Dead brilliant, p.6
Dead Brilliant, page 6
An uncertain look appeared on Delray Jackson’s face, and he unthinkingly licked the edge of his knife. “You sayin’ she ain’t worthy of a little dipshit like you? You should be thankin’ your lucky stars you can breathe the same air as Bobbie Jean Burnette.”
Roc was wondering what Bubba here would say if he’d heard the sounds bouncing around his beloved’s car the other night, when they both noticed an approaching vehicle. Roc gave a jaunty wave to Hector, the valet parker, but Delray panicked, and in trying to conceal the knife, accidentally sliced through Roc’s shirt, drawing blood. Not noticing his injury, Roc got into his car as quickly as possible and eased out of the garage, stomach trembling and hands shaking as Delray beat a hasty retreat to the dumpster, bloody knife in hand.
Sixteen
On the short drive to Uncle’s office, Roc felt like he’d gone to hell without knowing how he’d gotten there. Seeing his bloodied sleeve had, if anything, brought him back to reality. He replayed the Delray confrontation, imagining how he might have responded — more outrage or challenge maybe, but the guy did have a knife. He didn’t even consider calling the cops, not wanting to deal with officialdom at any time. And if this moron knew Bobbie’s family, for instance, it was even more complicated. In his agitated state, Roc had accidentally cut off a pony-tailed suit in a vintage convertible Benz. The driver had pulled up beside him and tossed coffee down the side of Roc’s car before miming pointing a gun at Roc’s head. He’d taken a shortcut down 3rd Street and gotten stuck in a shoot for a network cop show that he recognized. By the time he realized and tried to back up, the people behind him were out of their car, taking pictures of actors covered in fake blood and pointing at him, and all he could get on the radio aside from commercials was “Ring My Bell” on the oldies station and a screaming caller on a talk radio program arguing that “the NRA has done more for America than the ****ing United Way ever will.” The host agreed.
He’d actually been so disturbed by Delray Jackson that he’d dialed Bobbie moments after leaving the parking garage. He’d pulled over on Santa Monica Boulevard, trying to control his breathing, unsure of whether he was looking for sympathy or wanting to rage at her for ever having had a boyfriend like Delray. Once he heard the anonymous sounding “You have reached the voice mail of ...” that was Bobbie’s new message, it didn’t matter, and he hung up. Just as well, he thought as he dug through an unopened first aid kit for gauze and tape.
He walked past the nuclear nail polish site that was Candy’s desk and into Uncle’s office before collapsing into the couch. The beer and sweat stench was no improvement, so he opened the window as Uncle greeted him silently in mid-call. He picked up the newest issue of an industry rag from Uncle’s desk and immediately saw a piece entitled “Tails Wag Roc,” comparing the relative status at radio of his single to The Cocktails’ “Stop Before I Start.” Uncle got off quickly, reading the distress on his old friend’s face.
“Sorry, Roc, I would’ve put that thing in the trash where it belongs if I’d known you were here.”
“It’s not that.” Roc’s voice had an alien sound to it.
“You don’t look well, my brother.” Uncle hit the intercom. “Candy, no calls for the moment.” He finally noticed Roc’s bloodied sleeve and recoiled slightly. “What happened there?” He came around from behind his desk for a closer look. “Can I get you a drink?”
“You could get me a bodyguard.” Roc was getting his voice under control. “The fucking weirdest thing happened to me in the garage at the Lagoon. I was attacked by this deranged blonde hillbilly with a knife the size of a guillotine.”
Uncle buried a wave of dread as the very real image of an armed Delray came to mind and quickly transferred it into deep concern. “My God, Roc. What did he want?”
“Nothing. I mean, not money or anything. He said he was there for Bobbie.”
“How twisted is that?” Uncle’s mind was spinning. “You must have been terrified. How’d you get out of there?”
“I spotted Hector the valet and got out while hickweed was drooling on himself. Man, I did not need that today. All the years I’ve been in public, and never has anything like this happened. I mean, I really thought my number was up when he jumped in front of me and put that blade in my face. Yeah, I will take a drink. Thanks.”
Uncle pulled a couple of Lone Stars out of the mini fridge in his office and poured one for Roc, who looked a little quizzically at the can before taking a sip. They commiserated for a while, and Roc replayed the scene in the parking garage until all the details were exhausted. After a few moments of silence, he was starting to unwind a bit. Uncle spoke quietly. “I’m sure you don’t feel like going over contracts now. You said you have something to show me?”
“I’ll be okay, just give me a minute. I actually feel better already. The arm looks more dramatic than it is.” Roc took the photos of the Northern California coast out of his bag and smiled for the first time since he’d gotten there. “Check these out, Uncle.”
With exaggerated grandeur, Uncle said, “This could all be yours.” He swept his hands dramatically over the pictures. “Gorgeous. I’ve never been there, but JJ calls it God’s country. You’re really thinking about this whole thing, aren’t you?”
Roc smiled again, this time revealing a youthful enthusiasm that Uncle hadn’t seen for a long time. “Yeah, I am. When I think about getting out, it’s like a beautiful trap door into a world totally different than this one. And I’m really sick of this one, Uncle. I mean what have I got to lose? Whoever gets a chance to start again?”
Uncle put his hand on Roc’s shoulder. “We’ve got a lot to do, my good sir. Let’s start with the easy stuff. Max tweaked the catalogue deal, and the boys signed off on it yesterday. I didn’t bother them with the details, of course. So, whenever you’re ready, ink it.” A pen conveniently appeared alongside the stack of papers. “I’ve got Eddie’s brother set up with a rescue chopper, and there’s a helipad in La Jolla that’s totally private.”
Roc nodded along with Uncle’s recitation as he initialed the pages of the agreement in front of him. He gave Uncle a list of things he’d need right away, and Uncle stopped to look over the desert island disc list. “Okay, I’m there with the Jobim and the Firebird, but Debussy’s Preludes? Aren’t we getting sophisto?” The two laughed, and Uncle continued, “Back in Black! You’ve restored my faith.”
“So Eddie’s going to be in on this, Uncle?” Roc asked.
“We need him, amigo. And not just for the escape, but I was thinking you could hole up at the studio apartment till we get your permanent Valhalla in place.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Roc agreed. “And Eddie’d be there whenever I wanted to record something new. But ...”
Uncle cut him off. “Don’t worry, we’ll get a new carpet and couch by Thursday. Too many memories, right?”
Roc laughed and nodded. He recalled many a night crashed on that couch after a session that might have lasted for days on end. Cigarette burns, spilled drinks, and salsa were layered like ancient civilizations into the furniture at Eddie’s place, known in those days as “Reel Oddio.” Mostly he remembered good times and great music.
Uncle brought him out of his reverie. “Adult thought. You’ll need to give me power of attorney. And I’m still executor, right? Let’s backdate it for appearances.” He paused to let this sink in. “I know it’s weird to think of, but there are going to be some serious probate issues to deal with. And by the way, you have to be missing seven years to be legally dead, which would hold up inheritance.” Uncle looked pensive for a moment. “Mind you, it’s only four years in Minnesota. Of course, in Nevada they divvy property provisionally after three years. I’m just saying …”
Roc thought about Tabby’s request that he redirect Emma’s payments as he raised his eyebrows in wonder at Uncle’s natural deviousness. “Let me guess, it’s a fortnight in Madagascar, so maybe we talk to MTV there …”
Uncle laughed a little too robustly. “I’m just thinking out loud here. I do think we should keep Max’s hands clean on this thing.”
A shiver flicked through Roc’s shoulders but passed quickly. “Who else am I going to trust?” He smiled. “Do you worry at all about people being suspicious?”
“See it from the public’s point of view. You have no debts, you’re not wanted for anything illegal, you’ve got a rock star top-of-the-world lifestyle. Why would you want to escape?”
Roc shrugged, “Yeah, I guess that’s all true.”
Uncle rolled on. “The press will love this story. Hey, I read about this guy who slowly but surely built up a credit history for his dog before he disappeared. It was so easy.” Uncle saw Roc glazing over. “All right. I’ll get the paperwork drawn up by a guy I worked with in New York a few years ago. Now, on to more important matters. I think you should come with Marie and Julie and me to dinner then maybe the Roxy for old times’ sake. You’ve seen Marie; well, her bosom buddy Julie’s got a set on her that could move furniture at fifty paces. What do you say?”
Roc grinned at Uncle’s perennial adolescence. “All right. I could use a night out. I know when I’m licked.”
Uncle gave him a strange and bemused look at this last remark and hit the intercom. “Candy? Would you make a reservation for four at Maple Drive at nine? Thanks.”
Seventeen
The maitre’d at Maple Drive escorted Roc and Uncle to a booth on the far side of the main dining room, an ideal place to see but not be seen. Marie and her friend Julie were already engaged in launching a bottle of Perrier Jouet, and the mood was clearly festive. Taking a seat, Roc was introduced to Julie; he didn’t acknowledge that he’d almost met her in the lobby of the Sunset Lagoon the night before. He watched Marie go through a breezy series of little kisses on either side of Uncle’s skull, and it wasn’t until his second glass of champagne that he could erase the lurid image of her licking that big bald head. Marie, it turned out, was quite witty and seemed to have Uncle Strange’s number in many ways. He was clearly in thrall to that breathy accent, among her other charms, and he shrugged sheepishly when she referred to him as her Monsieur Propre, a reference to the French version of the well-known cleaning product and its bald symbol. Julie, it emerged, was a trust fund baby whose grandmother had invented Teflon, and she and Marie had gone to school together in Switzerland. Roc found himself enjoying the company in spite of his usual social discomfort.
“My father is Jean Luc Solange,” Marie explained. “Maybe you are knowing his films, O, P, and Q. It is his trilogy, very famous in France, of course, where each line of dialogue begins with the letter in the title.”
Uncle was nodding far too seriously at this. “I’m sure that Q must have been his most challenging work.”
“Yes, until now, that is. He has been brought to Hollywood to work in English for the first time, you know. In this new picture, the child of Dr. and Madame Bovary would be unhappily married to a plastic surgeon, you see.” At this point, Julie leaned close to Roc, ostensibly not wanting to interrupt her friend, and whispered a request for champagne, brushing her lips against his ear. Uncle noticed and took the opportunity to fondle Marie’s thigh under the table.
The dinner became louder and looser, and Roc actually laughed out loud in public for the first time in a long while when Julie threw her hair back and thumped her chest, imitating the faux swagger of the latest reality starlet on Fox. Roc referred to her caboose being mightier than her engine, and Uncle looked genuinely surprised. Roc went to get up and had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself. The girls, noticing, giggled in unison, and Julie said with authority, “Time to go dancing.”
Marie added her oui, but Uncle was still pressing for the Roxy. Roc cast the deciding vote, again to Uncle’s surprise. He’d spent enough hours in the Roxy for one lifetime. He wouldn’t dance, of course, but a change of scene would be fun. Uncle just shrugged and grinned and made a quick call on his cell.
The Swerve Club was loud and dark, and they were led to a corner table lit by candlelight. The DJ was doing an eighties and nineties mix, and Roc was surprised at how well the Clash, Human League, the Black Crowes, and Howard Jones got along.
Of course, a change of beverage had led to more hilarity. Julie was doing an excellent impression of Marie’s accent, asking directions “to the water closet if it please you” and Marie in turn was passably impersonating Uncle, holding her palms out and crossing her legs in a lotus position, saying, “Problem. Empty glass. Solution. Another drink.” A photographer suddenly appeared and took a quick shot of Roc and Julie; she nestled in close and smiled at him, forcing a shy smile in return. Uncle and Marie were happily snogging and sharing a seat when Julie grabbed Roc in the middle of a conversation about the dos and don’ts of leather pants and pulled him onto the dance floor. “Black Velvet” was playing, and Roc moved tentatively but was soon distracted as Julie ran her hands down his sides and grabbed his hips during the sultry opening bars of the song. She began moving him back and forth in time to the swaying of her body, and she looked into his eyes with flamenco intensity. He caught his breath and thought how easy it would be to let this night go where it was clearly headed. His heart wasn’t in it, but another part of his anatomy might be telling his heart to go home early. Julie was writhing about an inch away from his body when the song ended, and they stood on the dance floor in one of those “there’s no one else here” moments. A camera flashed.
Everyone agreed it was time for some fresh air, so Uncle paged Roscoe, his driver for the night, and they headed unsteadily into the street. Uncle insisted on playing the new CD in the limo, and in the silence after “Swan Dive,” Julie said wide-eyed, “That’s so beautiful. Did you write that for someone?”
Roc shrugged enigmatically, his normal response to that question, and the moment passed. He felt a twinge of what — regret? Uncle opened a bottle of Armagnac and handed glasses around. Julie stuck her nose in the glass. “Mmmm, way pruney.”
Uncle was warming the glass with his hands. “Another exquisite French export.” He leered at Marie. “Prune, vanilla, and a touch of violet, non, mon amour?” She nodded and giggled into her glass.
With the sunroof open and the tops of the palm trees blurring past, Roc closed his eyes for a moment as he slouched on the seat. The next time he opened them, Julie was asleep, curled at his feet, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Marie looking lustily at Uncle’s glowing dome. He asked Roscoe to take him to the hotel and rested his eyes for just a minute.
When he came to the next morning, there was an inferno in his mouth and a war raging in his stomach. He opened his eyes just enough to know that he was in his room at the Sunset Lagoon, and not in Cedars Sinai hospital. He felt a moment of panic and said a small prayer before looking to his left in the bed. He sighed with gratitude to see that he’d slept alone. Did I really tell Uncle about Bobbie? He felt like a detective trying to reassemble bits of last night like a torn up photograph. There was a picture, he vaguely remembered. And I danced in public, he recalled with pained amusement.
Eighteen
To: Warren Blade - v.p. special products
cc: Uncle Strange
From: Roc Molotov
Warren: Nice to hear from you. The new mastering sounds great. I haven’t listened to some of those tracks in a very long time. Ouch! Send me your ideal running order & I’ll give you my thoughts. You probably remember as much about all of this as we do but I think your idea of recollections from each of us is perfect for the compilation. Here’s what I recall ... R
When we first came to L.A., we were a bunch of awkward corduroy kids with hair in our eyes, from the wasteland of northern Minnesota. We’d won a local radio station battle of the bands with a song I’d written called, I think, “Black Sky Birds Cry,” that mercifully has been lost along the way. My closest friend and soon-to-be manager Uncle Strange, known then on his driver’s license as Karl Breit, gave the song to a Styx soundman, and it eventually led to our first record deal. We cut the record at Sowndz Ear on Fairfax above a bakery, and at night we’d hit every bar that featured a band. We made a lot of friends on those nights, and some of them played on that record and the ones that came after. You can check the credits; they’re far more reliable than my memory. Hollywood was weirder than we could have imagined in those days and the scene on the street outside the Whiskey, the Roxy, and the Rainbow was something we could hardly wait to tell our friends back home about. The endless parade of flashy cars doing the slow cruise down Sunset, the outrageously dressed party people, the Santa Ana winds — it all stirred up the restless awake-all-night side of each of us, and we’d often go back to the studio and work till the caffeine finally wore off.
Listening back to those songs that came so incredibly easily, I feel a mixture of envy of my younger self and the effortlessness of it all, and nostalgia for the days when coming up with a cool song was all that mattered, leavened with a healthy dose of embarrassment at some of what I wrote. I know that we can’t leave “Dreamland Feel” out of this collection, but I’m grateful for my remote right at this moment. Did I really write the words “Staring through my window blanking/Every broken star I’m thanking”? And to those of you with headphones on, yes — Danny, Frankie, and Barry were singing “wanking” in the background bit. But I’ll leave it to you to discover or rediscover whatever alchemy brought us all to where we are today. Much is lost, but here’s the best of what remains. To the guys, here’s to the most brilliant times of my life and to you, thanks for taking us along.
Love, Roc.
Uncle sat at his desk and smiled as he read Roc’s liner notes before dashing off a quick reply.
