The Paradise Gig

by Laurence Shames

  “You’re welcome. And another thing about what happened at the bar. This drunk guy sittin’ next to me, he makes some crack about karaoke. Okay, not the most tactful or let’s say diplomatic comment I ever heard in my life, considering the time and place and company, but not exactly fightin’ words either. But okay, ya can’t put the toothpaste back inna tube, and the fact is that this dumb fuck made the stupid comment. Still, most guys, they’d either shrug it off or answer with another wisecrack, right? Not these guys. These guys reacted like a mosquito lands on your wrist and you hit it wit’ a sledgehammer. I mean they were ready to fight. I seen their fists ballin’ up. I seen pulse in their temples. And I’m thinkin’, okay, these two jokers, they sing pretty good, they got sweet voices, but what does that prove? People can sing love songs all day long and still be nasty, violent guys deep down.”

  Pete, as usual, resisted the notion that there was anything to worry about, anything that might require decisive action on his part. “Bert, those guys were doing Callie a favor. They were bringing her to meet her son.”

  “Son?”

  “It’s a long story. Son’s a musician. Callie got him a tryout with this big deal producer, this guy with a golden touch for turning out hit songs.”

  “Ah,” the old man said, “a hit man.”

  “Funny, Bert. Or maybe not. But anyway, your two guys, I guess you’d say they’re his bodyguards.”

  Bert paused, swooped down slowly to gather Nacho into his arms, then straightened up again holding the dog like a football. In a tone of quiet triumph, he said, “Which proves my point exactly.”

  “What point?”

  “Why does this producer guy need bodyguards?”

  The question stumped Pete for a moment. So-called detective though he was, he’d never even considered it. Fumbling a little, he said, “Well, um, I guess because he’s rich.”

  Bert was already shaking his head. “Pete, this may surprise you, but I’ve known some other people who are rich. Most of ‘em don’t have bodyguards. Ya know which ones do? Mob bosses, bullies, killers. Those are the guys that need bodyguards.”

  “Maybe you’re getting a little too dramatic, Bert.”

  “Well, maybe I am,” he conceded, or seemed to. “But then again, maybe I am just posing certain logical riddles or you could even say conundrums which so far, up to this point as we stand here in the moonlight with water softly splashing against the pier and all that other atmospheric bullshit, have not been answered to my satisfaction. So, for example, you said this producer guy was just giving Callie a ride. Fine. Nice. A lovely gesture. So why doesn’t he send a polite and mild-mannered chauffeur wit’ a shirt and tie and nametag, and do it in a more convenient way than knockin’ her off her headstand onna beach? Or, if he doesn’t have his own chauffeur, why doesn’t he hire a limo service with one of those charming and chatty drivers from various troubled or even strife-torn countries throughout the developing world? That would be very gracious. But he doesn’t do that, does he? No, he sends two tough guys who get all touchy about abductin’ people and are ready at the drop of a hat to get in fights in bars. Does that seem entirely, one hundred percent kosher to you? Plus, now that I think of it, how does it reflect on the character or inclinations of these guys’ employer, namely the producer guy and vice-versa? I mean, kosher goes wit’ kosher. Sketchy goes wit’ sketchy. That’s all I’m sayin’. So whaddya think?”

  Pete mopped his glasses again. Trying to keep them clear was a losing proposition out here at the end of the pier. The mopping left behind devious and distorting streaks and smears, and the lenses fogged up again anyway. Admitting defeat, he said, “Honestly, Bert, after listening to you for half an hour, I have no idea what I think.”

  Bert scratched his dog between the ears. “Me neither,” he acknowledged. “Who knows, maybe it’s just my suspicious or even slightly paranoid wit’ a touch of morbid personality. Probably everything’s just peachy. All that stuff I said, maybe just put it outa your mind.”

  “How can I? I can’t.”

  “Nah, course ya can’t. Once ya start thinkin’ about that kinda stuff…But anyway, enough a my disturbing or possibly upsetting and idle speculations. D’ya have a nice visit wit’ Callie?”

  16

  I t was just shy of midnight when Sarge finally got the call. Marco, sounding more than a little wired, told him the track was finished and he should come over right away. So the young man switched off the small TV in his crummy room, got in his crummy car, and drove back to the estate on No Name Key.

  The tall guy and the short guy opened up the steel gate for him. They were wearing what might have been dashikis or might have been Hawaiian shirts or might have been pajama tops; it was impossible to tell in the sparse and scattered light. Sarge knew he couldn’t share his chest-clogging excitement with these guys; that would have been way uncool. Even so, he couldn’t help feeling a bit surprised and even slightly hurt at what seemed their complete indifference to him. They weren’t rude, they weren’t hostile, they weren’t anything in particular. It just felt like they didn’t want to know him, didn’t even want to look him in the face. They waved him through and he drove on toward the studio.

  He parked, went in, and for a moment he thought he was alone there. The lights were on but dimmed down sort of to the level in an old church on a cloudy afternoon. Microphone booms were bent at poignant angles like Japanese trees. Empty stools suggested absent people, silent voices. Here and there, unplugged cords connected nothing to nothing. The tiny indicator lights of amps on standby glowed like red stars on the horizon.

  He was just about to sit when a bright yellow lamp was switched on in the control room and Marco appeared in silhouette at his narrow window, his headset giving a Frankensteinian knobbiness to the outline of his skull. He issued no greeting, offered no chit-chat. He simply said, “Ready to listen to your future?”

  Sarge licked his dry lips but found he couldn’t speak. He only nodded as he perched very lightly on one of the studio stools.

  There was a moment of unearthly insulated silence, then the music started. It was less loud than it was vast, enveloping, total. Where before there had been a small band and a singer, now the producer had patched in a choir of electronic horns, a gently prancing flute line, a counterpoint of cellos, a doubling of Sarge’s own voice that gave just the slightest suggestion of an echo, or perhaps a further meditation on the lyrics. A ghostly chorus purred in the background. A bell chimed, sounding very far away. The track was sumptuous, slick, and, above all, grand, and it gave Sarge chills to hear his own singing at the center of it; chills, and a pang he tried to keep a secret from himself, because this beautiful song was not his song, and this glorious arrangement was not the way he’d ever played it, and even his own voice, tempered and smoothed out in the control room, didn’t exactly sound like him…Then again, what was it that Marco had told him in their very first conversation? That he shouldn’t get all hung up on being who he is, but focus instead on who he might become. A pop star…But a pop star who took credit for someone else’s songs and who was little more than a prop in a producer’s showpiece?…Then again, the song was gorgeous, and in the eyes and ears of the world, it would be his song, and—who could say?—maybe sometime, qualms forgotten in the serene haze of success, even he might come to believe that it really was his own…

  The song faded out and ended. From the control room, Mondesi’s voice, stark and scalding after the velvety music, said, “So what do you think?”

  “I think…I think it’s amazing.”

  “It’s a hit,” pronounced the producer, with a certainty that was somehow chilling. He got up from his chair, switched off the yellow lamp, moved toward the control room door, and walked down the few steps to the level of the studio. He was carrying a single sheet of paper. “Congratulations,” he went on. “You’re on your way. Here’s our contract. Sign it.”

  Giddy with the moment, awed by his own sudden possibilities, Sarge still strove to
sound grown-up and businesslike. “I think I’d like to read it first.”

  “Sure. Of course. Go ‘head. Read it. Take your time.”

  The young man squinted through the dim light at the brief document. After a moment, he said, “What about the other guy?”

  “What other guy?”

  “The songwriter. The guy who wrote the song. He isn’t even mentioned here.”

  “Correct,” said Mondesi. “He’s not a party to the agreement. He and I have what’s called a side deal. Very common in the business.”

  “But—”

  “But what? Look, this reflects exactly what we talked about. Everybody gets a third. His third is disbursed through me. And the credit for the song is yours. Which, frankly, is an extremely advantageous deal for you. Don’t you see? The song ends up in a movie, you get a third. The song gets covered by another band, by ten bands, you get a third each time. The song becomes a standard, you get a payday every time somebody records it or performs it. It’s an annuity. Three or four songs like that, you’re set for life. Plus, if you’ll continue reading to the bottom, you’ll see another big advantage that I doubt you’d get from anybody else.”

  The young man scanned the rest of the page. “No obligation after this one song?”

  “Correct. Listen, Sarge, Lincoln freed the slaves and, unlike a lot of producers and managers and scumbags from the labels, I don’t believe in owning people. I’m confident you’ll want to work with me again. Frankly, you’d be an idiot not to. But I don’t need that on a piece of paper. I like things clean and simple. One and done. It’s how I always work. Same with eventualities.”

  “Eventualities?”

  “Eventualities. The final clause. The worst-case scenario. Somebody dies. What happens? Lawyers, probate, successors, all that bullshit? Who needs it? So we keep it clean and simple. Songwriter dies, you and I divide his share. Same if I die, same if you die. You’re a lot younger, so time is on your side, I guess. Anyway, like I say, it’s a very advantageous contract. You can sign it or you can take more time to think about it. It’s totally up to you.”

  As he said this, the producer held out a silver pen that glinted even in the dimness. Sarge LeRoi hesitated for a couple of heartbeats, then took it, smoothed the contract across the thigh of his jeans, and signed the name he hoped would soon be famous.

  PART THREE

  17

  A t Bayview Park next morning, Pete, even with his prettier strokes, fancy tennis bag, and matching socks, lost yet another match to Cooch. This time, though, he had a better excuse than usual; he just had too much on his mind to focus very well on chasing a yellow ball around a painted slab of asphalt.

  Most of his preoccupation had to do in one way or another with Callie. The time they’d spent together a couple of days before had rattled him, excited him, shamed him. There’d been so much he hadn’t understood back when they were lovers and, more blameworthy in his own mind, hadn’t even tried to understand. In fact, he’d basically run like hell from understanding, because understanding would have been hard work, acceptance even harder. Breaking up was so much easier, so much less…less what? Less invasive. It left the protective membranes still intact. Bottom line, the breakup had been chickenshit, a flight from candor, a mutual retreat, all white flags and no proud banners.

  But for all that, Callie seemed to bear him no resentment, and he felt none at all toward her. It wasn’t like they’d forgiven one another, more as though they’d separately grown up, woken up, reconsidered, and come to realize there was nothing to forgive. They’d each done the best they could at the time. What more could anybody ask? If there was disappointment, it was more with themselves than with each other. Toward each other, the main feeling that was left was that sweet but slightly dangerous emotion known as fondness.

  Why dangerous? Because, on Pete’s side at least, the fondness was spiked with physical attraction, and while fondness itself was largely a nostalgic feeling, physical attraction always happened in the present tense. Physical attraction was the present tense. And in the present, he still thought she was beautiful. In fact, he thought she was more beautiful than she’d been before, now with the clear eyes and even-toned skin of a sober person. When they’d been standing close together in the ocean, he’d badly wanted to touch her, and he hadn’t dared. What if the touch was unwelcome? What if it wasn’t returned? One uneasy glance, one discouraging word, would have been the end of it; of that he was sure. A botched rekindling would have used up the last heat in the embers, and the first touch would have been the last. Pete being Pete, he couldn’t bring himself to risk it, and so was left instead with the nagging suspense of wondering what would have happened if he had.

  That suspense, that tension, was no doubt the reason for his embarrassing spasm of jealousy about Callie’s friendship with Marco Mondesi. Why would he even care if this guy had been Callie’s lover, unless he was nursing a half-acknowledged hankering to resume that role himself? Though it was at least possible that his unbecoming touchiness regarding Mondesi had to do with other things as well. Mondesi was a hotshot in a business with cachet. Pete was…what? A mostly retired guy with a side hustle he didn’t even like to admit to. He didn’t count for much in the world. He knew that; he embraced it; it was his choice. Still, he and Mondesi were both male primates with male primate egos, and Mondesi was of higher status and therefore an inevitable target of masked envy. That’s just how it worked in primate world.

  Not that Pete lacked for other reasons to be dubious about Mondesi; not after listening to Bert’s harangue on White Street pier. The old man’s views on human nature may have been a bit skewed toward the criminal but they were seldom wrong. He had a gift for sniffing out thuggishness and he had no doubt that the producer’s karaoke-singing errand boys were thugs. Why did Mondesi need them on the payroll? True, rich people had employees. Gardeners, a chauffeur, maybe even a butler. But why a pair of short-fused bodyguards? Why the muscle?

  With all those thoughts looping through his mind, it wasn’t too surprising that Pete kept missing backhands and muffing overheads that morning. He double-faulted, he lost track of the score, he hit the fence behind the court. After he and Cooch had shaken hands and were heading toward the bleachers, Cooch said, “No offense, dude, but you played like a fuckin’ spaz today.”

  “The truth hurts,” said Pete. “Sorry for the crummy workout.”

  “No worries. I needed a light day.”

  “Salt in the wound. Thanks a lot.”

  “Sorry. You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.” They rounded the bleachers where players were passing around a bottle of bourbon with which to brighten up their coffee while waiting for a court. They slipped through the ranks of cigar-chomping kibitzers on folding chairs and headed to their bikes. As they were climbing on, Pete added, “Hey, you ever happen to come across a guy named Marco Mondesi?”

  “Mondesi. Mondesi,” said Cooch, riffling through his pothead memory. “Is that the guy with the big compound up on No Name?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Music business guy.”

  “Oh, right. Sure. I know who you mean. Never met him, but I brought a couple fares up there one time.”

  “Not surprised,” said Pete, unable to deny another quick twinge of idiotic primate jealousy. “I hear he throws a lot of parties.”

  “He’s got the spot for it,” said Cooch. “But that time I went up there, I don’t remember it seeming too damn festive.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, it was daytime, and for another thing, the guys I brought seemed kind of gloomy, and for another thing again, they both were wearing black.”

  “It’s the music business, Cooch. Black is what they wear.”

  “Yeah, I get that, sure, but there’s black and then there’s black and then there’s black. I mean, there’s black you wear to work, and there’s black you wear to parties, and there’s black you wear to funerals, memorials. Ya know, somber occasions. This seemed m
ore toward that kind of black.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “How? I have no idea how I could tell. Look, I’m not a fashion consultant. I couldn’t say it looked like something you’d wear to a funeral ‘cause there were this many buttons or that kind of collar. It was just a feel thing. It was daytime and these guys were sort of subdued in the cab and they seemed more dressed up than they had to be. That’s all.”

  “Wonder whose funeral it was,” said Pete.

  “Look, I’m not saying it was a funeral. It might have been a brunch for all I know. Eggs benedict or some shit. Smoked salmon, whatever. Maybe those tiny little pancakes that rich people eat with caviar. What the hell they call ‘em?”

  “Blini.”

  “Right. Blini. Ever had ‘em, Pete?”

  “Once or twice. They taste like cardboard. But what we were talking about—”

  “Yeah, right, we were talking about why those guys in black were gloomy in the cab. Who knows? Maybe they just weren’t in the mood for brunch. I don’t know. It was just an impression. Probably I was high.”

  They were straddling their bikes by now, Pete’s with its mismatched pedals and rusty bell, Cooch’s with its crazy towering handlebars. Rented convertibles and jeeps with no doors drove past on highway 1. The crack of a metal bat came from the softball field.

  Pete said, “Okay, let’s think this through. You were high. Safe bet. You had people in the cab and you formed the impression that they were going to a funeral or something like a funeral. So my question is, what made you come to that impression?”

  “Like I said, Pete, they were dressed in black.”

  “Right, but you also said that you couldn’t tell funeral clothes from work clothes or party clothes, so the fact that they were dressed in black is neither here nor there. There must have been something else.”

  “Jeez, you’re starting to sound almost like a real detective now.”