J-Lo’s people or Britney’s or whoever at this point. Stick with the ones that are still breathing.”
Marie giggled, but her reply was serious. “But is the Roc Molotov still alive or still dead?”
“Good question. Hey, you want to go for lunch at the Skybar? My friend Alan, who was the forklift driver in the first Austin Powers, is working and he’ll get us a great table.”
“But if he is not dead.…” Marie let her thought hang.
“Alan? Oh, he is extremely vital. One time on the roof of …”
“Non, I mean Roc. If he goes to the 7-Eleven and one of those papparapasties see him … it would become terrible for Uncle.”
The sound of running water obscured Julie’s reply, but Marie’s next words were crystal clear. “Maybe it could be better if he was really dead.”
“Marie!” Julie managed to laugh and sound completely outraged at the same time. “What do you want to do? Call Tony Soprano? My friend Jason played a hit man in Jackie Brown, but that’s as close as I get to all that.”
“If he is already dead, who might know?” There was a teasing quality in Marie’s voice that Uncle recognized as masking a very serious notion. As the girls left the apartment and Marie’s phone was dropped into her bag, Uncle leaned back again and closed his eyes. The truly terrifying realization was that the idea she had expressed wasn’t terrifying to him at all.
Forty-Five
“You’re sure this is the right time?” Emma shouted into Stick’s helmet as they rolled along Ventura Boulevard, past a crowd of valley chicks and their nearly hysterical mothers outside of Tower Records, which featured a sign reading, DELRAY TODAY. He put his hand over hers where it held onto his jacket, and gave it a gentle squeeze. At the light, he turned back to look at her.
“There is no right time, Emma. But I think he’s going to be cool.” He paused and added emphatically. “I know he’s going to be cool.”
“What did you tell him?” Her words were lost in the rev of the engine as they pulled away from the light. Once they reached the alley beside the studio in Toluca Lake, Emma hesitated getting off the bike as she removed her helmet and shook out her hair. “You said your girlfriend wants to meet him? Oh God, Richard.” She checked herself in the bike’s mirror.
“Sorry. But you wanted to surprise him. It was the best I could come up with. It’s not like a fan thing or anything; he knows you dig the music, and I had to say that you were there that first night.”
In the studio, Roc had his back to them, hunched over an acoustic guitar, tuning. “Hey,” he called out in reply to Stick’s greeting. “I’ve got this cool two-chord vamp thing, kinda reminds me of some of the stuff your band is into.” He turned to face Stick and saw Emma at his side, holding his hand, quiet and vulnerable. A long, speechless moment followed as she and Roc locked gazes.
“Tabby.” His voice, soft, sounded like he was making an observation to himself.
After a shorter pause, she barely whispered her reply. “Emma.”
“Emma, yeah.” He swallowed and stared at her, starting to smile. “Emma … it’s really good to meet you. I mean, I know you, but …” No more words came as Roc gently put the guitar on its stand and walked over to embrace his daughter for the first time. Stick slipped silently out the studio door.
“Dad … I missed not knowing you. I was going to come to California to find you and then … I’m just glad I’m not too late.”
“You look so much like your mother, it’s incredible. How is she?”
“The same. Obsessed, intense, relentless, and totally loving.”
Roc laughed at the description of the woman he had once fallen in love with. “Did you get any of that along with the blue eyes?”
