Dead brilliant, p.4
Dead Brilliant, page 4
“Howdy, Junebug. Your trannie’s not quite right, and you might want to air-up the left front sometime soon.”
“Delray Jackson, I’m fixin’ to flatten you.”
“Ahh, Bobbie Jean, you’d never hurt your big old boy, and I know it.”
She glared at Delray as he hauled himself up from under the car and swirled the contents of his beer around, checking for any losses. “What do you want, Delray?”
“You. With me. Makin’ babies in Farcry in a little house with a baba-que, a clothesline, and a mess of dogs in the yard.” He grinned stupidly as she stood, hands on hips, slowly shaking her head in disbelief. “They re-opened the drive-in this year. I’ll bet you didn’t hear about that,” he added hopefully.
No, she allowed as she hadn’t heard the good news about the drive-in before taking a deep breath to calm herself. “Delray, I don’t want any of that. I’m happy here, hard as that may be for y’all to believe. It’s real pretty, it don’t rain but two or three times a year, and I can see the ocean any old time I like.” His puppydog expression still had its goofy charm, and Delray did look good in his Levis, but Bobbie had to toughen her tone. “I like the food, the folks here are real nice, and I especially like being a good long way from Farcry and the likes of peckerwood like you.”
“Whatever blows your dress up, Junebug, but I ain’t leavin’ without you.”
“Oh, Delray,” she said, exasperated, getting back into her car. She lowered the window and looked him in the eye. “You’ll get bored of this place in no time. They’re a bunch of phonies here. You’ll run out of money and patience soon enough waiting for me to change my mind, which is not about to happen.” As she put the car in gear and eased into the street, she heard Delray start to curse and yell.
“I know where his management office is, Bobbie Jean. I looked up the address on the back of one of his CDs in Red Barn Records ’fore I came here. And I brought a little Alabama toothpick with me in case he needs convincing.”
Bobbie knew that an Alabama toothpick was big enough and sharp enough to gut possum, and she felt a bit sick. In the rearview mirror she saw Delray standing in the middle of her street, bowing formally and toasting her with backwash from his Lone Star as the cars navigated around him. She was grateful he didn’t have wheels as she headed down to a favourite vista overlooking the ocean in sleepy Palos Verdes to catch up on a little work. She parked away from the only other car in sight, opened her lemonade, and pulled out a bottle of Very Cherry nail polish. She lowered the seat to full recline, propped her feet on the dash and picked up her cellphone.
“He-llo, my little throbbing cockatiel. You wanna show me your plumage today?”
With the phone under her ear, she painted a toe with one hand, and as she reached for the lemonade with the other, it tipped onto her bare leg. “Oooooohhh,” she squealed. At the reply from the other end of the phone, she continued, “You wanna sing for mama, do you?” She’d have to get one of those hands-free thingies someday.
Ten
Roc pulled off Sunset into the parking area of Heavenly Blessings Gardens and Meditation Center. As always, the sounds of L.A. receded, and things got a little more peaceful for however long he was there. Roc had discovered this place soon after he’d moved to California, and he’d turned Uncle on to it. Uncle had more or less claimed it for his own, and it was about the only time that he dropped the rock ’n roll guru act and paused to consider life. Roc waved to Uncle’s driver, Eddie Dyck, who was smoking a cigarette at the wheel, strictly forbidden at the center, as he pulled in.
“Eddie, what’s shaking?” As well as being Uncle’s sometime chauffeur, Dyck ran a little studio in the valley where Roc and The Cocktails had cut a lot of their early records. He was still the keeper of the band’s archives, the future of which was being hotly contested these days.
“Rocco, how the hell are you? Long time. I’m just great. Busy with the studio when I’m not driving Mr. Clean. My son, you remember Rich, well he’s in a band called Maureen’s Ankle, acting like they just invented the minor chord. You? How’s Bobbie?”
Roc winced to himself but gave a generic, “Everything’s cool, Ed. Tell Rich I said hi.”
“You bet. He’ll be happy to get a hello from you. Calls himself Stick Neff now. Don’t ask. Good luck with the new record, man. Uncle played me a couple of cuts, sounds great. I can’t believe he’d manage The Cocktails when he’s still got you, but there’s no explaining the big man, is there?”
Roc covered his shock with a forced smile until he passed through the gates of Heavenly Blessings. He stopped and closed his eyes, taking a few breaths to gain focus for the upcoming conversation with Uncle. Here was something new to deal with. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was.
Listening to the wind chimes, he made his way around the beautiful man-made lake, with its perfectly arranged bamboo plants, maples, and silk trees, the latter aglow with deep pink and white flowers. Even the rocks were harmoniously placed, he thought as a couple of swans glided up to the water’s edge. Was everything designed to remind him of his career or his love life, both of which were in sad shape? Uncle had more or less summoned him here, and he was glad to escape the odour of raw ambition that hovered by the pool of the Sunset Lagoon these days. Maybe it always did. Maybe it was time to find a new place to hang his twenty-seven pairs of black jeans, he mused bitterly as he came in sight of the pink pagoda tucked in the trees, where he would undoubtedly find Uncle Strange contemplating his navel or his cellphone. Roc crossed the little zigzag bridge and recalled Uncle explaining that it was shaped that way so the Devil would fall off as you kept running. He’d probably made that up, but it seemed particularly apt as Roc approached Uncle and sat on the little stone bench across from him without speaking.
After a pause that was unnaturally long, Roc broke the silence. “So, when were you going to tell me you’re managing The Cocktails?”
“Today,” Uncle replied with a small smile. “I figured you wouldn’t yell at me if we were here when I did.”
Roc realized he was probably hearing the truth, but it didn’t make it any more palatable. He also knew that for Uncle to keep his empire afloat, he was going to have to take on new clients, and why not The Cocktails? After all, it made perfect sense. He’d brought them this far. If only he hadn’t led Roc to believe that The Cocktails were going with Two Penguins, the Canadian hard rock managers who were smoking hot these days.
As if to answer Roc’s unspoken question, Uncle continued, “Two Penguins dropped them when they heard the final mixes. Called the record nose whistling for fags. Doesn’t leave you much wiggle room, does it? Those pricks must be crying in their maple syrup now, beaver brains. And just so you know, your record was scheduled to come out before theirs, before the delays.”
Roc was feeling uncomfortable with all this invective in such a peaceful place. “Forget about it, Uncle. It doesn’t matter anyway.... I know I took too long to make the record, but ...” he changed the subject somewhat, “Hey, nice email from the Savage kid.”
“Now I’m going to tell you to forget about it, Roc. We’ll make it happen without them. I can still call some favours at radio. Speaking of which, we got the Milky Way network across the board. If you get some phones, it’ll chart next week for sure. They’re up to thirty-four stations, you know.”
Roc knew that Milky Way was a group of stations in the northeast with common programming out of Harrisburg. He knew it was the softest of soft rock with an emphasis on “heritage artists” and that it meant airplay, not sales. He also remembered that they could be bought for little more than grocery store coupons from the local label promo rep.
“Uncle, listen to me. I’m done with this. My heart’s not in it.”
Uncle interrupted him and reached out to put his hands on Roc’s shoulders. “I already told you, you don’t have to do the parachute thing.”
“I don’t mean the stunt, it’s much more than that.... What JJ’s doing, the cabin in Mendocino, that sounds like living to me. I want to escape, pretend all the crap doesn’t exist, just disappear. Can you understand that?”
“Sure, I have those feelings too, but listen to me. Every promoter in the country is all over me to sign The Cocktails and commit to a tour. The boys are nervous, with good reason, I might add. Why don’t you go out with them, it would be amazing!”
“You are joking, I hope. Let me picture life as the opening act for my old band, who didn’t know a drumstick from an asparagus stalk when I met them. Gosh, do you think they would let me use their spotlight?”
“Roc. Please.” Uncle held his hands out palms up and tilted his head in his characteristic patronizing manner. “I’m talking co-headliners, of course. It’s perfect. They’d probably back you on the old songs ... for a bigger cut.”
“Forget it, Uncle. It’s time for me to cash out. Let’s make this catalogue deal while we still have some cards to play. We’ve had a great run together. Your plate’s full, and honestly, I bear you no animosity over The Cocktails thing. They’ll have a better shot with you pulling the strings anyway. How was the show last night?”
“Fabulous. Every label weasel that walks was there. A celeb gang bang — Cher, both of the Osbourne kids, Lisa Marie. Tonya Harding came with the guy from Skid Row, go figure. Marie swears she saw Johnny Hallyday, but that’s unconfirmed. Three encores, they did a smoking version of ‘Jukebox Hero,’ the old Foreigner tune, and Cher got up. It was amazing.”
Roc realized he had inadvertently hit Uncle’s “hype” button, so he waited for the tape to run out before continuing. “Uncle, you’re not hearing me. I’m done. ‘Swan Dive’ is my swan song.”
“Oh, I hear you Roc, it’s just ...” Uncle paused. He was having trouble getting the words out, and he went on in just above a whisper. “I believe in you, Roc, always have, as a musician and a man. And honestly, there’s not many in the world, never mind the music business, I can say that about.”
Roc was smiling as he saw the years between them tumble away. “Remember the gig at the rec center in Duluth? There were more people on stage than in the audience. And you went to the sound board and played back the crowd noise from The Who Live at Leeds album between songs?” Now it was Roc’s turn to hesitate. “It’s all right, brother,” he said quietly with a slight grin, “it doesn’t last forever.”
The sound of the wind chimes echoing across the Heavenly Blessings Lake filled the space in the conversation. Roc looked away and watched the swans etching their curving patterns on the water. When he looked up, Uncle was wearing a very odd expression. “Maybe it does, brother. Maybe it does last forever.”
Roc had seen similar moments of inspiration in Uncle Strange before, and he was more than a little leery of this one. He waited while Uncle formulated his idea.
“What’s the hottest record right now?”
“I don’t know. That daredevil soundtrack thing?”
“No, the new Nirvana record, with one new song.”
“So what, Uncle?”
“And next month, the big hype is going to be the Doors demos, recorded in somebody’s kitchen, with the lyrics half written and half improvised. It’ll go platinum before you can exhale.” Roc waited for the point of all this to make itself known. “Yoko could release an album of Lennon talking in his sleep and it would be a smash. Hmm, not a bad idea.” Uncle scribbled a note.
“Yeah, Uncle, I get it, they’re all dead. What are you going to do, kill me?”
“Not exactly.” Uncle paused dramatically. “But what if, during your Beach Blast appearance, you just disappear? In front of Chad Sparx, a bevy of babes playing extreme volleyball, and millions of awestruck MTV fans?”
Not wanting to wait to see where this was headed, Roc got up to leave the pink pagoda and the madman who was practically glowing with the aura of his own genius. “Call me when you’re feeling better, will you.”
But Uncle was not to be so easily dissuaded. He stood up suddenly and leaned toward Roc, unnerving him somewhat. “You never actually touch down. They see the parachute, enough to know it’s you and then, poof, you float away to your destiny.” Uncle grabbed Roc’s shoulders again, this time clutching them ferociously. “Higher than Heaven, Roc. Where your destiny will include the smash that you deserve with this record.” Uncle knew this would appeal to the artist’s vanity, and Roc paused as he was about to leave. “And then, we do the dead guys one better. You begin your new career, making posthumous records ... in your own time ... in your own way ... with no interference, no label geeks, no tours ... just you and your music, the way you want it.”
“I don’t know, Uncle.” Roc attempted weak resistance, but Uncle was on a roll.
“You want to cut vocals suspended from the ceiling like Peter Gabriel on his first solo album … cool. Play drums with spatulas, rent a seventeenth century Greek lyre, have fifteen verses and no chorus … do it, who cares!” As his voice rose to an uncomfortable intensity, Uncle was sporting a maniacal expression that alternately repulsed and terrified Roc. “You make the music, and I’ll deal with the greed machine. Create and leave the rest to me … me and your mighty label and your grieving fans.”
Roc looked away to defuse the intense weirdness of the moment. But Uncle had hit a vein. They both knew Roc had lost his taste for the road. The thrill of the Denny’s menu at four a.m. just wasn’t what it used to be. The boys in the band were frozen in adolescence; the fans wanted the same-old. Planes, tour buses, mindless interviews, label toads — he was sick of it all. Roc had almost unconsciously been moving toward a new life with Bobbie, a kind of belated adulthood with a garden, tennis, maybe a kid. But now all that was gone. What was holding him? Nothing.
Still, he couldn’t quite give in that easily. “It feels kinda creepy to me, Uncle. It is ingenious, but I would expect nothing less from you.” Roc felt overwhelmed by the whole concept, this grand wild deception, but when he thought about playing out the string as a has-been rock star and life at the Sunset Lagoon and Bobbie ...something made it logical, even appealing.
Uncle knew Roc well enough to stop talking and let the moment be. He didn’t know why, but he knew that things were funky in Roc’s love life, very funky. He’d never seen him like this before, not even after the episode with that bitch Tabatha. After staring at the lake for a few minutes, Roc turned to look at Uncle with a smile, and Uncle knew it was a done deal.
“Dead brilliant, if I do say so myself.”
Eleven
After saying goodbye to Uncle in the parking lot of Heavenly Blessings, Roc got in his car and started to drive unconsciously in the direction of Hollywood. Before he was aware of how he got there, he was in his hotel room at the Sunset Lagoon foraging through the fruit basket and kicking off his Pumas. He left the computer off and didn’t check his messages. His mind leaped from an exhilarating sense of possibility to the terror of the actual skydiving stunt. From the promise of musical freedom to the fear of never going back to the life he had created and never knowing Emma. This is ridiculous, he thought, I’m going to call Uncle and tell him to forget about it. He picked up the phone then just as quickly put it down and walked over to the mirror above the bureau. He leaned in and looked at his face more closely than he had for years. The bone structure was good, skin pretty taut, not too many lines, no serious bags unless he drank too much wine, but it would all go south soon enough. It would certainly be nice to lose the weekly Midnight Velvet hair treatment and the eighties rocker eyeliner that he felt was part of his look, even now. As they had parted, he’d told Uncle that he really needed to think seriously about this for a day or so. But deep inside, his mind was all but made up.
At that moment, Uncle was in his office on Wilshire Boulevard, on the phone with Eddie Dyck’s brother, Nick, who was at the Santa Monica Airport. “Yeah, you know, one of those rescue hoists for hauling someone out of the water. Okay, so there’s one installed in the chopper already? Great. And you figure you can sit just above the cloud cover and reel someone in no problem? Even if they’ve got a parachute on? Cool.… Freefall velocity, what’s that? Uh-huh. Yeah, I guess the depth changes as you get further from shore, doesn’t it? No, not a swimmer really.… Oh, don’t worry, we’ll make it worth your while, you can ask Eddie.”
At that moment the door opened, and The Cocktails came bouncing in unannounced, looking like they hadn’t slept since the show at the Whiskey two nights ago. They hadn’t. Uncle waved them in, hiding his annoyance at the intrusion, and shifted uncomfortably on his meditation cushion. “Okay, Nick, let me get back to you. But, basically, we’re on for next Thursday ... no, thank you.”
Uncle held out his palms and grinned at the dishevelled trio collapsed on the couch in his office, passing a bottle of warm Veuve Cliquot back and forth. “Incredible ... you guys were devastating the other night. I’m sorry I didn’t hang for the afterparty, but I’m sure you held up our end of the celebration nobly.”
They all started talking at once. “Whatta scene, man!” Danny spun his sticks like a wasted majorette while Frankie nodded bobblehead-style, unable to focus,
“Did you check out Cher singing ‘Jukebox Hero’?”
“Was her mike even on?” Barry asked softly, sounding concerned.
“Stan Smiley brought a box of champagne.” Frankie raised the spoils proudly. “This is the last bottle.”
Danny drummed frantically in the air before stopping to look at Barry. “Was that Johnny Hallyday, the French Elvis?”
