Dead brilliant, p.9
Dead Brilliant, page 9
Bobbie stood back in disgust and disbelief before slugging Delray square in the nose and pushing him out the door with surprising strength. He stayed on the porch moaning for a while and ringing the bell until he saw Officer Farina’s car rounding the corner. Bobbie ran her hand over her tummy before closing the curtains and climbing back into bed.
Twenty-Three
Roc slept late, the sleep of the dead, he thought wryly as he looked around the tiny bedroom above the studio. How many years had it been since he’d crashed here after an all-night session, too tired to drive, or more likely planning to wake up and jump back into work. He saw his guitar propped up in a corner underneath a poster from the first UK tour with the Hammersmith Odeon date in bright orange letters, the O representing the olive in the cocktail glass logo. Eddie had always been fastidious in his swag collecting, and Roc spotted an ancient “Pet Roc” from the first Japanese tour on the wall among the “All Access” laminates and limited edition t-shirts.
These would have to go soon if Roc was going to live in the present or whatever place in time he was inhabiting. The desert island discs were lined up beside a blaster next to a stack of towels under one of Eddie’s trademark post-it notes.
Welcome to the afterlife! Coffee and supplies in the kitchen. Check out your new patio.
Roc pulled on a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt and followed the smell of coffee. He recalled Eddie telling him last night about a warning light system he’d installed in case someone dropped by. It had sounded a bit like a Bond fantasy, but Uncle and Eddie would love that. At the height of last night’s drunkenness, they had gleefully described their trip to the spy shop on Sunset, and Uncle had proudly displayed his voice disguiser and monocular. The kitchen had more post-it notes about cup rinsing and the location of paper towels, and the fridge was stocked with Roc-friendly fare. Grabbing a coffee, his notebook, and guitar, he followed the note marked Patio — this way >>>, as if there was any other possible location than the roof.
Eddie had definitely gone to some effort in anticipation of Roc’s arrival. Surrounding a lounge chair, table, and umbrella ensemble was an arrangement of palms and jasmine. Purple bougainvillea covered the redwood fence that encircled the patio. Roc spotted a cellphone, a jar of pens, a remote, and another note from Eddie on the table pointing toward the plants. He hit “play,” and from speakers in the shrubbery came the opening of an old song of his called “Sky Child” from the second album, or was it the third? He listened till about the bridge, and recalling Frankie’s first experiment with the electric cello, muted the rest of the song, laughing.
The San Fernando valley had always represented “the other side of the hill,” and since the band had stopped recording at Eddie’s and Uncle had moved his office from that glorified treehouse in Laurel Canyon, Roc hadn’t seen too much of the valley. It was notoriously ten degrees hotter in the summer, with constant air quality alerts and a tacky bleakness that kept the chic-at-heart away. With few exceptions, fine dining was with a plastic fork, the parks were to be avoided, and the same five action flicks played at every mall. In short, a cultural wasteland and the ideal place for an allegedly dead rock star to disappear. That said, Eddie’s studio was tucked away in a quiet and green corner of Toluca Lake. A giant magnolia tree combined with the jasmine to do battle with the hydrocarbons that hovered over the valley like airborne sewage. There were hummingbirds and butterflies and fresh lemons most of the year. A distant siren was drowned by the beep of a trash truck backing up, then a plane landing at the nearby Burbank Airport. Relatively peaceful, thought Roc, as he listened to the sound of his breath and felt the clutter of recent days fall away. He picked up his guitar, noticing that Eddie had changed the strings, and strummed aimlessly, finding that place where ideas and emotions mingle, and sometimes become songs.
Roc’s songwriting reverie was broken by the purr of the cellphone on the table beside his notebook. Seeing Uncle’s ID, he picked up. “Eddie’s Afterworld. Better late than never.”
Uncle chuckled hoarsely in his “been on the phone yelling all morning” voice. “My brother, your career has never been this vital. I’ve only got a minute, but check this out — the label had two hundred thousand units of the CD on order before the business day began. They’re working on a commemorative limited edition of the single with a platinum-embossed swan on the label. The old Casey Kasem special from ’98 is bumping ER next week, and you won’t believe how cool this video is looking. The beach footage rocks. We’ve got a freeze of you spread-eagled just before you were wound back up, and it spins and floats like a butterfly. And I found a cutaway of Julie and Marie staring up at the sky, bosoms heaving with concern, that’ll break your heart. Anyway, I gotta jet, I want to prime Nick before the coast guard questions him, and I’ve got to start planning the memorial. Let me know if you have any thoughts. Listen, this is the only number I’ll call you from, okay? Later.”
Replacing the cell on the table, Roc leaned back in his chair, guitar still on his lap, and watched a hummingbird feeding in a bougainvillea blossom. He’d read somewhere that their wings flap about fifty times a second. How do they suspend themselves like that, seeming not to move in midair? he wondered.
Twenty-Four
Working his way through Santa Monica, down back alleys, in and out of doorways, through parks then crossing the vast Veteran’s Cemetery in broad daylight in his underwear had taxed all of Delray’s wild hog hunting skills. The only troublesome incident had been in a yard big enough for the Crimson Tide to practise in, when that maid had chased him around the pool and into the hedge with a mop. Screaming “Fire!” in the rear door of the Kwik Kleen Laundromat had been an unfortunate necessity, and he had needed every minute it took to locate his still-damp jeans and t-shirt before the Santa Monica Fire Department’s finest showed up. He gave his name as Guy Hunt, figuring correctly that the SMFD boys wouldn’t recognize the name of a disgraced former governor of Alabama.
Air-drying as he walked, admiring himself in car windows and with a mighty thirst on, Delray found himself pleased with the new circumstances of his life as he approached Uncle’s office on Wilshire Boulevard. With Roc out of the way and a chance to get into the business himself, he figured he’d give Bobbie a couple of weeks to get over it, then he’d slide back into her life smooth as an oil spill. In the waiting area of Uncle’s office, where all hell seemed to be breaking loose, he tried a little Elvis sneer on Candy, the receptionist, but he ended up looking like he’d smelled something funky. “Hillbilly alert,” she whispered into the intercom.
Inside Uncle’s office, a morose Danny Cocktail sat on the couch drumming on his lap, while Uncle sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by phone messages, an untouched Flora Kitchen take-out container next to him. “Oh, shit, I forgot. Order in a half dozen Lone Stars and see if he can hang in. What else?”
“The Savage kid is begging for the video today. MTV is saying they’ll waive the rights to use of the Beach Blast footage for the other networks in exchange for a seventy-two hour window and exclusive rights to shoot the memorial.”
“Tell him I’ve got my best man on it.” Uncle grinned at the thought of Justin clamouring for Roc Molotov’s work.
“A Detective Hancock wants to talk to you about the chopper stunt, and Nick says everything was cool with the Coast Guard interview. He gave the dude a copy of the pre-flight photo; says it’ll go from evidence to eBay in no time.”
“Get the cop’s number, and I’ll call him from the car. Any word from Max Stone?”
“I was just about to tell you, he’s on four, and he doesn’t sound happy.”
“Thanks, Candy. See if you can keep numb nuts out of trouble while I deal with this.”
Uncle rubbed his hand in circles on his head and closed his eyes momentarily before looking up at Danny like an indulgent parent. “Danny-boy, I believe you, but that’s not the point. No one is going to care if you’ve never heard Revolver. You wrote ‘Cross the Line,’ and it sounds like a rip of ‘Good Day Sunshine.’ Let’s see what Max has to say.” Hitting the flashing button on line four, Uncle called out to the speakerphone, “Heyyy, Dr. Maximum, what’s up?”
“Uncle. I’m stunned about Roc. Have they really exhausted the search that quickly? This was one of the good guys. I just can’t believe it. Condolences on your friend. On The Cocktails plagiarism thing, I’ve got nothing but bad news. The publisher wouldn’t even discuss the idea of calling it a co-write with Lennon/McCartney. How the hell did this get by, surely those morons must have had some clue while they were …”
“Yeah, Max, I’ve got Danny with me here, and we all feel kinda dumb about this.”
Danny, red-faced and standing, pointed a finger at the phone. “Okay, Mr. Five bills an hour, I’m sure you didn’t think I was a moron when you were doing our publishing deal, did you?”
“Danny, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were … I mean, look, I’m sure it was unintentional, but of all the catalogues you had to dip into …”
Danny’s lip was quivering at this point, and Uncle got up and started massaging his shoulders. Shaking him off, Danny leaned into the speakerphone. “Easy for you to say. What? You never lifted someone else’s paragraph three, clause (b) or whatever …”
“Danny, that’s called precedent, and it’s what you’re supposed …”
“Okay, okay, well what about ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’? I’m gonna be a dad soon, and I’ve been learning those songs. Have you ever noticed how close they are? It’s ridiculous, but no one starts talking copycat there, do they? Well, do they?”
“I think we’re likely into public domain with those particular copyrights, Danny, but we’re getting a little off track. Bottom line, Uncle, they want all the publishing, two points on everything to date; you have to agree to drop the song from all future pressings, and issue an apology in Billboard next week.”
Uncle saw Danny winding up and getting ready to kick the phone, and he gently steered the disgruntled Cocktail back to the couch. “I don’t have a problem, Max, if that’ll make it go away. The label is already onto ‘Say It Don’t Spray It’ for the next single, and there’s going to be quite a bounce for the boys once the box set comes out.”
“I thought that wasn’t coming out till Christmas.” Here Max paused, and his voice got quiet. “I don’t suppose Roc signed off before …” he trailed off.
“As luck would have it, Max, he did, just before the uh …” Uncle replied soberly. “And, Warren emailed me today that they want to move up the release. I think they feel it would be comforting to the fans.”
Danny was staring out the window, biting his lip as Max brought things to a conclusion. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. Well, listen; I’ll do the paperwork on the ‘Cross the Line’ thing, and Danny, good luck with the baby. Uncle, you’re going to have your hands full with probate issues surrounding Roc’s uh, demise, if that turns out to be the case. Did you want someone in our office to handle that for you?”
Uncle’s tone became unnaturally breezy. “All in good time, Herr Stone, but danke schön for all the good advice.” Hanging up and turning to Danny, now sounding positively paternal, he smiled. “Problem? Solution. Listen, before you split, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. I think he might be perfect for ‘Cowboy Dude.’ Did I tell you how much I like it? I mean, surf country could be huge.” Hitting the intercom, he said, “Candy, would you ask Delray to come in?”
The bumpkin swaggered in with a band-aid on the bridge of his nose and a Lone Star quartet buzz, nodding along with an imaginary song in his head, and slapped Uncle on the shoulder. “Yo, Telly, how’s it hangin’?”
Uncle gestured at Danny. “Delray Jackson, Danny from The Cocktails, writer of ‘Cowboy Dude’ and drummer extraordinaire for America’s hottest band.”
“Hot damn. You wrote that tune? Nice work. I’m fixin’ to put my stamp on that baby and make us all some serious green. What do you say there, Dan the man?”
Nonplussed at Delray’s cockiness, the drummer instantly regretted extending his hand once the handshake ended with a loud crunch of his metacarpal bones. “Hey.”
Uncle had an inspiration. “Listen, Danny, why don’t you take Delray back to your studio and put the vocal on there? You’ve got the master, and Eddie’s place is down for repairs for awhile.” Without waiting for a reply, he motored on, “I can’t wait to hear what you two wild men come up with.”
“Me three, Daniel, I’m itchin’ to have a shot at that tune. It’s a monster, man. Say, mind if we make a little brewski stop on the way? I need a little lip lube, know what I mean?”
Uncle escorted the twosome to the door and returned to his place on the carpet, putting his head back on the embroidered pillow and sighing deeply. The phone lines kept flashing, and he was just about to dial Marie’s number on his cell when Candy cut him off. “There’s an Emma Hoffman on two. She won’t tell me what it’s about, but she’s real insistent. You want me to blow her off, Uncle?”
Uncle paused. Although he’d known it was coming, he hadn’t expected it quite this quickly. He’d never met Emma Hoffman, only seen the name on legal documents, tax returns, that sort of thing. “I’ll take it Candy, thanks.” This should be interesting.
Twenty-Five
Three days later, Emma sat in a red leather booth at Musso and Frank’s at Hollywood and Cherokee waiting for Uncle Strange. The reptilian waiter refreshing her water looked like an escapee from the Wax Museum down the street. She knew this place was famous but had a hard time imagining Marilyn or Douglas Fairbanks cozying up to the bar across the room. She’d read the L.A. Weekly cover to cover, laughing at the personals:
— Clooney lookalike seeks dazzling blonde with silver dollar nipples into Proust, barbeque, and moonlight walks.
— Busty iconoclast with cascading black hair and full lips looking for SWM donor into museums, cats.
— Chunky Christian Bi wants hairy Middle Eastern sophisticate who can do foot massage.
“Emma? Sorry to keep you waiting.” Uncle, wearing an aquamarine caftan, used his most soothing tone as he slid into the seat opposite her. “I wish we’d been able to get together sooner, but …” He smiled and gestured with upturned palms. She winced when she heard his feet bang into her backpack, which held her laptop and camera.
Uncle watched as she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Even in the slanting late afternoon light, he could see Tabatha nineteen years ago, when a smitten Roc had introduced them backstage at the Beacon. The same deep calm, the almost placid expression, but with intense activity beneath the surface. Warm but untouchable at the same time. Uncle was intimidated by women like this, instinctively knowing that they were immune to his conman charisma. The uncomfortable silence ended with the arrival of the prehistoric server in red vest and black bow tie.
“I’ll have a diet Coke, please,” said Emma.
“Would you ask Juan if he’ll do a chamomile on ice with a dash of sarsaparilla? Anything to eat?” Uncle looked up at Emma, wondering if she’d always be pencil-shaped.
“A salad, I guess.”
“Bring the young lady the Musso mesclun.” Uncle dismissed the waiter and shifted uncomfortably while Emma sat watching him. “This hasn’t been a great year for sarsaparilla, but they don’t carry the Siberian ginseng anymore.” He rearranged the salt and pepper and sugar containers, not used to feeling the dynamic of the moment being out of his control. “Supposedly Chaplin got the idea for that scene in The Gold Rush while eating a baked potato here.” The tour guide charm rang false, and he felt it. “The driver found your place okay? Blue Jay Way is kinda tucked up there in the hills, isn’t it?”
Emma nodded and sipped on her drink. “It’s my friend Megan’s parents’ place. They’re sailing around the world and writing about it for Conde Nast Traveler.”
“Seriously?” Uncle shifted again, drawing in a long breath. “George Harrison wrote that song there, you know. ‘Blue Jay Way,’ I mean.” He continued after a silence. “Emma, I understand you wanting to come here, but realistically ... I mean, I’m sure this a very difficult time for you. Did your mother discuss any of the probate issues we’ll be dealing with? As you may or may not know, Roc … your father … is considered ‘missing’ at this time.”
“My mom is in Italy somewhere on an archeology tour with the museum. I can’t reach her. She probably doesn’t know I’m here, but I need to know what happened, and you’re the only contact I have. Uncle …” She grimaced slightly. “It’s too weird for me to call you that. Do you have another name?”
“Well, legally, but no one uses it anymore.” He paused, seeing that wasn’t going to satisfy her. “It’s Karl.”
“Hmm. Karl? Yes, that’s better. Karl, you’re my father’s best friend. I know his songs, his career; a couple of months ago I even found some really cool letters, more like stories with illustrations, that my mom kept, but I don’t know anything about him. I got gifts on my birthday and direct deposit cheques and that’s about it. But I guess you’re aware of that.”
Uncle saw an opening to go into raconteur mode, something he was comfortable with. “We met in the schoolyard at P.S. 131 in Duluth. Your dad was about to get beaten up for wearing these blue checked pants and mirror belt, and even though I was terrified, I had size working for me, and I took his side.”
Two hours, a dozen touching anecdotes, and a bottle of Chardonnay later, Uncle walked Emma to the sidewalk as the early evening scene on Hollywood Boulevard got underway. “Call me any time. I’ll have the office send over passes for the memorial concert. Can I drop you somewhere?”
Emma said no thanks, and Uncle put his arm around her thin shoulders. “I’m glad we had this time. Emma, Roc was a brilliant man and a wonderful friend. I wish you’d known him the way I did. I’m so sorry about your dad.”
Twenty-Three
Roc slept late, the sleep of the dead, he thought wryly as he looked around the tiny bedroom above the studio. How many years had it been since he’d crashed here after an all-night session, too tired to drive, or more likely planning to wake up and jump back into work. He saw his guitar propped up in a corner underneath a poster from the first UK tour with the Hammersmith Odeon date in bright orange letters, the O representing the olive in the cocktail glass logo. Eddie had always been fastidious in his swag collecting, and Roc spotted an ancient “Pet Roc” from the first Japanese tour on the wall among the “All Access” laminates and limited edition t-shirts.
These would have to go soon if Roc was going to live in the present or whatever place in time he was inhabiting. The desert island discs were lined up beside a blaster next to a stack of towels under one of Eddie’s trademark post-it notes.
Welcome to the afterlife! Coffee and supplies in the kitchen. Check out your new patio.
Roc pulled on a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt and followed the smell of coffee. He recalled Eddie telling him last night about a warning light system he’d installed in case someone dropped by. It had sounded a bit like a Bond fantasy, but Uncle and Eddie would love that. At the height of last night’s drunkenness, they had gleefully described their trip to the spy shop on Sunset, and Uncle had proudly displayed his voice disguiser and monocular. The kitchen had more post-it notes about cup rinsing and the location of paper towels, and the fridge was stocked with Roc-friendly fare. Grabbing a coffee, his notebook, and guitar, he followed the note marked Patio — this way >>>, as if there was any other possible location than the roof.
Eddie had definitely gone to some effort in anticipation of Roc’s arrival. Surrounding a lounge chair, table, and umbrella ensemble was an arrangement of palms and jasmine. Purple bougainvillea covered the redwood fence that encircled the patio. Roc spotted a cellphone, a jar of pens, a remote, and another note from Eddie on the table pointing toward the plants. He hit “play,” and from speakers in the shrubbery came the opening of an old song of his called “Sky Child” from the second album, or was it the third? He listened till about the bridge, and recalling Frankie’s first experiment with the electric cello, muted the rest of the song, laughing.
The San Fernando valley had always represented “the other side of the hill,” and since the band had stopped recording at Eddie’s and Uncle had moved his office from that glorified treehouse in Laurel Canyon, Roc hadn’t seen too much of the valley. It was notoriously ten degrees hotter in the summer, with constant air quality alerts and a tacky bleakness that kept the chic-at-heart away. With few exceptions, fine dining was with a plastic fork, the parks were to be avoided, and the same five action flicks played at every mall. In short, a cultural wasteland and the ideal place for an allegedly dead rock star to disappear. That said, Eddie’s studio was tucked away in a quiet and green corner of Toluca Lake. A giant magnolia tree combined with the jasmine to do battle with the hydrocarbons that hovered over the valley like airborne sewage. There were hummingbirds and butterflies and fresh lemons most of the year. A distant siren was drowned by the beep of a trash truck backing up, then a plane landing at the nearby Burbank Airport. Relatively peaceful, thought Roc, as he listened to the sound of his breath and felt the clutter of recent days fall away. He picked up his guitar, noticing that Eddie had changed the strings, and strummed aimlessly, finding that place where ideas and emotions mingle, and sometimes become songs.
Roc’s songwriting reverie was broken by the purr of the cellphone on the table beside his notebook. Seeing Uncle’s ID, he picked up. “Eddie’s Afterworld. Better late than never.”
Uncle chuckled hoarsely in his “been on the phone yelling all morning” voice. “My brother, your career has never been this vital. I’ve only got a minute, but check this out — the label had two hundred thousand units of the CD on order before the business day began. They’re working on a commemorative limited edition of the single with a platinum-embossed swan on the label. The old Casey Kasem special from ’98 is bumping ER next week, and you won’t believe how cool this video is looking. The beach footage rocks. We’ve got a freeze of you spread-eagled just before you were wound back up, and it spins and floats like a butterfly. And I found a cutaway of Julie and Marie staring up at the sky, bosoms heaving with concern, that’ll break your heart. Anyway, I gotta jet, I want to prime Nick before the coast guard questions him, and I’ve got to start planning the memorial. Let me know if you have any thoughts. Listen, this is the only number I’ll call you from, okay? Later.”
Replacing the cell on the table, Roc leaned back in his chair, guitar still on his lap, and watched a hummingbird feeding in a bougainvillea blossom. He’d read somewhere that their wings flap about fifty times a second. How do they suspend themselves like that, seeming not to move in midair? he wondered.
Twenty-Four
Working his way through Santa Monica, down back alleys, in and out of doorways, through parks then crossing the vast Veteran’s Cemetery in broad daylight in his underwear had taxed all of Delray’s wild hog hunting skills. The only troublesome incident had been in a yard big enough for the Crimson Tide to practise in, when that maid had chased him around the pool and into the hedge with a mop. Screaming “Fire!” in the rear door of the Kwik Kleen Laundromat had been an unfortunate necessity, and he had needed every minute it took to locate his still-damp jeans and t-shirt before the Santa Monica Fire Department’s finest showed up. He gave his name as Guy Hunt, figuring correctly that the SMFD boys wouldn’t recognize the name of a disgraced former governor of Alabama.
Air-drying as he walked, admiring himself in car windows and with a mighty thirst on, Delray found himself pleased with the new circumstances of his life as he approached Uncle’s office on Wilshire Boulevard. With Roc out of the way and a chance to get into the business himself, he figured he’d give Bobbie a couple of weeks to get over it, then he’d slide back into her life smooth as an oil spill. In the waiting area of Uncle’s office, where all hell seemed to be breaking loose, he tried a little Elvis sneer on Candy, the receptionist, but he ended up looking like he’d smelled something funky. “Hillbilly alert,” she whispered into the intercom.
Inside Uncle’s office, a morose Danny Cocktail sat on the couch drumming on his lap, while Uncle sat cross-legged on the carpet, surrounded by phone messages, an untouched Flora Kitchen take-out container next to him. “Oh, shit, I forgot. Order in a half dozen Lone Stars and see if he can hang in. What else?”
“The Savage kid is begging for the video today. MTV is saying they’ll waive the rights to use of the Beach Blast footage for the other networks in exchange for a seventy-two hour window and exclusive rights to shoot the memorial.”
“Tell him I’ve got my best man on it.” Uncle grinned at the thought of Justin clamouring for Roc Molotov’s work.
“A Detective Hancock wants to talk to you about the chopper stunt, and Nick says everything was cool with the Coast Guard interview. He gave the dude a copy of the pre-flight photo; says it’ll go from evidence to eBay in no time.”
“Get the cop’s number, and I’ll call him from the car. Any word from Max Stone?”
“I was just about to tell you, he’s on four, and he doesn’t sound happy.”
“Thanks, Candy. See if you can keep numb nuts out of trouble while I deal with this.”
Uncle rubbed his hand in circles on his head and closed his eyes momentarily before looking up at Danny like an indulgent parent. “Danny-boy, I believe you, but that’s not the point. No one is going to care if you’ve never heard Revolver. You wrote ‘Cross the Line,’ and it sounds like a rip of ‘Good Day Sunshine.’ Let’s see what Max has to say.” Hitting the flashing button on line four, Uncle called out to the speakerphone, “Heyyy, Dr. Maximum, what’s up?”
“Uncle. I’m stunned about Roc. Have they really exhausted the search that quickly? This was one of the good guys. I just can’t believe it. Condolences on your friend. On The Cocktails plagiarism thing, I’ve got nothing but bad news. The publisher wouldn’t even discuss the idea of calling it a co-write with Lennon/McCartney. How the hell did this get by, surely those morons must have had some clue while they were …”
“Yeah, Max, I’ve got Danny with me here, and we all feel kinda dumb about this.”
Danny, red-faced and standing, pointed a finger at the phone. “Okay, Mr. Five bills an hour, I’m sure you didn’t think I was a moron when you were doing our publishing deal, did you?”
“Danny, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were … I mean, look, I’m sure it was unintentional, but of all the catalogues you had to dip into …”
Danny’s lip was quivering at this point, and Uncle got up and started massaging his shoulders. Shaking him off, Danny leaned into the speakerphone. “Easy for you to say. What? You never lifted someone else’s paragraph three, clause (b) or whatever …”
“Danny, that’s called precedent, and it’s what you’re supposed …”
“Okay, okay, well what about ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’? I’m gonna be a dad soon, and I’ve been learning those songs. Have you ever noticed how close they are? It’s ridiculous, but no one starts talking copycat there, do they? Well, do they?”
“I think we’re likely into public domain with those particular copyrights, Danny, but we’re getting a little off track. Bottom line, Uncle, they want all the publishing, two points on everything to date; you have to agree to drop the song from all future pressings, and issue an apology in Billboard next week.”
Uncle saw Danny winding up and getting ready to kick the phone, and he gently steered the disgruntled Cocktail back to the couch. “I don’t have a problem, Max, if that’ll make it go away. The label is already onto ‘Say It Don’t Spray It’ for the next single, and there’s going to be quite a bounce for the boys once the box set comes out.”
“I thought that wasn’t coming out till Christmas.” Here Max paused, and his voice got quiet. “I don’t suppose Roc signed off before …” he trailed off.
“As luck would have it, Max, he did, just before the uh …” Uncle replied soberly. “And, Warren emailed me today that they want to move up the release. I think they feel it would be comforting to the fans.”
Danny was staring out the window, biting his lip as Max brought things to a conclusion. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised. Well, listen; I’ll do the paperwork on the ‘Cross the Line’ thing, and Danny, good luck with the baby. Uncle, you’re going to have your hands full with probate issues surrounding Roc’s uh, demise, if that turns out to be the case. Did you want someone in our office to handle that for you?”
Uncle’s tone became unnaturally breezy. “All in good time, Herr Stone, but danke schön for all the good advice.” Hanging up and turning to Danny, now sounding positively paternal, he smiled. “Problem? Solution. Listen, before you split, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. I think he might be perfect for ‘Cowboy Dude.’ Did I tell you how much I like it? I mean, surf country could be huge.” Hitting the intercom, he said, “Candy, would you ask Delray to come in?”
The bumpkin swaggered in with a band-aid on the bridge of his nose and a Lone Star quartet buzz, nodding along with an imaginary song in his head, and slapped Uncle on the shoulder. “Yo, Telly, how’s it hangin’?”
Uncle gestured at Danny. “Delray Jackson, Danny from The Cocktails, writer of ‘Cowboy Dude’ and drummer extraordinaire for America’s hottest band.”
“Hot damn. You wrote that tune? Nice work. I’m fixin’ to put my stamp on that baby and make us all some serious green. What do you say there, Dan the man?”
Nonplussed at Delray’s cockiness, the drummer instantly regretted extending his hand once the handshake ended with a loud crunch of his metacarpal bones. “Hey.”
Uncle had an inspiration. “Listen, Danny, why don’t you take Delray back to your studio and put the vocal on there? You’ve got the master, and Eddie’s place is down for repairs for awhile.” Without waiting for a reply, he motored on, “I can’t wait to hear what you two wild men come up with.”
“Me three, Daniel, I’m itchin’ to have a shot at that tune. It’s a monster, man. Say, mind if we make a little brewski stop on the way? I need a little lip lube, know what I mean?”
Uncle escorted the twosome to the door and returned to his place on the carpet, putting his head back on the embroidered pillow and sighing deeply. The phone lines kept flashing, and he was just about to dial Marie’s number on his cell when Candy cut him off. “There’s an Emma Hoffman on two. She won’t tell me what it’s about, but she’s real insistent. You want me to blow her off, Uncle?”
Uncle paused. Although he’d known it was coming, he hadn’t expected it quite this quickly. He’d never met Emma Hoffman, only seen the name on legal documents, tax returns, that sort of thing. “I’ll take it Candy, thanks.” This should be interesting.
Twenty-Five
Three days later, Emma sat in a red leather booth at Musso and Frank’s at Hollywood and Cherokee waiting for Uncle Strange. The reptilian waiter refreshing her water looked like an escapee from the Wax Museum down the street. She knew this place was famous but had a hard time imagining Marilyn or Douglas Fairbanks cozying up to the bar across the room. She’d read the L.A. Weekly cover to cover, laughing at the personals:
— Clooney lookalike seeks dazzling blonde with silver dollar nipples into Proust, barbeque, and moonlight walks.
— Busty iconoclast with cascading black hair and full lips looking for SWM donor into museums, cats.
— Chunky Christian Bi wants hairy Middle Eastern sophisticate who can do foot massage.
“Emma? Sorry to keep you waiting.” Uncle, wearing an aquamarine caftan, used his most soothing tone as he slid into the seat opposite her. “I wish we’d been able to get together sooner, but …” He smiled and gestured with upturned palms. She winced when she heard his feet bang into her backpack, which held her laptop and camera.
Uncle watched as she brushed her hair out of her eyes. Even in the slanting late afternoon light, he could see Tabatha nineteen years ago, when a smitten Roc had introduced them backstage at the Beacon. The same deep calm, the almost placid expression, but with intense activity beneath the surface. Warm but untouchable at the same time. Uncle was intimidated by women like this, instinctively knowing that they were immune to his conman charisma. The uncomfortable silence ended with the arrival of the prehistoric server in red vest and black bow tie.
“I’ll have a diet Coke, please,” said Emma.
“Would you ask Juan if he’ll do a chamomile on ice with a dash of sarsaparilla? Anything to eat?” Uncle looked up at Emma, wondering if she’d always be pencil-shaped.
“A salad, I guess.”
“Bring the young lady the Musso mesclun.” Uncle dismissed the waiter and shifted uncomfortably while Emma sat watching him. “This hasn’t been a great year for sarsaparilla, but they don’t carry the Siberian ginseng anymore.” He rearranged the salt and pepper and sugar containers, not used to feeling the dynamic of the moment being out of his control. “Supposedly Chaplin got the idea for that scene in The Gold Rush while eating a baked potato here.” The tour guide charm rang false, and he felt it. “The driver found your place okay? Blue Jay Way is kinda tucked up there in the hills, isn’t it?”
Emma nodded and sipped on her drink. “It’s my friend Megan’s parents’ place. They’re sailing around the world and writing about it for Conde Nast Traveler.”
“Seriously?” Uncle shifted again, drawing in a long breath. “George Harrison wrote that song there, you know. ‘Blue Jay Way,’ I mean.” He continued after a silence. “Emma, I understand you wanting to come here, but realistically ... I mean, I’m sure this a very difficult time for you. Did your mother discuss any of the probate issues we’ll be dealing with? As you may or may not know, Roc … your father … is considered ‘missing’ at this time.”
“My mom is in Italy somewhere on an archeology tour with the museum. I can’t reach her. She probably doesn’t know I’m here, but I need to know what happened, and you’re the only contact I have. Uncle …” She grimaced slightly. “It’s too weird for me to call you that. Do you have another name?”
“Well, legally, but no one uses it anymore.” He paused, seeing that wasn’t going to satisfy her. “It’s Karl.”
“Hmm. Karl? Yes, that’s better. Karl, you’re my father’s best friend. I know his songs, his career; a couple of months ago I even found some really cool letters, more like stories with illustrations, that my mom kept, but I don’t know anything about him. I got gifts on my birthday and direct deposit cheques and that’s about it. But I guess you’re aware of that.”
Uncle saw an opening to go into raconteur mode, something he was comfortable with. “We met in the schoolyard at P.S. 131 in Duluth. Your dad was about to get beaten up for wearing these blue checked pants and mirror belt, and even though I was terrified, I had size working for me, and I took his side.”
Two hours, a dozen touching anecdotes, and a bottle of Chardonnay later, Uncle walked Emma to the sidewalk as the early evening scene on Hollywood Boulevard got underway. “Call me any time. I’ll have the office send over passes for the memorial concert. Can I drop you somewhere?”
Emma said no thanks, and Uncle put his arm around her thin shoulders. “I’m glad we had this time. Emma, Roc was a brilliant man and a wonderful friend. I wish you’d known him the way I did. I’m so sorry about your dad.”
