Killsong

by Mark Mannock

  Kenny Medina was one of my best and most trusted friends, a generation older than me. Kenny was also my mentor, at times my guide and always one hell of an inspiration. It seemed like there was nothing Kenny hadn’t done. When he was younger, he played in bands, some of them quite successful. He then moved on to become the king of piano and lounge bars around LA. Kenny was always in demand; he could make any audience feel like family. People from all backgrounds—rich, poor, black, white, and everything in between—had sat around Kenny’s piano pouring their hearts out. In time, like all good entrepreneurs, Kenny had done his own thing and opened his own bar. Much of the West Coast music industry immediately adopted Medina’s as their own.

  When I arrived in LA after leaving the military, I was shaken and confused. I would spend my days pounding and caressing the piano in my apartment until I felt my balance slowly return. Then one evening I found Medina’s. Then I kept finding it. One night, as I was going through a particularly dark period, I asked if I could have a play of the bar’s beautiful Kawai grand piano. Thirty minutes later I looked up, the room was silent, everyone was staring at me.

  Kenny Medina walked up, introduced himself and said, “Son, I’ve got Monday nights free; they’re yours if you want them.”

  There you have it: Nicholas Sharp, former Marine sniper, now paid professional musician.

  One thing had led to another, and contact after contact was made through Kenny and his bar. Five years later I was recording and touring the world at a level of success I never dreamed of. Who would have thought?

  I owed Kenny Medina big-time.

  Medina’s was my bar.

  I sat in one of the booths in Medina’s downstairs room, checking out the framed pictures that lined the walls, every one of them taken in-house. The famous, the legends, the young bloods, from Keith Richards to Ray Charles, Muddy Waters to Norah Jones—a lot of wonderful musicians had made Medina’s their bar for at least one night. My mind, however, wasn’t on them; I was nursing a scotch and waiting for Jack Greatrex. Jack wasn’t late, I was just anxious.

  “You look like hell.” It was Greatrex’s voice.

  “I look like hell because that’s where I’m living right now.”

  Greatrex sat down opposite me as a Heineken was delivered to our table. He looked no better than me.

  It was twenty-four hours since we’d returned from our escapade to Oregon. As we left we had managed to elude all the official authorities arriving in response to the fire and explosions at the property beside the Rogue River. Cutting back through the forest the way we had come, we called Eddie Small, so he was waiting with the chopper at the same place he dropped us off. In all the chaos, one more helicopter landing and taking off in the night went unnoticed.

  After arriving at Burbank and saying our thanks and goodbyes to Eddie, we hightailed it back to the studio in the rental car. We were back at Platinum Sound twenty-two and a half hours after we left. We had done our best to clean ourselves up, but to some extent our picture must have told the story. Our musician colleagues had the good grace not to ask us any questions, but somewhere down the line they were going to.

  Greatrex and I sat here looking at each other across the table, the same huge question hanging over us both. Did Giles Winter know we had discovered and invaded his property?

  “It’s been twenty-four hours. You would think if Winter knew we were there, we would have heard from him by now,” I said.

  “You would think,” Greatrex responded, “but we have to work this through. Were the explosions all on a timer and they just happened to go off as we entered the building? Did we trigger the explosions as we entered? Or, of course, the worst-case scenario, did Winter have someone watching the property and they set the explosions off when they saw us go in?”

  “They had to be rigged to explode on entry,” I said. “If it had been anything else, we would have known by now.”

  It had been an agonizing twenty-four hours, waiting for the phone call telling us either Leyla or Amira were dead because of our actions.

  “We’re not out of the woods on this one,” I continued, “but let’s work on the theory we got away with it.” I needed to believe this for my own mental health.

  “If they were going to blow up the buildings and the helicopter anyway, the question would be why,” said Greatrex.

  “I’ve been thinking about this one,” I began. “We know from what Winter told us about his network that they are well resourced. The cost of losing that property and the chopper, if they owned them, would have been of no consequence. What would have been of consequence to Winter was that we had seen the chopper and may, just possibly, figure out a way to identify or track it.”

  “Then he planned all along to dispose of them.”

  “I think so. He virtually told us that’s how he operates. His mark is that he leaves no mark. Nothing for us to follow.” I looked around the room. “I think the bottom line here is that Winter felt he needed to take the girls and do the ultimate ‘vanish without a trace’ bit. That’s why he destroyed that place. That also confirms that we were probably right in thinking that he has no plans to let Leyla, Amira, you, me, or anyone else connected with this mess live past their usefulness to his plans. When this is all over, he will ‘vanish without a trace,’ and so will we.”

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  I appreciated Jack Greatrex’s determination.

  “No, we can’t let that happen,” I echoed. “The trouble is, right now, I can’t think of one way to stop him.”

  Greatrex signaled to Joey, the barman, for two more drinks.

  Two hours and several drinks later we were still sitting at our booth in silence. The house band was playing a Marvin Gaye classic, but as good as they were sounding, we weren’t really listening. We were each lost in our dark world of nightmare possibilities. We had lost complete control of the situation. We had no plan except to sit and wait for Giles Winter to contact us and, like some dark puppeteer, let him control our next moves.

  The last strains of “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” were playing when the faintest idea started to develop in my mind. Greatrex must have seen a changed look on my face.

  “What?” You can’t hide much from the big fella.

  “It’s probably nothing, but … we’ve been concentrating on finding Leyla and Amira and making them safe, right?”

  “Right.” I could see that he thought I might be losing the plot. I thought I might be losing the plot.

  “Let’s go back to thinking about the long game.”

  Greatrex took a sip of his drink and nodded.

  I continued, “If Winter plans on getting those chemical weapon and nerve agent samples into our gear, then he will need someone on the inside of the touring crew to do it.”

  A flicker of light in Greatrex’s eyes.

  “We know the army personnel will be keeping close watch over the equipment—guarding it, in fact—to ensure no bombs, explosive devices, et cetera, are planted there,” I said.

  “True.”

  “Now, you and I know how this works,” I said. “Any army personnel caught tampering with the gear would look immediately suspect. They are there to guard it, not play with it. We know we will have our civilian road crew working with us. It makes some sense that one of them might be Winter’s man.”

  “Even accounting for using army riggers for the stage and towers, there will be at least forty civilians working that tour, and you and I don’t know all of them personally.” Greatrex made a good point.

  “You’re right,” I thought for a moment, “but chances are whoever is Winter’s inside person will have joined the crew at the last minute, a ring-in with the right skills.”

  “How could we know who that was? We don’t do the crew rostering; your management won’t even know.” Greatrex had another point.

  I took a long, comforting sip of my drink. I felt some positive energy return. “I think Marvin Gaye is going to help us here.”
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  At this point I think Greatrex must have concluded that I had totally lost any sense of reality.

  “Maybe you should ease up on that scotch, Nick.”

  I smiled. “That last song the band played, ‘I Heard it Through the Grapevine,’ that’s it.”

  Greatrex had clearly given up on me.

  “The crew we are using comes from LA. Who hears everything that is going on in the music industry in this town?”

  First Greatrex smile in five minutes. “Kenny Medina?”

  “Kenny Medina,” I repeated. “Kenny may not know that the tour is going to Iraq, but he knows we are touring. If there are any major changes in our touring crew, last minute or otherwise, I bet my best keyboard Kenny would hear about it.”

  “Kenny Medina,” repeated Greatrex.

  We looked up and saw the slightly worn but warm, smiling face of Kenny Medina, framed by his longish dark hair turning a distinguished gray. He was walking toward our table.

  “Nick, Jack, how’s it going, guys?”

  I looked up and grinned.

  Medina’s is my bar.

  10

  The next five days went past without incident. Still a lot of worry, little sleep, and ridiculous stress levels, but no incident. We were starting to feel more confident that our sojourn to the Rogue Valley had not caused any major repercussions. Since Oregon we had followed our original instructions and just carried on with our normal existence, at least outwardly.

  I had two sessions at two different studios during those five days. Jack Greatrex and I followed our usual pattern of him getting to the studio an hour before me to set up my keyboards, and guitars if necessary. I would arrive twenty minutes before each session, grab a coffee and meet with the session producer to be briefed. Sometimes, if we were just doing keyboard overdubs, I would be the only musician there. On other occasions, if we were putting down band tracks, there would be several musicians present. For these two sessions I was the only one recording. This involved a great deal of focus over several hours of intense work creating keyboard parts, precisely fitting in with the band tracks already recorded and responding to the producer’s ideas and vision. To be honest, I was glad of the distraction.

  My manager, Wayne De Soto, had called to see if I was available to work on an album for an up-and-coming female singer-songwriter the following month. I had heard of her, and she was good. She wanted to do some co-writing as well as getting me to record keyboard parts. It was the sort of work I really enjoyed, as it gave me a chance be a little more original and creative. According to the calendar, I would be back from the tour by then, so Wayne thought timing would not be a problem. I agreed and let him book it for me. Looking at forward dates seemed to bring everything to a disquieted head in my mind; I desperately hoped I would be around to fulfill those dates. I also knew that the chances of that were growing slim if Greatrex and I didn’t start being proactive and think of a way to challenge Giles Winter’s plans for us.

  We had heard nothing from Kenny Medina until the afternoon of the fifth day, when he called.

  “I have some information on your touring crew that may be helpful.”

  “I’ll be in tonight,” I responded. I was booked at Medina’s this evening to fill in for the keyboard player in the house band, who had another gig. The money wasn’t much but I loved playing at the bar.

  “See you tonight,” my old friend said, and hung up.

  By then it was late afternoon and Greatrex and I were back at my apartment overlooking the golden sands of Venice Beach and staring out to the vast blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. We were still restless and frustrated. Yet again we were discussing different, seemingly pointless options. I told him about Kenny’s call.

  “It may not be much, but it’s better than anything we have,” he observed.

  “Anything is better than nothing.”

  The sound of my phone interrupted us and signaled that a text message was waiting for me. I reached for it but did not like what I saw.

  “Mr. Sharp, you will require a space of the following dimensions within your equipment to store our package. Manufacturer’s specifications show that with a little adjustment there will be room within the casing of your Nord stage piano. Please get Mr. Greatrex to arrange this.” The specifications followed. The message concluded with, “There is no point trying to trace this message,” and was signed GW. I showed the phone to Greatrex.

  “The devil continues to conduct.” he said.

  “And we continue to play. Is he right? Can you create that space within the keyboard?”

  “It will be tight, but there is room. Winter has done his research. I’ll organize it.”

  The reality was starting to sink in that we may well end up importing deadly chemical weapons and nerve agents into the US. Every musician likes to be remembered, but being a courier for terrorists and threatening the security of my homeland with mass murder was not the immortality I had in mind.

  We were both feeling the same thing. Three days to go until the tour started, only the possibility of Kenny Medina’s slim information to work with. We really were being played.

  That evening Medina’s was jumping. It was warm and hectic in the bar, and a large crowd was enjoying the soulful stylings of the house band. These were a bunch of musicians I loved playing with, not only very capable technically, but also with an intrinsic understanding of the groove and space that were required to play soul and funk. This was something that could not be taught. Kenny had caught me at the beginning of the evening to say he would fill me in on what he had found out when the crowd thinned, and he could take a break from being the busy maître d’.

  After a very satisfying version of James Brown’s “Gravity,” the band headed for a break in a booth set aside for that purpose. I joined my colleagues, scotch in hand. I was chatting with Suzie, the band’s outrageously good singer, about the state of the local music industry, when Kenny Medina caught my attention and waved me over. As I left the band table my mind switched immediately to far more serious matters than who was getting what gigs in town. I went through a door behind the bar and into Kenny’s private office.

  “How are you coping, Nicholas?”

  “Frustrated, but glad of the diversion of playing tonight.” We had filled Kenny in on the basics of our situation, but we had not mentioned Giles Winter. We didn’t want to put Kenny in harm’s way. He knew enough, however, to know we had a serious problem.

  “I have a little information. I don’t know how helpful it will be to you, but it was all I could find out.”

  “Please,” I said, “any information is a beginning.” I think Kenny sensed the desperation in my voice.

  “Well, most of the crew working on your tour are people you normally work with when you tour with Robbie West. Also, they are keeping the numbers fairly tight, and no one is talking much. I don’t want to know the details, but to me this says there may be a USO component to some of your shows.”

  Kenny was very perceptive. USO stood for United Service Organizations. They were the people who provided live entertainment to members of the United States Armed Forces and their families. They were also the people who were organizing the Iraq leg of our touring schedule.

  I nodded and said nothing.

  “As I thought,” Kenny continued. “There have, however, been two new additions to the crew at this late stage. One is Tommy Dabbs as foldback operator.”

  I knew of Tommy Dabbs. He had a reputation for always delivering a fantastic foldback sound on stage. Foldback was how musicians could hear themselves when they performed; a good stage sound was very important to a musician. I seemed to recall that Tommy had also had a little trouble with authorities at some point. It surprised me that he would be employed on a USO tour. I mentioned this to Kenny.

  “I thought this also, Nick. Apparently, the issue to which you refer was sorted out quietly a while ago, and there is no official record of it, hence his employment.”

  Although proo
f of nothing, the Tommy Dabbs situation did cause me some concern. I was certainly going to keep a close eye on him while we were away.

  “The other late addition,” continued Kenny, “is Kaitlin Reed as tour manager.”

  I knew Kaitlin; I’d worked with her before. She was very good, very efficient, and very attractive. I couldn’t see any immediate problem with her being on the tour.

  “Thanks, Kenny. As usual you seem to have a handle on everything that goes on in the music industry in this town. This may all be nothing, but it may be a big help.”

  Kenny gave me the same warmhearted smile that had won him the hearts and trust of so many. “Nick, I don’t know the depth of your problems here, but I can tell from your face you are very concerned. I know from your past that you can handle yourself, but … please be very careful.” He then laughed. “Besides, good piano players are hard to find.”

  I left Kenny Medina sitting at his desk, looking like a concerned uncle, as I went back to join the band for the final set.

  I was keen to get back to Greatrex’s place to let him know what I had found out. I wanted to hear his thoughts. Jack, however, was home in his workshop making the requested adjustments to my favorite touring keyboard. In the meantime, I would have to bury myself in the diversion of playing some good music with some great musicians. It was certainly better than being drawn into the dark vortex of uncertainty that seemed to be my future.

  11

  The next day, couriers organized by the USO arrived at my door to pick up the keyboards, guitars, amplifiers, and extraneous equipment we were using on the tour. In a couple of days Greatrex and I were being flown to Washington, the official departure point for the tour. It was, however, more economical for the heavier equipment to travel by road. The two of us helped the couriers load the equipment into their van. Everything was in heavy-duty road cases, but we still gave them the standard musician’s lecture about looking after sensitive gear. We weren’t convinced of their sincerity when they said they would take great care with it, but we had no choice. Inside one of the cases was my red Nord stage piano with the cavity Greatrex had created. It was empty now, but it was with a heavy heart that I thought about what it may contain when we returned home.