by Steve Gannon
At last Travis spoke. “It’s okay, Dad,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything.” He hesitated, surprised by an emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for his father in a long time, sensing it unfolding and growing and swelling inside him until he thought he would burst. He struggled, wanting to express it, yet knowing he would forever be unable to put his feelings into words they could both accept.
“Dad?”
Still no answer.
Travis slid across the deck and saw that Kane had fallen asleep.
Smiling, Travis whispered the words to himself.
Travis sat long into the night. Sometimes he talked, but mostly he sat in silence, sat beside the shadowy figure sleeping on the deck beside him. And hours later, as the fog finally lifted and a sliver of moon began to rise in the east, he brought his father home.
Epilogue
The Bronislaw Kaper Awards piano competition took place late that October. Twenty-five of the finest young pianists from California had been invited to compete, with the first round scheduled at ten-thirty a.m. and the finals set for later that afternoon. At nine forty-five on the morning of the preliminaries Travis stood in the wings of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, peering out into the rapidly filling auditorium.
Normally a closed event, The Bronislaw had received such a spate of publicity in recent months that the Philharmonic committee had decided to open the competition to the public. Surprisingly, attendance that morning was well on its way to exceeding even the most optimistic predictions. With forty-five minutes still to go, devoted music lovers had already filled over a third of the pavilion’s thirty-two hundred seats.
Travis nervously searched the sea of faces, noticing that Catheryn, Allison, and Nate had already taken their places in the fifth row of the orchestra section, sitting left of center to obtain a clear view of the contestants’ hands on the keyboard. Arnie sat to one side of Catheryn; her friend Adele, along with Christy and her parents, on the other.
In the weeks since Travis had last seen Christy, she’d cut her tawny hair to just above shoulder length, and her normally lean, athletic body had begun to bloom with the softening curves of pregnancy. She looked lovely, more beautiful than ever. Making a mental note to call her, Travis allowed his eyes to roam once again, examining the higher rows. He found McKenzie and her family sitting halfway up. McKenzie waved cheerfully as he caught her eye. Travis returned her wave. Then, continuing his search, he spotted Alexander Petrinski and several musicians from the Philharmonic, as well as a group of teachers from the university. Petrinski appeared somber and reserved and sat without speaking, his countenance reflecting none of the buzzing, carnival-charged excitement infecting the rest of the room. Travis looked away, deciding he already felt nervous enough without having Petrinski’s intensity crank things up another notch.
Returning backstage, Travis made a determined effort to push aside his jitters and focus on his program. Originally, for his discretionary piece in the preliminary round he had prepared the Aufschwung selection from Schumann’s Fantasiestücke, a composition abounding with pianistic dazzle and quasi-symphonic textures. Exhilarating, fire-spewing, and demanding, it was a perfect work with which to open, and Travis had chosen it to attract the attention of the judges right from the start. He knew that afterward they would ask to hear portions of his other prepared works—works he would play in full if he reached the finals—but the initial impression he made would be critical. Nonetheless, just hours before the competition, he had notified the judges of a change in his program.
Although confident that all his selections demonstrated ample range and virtuosity—undoubtedly sufficient to assure a position in the top finishers if he played well—at the last minute Travis had elected to replace Schumann’s Aufschwung with a less demanding piece, albeit one that had grown to have deep personal meaning: Chopin’s étude.
It was a risk, but one he wanted to take.
Running over the piece in his mind, Travis descended to the waiting area beneath the stage and checked the performance roster for the tenth time since arriving. Nothing had changed. He would still be playing late, twenty-third in a field of twenty-five. By the end of the preliminaries that number would be cut to four. Travis planned on being among them.
As he stood studying the roster, Travis heard an usher speaking to someone at the door. “I’m sorry, sir,” he heard her say. “The performers’ lounge is for contestants and competition organizers only.”
“Police business, miss,” a familiar voice rumbled. “We don’t want to disturb the other players, now, do we? Just tell me where Travis Kane is. I’ll take it from there.”
“Yes, sir,” Travis heard the girl respond nervously.
Travis stepped around the corner in time to see Kane pocketing his badge. “Harassing the ushers, Dad?” Travis asked with a smile.
Kane grinned, looking urbane and resplendent in an impeccable black tuxedo, gleaming patent-leather shoes, and a stylish moss-green cummerbund that quietly complimented his surprising and uncharacteristically elegant appearance. “Maybe a tad,” Kane admitted, watching with amusement as the flustered usher hurried off.
“What are you doing here?”
Kane hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. “I never got a chance to wish you luck this morning,” he finally answered. “I figured I would do it now.”
“I thought you had to work.”
Kane shrugged. “Why have a responsible job if you can’t take time off once in a while? Besides, the ol’ dad has to show his support when one of his kids is trying to make his mark.”
“Thanks, Dad. I appreciate your coming.”
“No problem.” Kane shot his cuffs and tugged proudly on the lapels of his jacket. “Not bad, huh? I went back after we got yours and rented one for myself.”
“You look great, Dad.”
“Damn right. Gotta be sophisticated at these kind of events.”
“In your case, sophistication might take slightly more than a tux,” Travis laughed, pleased Kane had made the effort.
Kane smiled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He seemed about to add something but hesitated again, once more seeming at a loss for words.
“What, Dad?” Travis asked. Neither he nor Kane had discussed the fight in the music room after that night on the raft, but in the months since something deep and fundamental had shifted in the family—not only between Catheryn and Kane, but between Travis and his father as well. Of one thing Travis was now certain: Kane’s unexpected visit was more than casual.
Kane stood for a long moment, staring down at the floor. Then he looked up and found Travis’s eyes with his. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this,” he said quietly, “but I’m proud of you, kid. More than I can say.”
“I thought you didn’t like classical.”
“That’s not what I mean, Trav.”
“I know, Dad. I … well, thanks.”
“Another thing,” said Kane, not looking away. “As you mention it, you know I don’t really understand your kind of music. But I was wondering if someday, when you don’t have anything else going, maybe you could play something for me. Something a little closer to country, maybe.”
Travis remained silent, astonished as much by his father’s request as by the emotion he heard in his voice.
“I’d like it if you would, Trav. I truly would.”
A smile lit Travis’s face. “You know what, Dad? I think I’d like that, too.”
Kane clapped Travis on the back. “Good. I’m going to hold you to it,” he said. “Now go out there and kick some ass or break a leg or bust a string, or whatever you music types say to each other.”
“Thanks, Dad. I will.”
As scheduled, the competition started promptly at ten-thirty a.m. Nervously, Travis awaited his turn. Three hours later, it arrived at last.
As he stepped onstage, Travis glanced into the darkened auditorium, surprised to see that since he’d last looked, late-arriving guests had
completely filled the orchestra section of the huge room. A sizable throng had even spilled into to the founders circle, loge, and balcony levels. Although the glare of the stage lights made it difficult to pick out individual faces, he could feel the comforting presence of his family and friends, waiting in quiet expectation.
Travis made his way to the Steinway D concert grand piano in the center of the stage. Slowly, he seated himself, giving the room a few seconds to quiet as he gathered his concentration. Then, as an electric hush descended on the audience, he placed his hands over the keys, barely touching, preparing the opening chords of Chopin’s Étude No. 3 in E Major, the piece he had once spurned.
In the silence that followed, in the instant before starting, Travis reflected on the family he loved, the family whose united spirit had navigated the treacheries of life’s reefs and shoals that summer and had somehow come through intact. Catheryn, ruling without seeming to with her courage and her tenderness and her art; Kane, forever bound by the shackles of his own strength; Allison, cloaking her light in a veil of secrecy and wit; and Nate, most vulnerable of all in his innocence and unthinking trust. And Tommy was there now too, joining the others in Travis’s mind. They were all there, waiting to hear the voice he would bring forth with his music.
If he could open his heart to that family; if he could speak with Tommy’s candor and Catheryn’s courage and Nate’s innocence and Kane’s strength; if he could convey his thoughts and hopes and feelings with the unerring accuracy of Allison’s words—what would he say? Travis knew he would tell each of them something different, but the meaning would always remain the same. And ultimately, despite his efforts, he also knew that meaning would be sadly diminished, diluted in phrases familiarity had bled of significance, lost in language made impotent by repetition and overuse. Then, with a shock of insight as unexpected and startling as a falling star, Travis suddenly sensed his doubts and uncertainties slipping away, and he realized, at long last, that he already knew a way to speak to the secret heart of each of them—without words, or artifice, or evasion.
And so, filled with a soaring feeling of balance and power, of being alive in the truest sense of the word, he began.
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my appreciation to a number of people who provided their assistance and expertise while I was writing A Song for the Asking. Any errors, exaggerations, or just plain bending of facts to suit the story are attributable to me alone.
To Detective Lee Kingsford (LAPD, retired), I owe a deep debt of gratitude. His gift of time, knowledge, and friendship proved invaluable during the preparation of the manuscript. The guidance of Elisa Petrini, my editor at Bantam Books (some years ago Bantam published an earlier version of this work), is evident throughout these pages. Finally, over the course of my writing, the Los Angeles Philharmonic generously afforded access and illumination to the backstage workings of their wonderful world of music.
To these, to friends and family, to my eBook editor Karen Oswalt, and especially to my core group of readers who encouraged me and—more to the point—read, made suggestions, and reread numerous iterations of A Song for the Asking, my sincere thanks.
An excerpt from
KANE
A Novel
Steve Gannon
Prologue
He had been right to change the game.
Of that he was certain. Still, he was increasingly troubled by the danger inherent in his recent actions, danger he’d precipitated by breaking rules that had long kept him safe. Nevertheless, this new game simply felt … right.
He stood motionless, slowing his breathing as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Gradually he began to discern dim shapes across the room: refrigerator, stove, dishes piled by the sink. In an adjacent alcove, a desk sat littered with papers, pencils, pens. Riding invisible currents, smells came to him as well. The aroma of stale pizza. A hint of fabric softener. A waft of perfume.
Her scent.
Outside, a breeze stirred in the night. Swaying with the wind, skeletal limbs of a nearby sycamore scratched at the roof. Upstairs, a sudden creak.
He froze, his senses straining.
Someone getting up, like last time?
Another creak.
He waited, palms slippery inside the latex gloves.
Silence.
He relaxed his grip on the pistol. Quietly, he pulled a dishtowel from a drying rack by the sink, stepped to the alcove, and lifted a telephone from the desktop. After punching in several random digits, he wrapped the towel around the receiver and set it back on the desk. Next he made his way to an electrical breaker panel behind the laundry room door.
Do it quickly, but don’t let them snap.
Covering the power panel with a wad of clothes from the laundry counter, he sequentially flipped off the toggles. Upon finishing, he heard a tinny voice sounding from the kitchen: “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again.” Then came a series of beeps, muffled by the towel but still alarmingly audible.
Careful not to make a sound, he quickly returned to the kitchen and found more dishtowels, further encasing the phone.
Better.
He stood in the dark, listening.
Nothing.
Satisfied no one had heard, he crept to a freestanding chopping block in the center of the room. After setting his knapsack on the maple surface, he reached for a rack of knives hanging by the stove. On his first visit he had noticed the black-handled utensils marked with the Zwilling J.A. Henckles imprint. Pulse quickening, he selected a razor-sharp utility knife with a four-inch blade. Next, with growing excitement, he reshouldered his knapsack and eased through the living room to the front of the house. There, a staircase led to the second floor.
Now?
Not yet. Give it a few more minutes.
Better safe than sorry.
He forced himself to wait on the bottom tread, an exquisite pressure building within. He pictured the woman as he had last seen her, long limbed and glistening with sweat, exercise tights clinging to her torso like a layer of paint.
Time to move.
In the rooms above, the family slept, unaware they were about to embark on a short but singular journey, one he was certain would prove the most intense of their otherwise insipid existence.
A moment later he started up the stairs.
1
Years ago my ex-partner, Arnie Mercer, was going through a particularly tough time in his personal life. Eventually he started seeing a therapist. Rather than talking with someone provided by the LAPD, Arnie chose instead to visit a private counselor in West Los Angeles—understandably not wanting his psychiatric treatment to show up in his police personnel jacket.
Like most cops who’ve run up against an “expert witness” shrink testifying in court to save some dirtbag defendant, I have little faith in the psychiatric profession. That said, the guy Arnie hooked up with struck me as even more of a quack than usual. I don’t know whether the counselor in question actually believed the stuff he was feeding Arnie, or whether it was simply an approach designed to help my partner sort out his problems.
Either way, Arnie and I talked about it. In a nutshell, here’s what Arnie’s therapist had to say: We’re all the center of our own little universe, and there’s no reality other than the one we each create for ourselves. Now, I could argue that one all day, and I did. If somebody hits you with a pipe, it raises a lump that’s real. You’re not making it up. On the other hand, Dr. X also contended—somewhat to the contrary, in my opinion—that being in control of your own little universe is merely an illusion. According to him, no one really controls anything in life that truly matters—and the sooner you accepted that, the better. I guess the lesson was to just sit back, don’t worry, and let things happen.
Naturally, I considered this a load of horseshit. I also realized that, following an exceptionally nasty divorce, Arnie was simply trying to get his life back on track as best he could. Being the sen
sitive person I am, I voiced my opinion to Arnie as gently as I could. “Arnie, that’s a load of horseshit,” I told him.
It’s been years since, but recently I’ve begun to have my doubts—at least about the “being in control” part. Not regarding little things, of course. As for the big things—sure, we all think we can control significant parts of our lives, the parts that matter. The important things.
Then, without warning, something ugly crawls out of nowhere and proves just how wrong we are.
Several years ago and a lot of tears in the past, my oldest son Tom died in a rock climbing accident. The cliché that advises parents not to outlive their children is true. Anyone who has lost a child knows it leaves a heart-wrenching emptiness inside you that can never be filled, a bottomless ache that may dull with time but will never be gone. Tommy’s death devastated me. I simply … broke. I crawled into a bottle and stayed drunk for days. Blinded by grief, I did and said things of which I’m ashamed—terrible, hurtful things I wish I could take back.
But of course I can’t.
Anyway, that morning as the sun crested a ridge to the east, I was sitting on a grassy slope in Forest Lawn Cemetery looking out over the city of Burbank and trying not to think about how things might have turned out if I had been a better father, a better man, when I noticed my wife Catheryn’s Volvo angling into a slot beside my beach-rusted Suburban in the parking lot below.
I had come out to visit Tom’s grave early that day, leaving Santa Monica before sunrise to avoid freeway traffic. Catheryn and I had decided on a temporary separation several weeks back, and I’d been bunking in Arnie’s spare bedroom in Santa Monica ever since.
Curious, I watched as my three remaining children piled out of the Volvo—Travis, who had been driving, Allison, and Nate—followed by a relatively new four-legged addition to the Kane household, a two-year-old yellow Labrador retriever named Callie. No sign of Catheryn.