AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

The girls nodded with a smile then slid in next to Nigel like before, this time hooking their arms in his like Tammy had done when Jimmy entered the room.

  “Let’s drink and dance.” Bridget said, giving Tammy a signal to head to the table with the bottles. Tammy extended her hand to Jimmy.

  “What do you say?”

  Her long slender legs, tanned and toned, were eyelevel as he sat. He rose and took her hand. Thoughts of Les failed to enter his mind as Tammy led him to the array of liquor bottles on the table. Nigel followed with Bridget and Victoria.

  Les called the number Jimmy left for her six times. She let it ring each time, wondering where he could be. She knew it was the wee hours of the morning in the U.S. It never mattered before. He always answered when she called.

  He awoke the next day at two in the afternoon, fully clothed on top of the bed with the familiar searing headache pounding away at his temples. He had no memory of what transpired. If Tammy had been there he couldn’t tell. The house was empty except for his things tossed on the floor and in his open suitcase. The Gibson leaned against the wall. He spent the rest of the afternoon nursing his hangover. Then he gathered his belongings, called a taxi and headed for the airport to catch a flight to San Antonio for the next night’s gig. He had three more scotches before the plane landed.

  ***

  Money poured into the accounts of everyone associated with Blossom Records. Mike Winfield’s prediction that the tours would bring in ten million proved to be wrong. The trajectory outlined in McCabe’s charts looked more like double that amount. Record sales went another twelve and offers flooded the executive offices from around the world. Everyone knew there would be more albums and a bigger world tour in another year. Six new groups were busy in the studios. McCabe had it all planned out, offerings from fresh new talent every two months, a steady stream of moneymakers all sharing the magic Blossom Presents formula and anchored by the established stars; Buckman, Whitehurst and Kate.

  Miles had plans to go global. He saw the opportunity when Weak Knees, not quite accepted in America, took off big on the continent. If this was possible then there had to be other markets where local talent could be found, nurtured and turned into regional stars. Asia, South America, Europe, he was sure he could make a niche for Blossom in all those places and more. The outline of a corporate structure demanded his attention. Fortunately, he had the managerial talent, or at least some of it right under his nose, Cindy for one, his new wife with an ear for what would sell and the ability to bring it along, and Ellis. Although the smart black man fancied himself an agent, McCabe’s lifelong business experience knew better. Ellis was a visionary, like himself, with the executive skills and hard edge to make those visions come alive. He played with numbers on a scratch pad. The Americas, Europe and Asia-Pacific. Those would be Blossom’s three operating regions. He’d establish a presence in the major cities with studios, production facilities and talent scouts, lot’s of knowledgeable experts paid well to find the next big stars to keep Blossom on top. Thirty million! Jeez only eight months after he’d almost lost it all he was spurning buyout offers as high as thirty million from the biggest corporations in the industry. Sell? Never! Miles Michael McCabe was just getting started.

  Winfield was a problem. He was sure the wily DJ was behind the videos that suddenly appeared in London. Ellis was still ferreting them out, gone for a month, tracing the sources and shutting down the distribution channels, but the proof was still elusive. Nobody would say who was behind it all. It was definitely a professional job, probably originating from somewhere in the U.S.

  Winfield was out of control. He called less frequently and when he did, he didn’t sound right. His sharp analyses and good ideas were replaced by fuzzy conversations that went nowhere. McCabe was losing patience with the man. He didn’t need Winfield’s contacts anymore. The promoters dealt directly with him now. He set aside thoughts of Winfield and turned his attention to other things.

  Josh Callahan of Elektra Records welcomed him into his consortium. That was good. Vinyl was out, cassettes living on borrowed time. The consortium was all about promoting compact discs and Miles was all for it. His new manufacturing facility was on the drawing board, funded for completion in another six months. By the time the new albums came out, everything would be ready to embrace the new technology and at a fraction of the cost, more money for Blossom. He had his speaking schedule all laid out. Keep pushing the new devices from Sony, Toshiba, Emerson and all the others. Get the market on its feet. Make the kids want these new discs because they produced near perfect sound. Throw out the old turntables and cassette decks. Buy the newer, better CD players.

  Was it late September already? Where did the time go? LA, Chicago, Dallas, New York, DC, the Blossom Presents blockbuster shows were almost over. Atlanta in October, Miami in November then it was done. In the U.S. that is, but two final shows in Australia in December. Whitehurst was such an enormous draw that he had to go back home where his countrymen could bask in the glory of his spectacular success. Jimmy, too. He had his followers over there where his new persona began. Kate, the rocker with the body to match was perfect for Australia’s special kind of fun-loving audience. The arrangements were already made. Outdoors, next to the famous Sydney Opera House, then two days later at Melbourne’s Sidney Meyer Music Bowl. This time Blossom would make its own video. MTV had first dibs. Then the sales would skyrocket. It had to be so. Music Television was going to do more for Pop music than any innovation since radio.

  ***

  They talked often, but less frequently than when the tour began. Les still waited anxiously to hear Jimmy on the other end of the line, but their conversations lacked the emotional depth of prior months. She knew the distance between them was taking its toll. A relationship requires more than just talk. It needs sight, touch and, of course, physical communion. She missed him as much as before, wanted him safely by her side. Safe, the word that meant more to her than she could explain. Why did she fear for him, fear his loss as if he might disappear from her life at any moment?

  Nicky made a difference. Her obsessive motherly love for the child filled the gap of Jimmy’s absence. Without this tiny boy and the challenges he presented, Les would have been consumed with irrational worry over her far away love. The child was making strides, assimilating step by step into the routines of Saint Malachy’s and gradually shedding his bad habits. She lived for their time together, mornings and evenings when she read to him, watched over him as he ate and guarded him from wandering off.

  He talked more, quiescently seeking answers about everything that came to his attention and begging reassurance that the first woman to show him unreserved love would always be there. His smile was constant when they were together. He ran into her arms when she came into his presence, wrapping himself around her body and squeezing gleefully tight, cheek-to-cheek. It was like he’d been reborn. Les would have kept it that way too, just the two of them sharing special time together. But Sister Marie interfered. The frail nun demanded more from both of them. Nicky had to be introduced into the society of the other boys and Les had to be the one to make it so.

  And, when he faltered it was harder for her than it was for him. He had no skills with which to interact with the other children. When they shunned him it broke her heart. When he awkwardly bulled his way into their games, receiving the rebuke that was sure to come, she could not resist rescuing him, so unwilling to see his tears that she whisked him away in her arms, caressing and soothing his fragile ego.

  Sister Marie admonished, “He must learn to find his own way.” Les resisted. Nicky was her little one. She began to resent the nun’s interference.

  Sixty-One

  After the DC concert Jimmy recognized the futility of trying to stem the scotch. It depressed him. His year ago effort was lost. He fought hard to control the drinking, reserving it for after the shows when he was alone in one of the houses McCabe rented for his use. He used the mornings to locate a liquor store, buying
a fifth, which he carefully concealed at the house. Sometimes, he took a drink in the afternoons, but more often he waited until the night’s work was done and the limousine returned him safely to his pad. Then he went straight for the bottle.

  He called Les, drink in hand on the couch, as they recounted the day’s activities to one another. She dwelled on a new boy she was mentoring. Her detailed descriptions of the child went on for many minutes. Jimmy never interrupted, sensing a new side to his love. She was infatuated with this five-year-old named Nicky. In a way, her obsessive need to talk about him made it easier. Jimmy had little new to say. The endless tour had fallen into a tedious round of sameness from city to city. The crowds were no different, the receptions the same, the interviews repeating the same questions he’d answered a thousand times. And, there was no new music. The grind wore him down. He had no energy to create. Nothing sparked his imagination.

  Marsha occupied all of Sonny’s offstage time. Melinda and Ted fell into the same routine, spending every free moment together. Travis found new friends in the Riland Brothers, closer in age and eager to make the rounds in every city. Eugene drifted off, too, becoming more engaged with the country music scene. They came together as a group only when they performed, still delivering good sound, but routine.

  Jimmy wasn’t a partier. Scotch filled the void. He didn’t know if he’d slipped with Tammy. It made him guilty to think something might have happened in Chicago. His devotion to Les was as strong as ever. He knew Tammy and the other girls had latched onto Nigel’s tour. After Chicago they were there again, backstage in Dallas and New York. He avoided her although she put in a valiant effort to engage his interest. She still looked good, but he vowed to be true to Les. It was September, only two more months and he’d be with her in Australia again. In the meantime, he had his scotch and nobody needed to know. He knew it would be hard to kick it again once the tour was over.

  Les didn’t like the way he sounded. It was nothing he said although he was more reticent than before. He simply wasn’t the same. She realized he was tired. The weariness came through in his voice, sometimes trailing off to a whisper as he described some aspect of the night’s performance. She also knew he was spending too much time alone. She worried for his loneliness. Everyone needed to be with people, not just as they plied their trade, but also socially to relax and laugh. He wasn’t laughing anymore. It tore at her heart. He needed her, but she couldn’t be with him. Couldn’t or wouldn’t, she wondered in the darkness as she wrestled with sleep. Nicky needed her, too. Saint Malachy’s was her life. It wasn’t fair to be pulled between her love for the institution that filled her soul with purpose and the man who filled her heart with joy. ‘Be strong my love,’ she whispered in prayer. ‘We’ll be together soon.’

  ***

  Thankfully, Ellis was on his way back from London. Cindy didn’t like being on the road, not now that she was married. Miles was busy, but he didn’t like it, either. What they both thought would be a few weeks turned out to be six as Ellis dug deeper into the mystery of the videos now selling all over Europe. He got it done though. Thousands of tapes had been confiscated. Most were destroyed, but a few cases sat in Blossom’s offices in Millburn. It was certain that Winfield was behind the shenanigans. Felix, Miles friend, had contacts at Interpol. A frightened retailer in Brussels talked. The distribution network was shutdown. Cindy knew about the underground pirating that plagued the entertainment business. Still, it seemed silly that Winfield would jeopardize his relationship with Miles, not to mention his stake in Blossom Presents just to make a few dollars on the side. Did the DJ with a national following really need the money? She wondered how Miles would handle it.

  Atlanta’s weather can be iffy in late October. Sometimes, it is magnificent, clear and dry with temperatures in the low seventies. Other times it is darkly gray with a sharp wind that rivals the vilest of New England days. Today was one of those. Performing outdoors in the stadium would be a chore. She noticed the change in Jimmy when he came to the dressing room. She saw it right away and recoiled in fear as his hands worked the buttons of his jacket. It was imperceptible to the others, but she was absolutely sure. You can’t spend five years with an alcoholic without knowing the signs. That little twitch, the pallor of the skin, dark eyes cast down and away, quiet, almost sullen. That’s the Jimmy she knew so intimately. He was back on the bottle.

  She watched him go through his routine, first dressing then taking the Gibson from its case and leading the others up the stairs to the stage. Sound checks first, she said to herself as she followed behind. Then he’ll run through his instruments to be sure each is tuned just right. He looked sober, but he also looked like he did when he wanted a drink. That’s how it developed during the first year they were together. He waited until after his shows. Then the drinking continued long into the morning hours until he fell asleep. Late the next day, he nursed his hangover until it was time to perform again, until the show was done so he could get back to his scotch.

  “You asked me to let you know if Jimmy ran into trouble.” They talked almost every week. The friendship between Les and Cindy had grown.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Cindy realized she’d started the conversation on the wrong foot. “I’m sorry. He’s not hurt or sick.” She tried to think of the right way to say it then simply blurted it out. “I’m sure he’s drinking again.” Les didn’t respond right away. Cindy let her gather her thoughts.

  “How do you know?”

  “I can see the signs. He looks and acts like he did when we were together.”

  “Did you confront him?”

  “No.”

  “What should I do?”

  “How are the two of you getting along?”

  “Fine. He seems okay on the phone, maybe less forthcoming, but he’s tired from all the shows.”

  “Everyone’s looking forward to a break when this is over. It’s been a long haul.”

  “But…”

  “He’s struggling.”

  “Should I come?”

  “You might fly to Miami for the last U.S. show then accompany him back to Australia. If you’re with him, maybe he’ll stop.”

  “Miami’s just after Thanksgiving, right?”

  “Yes. Then the final two shows in Australia. I assume he’s staying behind to be with you after that.”

  “That’s my hope.”

  “Think about Miami. He did a good job getting straightened out last year. He can probably do it again with a push from you.”

  Nicky bounded into the office just as Les hung up the phone. “How’s my boy?” She gathered him into her arms.

  ***

  Miami was like LA, except for the ticket sales, which hit a new high of seventy-five thousand. Once again, Winfield found himself shaking his head as he paced the Orange Bowl field several days before the last Blossom Presents U.S. concert. Additional seating could have been put in, another seven thousand, bringing this final U.S. crowd to eighty-two thousand. But McCabe nixed the idea. The cheapskate wouldn’t spring for the added cost.

  “It’s not worth it. With construction and tear-down, not to mention insurance, we’d only make a few thousand.”

  “We could break a record!” Winfield was tired of McCabe’s expense focus. “This is history in the making!”

  “No, Mike. Leave things the way they are.”

  The DJ was in a bad way. His cocaine habit was no longer under control. Others knew. There was no way he could hide it anymore. Chase and his biker pals owned him. He was into them for so much money that he feared they would cut him off at any moment. That would be disastrous. For a while, the money from the video sales in Europe kept him afloat, but someone got to his distributor. One day the money was coming in, the next day it dried up. McCabe wouldn’t let him draw on his piece of Blossom Presents, either. Something about cash flow or was it something else? The executive didn’t confide in him anymore. He used to listen when Winfield had an idea. Now, he had trouble get
ting his calls returned. His wife’s lawyer was on his case, too. How could he keep up with the support payments? Nobody understood the music business. It wasn’t like a normal job. Checks just didn’t come in each week. The money ebbed and flowed. But a big payday was just around the corner. Once the tour was finished he’d tally up his share with McCabe and walk away with plenty. Then he’d pay his bills, finally wrestle WAGZ away from its founders, shake the habit again and get back to work with Loren. A few months of regularity and then he’d be ready to take Whitehurst and Buckman around the world.

  He had WAGZ to think about. Keep it or sell. Loren was becoming impatient. She expected him to call-in every morning - maybe in the beginning, but not now. It was too hard to be ready in the morning after a long night. What did he need with the radio station anyway? He had a better time on the road. Once he was straightened out, after the tour, he’d sell and get out of the radio business. That’s what he’d do. Good-bye Loren, it’s been real.

  He scratched the grass with his shoe. He needed a hit. Benson and Chase, what a mistake it was to let them latch on with Whitehurst. As bad as the cocaine was for him, it was twice as bad for the Australian. He took to the stuff like a natural. Natural addict, that is. And, now he was doing heroin with Alice. Benson egged them on, the half-baked drummer and his connection hanging around at the parties after every show, making the stuff available to everyone, especially Nigel and Alice.

  No one was on those two to pay. Not like Chase was harassing Winfield. And, the bikers were demanding one last big party. What did they expect him to do? He couldn’t just snap his fingers and make something out of nothing. Get us a big house in Miami, they ordered. Big house! What? So they could trash the place like they did in Atlanta? Who’s on the hook for that? Not them. The stupid groupies were all over the place naked, doing coke, cheering when the bikers started fighting and breaking furniture. Damn Benson, right in the middle of it all. Then when it was over, Winfield was left with the bill. He got the house though. Out on Marvel Island, isolated and away from the prying eyes of the cops, tough luck for the bikers. If they wanted to party, they’d have to leave their bikes on shore, take the launch over to the island like everyone else. It would be safer that way. And, a twenty thousand dollar deposit, Winfield’s last pile of cash! The tour couldn’t end soon enough. It was getting too expensive, too dangerous.