I looked at Toole and Girdwood. They were frowning.
Again Amory paused, fingertips pressed to his forehead. “No!” he exclaimed, his hand swooping into the air as if he’d just experienced an epiphany. “You take it a step further. You dedicate it to both of them, and then… you read the part of that letter her boyfriend gave us where she talks about the empty place!”
Pete Sherman groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. Through the speaker phone Wil Willis made a peculiar sound, as though he’d choked on something. I glanced at Hy; he wore a faint, knowing smile.
Amory said into the silence, “Too bad we can’t get hold of Norm’s suicide note. The bit would be perfect if you could read from it, too.”
Silence continued to fill the room. Girdwood and Rae were staring at the attorney as they would at a worm crawling around in a salad.
Calmly Ricky took his hand from hers and stood. He walked around the table and looked down at Linda Toole. Her mouth was twisted as if she’d just bitten into the worm.
“You,” he said to her, “are still on the team. And you”—he turned and pointed at Amory—“are off!”
Amory blinked and stared around the room, bewildered as to what had gone wrong.
Before he could speak, Ricky was moving toward him. Amory registered the scowl on his face and put up his hands in self-defense. Then he backpedaled and started the other way around the table. Ricky moved faster, reversed, and collared the attorney next to his empty chair. With his other hand he grabbed him firmly by the seat of his pants and, as Amory yowled in protest, he propelled him toward the door.
Rats was on his feet. “Allow me,” he said, and opened it ceremoniously.
“Thanks.” Ricky heaved Amory unceremoniously onto the floor outside. To Rats he added, “Get this piece of garbage out of here, would you?”
“My pleasure.”
After he had slammed the door on Amory’s protracted yowls, Ricky turned back to the rest of us. He looked first at Girdwood and then at the speaker phone. “I know we’ve got a partnership agreement with Ethan,” he said, “but Shar’s given me some pretty damning taped evidence on him that we can use as leverage. And if that doesn’t persuade him to bow out gracefully, I swear I’ll mortgage my soul to buy him out.”
Rae said softly but in a tone that commanded everyone’s attention, “You may have just bought back your soul.”
Billboard, August 6, 1995:
Los Angeles—At a press conference on July 31, country artist Ricky Savage announced the dissolution of the Zenith Records partnership among himself, former Arista VP Wil Willis, manager Kurt Girdwood, and attorney Ethan Amory. The partnership will be reconstituted with Savage, Willis, and Girdwood as principals. Savage declined to elaborate on the reasons for the dissolution, stating only that it stemmed from “a fundamental difference in management philosophy” between Amory and the remaining partners.
Savage also alluded to the onstage suicide of his lead guitarist, Norman O’Dell, last week: “I won’t go into detail, because I strongly believe that private matters should remain private. However, I will say that Norm O’Dell was a basically good man who experienced more than his fair share of tragedy, and I contributed to his problems by my failure to take responsibility for my actions in regard to his stepdaughter, Patricia Terriss. His death has taught me a tough personal lesson.”
The singer added that, “We in the recording industry should all be looking at how we’re handling responsibility for the messages we’re sending—both in the music we’re making and in our public and private lives. This past week has been one of major change in both areas of mine, and I hope to use those changes as a springboard for positive growth and action.”
Savage went on to state that although he has canceled his Midnight Train to Nowhere tour, he expects to reschedule for spring, after he has replaced O’Dell and bass player Forrest Curtin, whose contract is up in October.
“StarWatch,” Los Angeles Times, August 7, 1995:
While much has been reported in the press about the suicide of Ricky Savage’s lead guitarist Norm O’Dell and Savage’s role in it, as well as the recent shake-ups in the country star’s professional and personal lives, little has been said about his integrity. While others would have gone public with the guitarist’s rumored crimes against himself and his family and friends, Savage has remained silent. While others would have covered up the lack of responsibility that led to the suicide of O’Dell’s stepdaughter, Savage has admitted to it. While others would have capitalized on the glut of publicity surrounding the Midnight Train to Nowhere tour, Savage canceled. And, in a manner consistent with his previous behavior, he has maintained his privacy in the face of intense media curiosity about his impending divorce and new relationship with San Francisco private investigator Rae Kelleher. In this column’s opinion, the entertainment industry could use more stars with Savage’s credibility. Of course, were that to come to pass, we’d soon find ourselves out of a job…
Thirty
Rae and I sat on the low concrete blocks—part of a dubious city-funded sculpture—in front of Red’s Java House, drinking Cokes and eating cheeseburgers. Normally I would have felt guilty for such disloyalty to Carmen, our favorite waterfront restaurateur, but again it was one of those unseasonably hot days that are so rare in San Francisco, and neither of us had felt like walking that far for lunch.
Rae had just finished reading me a report on Ricky’s press conference from Billboard, as well as an item that had appeared yesterday in “StarWatch.” Now she finished her burger and crumpled the wrappings.
“Not bad, the way he handled the situation,” she commented. “The best part is, he really meant what he said.”
If you knew Ricky as well as she and I did, you couldn’t doubt his sincerity. But I was willing to bet that plenty of the cynics in his very cynical industry viewed his actions and subsequent statement as a bald-faced whitewash. I didn’t voice the comment, though, only asked, “You say he’s driving up today?”
“Like a maniac in the Porsche, and if he survives the journey, tomorrow afternoon we’re off to Bakersfield.” She paused, serious. “Are you sure you don’t mind me taking off in the middle of the week like that?”
“I’m sure.” To tell the truth, I’d resigned myself to losing her as an operative—so much so that I’d made Charlotte Keim an employment offer she couldn’t refuse.
“I’d feel more secure if you told me I’d be sorely missed.”
“Well, with Keim coming on board…”
“About that, Shar—you didn’t hire her because you think I’m going to quit, did you?”
“… Not exactly.”
“Because I have no such intention.”
“Oh?”
“I may have to ask for a leave of absence, just till things’re more settled for Ricky. He’s still pretty shaken up about all that’s gone on and, frankly, so am I. We need some quiet time together.”
“I understand.” And after the quiet time, then what? It was hard to believe that out of last month’s shattering events such tidy, happy endings could be forged: Ricky and Rae in a lasting relationship; Charlene and Vic an equally stable couple; the Savage children healing and accepting the changes with the help of both their parents. Yet, at least on the surface, that was taking place.
Hy and I seemed to be the only people who weren’t in harmony; during the past two weeks the distance between us had widened.
I watched a man in a business suit come out of Red’s, a box in his hands piled dangerously high with take-out. A breeze off the Bay caught a bunch of paper napkins tucked down the side and wafted them away. Rae seemed to sense my low feelings; she got up and took the wrappings from our lunch to a trash bin. By the time she came back, I’d put on a falsely cheerful face.
“So,” I said, “what do the two of you plan to do—make the airlines rich by flying back and forth between here and the southland?”
“For a while, anyway. He’s already given me
his account number with the air-charter outfit he uses.”
“I can tell you’re going to adapt splendidly to his lifestyle.”
“Actually, I find it weird—him having so much money, I mean. If he wasn’t so casual about it, I’m not sure I could keep up with him.” Again her freckled face grew somber. “You aren’t still mad at us, are you?”
“No. I’ve adopted a wait-and-see attitude toward all concerned.”
“Well, we can’t ask for more than that. Mick seems to feel the same, although he’s still kind of stiff with me, and every now and then I catch him looking at me like… well, like he’s speculating on our sex life.”
I smiled. “That’s what eighteen-year-old men do, Rae. Besides, when Charlotte comes on board, he’ll be too busy thinking about his own sex life to worry about yours.” My nephew had been staying with me since he’d returned to work, but he saw a great deal of Keim. I’d hesitated about offering her a job for that reason, until the three of us had hashed it out and decided they were both mature enough to maintain professional behavior in the workplace.
I looked at my watch: almost time to head back to the office. But not yet; it was too nice a day to rush inside. “So the two of you haven’t any definite future plans?” I asked.
“We’re going to talk over our options on the way to Bakersfield.”
“Bakersfield in an August heat wave. You must be insane.”
“Shar, this is an important trip.”
“How so?”
“Well, he’s going to introduce me to his aunt, uncle, and cousins. He’s going to show me the house he grew up in, the schools he went to. He’s going to take me to the bars and clubs where he and his band got their first gigs. He even wants to show me the parking lot behind the supermarket where he first got laid.”
“Now that’s impressive. I hardly know what to say.”
“Come on, didn’t Hy ever give you a tour of his old haunts?”
I thought, then smiled. “You know, he did. He even showed me his streetlight in Bridgeport.”
“He has a streetlight?”
“Well, sort of. He had to pay to replace one after he lassoed it from the bed of a pickup and drove off dragging it behind him, one drunk and disorderly night.”
When she got done laughing, Rae said, “God, aren’t you and I in love with a couple of romantic souls? Trips to view streetlights and parking lots—what will they come up with next?”
“StarWatch,” Los Angeles Times, August 14, 1995:
Our San Francisco sources confirm that country star Ricky Savage has contacted a prominent real-estate broker about locating a home in that city for himself and his lady friend, private investigator Rae Kelleher. Savage specified that it be large enough to accommodate a rehearsal studio and his half-dozen children when they visit. Does this count as one of those positive actions he talked about at his July 31 press conference? We suspect so…
Thirty-one
I stepped out of the seaside cottage we called Touchstone just as Hy’s Citabria set down on our newly graded airstrip. It sped along the clifftop, then slowed and taxied to a stop at the tie-down chains. I walked toward it, nervous about our reunion. It was Friday, August twenty-fifth, and we hadn’t seen each other since we parted in Los Angeles on July thirtieth.
The prop feathered and after a moment Hy stepped down and waved. I waved back, hurried over, and helped him secure the plane. Then he grabbed his duffel bag from the backseat, put his hand on my shoulder, and steered me toward the cottage.
“How’s everything at the ranch?” I asked. We hadn’t been talking much on the phone lately, and what few conversations we’d had were brief and impersonal. The discussion we’d promised ourselves had never happened, and emotional distance still spread between us.
In answer to my question, he said, “Everything’s good. You dig out from under all that paperwork?”
“Finally. Rae took some time off, but Keim picked up the slack.”
“Ricky and Rae bought a house yet?”
“Yes—Seacliff, right on the bluff near China Beach. She’s subletting the condo to Mick.”
“That was fast.”
“Uh-huh. She and Ricky are so in agreement about everything that it’s a little spooky.” Like we used to be, I added to myself.
Hy seemed to sense the thought. He stopped at the door of the cottage and set down his bag. “Let’s sit out on the deck for a while, wait for the sunset.”
The deck was a platform with built-in benches and a stairway that scaled the cliff to Bootleggers Cove, hundreds of feet below. I dusted off a couple of the weatherproof cushions and curled up in a corner. Hy sat next to me, but a little apart. The sun was already low on the horizon, staining the water and sky.
After a moment he said, “We never did have that talk.”
“No.”
“We should. This being together but not being together—that’s not us.”
“We were completely together when things got rough in Albuquerque.”
“Yeah, but it’s a hell of a situation when you only relate when things get down and dangerous.”
“Ripinsky, we’ve always been at our best under those conditions.”
“I know. But we used to be at our best other times as well.”
The sun had sunk quickly. It colored the water in shadings from flamboyant red to delicate pink; closer in, the waves shimmered purple at their crests, gray-blue in their troughs. Flocks of seabirds skimmed north in orderly formation. I watched them, afraid of what he might be trying to tell me.
I loved this land, which could alternately be beautiful and welcoming, weather-torn and inhospitable. The thought of losing our piece of it because Hy and I no longer connected was saddening. I loved this man, whose many sides were perfectly suited to our north coast. The thought of losing him was unbearable.
I said, “That night on the train—where was all that anger coming from?”
His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, fine lines deepening at their corners as he squinted against the glare. “The day that had just ended was July twenty-sixth, the anniversary of Julie’s death.”
His wife, Julie Spaulding, had died of multiple sclerosis a number of years before. I’d never known her, had in fact only seen one photograph. She’d been a dedicated and active environmentalist in spite of her illness, and a lifeline to Hy after he returned from a grim period as an air-charter pilot in war-torn, corruption-ridden Southeast Asia. I knew he’d loved her very much, but now it seemed—
“No, McCone. I wasn’t angry because I was missing Julie. I loved her a lot, but that was years ago and, sad to say, there’re times now when I can barely conjure up her image.”
“What was going on with you, then?”
“You’d disappeared on me. You hadn’t told me where you were going and you were late for the train. You’re never late for anything unless something’s gone wrong. All I could think was, ‘I’m going to lose her today, too.’”
“Oh, God. And when I showed up and you realized it was only my carelessness that had caused all that worry—”
“I got pissed and took it out on you.”
Okay, that explained his angry outburst, but not the remoteness that had enveloped him since. “There’s more,” I said.
He compressed his lips for a moment. “Yes.”
I watched him, waiting. In the dying light, the planes of his craggy features were sharp, the expression in his eyes dark and unreadable. For a few seconds I felt as if I were sitting beside a stranger.
“Yes,” he repeated, “there is something else. You’ll probably think it trivial, but it’s been eating at me.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you remember when we were in the lounge car on the train and they played that video of Ricky and Rae in front of Union Station?”
“Yes.”
“Right before she got back into the limo, he said something to her.”
“He did? Oh, right. I don’t know what it was, but i
t really pleased her, the same way whatever she said on his voice mail in Albuquerque pleased him.”
“Well, I do know. I can read lips—comes from spending all those years around noisy aircraft.”
“So what did he say?”
“He told her he loved her.”
“And that upset you?”
He got up, moved to the railing, and braced his hands on it, his back to me.
“McCone,” he said, “when was the last time you told me you love me?”
I thought. Shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah.”
“Ripinsky, what’re you getting at here?”
He turned, sad lines bracketing his mouth. “You’ve never told me—not once, the whole time we’ve been together.”
“That can’t be.” But as I spoke I realized he was right.
“Not once,” he repeated, his voice rough with feeling.
An incredible lapse, considering how much I did love him. But there was a reason for it: I’d grown up in a household where a lot of lip service had been paid to love, but there was a falseness and coldness deep at the core of our family. When I’d left home I’d put all that aside, vowed there would be no place for similar dishonesty in my adult relationships. Sometimes when you make such decisions, you unwittingly go overboard in the opposite direction.
Hy was watching me in that analytical manner I remembered from Albuquerque. Waiting for an explanation.
But how to present it? How to convince him that I’d only kept my silence because love wasn’t a word I easily used? I thought back over the time we’d been together: the mutual understanding that had existed between us from the first; the closeness that transcended the greatest of distances; the friendship and the laughter and the shared danger and the lovemaking; the—
“Wait a damn minute!” I exclaimed.
He frowned.
I stood up. “Okay, Ripinsky, let me ask you this: When was the last time you told me you love me?”
“Well…” He shrugged and spread his hands. “I must’ve.”
The Broken Promise Land Page 32