The high notes, p.8
The High Notes, page 8
Boy would have liked more than just a visit, but he didn’t press her about it. She was on a path, which he respected, and he didn’t want to spoil what they had. He had never met a woman like her. She was almost like a musical genius of some kind. She had a gift. And she thought he did too.
They found a motel to stay at that was clean and decent off the highway. They only had one room available, and Boy said he could sleep on the floor. He didn’t mind, and had a sleeping bag in the car.
“Are you sure?” She felt bad about making him sleep on the floor. But she didn’t trust either of them if they slept in the same bed, and neither did he. He could only restrain himself for so long.
They took the room, and he went to get his sleeping bag. They took turns taking showers, and sat on the bed, watching TV together like two kids. He bought a bag of popcorn in a vending machine, and she giggled when he brought it in.
“This is like a slumber party.” She laughed, and he gave her a look.
“Don’t push your luck, Cooper. I’m trying to be a gentleman. This is not like a slumber party. I’m trying to be a good guy.”
“You’re a great guy,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek, and handed him a can of Coke while they watched a show on TV. He finally got off the bed when it was over, and climbed into his sleeping bag on the floor. She was already half asleep on the bed and he turned off the lights. They had both behaved admirably.
They woke up in the morning with the sun streaming into the room. They dressed quickly, had breakfast at a diner near the motel, and got back on the road. Iris was full of energy after a good night’s sleep, and wrote another song, as Boy headed south into Missouri to avoid storm warnings in Iowa. They didn’t drive as far that day, and stayed in another motel, in separate rooms that night, but they watched TV again in her room until they went to bed. The following day, they drove to St. Louis. She’d been there a few times on tour, and always loved it with the big paddleboats on the river. They took a ride on one. They spent the night there, and had a good dinner in a nice restaurant, and drove to Illinois the next day. They didn’t drive as far north as Chicago, stayed at another motel and then drove to Indiana the next day and spent the night in Columbus, Ohio. They were taking their time. They went to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the next day, to see the Amish Country and farms, which Iris had always wanted to see. They went to a farmer’s market, and bought baskets of fruit they ate on the way. And from there they finally drove to New York. They both felt as though they’d gotten there too soon and wished they had stretched the trip longer. It had been a special time, suspended in their own world, singing, while Iris wrote songs. She had written four on the trip. He was stunned by how easily she did it, and by how the words and music flowed out of her and blended perfectly. It was what set her apart from the other singers he knew, who sang everyone else’s songs and music, but not their own. They both knew that many of the famous singers had written their own songs.
He drove her to Times Square, which was the only area they both knew. It was nighttime and brightly lit; people were bustling along the sidewalks and they all seemed in a hurry to get somewhere.
They put their car in a garage, and found a small hotel that looked clean on one of the side streets, and checked in to two rooms. And then went back out to the street to find a place to have dinner. They picked a Chinese restaurant a block away. There were dozens of choices, which all looked good.
“I ate at a cafeteria here when I was on tour. We didn’t go to big cities much. I only came here once in four years,” she said, and he nodded.
“I went to a Bruce Springsteen concert in Madison Square Garden with a bunch of guys from Nashville,” he shared. “We got drunk and I don’t remember where we had dinner, but we had a hell of a good time.” He grinned and she laughed, as they dug into the food they had ordered. It was delicious and they were both starving after the last leg of their drive. “This looks like a fun city,” he commented, “a little intimidating. I wouldn’t want to live here.”
“This part looks a little like Vegas, but it’s all a lot bigger here, and I like the desert there better than the city. I lived in a bunch of places in Nevada with my dad. I went to a school in Tonopah, which I didn’t like much.”
“Sounds like my time in Tennessee before I went to Nashville. It’s a pretty small city, and just about the right size for me. I’d get lost here,” he said, and she nodded. She felt that way too.
“I have to do something with my hair,” she commented to him as they left the restaurant. “I look like a tiger.” It was streaked with the faded brown hair dye and her natural blond.
“I can’t help you there. I don’t do hair,” he said, and she laughed. “Do you have to cut it to get rid of the brown part?”
“I don’t know. I dyed it so none of Hendrix’s scouts would recognize me. They won’t look for me here, and they’d never find me if they did. It’s a big place,” she said, and was happy to get back to the hotel. She asked them at the desk and they told her about a hair salon a few blocks away. They told her she could just walk in.
She hung out in Boy’s room for a while, and then she went to bed. It was comforting to have him there. She would have been lonely without him and was glad he had come. They always had something to talk about, and their silences were comfortable too.
Iris got up early the next morning, and went to the address they had given her for her hair. She walked in and they assigned her to a stylist who took one look at her hair and laughed.
“Oh, darling, welcome to the Big Apple, let’s get rid of that alley cat look right away, shall we?”
“That’s why I’m here. I wanted to see how I looked as a brunette, it wasn’t so good.”
“Most of the women I see are brunettes who want to be blondes. This is a whole new look. A lot of the brown looks like it’s faded.” It had been a good disguise while she needed it, but now she wanted to be herself. The stylist decided that the best solution was to bleach the whole thing back to her natural color, which was nearly platinum blond, and then she wouldn’t have to cut the streaky dyed parts. And when it grew out, the dyed blond would blend with her natural color. It took three hours, but when he finished, it was a huge success. She was a blonde again, the exact color she’d been all her life.
“I had no idea it would be such a mess when I did it,” she admitted to him. “I did it myself.”
“I could tell,” he said. She gave him a big tip, and felt like herself again as she walked back to the hotel, past street vendors selling hats, purses, jewelry, food. She walked into the hotel, took the elevator up, and knocked on Boy’s room. He opened the door quickly and looked relieved when he saw her, and then his eyes widened when he saw her hair.
“Wow, you look gorgeous. Hello, Jean Harlow . . . or is it Marilyn? Is that your natural color?”
“All my life.” She beamed at him. “He had to bleach it to get it back to my natural color, but this is it. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“It was worth waiting for.” He smiled at her. “Have you called the guy yet?” She shook her head. She was scared. She still hadn’t told Boy who it was. He assumed it was some manager she’d heard about from a friend.
“I think I’ll call him tomorrow. He’s probably out to lunch now,” she said, procrastinating.
“Chicken,” he said with a grin. “Want to play tourist for a day?” She smiled broadly and nodded.
“I’d love it.”
“Great, let’s get lunch and go to the Statue of Liberty.” They left the hotel, excited to have a day off to explore New York.
It had been a month since Iris had escaped the shackles of Glen Hendrix, and no trace of her had turned up. Glen had complained several times to Scott Campbell, who hadn’t found out anything. There was no sign of her. Looking for Iris anywhere in the country was like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack. He had no idea where to look.
One of Glen’s scouts finally called him the day Boy and Iris were discovering New York. The scout was in Denver, and was one of his best guys.
“I’m not sure it’s her. I was in Jackson Hole last weekend. I went to a restaurant that’s popular and they have a setup for live music they get from time to time. Everybody was talking about a band from Nashville that played here for a few weeks. Two women and three guys. Apparently, they were great, and one of the girls had a killer voice. People are still talking about them. They left about a week ago.”
“Where did they go?” Glen sounded tense.
“Back to Nashville,” the scout in Denver responded. “The girls in the band didn’t match her description. The one with the voice was a brunette. The other girl was young, and kind of blond. Apparently the dark-haired one can hit notes no one had heard in these parts ever.”
“That’s her. I know it. Maybe she dyed her hair.” It occurred to the scout that Glen sounded desperate to find her, as though she had committed a heinous crime and he wanted revenge. He couldn’t figure out why Glen was so determined to find her.
“Well, if it’s her, she’s in Nashville by now. But the owner of the bar said they came from Nashville, so I’m not sure it’s her.”
“Maybe she hooked up with them once she was there. The bitch owes me another year, and I don’t care if you have to drag her back in handcuffs, I want her back on tour.” People had been asking for her by name, and several people had bought their tickets because of her, and wanted their money back when they discovered she was no longer on the tour. She had made a name for herself in the last nine years. Not a big name, but in the small towns across America, they knew who she was, and wanted to see her again. They all talked about her incredible voice. “I’ll call my guys in Nashville,” he said to the Denver scout and hung up without bothering to thank him for the information. He didn’t waste time with the niceties with anyone, and never thanked anyone if he didn’t have to. He figured they owed him. He had no fans, but he paid his scouts well for finding him new talent he could hire at bargain rates.
Glen called both his scouts in Nashville and told them to be on the lookout for her. Then he called Scott Campbell.
“I think she was in Jackson Hole until last week, playing at a restaurant there. She may be a brunette by now, but it sounds like her. No one has a voice like that. It’s what people remember about her.” He was sorry now that he hadn’t made an album with her, while he’d had the chance. He didn’t think he had to. And he didn’t want to make her feel important. But there was no question in his mind now. She had been the draw on the tour she was on. He hadn’t realized that before, and it made him even angrier that she left.
“What do you want me to do?” Scott asked him. “Do you want me to go to Nashville and look for her? Even if I find her, I can’t drag her back with me. I’m not a cop, and as far as I know she didn’t break any laws. She broke a contract, that’s not a crime. And it doesn’t sound like she’d be willing to come back, if she’s being this careful not to be found, even dyeing her hair so she isn’t recognized, if that’s what she did.”
Scott realized how badly Hendrix must have treated her to make her put so much effort into not being found. It sounded like a lost cause to him, and his heart wasn’t in the project. If Iris Cooper wanted to escape him that badly, he hoped she would. She must have had a good reason to run away. Scott didn’t like him.
“I don’t want to spend the money to send you to Nashville yet,” Glen said. “Let’s see what my scouts turn up first.” That sounded good to Scott, who didn’t like the man who was paying him to find her, wherever she was hiding from him. He glanced at her photographs again on his pin board after he and Glen hung up.
“Keep hiding,” he said to the photographs. “He’ll get tired of looking for you sooner or later. Stay safe,” he said to Iris’s images. He had a bad feeling about it. Hendrix was too determined, and Scott was afraid he would try to harm her in some way, maybe beat her up, or drug her, or coerce her. Hendrix sounded a little nuts to him, which he never had before. But this time he sounded crazy. No one was going to walk out on him, and get away with it. He wanted to bring her back and make an example of her to the others and show them what happened when you broke one of his contracts and walked out on a tour. He was going to clean the floor with her and make her pay for what she’d done. That was exactly what Scott was afraid of, and why he didn’t want to find her anymore. Run, Iris . . . run!
Chapter 7
Iris woke up early the next morning, and had to wait two hours for the office to open to make the call. She got the slip of paper with his number on it out of her purse and set it on the table next to the phone. She had touched it a hundred times since Judd had given her the number and told her to use it when she got to New York.
She was sure he wouldn’t see her anyway. But she had to make the gesture. She had to try, just to prove to herself that she could. It was part of her fight for freedom. She had been put down and kept there by so many people, now she had to prove to herself that she could reach for the stars and had the guts to do it. It was more of a symbol to prove to herself that she was free, than an action she expected to get results. Whatever they told her when she called, even if they hung up on her, she had to do it.
She called at five minutes after nine, when she was sure he wouldn’t be in the office anyway, so she would leave a message. He wouldn’t call her back, and she would be done. And she could go to Nashville with Boy and see what kind of work she could get there, or maybe sing with his band if he wanted her. And then they’d see what would happen between them. Maybe nothing.
She called the number and was startled when a man answered. She was surprised he had a male assistant, and then she realized that she must have called a direct line, and Clay Maddox had picked it up himself.
“I . . . uh . . .” she stumbled for a minute, trying to regain her composure. “I was calling for Mr. Maddox,” she said in a soft voice. “My name is Iris Cooper, he doesn’t know me. A friend gave me his number, and I just want to leave him a message.” The words came tumbling out and she felt breathless.
“You can talk to me,” he said in a smooth, equally soft voice. “This is Clay.” She nearly strangled when she heard him say it. “I know who you are, Iris. I’ve been following you for years. I’ve seen you perform twice. Once in Florida, about seven years ago. You were just a kid. And two years ago in Louisville, Kentucky. My scouts told me about your voice, you have incredible range, especially for the high notes. I inquired and was always told that you were under contract, so I never contacted you. Has that changed?”
“I . . . yes . . . well actually, no. I have another year in my contract to Glen Hendrix. I walked away from a tour a month ago. I just couldn’t work for him anymore.”
“How long was your contract?” he asked, and spoke to her as though he knew her. She was shocked that he knew her name and had seen her perform.
“Five years. I have eleven months left. I don’t know if he’ll sue me, but I can’t go back.”
“You lasted a lot longer than anyone should have to. I hear he treats his performers like dogs. We’ve gotten a few people out of his contracts. They’re very badly written, and some clauses aren’t even legal. I can have our lawyers take a look at yours if you like. What can I do for you?” He acted as though he’d been waiting to meet her. She was bowled over by what he’d said and that he’d seen her on tour.
“Could I meet you?” She managed to squeeze out the words, and didn’t expect him to say yes.
“I always like meeting new talent,” he said kindly, “especially someone with a voice like yours. I’m free at six o’clock today. Does that work for you?” She would have met him at midnight in a blizzard.
“Yes, of course. Thank you. I’m really grateful, thank you,” and then she decided to go all the way. “I’m here with a friend. He sings too. Could I bring him? We sing duets of my original material,” she added.
“You write your own songs?” Clay asked her.
“I do, when they let me. Glen didn’t like me doing that. I write the lyrics and compose the music all the time. I have hundreds of songs I’ve written,” she said in a burst of courage.
“Bring your friend, and anything you want me to hear.” She didn’t know it, but he never turned down an opportunity. It was how he had found some of his biggest stars and best artists. He already had an idea of how good she was since he’d seen her himself. He didn’t think she was available. And if she had matured even more, all he had to do was free her from one of Hendrix’s rotten contracts. He’d done it before, and Hendrix had folded like a letter in an envelope. He hadn’t put up a fight for the others, but he might for her. She was very good, better than Hendrix deserved on his miserable tours. “See you at six,” he said in a warm voice. “Do you know where to come?” He gave her the address. He had offices at Rockefeller Center, three floors of them, and a recording studio. Iris jotted it down with a shaking hand, thanked him again, and hung up.
She went straight to the next room and pounded on the door. Boy came to open it in boxers and a T-shirt, looking sleepy. She had seen him that way before on the trip.
“We have an appointment with Clay Maddox today at six!” she shouted at him, danced into the room and did a cartwheel, landed on the floor and looked up at him. He was bewildered and seemed confused.
“Who has an appointment with Clay Maddox? You do?” He broke into a smile then, happy for her.
“No, we do. I told him we do duets of my material. He wants to see you too.”
“Oh my God, Iris. Are you crazy? I’m not in his league. He’ll laugh me out of his studio, or his office, or wherever he’s seeing you. You have to go alone. I’m not good enough for Clay Maddox. I’m just a run-of-the-mill singer from Nashville.”
“You’re coming with me, and shut up, by the way. I’m your agent now, and you have an interview with Clay Maddox.”
