by M. M. Mayle
“Well, it appears I was right. Perhaps more right than intended.”
“And profoundly wrong to subsequently lump him in with the lowest common denominator. He is nothing like those reprobates whose roadies I prosecuted. He may once have led the so-called life, but he doesn’t now. He is as fine a person as I’ve ever known. He’s a devoted father, he’s good to his mother, he’s loyal to his friends, he’s warm and funny and loving and patient and tolerant and persistent and I—”
“You obviously love him without qualification.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Now may we please address the subject that should be uppermost?”
“In a minute. I’m curious to know . . . how much had Colin told you of this splendid place before you arrived?”
“Funny you should mention that. Another of his positive attributes. He knew almost from the start that I would be enchanted by this place, but he never flaunted the fact there were trees in his backyard to beggar most of those I treasured at Jockey Hollow, and he never attempted to dazzle me with descriptions of a house that, in my limited experience, can only be compared with the Cloisters Museum. He didn’t even mention that we had the same taste in cars. If he dangled any enticement, it was his children, and I’m not sure that was altogether deliberate.”
“I know you put on a strong show of resisting him—so strong that even I bought it. But hindsight being what it is, I now realize that when you recently lit into me for not having spent more time with him after his accident, you were sending a very strong signal . . . one I chose to ignore.”
“Signal—excellent segue. Do you feel that Rayce sent signals that were ignored?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“My impressions of Rayce are necessarily different from yours and Colin’s. I didn’t know him long enough to have any real perspective. I wasn’t able to put his recent behavior into any kind of context, so what I saw as a distress signal might have looked perfectly normal to someone else.”
“Expand on that.”
“Okay. Here’s an example. At the Tavern party, I thought his manic behavior was overcompensation for the sort of high he’d get from alcohol or drugs because it seemed so forced and over-the-top. I saw him as attempting to fill a void with kiddy-cocktail placebos in an atmosphere redolent of the lifestyle he relinquished. I saw him as pressured to uphold an image he no longer subscribed to by going through the motions, and to me that looked like certain trouble.”
“Interesting take, Laurel, and nothing any outsider might not conclude. But Rayce was, by nature, manic and overcompensating. He was always that way, drunk or sober, using or clean. And no one was more aware than he of the temptations presented by the music world or better prepared, after a self-imposed rehab, to meet them head on. I’m not dismissing your thoughts as unfounded, though, because right now I have to consider the possibility he was something of a stranger even to those of us who knew him well. Tell me, how did he seem to you on the flight over? You’ll recall that after my attempt to spoil your good time, I kept to myself at the front of the plane.”
“He was antic, working his audience, chain-smoking, shunning sleep, totally in character for what I knew of him. His placebo this time was some of that damned headache powder in its reminiscent little glassine envelopes. At least that’s the way I saw it when Rayce helped himself to a handful from Colin’s toiletries bag as though raiding a secret stash. I played along, pretended to look the other way, then got rid of the remainder after Rayce took what he wanted.”
“I thought Colin agreed to toss that crap because of the illusion it creates—because of all the trouble it just caused.”
“He did, and I think he forgot because so much else was going on.”
“I’m amazed it wasn’t confiscated when he boarded the plane. Especially after his recent notoriety.”
“We weren’t subjected to the stringent inspection I anticipated. The security people got caught up with deciding if an Icon statuette and a Steuben glass owl constituted concealed weapons, and except for my tape recorder, our other hand luggage was given only a cursory once-over. And all rather beside the point because the concern here is how Rayce seemed on the plane, and I’ll have to say he appeared no more stressed than I perceived him to be on other occasions.”
“So, despite some early misgivings, you stand with Colin in rejecting the suicide theory. Right?”
“Well yes, don’t you?”
“If I had to accept any theory, I’d prefer it to be that Rayce suffered a conventional overdose. That he relapsed, did a few lines, and because he’d been clean for over a year, his system couldn’t tolerate it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I can’t answer your question,” David says.
“Very well, I think we’re done here.”
“Not quite. Under any other circumstances I would be outraged on top of insulted that I had to learn from Amanda Hobbs about Nate’s termination as Colin’s manager.”
“Shit . . . Nobody thought to tell you. I’m sorry, David, I really am.” Laurel reaches around the thick pillar separating them to touch David’s arm. “Colin will feel terrible about the oversight and—”
“He doesn’t have to unless you tell him.”
“Oh? Oh, I see. The timing.”
“I wouldn’t have brought this up at all if I hadn’t taken steps toward providing Colin independent stewardship for the interim. This is in the realm of the provisional agreement arrived at with the Rajah label. The decision also honors Colin’s desire for a buffer zone, if not permanent barrier, so I’ve called on Amanda to front for me until Colin’s ready to take on new management and staff. She’ll be arriving tomorrow, prepared to function as emergency spokesperson and intermediary as long as needed.”
Laurel’s immediate reaction is to thank him profusely; her mouth is open to bless him for providing the help she dared not ask for. She closes her mouth, holds back words that would also reveal how much she wanted a conduit to Nate Isaacs. But that’s unnecessary caution. If David suspected Amanda and Nate were in league, would he have enlisted Amanda’s help?
“No, of course not,” she says.
“Did I hear you say no? You’d prefer Amanda not be involved?”
“No. No, never mind. I was thinking about something else. Amanda’s the ideal person. Absolutely. Colin will be pleased. I’m pleased. Thank you.”
“In case you do have doubts, I should remind you that the current calamity won’t dominate tabloid news forever. When Rayce’s story starts to get old—and that could be in a very few days—yours and Colin’s betrothal will receive full media attention. Unquestionably. Are you ready to face that alone? Are you prepared to single-handedly take on the world press when you’re no longer in a position to do any serious quashing because—”
“That’s enough, David. You don’t need to sell Amanda to me, and I don’t need to be reminded that my status has changed—that it would be unseemly of me to defend a fiancé whereas I could do battle when I was only his biographer.”
“I don’t know about unseemly. Irregular, perhaps. And that prompts me to ask what you’re going to do about the book. Will you finish it?”
“Way too soon to say.”
“And I suppose it’s too soon to ask what you plan to do about your house, your brand-new car, your financial picture or, for that matter, your father.”
“Not now, David. Please. I hear clatter from the kitchen. Let’s get some breakfast.”
EIGHT
Morning, April 14, 1987
Nearing exasperation, Nate takes a deep breath. “Amanda, listen to me . . . Don’t do anything but listen. Okay?” He plunges ahead without waiting for her agreement. “You’re not being asked to do anything beyond your capabilities. You demonstrated a staggering amount of initiative and resourcefulness while I was in L.A. That didn’t go unnoticed, nor did your knack for pinpointing solutions before anyone else even saw the problem.”
He
shouldn’t have to say any of this after the major pep talk he gave her when she called earlier for advice. And now that she’s had several hours to get used to the idea, now that they’re face to face in his midtown office, she shouldn’t require any additional bolstering. But he gives her an extra shot in the name of fair play.
“You possess the basic know-how and you handled yourself like a pro with the celebrities you met the other night. So let’s not waste any more fucking breath on your supposed lack of qualifications when we should be talking about how well you’ll handle the assignment.”
“I don’t know,” Amanda says.
“Yes you do. If you didn’t know you could do the job you wouldn’t have accepted it. Must you be reminded that you were about to volunteer in some capacity when David made the request yesterday? Doesn’t that indicate some degree of confidence in yourself?”
Amanda takes a wary look at the original art decorating the walls of his private office. After that, it’s a worried scan of the custom-made furnishings that shrinks her deeper into her chair.
Shit. He should have chosen a less intimidating setting for their second get-together in two days; he should have trickled out the dazzlers in smaller doses.
“Yes,” she says and corrects her posture. “Yes . . . you’re probably right about all . . . that.” She gives a flip of the wrist that could be dismissive of the moneyed atmosphere as well as her crisis of confidence. “But there’s something else—the real hang-up. By consulting with you and accepting your help while I’m in the official employ of someone else, I feel as though I’m serving two masters.”
“You’re not. We’re all on the same side. I made that abundantly clear when you called to ask my advice. By seeking the benefit of my experience and connections, you’re only doing your job. I don’t think even Colin could object under present circumstances, but I wouldn’t put it to the test.”
“See, that’s what I mean . . . the clandestine nature, the sneaking around.”
“Get over it. You’re doing nothing wrong. Stop thinking of me as anything but a dependable resource and you’ll be fine. Now, let’s review the plan. You’ll go out tonight business class on Pan Am—I’ll take you to Kennedy myself—and arrive tomorrow morning at Heathrow, where you’ll be met and driven to the Grosvenor House in Mayfair. I’ve booked you an efficiency apartment so you won’t have to rely on room service. Although Mayfair’s high-end, there’s an affordable tea room a quick walk through the mews to South Audley Street, and the Oxford Street shopping district’s nearby, where a wide variety of goods is available. The Marble Arch tube stop’s convenient and you’ll find the underground’s cheaper and nearly always quicker than a cab. Am I going too fast?”
“No, but you needn’t be so concerned with my budget, I’m being given a very generous living allowance.”
“Sorry. No insult intended. I’m probably leaning too far in the direction of economy because I don’t want these arrangements to look like I made them. If appearances didn’t matter, I’d be going with you. We’d be going by Concorde, staying at the Dorchester, sparing no expense.”
“I understand. No insult taken.”
“I’ve compiled a list of my numbers—call me anytime for anything—and a list of the people you’ll find useful in getting yourself established.” He selects from the pages of a makeshift portfolio. “This next list is of the contact personnel for those who I believe will want to be involved if your proposal’s accepted.”
“You really need someone to fuss over, don’t you?” For a second she looks as though she’s about to clap both hands over her mouth like a wayward child who’s let slip with a family secret.”
He stifles a sharp retort as unfair because she is right, after all, and he ought to be glad she didn’t say nursemaid. They continue past this awkward pause and approach the core subject by comparing fresh thoughts on the circumstances of Rayce Vaughn’s death, and conjecturing about what is known of the ongoing investigation.
“Did David seem convinced it was suicide when you spoke to him last night?” Nate asks.
“He seemed resigned to the idea.”
“That’s your polite way of saying he’s not refuting the claim.”
“I was cutting him some slack because he’d been hard at it for nearly twenty straight hours with the end nowhere in sight.”
“That’s no excuse, Amanda. He’s taking the easy way out. I saw him do this once before. Right after Colin was racked up. David was on the scene only long enough to perform the necessary legal requirements, because he’d bought into the popular belief that Colin wasn’t going to make it. I think he’d already written Colin off before he came out to Michigan.”
“Maybe so, and maybe he is selling Rayce short by not fighting back at the moment, but along with exhaustion you’ve gotta remember that he’s feeling the effects of a couple other shocks—namely Laurel’s defection and Colin’s break with you. Although he recovered quickly, there’s no doubt in my mind that David was hearing about it for the first time when I routinely mentioned that you and Colin had gone your separate ways.”
“Is that so? Interesting. Makes me wonder if the oversight was deliberate and if he was going to offer you the present assignment before he learned that Colin was without representation.”
“That’s hard to say for sure. I’m guessing he was, but the job wouldn’t have taken on quite the same significance it has now.”
“We’re definitely agreed there. That’s the first thing that crossed my mind when you called this morning. Seems fairly obvious David’s recruiting again. He’s using this opportunity—and you—to make himself indispensable to Colin.”
“But you’re not.”
“Jesus, Amanda. What’s it going to take to convince you I don’t want him back? I’ll always have an interest in his welfare but, as I told Laurel, I do not want to be responsible for it.”
“Okay, okay,” she says without looking convinced. She’s not convinced he should chauffeur her to the airport, either.
He overrides that argument by pretending he didn’t register the objection, then pretends he doesn’t already know her Brooklyn address when he tells her to write it down. “Expect me at seven-thirty,” he says. “Look for a dark blue sedan.”
Releasing Amanda into the throngs entering the Worldport terminal at Kennedy must be like watching your kid get on the bus for her first day of school. But a kid would have received the extra reassurance of a hug and a kiss. As Amanda disappears from view, Nate regrets not giving her more than a brusque handshake—make that ridiculous handshake—when they said goodbye at curbside. And he could have said more than just goodbye; he could have let her know she’s a lot more than a factotum, no matter who she finds herself working for.
These omissions nag him all the way back to the city and halfway up the west side. He’s north of 42nd Street before they’re replaced with nagging reminders of theories and suspicions deemed crackpot only a few days ago, and now resurgent because of Rayce Vaughn’s improbable suicide. If that can be believed, then anything’s possible.
NINE
Midday, April 15, 1987
The move from the sleazy North Bergen high-rise motel to the better place on Route 22 takes up most of the morning. When the job’s done, Hoop ponders dropping in on Audrey. The new lodgings are in the same neighborhood as the storage place, but he resists the urge. He’s not ready to share the recent news with her, and he won’t be till his understanding’s better and he’s gained more distance from the fearful drunken toot he went on in the backwash of smashed hope and queered opportunity.
He’s not ready to give much thought to the money wasted by walking out on the paid-ahead arrangements at the North Bergen motel, but that maybe puts him one step closer to admitting he’s got money to burn and a quick means of getting more if it ever comes to that.
Although he can afford a sit-down lunch in a regular restaurant, he’s brought a Blimpie lunchmeat sandwich and a big jug of Coke back to his r
oom at the Speedwell Motor Lodge for the noonday meal. He sets it out on the desk, along with the composition book and pens retrieved from the gym bag before it was locked and stowed away. He opens the notebook to the last entry—written yesterday while he was still under the weather and full of black thoughts—and starts a new page. Wednesday, April 15, 1987, he sets down in block print and then in standard writing begins noting what all was learned from television and a wide sampling of newspapers collected during the past twenty-four hours.
Because he’s heard it so many times by now, he can recount almost word for word the music television report of the superstar drug death over there in London, England. And since he’s seen the name printed in both supermarket-type papers and the more believable kind that fold crosswise, he knows he’s getting it right when he spells out R-a-y-c-e V-a-u-g-h-n with underlining. Underlining, because once he started paying better attention than he did the night of the drinking, the name stood out for being the same as the one related to Colin Elliot’s arrest for scuffling with the jackassed-fool of a photographer. Hoop takes a bite of sandwich and a long swig of Coke while thinking over what else should be recorded as significant and winds up underlining a full page of writing.
This fresh set of particulars says a distraught Colin Elliot—named as Vaughn’s protégé, colleague, and close friend—is secluded at his country estate, along with Laurel Chandler, who they’ve named as his fiancée after a whirlwind courtship of less than two weeks. This reading gets the most going over because there’s pleasure in knowing the rock star is suffering over the death of a buddy and probable partner in crime. And there’s heartening in knowing for a fact that hurry-up courtships never amount to much—that sooner or later the lawyerwoman will return to New Jersey, alone, and with her throat exposed.
But there’s not enough pleasure and heartening in the world to make up for having to spare both Elliot and Chandler the blade last Saturday. Or for evidently failing with the last-ditch attempt to cause trouble for Elliot by planting dope in his ditty bag when it was known he’d be boarding an overseas airplane where they’re supposed to check for things like that.