The Paradise Gig

by Laurence Shames

  Pete and Bert shared a glance. Some tourists spilled out of a nearby car and started holding conch shells to their ears to hear the ocean. Bert said, “He have a name, this guy?”

  “He doesn’t put his name on things. It would limit him. That’s what Marco says. He writes in different genres. Doesn’t want to get pinned down.”

  “Then how’s he gonna build his brand?” Bert asked. “Ya just said that’s the most important thing. Put your name on, build your brand.”

  “Not important to him, I guess. He just wants his third of the money.”

  “Whoa, let’s back up a beat,” said Pete. “I’m trying to understand all this. The songwriter gets a third?”

  “Yeah. A third. That’s the deal.”

  “So there’s a contract, right?”

  Sarge ran a hand through his hair and put on his most grownup expression. “Course there’s a contract. It’s business.”

  “Then this guy must be a party to it. His name’s on the contract, right?”

  Sarge glanced off at the rack of flip-flops. “Well, actually, it isn’t. That’s just between me and Marco. The writer, he’s got a separate deal.”

  “Separate deal,” said Bert. “Seems a little odd. But okay, separate deal. Y’ever seen that deal? Y’ever seen that piece a paper?”

  “No,” the young man said. “Why would I?”

  Pete scratched an eyebrow and looked at Bert.

  Bert reached down, gathered up his dog, and carefully wiped some coral dust off its paws and snout. “Inneresting,” he said. “No name. No piece a paper. No brand. Hmm. Call me skeptical, but is anybody else entertaining even the merest possibility that this stud genius songwriter perhaps does not exist?”

  “But…well, of course he exists!”

  “Of course?” put in Pete. “Why of course? You’ve never met the guy. You’ve never seen or heard his name. And, by the way, Bert has a pretty strong hunch that the song in fact was written by two other guys who do have names, not to mention a helluva strong brand, and their names are Lennon and McCartney.”

  Sarge, flustered, kicked lightly at the gravel with the toe of his sandal. “Then how the hell would Marco have the song?”

  Bert stroked the dog. “That, my friend, would seem to be the million-dollar, or considering the stakes involved, perhaps it would be more accurate to say the gazillion-dollar question.”

  And it hung in the air a long moment. The tourists who’d been listening to seashells were now riffling through stacks of t-shirts and putting them back unfolded. A cluster of Harleys, in close formation like fighter jets, roared past on the highway.

  Finally Sarge said, “You know, it scares the hell out of me to admit it, but all this is starting to fall together in a crazy kind of way.” He reached into a back pocket of his shorts and came out with a sheet of paper. It had been folded in thirds, then in half again; the creases were precise. He handed it over to Pete. “My contract with Marco. Simple. To the point. Take a look. Especially the last few lines.”

  Pete read the document. It didn’t take long.

  Silently, he handed it to Bert. The old man perused it, his fleshy lips moving slightly as he read. “Tidy,” he pronounced. “Someone dies, the remaining partners divvy up. Except Marco’s partner is very possibly a made-up guy. In which case, should the singer pass away or meet an untimely demise, Marco ends up wit’ a hundred percent, which would be synonymous wit’ the entire enchilada. Clever.”

  “Brutal,” Pete put in.

  “I was leavin’ that onna side for now,” the old man said, shifting his dog from his left hand to his right, reaching into a pocket for his handkerchief with the hand he’d just freed up, and lustily blowing his big nose. “The other two singers,” he said to Sarge. “The dead guys. They had the same deal as you?”

  “I don’t know. Marco said it’s how he always works.”

  “And their songs,” said Bert. “The ones that went on to be hits. I can’t say I’m familiar with ‘em. What’re they like?”

  “Like? That’s a tough one. I mean, how do you describe a song? I guess I’d say catchy tunes, nice harmony, sort of romantic lyrics, sort of retro sound.”

  Bert stuffed the hanky back into his pocket and said in his gravelly rumble, “Like maybe they could almost be Beatles songs?”

  Sarge said, “Jesus, I guess it’s possible. Hard to tell, different voices and all. But they’re pretty perfect songs.”

  Pete said, “Bert, where the hell we going with this?”

  “Where? How the hell should I know where? I’m a one-step-at-a-time sort of individual. But look, maybe it’s just my suspicious turn a mind, but while we’re talkin’ heah, puttin’ this and that together, what suddenly occurred to me or you might say popped into my head is this idea of music laundering.”

  “Music laundering? What the hell is music laundering? Never heard of it.”

  “That’s because I just made up the phrase,” said Bert. “But look. Money laundering. How’s it work? Ya got a bunch a money that came to ya in ways that ain’t legit. It ain’t really money unless ya can spend it, and ya can’t spend unless ya get it into circulation, and ya can’t get it into circulation wit’out ya filter it through some other outlet. Capeesh so far?”

  The other two men gave encouraging though dubious nods.

  “Okay. Now let’s apply the same principle, or lack a principle might be more a propos, to songs. Say someone has a stash a songs that came to him in some un-kosher way. These songs are worth a lotta money, but he can’t just throw ‘em wholesale into the marketplace, ‘cause that would raise suspicion that they weren’t really his to sell. So wha’ does he do? First, he bides his time. Like wit’ any other stolen goods—jewelry, art, gold bars—he waits until the heat’s off. Then he sorta slowly leaks the goods into the market, one song at a time. Supposedly written by these nice, clean-cut young guys that no one would suspect—”

  “Now wait a second, Bert,” Pete broke in. “You saying these other one-hit wonders were also doing Beatles songs? You think that’s what Marco’s laundering?”

  The old man shrugged, which lifted his dog a rib or two higher against his bony chest. “Just a theory, a whaddyacallit, hypotenuse.”

  “Hypothesis.”

  “Yeah. Right. Whatever. It ain’t proved, it ain’t disproved. But it happens to fit the very few prurient facts we have so far.”

  “You mean pertinent?”

  “Pertinent, yeah, whatever. You got a better idea, Mr. Dictionary?”

  “Well, no, I don’t,” Pete admitted. “But what about…what about Paul McCartney?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, presumably he was in on the writing of these songs. He doesn’t recognize them? He doesn’t mind?”

  “From fifty, sixty years ago?” said Bert. “Wit’ the hundreds a songs he’s written in between? Besides, he’s gonna go public over takin’ credit from a nice young kid just startin’ out? He’d look ridiculous. Plus he’d have no proof. Song was never recorded before. Song was never published.”

  “How do you know, Bert? How do you know it was never published?”

  “Look, I don’t know. I don’t know nothin’. I don’t even know how or when I got on this train a thought, ‘cept I’m tryin’ to find a logical way from point A to point B, and where point B seems to be pointing to is that Marco’s deal is laundering songs, so I guess point C would be that these particular songs he’s laundering have never been published or recorded because otherwise he couldn’t’a stolen ‘em wit’out everyone would know, which would make point D that, if these songs have never seen the light a day before, and if it can’t be proved who actually wrote ‘em, and if one of ‘em sounds exactly like the song I heard the Fab Four singin’ in the swimmin’ pool the day of the night they did the paradise gig, then maybe, just maybe, a hypothesis heah, as you yourself said would be the proper word for it, just maybe the hypothesis would be that it’s because they came from the notebook that The Beatle
s had with them in Key West in 1964.”

  “But Bert, that’s crazy!”

  “Who’s arguin’? But it also happens to be logical. Show me the hole in the reasonin’. Show me the flaw. Or better yet, gimme a different explanation altogether.”

  Pete didn’t have one, so he just said, “Look, that notebook was destroyed. You told me that yourself. And besides, was Marco even born in 1964? How the hell would he have ended up with the notebook?”

  “I have no fuckin’ idea,” the old man said placidly. “And if we ever find that out, I guess that would be point E or F or whatever the hell point we’re up ta. But until I hear a better idea I’m goin’ wit’ the one I just came up wit’, however the hell it flew into my mind.”

  Trailers clattered by on the highway, their back ends blithely swaying across the white line in the breeze. A woman bought a pair of turquoise flip-flops. A salesperson refolded t-shirts. After a pause, Sarge cleared his throat, a little bit theatrically. The whole time Bert and Pete were theorizing, he’d been shifting his weight from foot to foot and trying unsuccessfully not to look impatient. But finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Listen guys,” he said, “that’s all really pretty interesting about how Marco runs his business and all that stuff, but can we maybe get back to the question of if he’s gonna kill me?”

  PART FOUR

  23

  A t the estate on No Name Key, the party planning was in full swing. Cases of Cristal were being stacked behind the bar, the caterers were discussing where to place the canapés and how to time the sequence of the passed hors d’oeuvres, and Marco was giving his usual control freak orders to the DJ.

  “All ‘60s,” he was saying. “Emphasis on British Invasion. Beatles and Stones, of course, but don’t forget the second tier. Dave Clark Five, Freddy and the Dreamers, Chad and Jeremy, acts like that. And some oddball number ones. Singing Nun. Kyu Sakamoto. Stuff that nobody remembers till they hear it again, then it makes ‘em smile. Maybe, just for giggles, throw in a couple songs that’re so bad, they’re wonderful. Nino Tempo. Frank Ifield. Gotta have some Motown, of course. Can’t have a party without Motown. And maybe reach back just a little to the ‘50s, kind of set up where the music comes from. Early Elvis, Buddy Holly, Little Richard, Everly Brothers. You see where I’m going with this. Keep it light. What we want is the ambiance of a more innocent and hopeful time.”

  And with that he headed off toward the small cottage near the gate to review the set-up for a killing.

  The tall guy and the short guy had the karaoke machine cranked up and were working on their rendition of “Help.” It wasn’t going well. The song was turning out to be a bitch to do, because it started with a high note in harmony, then another even higher, then another higher still, and all this before the instruments had even done much, so the singer is basically out there naked, and if the first note isn’t nailed, you’ve got a real mess on your hands.

  “Listen,” said the tall guy, after three or four takes had been aborted within the first half dozen bars, “maybe I should do the opening.”

  “I’m singing lead on this,” the short guy said. “We agreed. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Course I remember. But that’s for the main part. The opening—”

  “—is part of the song,” the short guy interrupted. “And how’s it gonna look if one guy does the opening and the other guy takes over after the hard part is finished? I’ll tell you how it’ll look. Condescending. Like okay, the hard part’s over, now it’s safe for you to come onstage. Which, by the way, I’m getting a little sick and tired of you doing to me. Always with the I sing like Paul bullshit. Always with the lemme do the high notes bullshit. Enough already!”

  The tall guy took a step back and said. “You seem a little out of sorts today.”

  “Damn straight I’m out of sorts. Big party tomorrow. Lot of important people from the business. We premiere the song, me on lead. I don’t want to be embarrassed, okay? Plus then we got that bullshit with the kid, which I’m not too thrilled about.”

  “Like I am?” said the tall guy. “Like you’re all sensitive and peaceful and I’m just made of stone? Like I’m looking forward to it? Like I’m some kind of monster?”

  “Who’s sounding out of sorts now?” the short guy said.

  “Okay, I am. We both are. It’s stressful, let’s face it. This fucking job. Bad idea from the start. But here we are. So one thing at a time, okay? Can we please stop arguing and rehearse the goddamn song?”

  They tried the opening a few more times. That’s when Marco reached their door. He listened for a minute or two, then stepped inside without knocking. They saw him and stopped singing. The music, like an empty train, carried on without them.

  “It’s got a ways to go,” said Marco.

  “We know, we know,” the short guy admitted. “We’ll get it right.”

  “And what about the other thing? Everything on track?”

  The tall guy’s response could just barely be heard above the instruments. “Yeah, everything’s on track.”

  “Hot tub?” Marco said.

  “That’s where he’ll be,” the short guy answered.

  “Remember the jets,” said Marco. “Make sure they’re on. White noise. No screaming. Don’t want to spoil the party.” He turned to leave, then remembered yet one more detail. “And your outfits—you pick ‘em up from the cleaners?”

  “Yeah, we did,” the tall guy said. “But boss—”

  He faltered, and his partner picked him up. “Those outfits, they don’t really go with the song we’re singing. It’s a whole different album.”

  “Come on, guys, don’t be so literal.”

  “Plus, okay,” the tall guy said, “We just feel kinda silly wearing ‘em, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Silly? Come on, guys, it’s a ‘60s party. A happening, a celebration. Bell-bottoms. Tie-dye. So lighten up a little. Get in the spirit of it, will ya?”

  24

  M ost people look very relaxed when they are lying in a hammock. Sarge LeRoi did not as he fidgeted against the cotton mesh on Callie’s porch on Whitehead Street. He’d followed Bert and Nacho and Pete the rest of the way to Key West. He wanted company. He wanted counsel. He wanted to be near his Mom and he was amazed at himself for feeling that way. So he lay there twitching in her hammock, one foot dangling restlessly over the edge, the ankle flexing and unflexing, his abs firing now and then so that he was sometimes flat on his back and other times half piked up as in a yoga pose.

  “The way I see it,” he was saying, “I basically have two choices and neither one is good. I can call the whole thing off and not release the song, which I guess would take away Marco’s reason to kill me. But that’s assuming Marco wants to kill me, which is just kind of a crazy theory at this point. And I’d be giving up my best and maybe my only shot at a career. Or the other choice—”

  “Now slow down,” Bert cut in. “Let’s not be in such a hurry to get to option number two. So happens I got a couple questions about option number one. Like fr’instance, who says it’s your best and only chance to make it? There’s plenty other producers, right? There’s plenty other songs. Maybe there’s even songs you wrote yourself.”

  “Yeah, there are. I’ve written songs.”

  “Well, there ya go. Record some a those and the hell with Marco.”

  The young man shrunk up a little in the hammock. “Wouldn’t work. Mine aren’t good enough.”

  His mother came to his defense, her usually placid expression turning fierce at the edges of her eyes. “Who says they aren’t?”

  “Marco. Marco says they’re average. And average means they’re crap.”

  “What the fuck does Marco know?” said Bert. “Pardon my French.”

  “Actually, he knows a lot.”

  “Okay, guy’s a pro,” the old man said. “Fair enough. But nobody knows everything, kid. Nobody’s right every time. Remember that. Nobody.”

  “Maybe not, but Marco kn
ows a hit song when he hears one.”

  “Or when he steals one,” Pete put in. “Look, he wanted you to record one of his stolen songs, not one of your own. That’s his whole scam. It’s no reflection on your stuff. Don’t let it mess with your confidence.”

  “Too late. It already has. Besides, I got ears. His song is a better song. Period. So that brings up option two: I go ahead with the release and the party, I get up there and sing the song, and I just hope that your theory about music laundering and killing people turns out to be as crazy as it sounds.”

  “And you put yourself out there all alone?” Callie said. She was a mom and she didn’t try to hide her worry. “Could it possibly be worth it?”

  Sarge shrugged and tried to look brave but his body sank a notch lower in the hammock, as though the open mesh could shield him.

  There was a brief silence. Bert reached down, scooped his dog up into his lap, ran his fingertips the length of its tail, and said, “Except he wouldn’t be out there all alone. He’d have bodyguards.”

  “Bodyguards?” said Pete.

  “Bodyguards,” the old man said again.

  “Who?”

  “Us.”

  “Us?” said the supposed detective while fending off a fleeting impulse to fling himself over the creaky wooden railing of Callie’s upstairs porch and to run away if he didn’t break a leg. So, this was what happened when you took even the tiniest first step toward getting involved in other people’s problems. Him, a bodyguard? A foil to practiced killers? Tasked with nothing short of protecting the son of a woman he seemed more and more each day to be in love with? What if he failed? What if Sarge got killed? What if he got killed?

  Bert said mildly, “Yeah, us. You got a gun, don’tcha, Pete?”

  “Oh Christ, Bert. Now do you really—”

  “Do I really what? I asked you a question. You got a gun, right?”

  “Well, yeah. Somewhere. But it’s not like I carry it around. I’m not even sure where I left it. Haven’t fired it in years.”