“What’s up? You calling about the Greatest Hits album?”
“No, I’m calling because I thought you were coming back here. What gives? We need to make some decisions about the band, and I thought you told me you had some new material. I haven’t seen any of that yet.”
Jaguar felt Henry’s eyes on him. “I know, but things are more complicated than I thought. I can’t come back just yet.”
“We need to decide the future of Anaconda, Jaguar. This greatest hits thing will sustain us for a bit, but some of the guys are talking about going solo.”
Jaguar closed his eyes. That news was like a gut punch, even though he wasn’t sure why. He’d been thinking it himself even before the situation with his mother became a problem. Still, Anaconda had been such a part of his life for so long. If it was taken away, what the hell would he do? He wasn’t sure he could make a go of a solo career.
“Okay, look, I need to wrap up a few things, so give me a week.”
“You promised me new material.”
Jaguar tightened his grip on the phone. The only new material he had was the song he’d written for Nancy, but he still wasn’t sure about it. It felt more raw than a lot of other things he’d done in the past.
“I have one thing.”
“Great. Send it.”
“It’s not polished, Desmond.”
“I don’t care. Send it. Let me decide.”
Jaguar drew a deep breath, then released it. “Okay. I’ll send it.”
“Send it now before you talk yourself out of it. You artist types are all alike, filled with self-doubt.”
“Fine, but like I said, I’m just not sure about it yet.”
“Again, I’ll decide. It’s why you pay me.”
Jaguar wasn’t sure about that. He often wondered what they paid Desmond Hifler for, but that wasn’t being fair. The lack of material was his own fault, not Hifler’s. He was the creative force for the band. He was the one who wrote the songs.
“It’s on its way.”
“Great. Get back to you soon.”
“Bye.”
Jaguar sat, holding the phone, staring at the display. He had a picture of the band on the display, one they’d taken at a concert in Japan, when they were an up-and-coming force in the music world. He remembered being half-baked when the picture was taken, feeling little pain, enjoying the moment. That person seemed far removed from the man he was now, sitting stone-cold sober in his father’s living room, watching a western, wondering what his daughter was doing. In fact, as he stared at the photo, he wondered if Sophia would let him take a picture of her to put in its place. He would like to see Sophia’s sweet face when he thumbed on his phone.
“What’s bothering you?” asked Henry.
Jaguar glanced over at him, surprised. He didn’t remember Henry ever asking him something personal like that before. “Um, nothing.”
“He wanted you to send the song you wrote?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t want to?”
Jaguar shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what I want to do.” He held out the phone to his father, showing him the picture on the display. “See this.”
Henry took it, looking at the promotional shot.
“We took that in Japan, when we were on tour.”
“I remember your mother mentioning that.”
“I’m half-stoned in that picture.”
Henry glanced up at him.
Jaguar scratched his forearm. “This is the longest I’ve been sober in ten years. I mean, I never did as much drugs or alcohol as some of the guys, but most of the time I had a pretty good buzz going on.”
Henry nodded, not speaking, and that too was a first. No judgment, no comments about devil’s music, no snide remarks about Jaguar’s dilettante ways.
“I was just sitting here thinking I’d like to replace that picture with one of Sophia, and it just seemed strange, you know, that I’d think of her instead of the band.”
“You’re growing up,” said Henry, passing the phone back.
Jaguar realized he would have gotten pissed if Henry had said something like that to him a month ago, but now, he just accepted it. “Maybe.”
Henry reached for the remote and started the movie again. “Send him the song. It’s a good song. It deserves to be heard.”
Jaguar went still. His fingers tightened on the phone and he fought the rush of emotions that swamped him. Damn it all, he’d never given a rat’s ass what Henry thought his entire life, but suddenly, one compliment and he wanted to hug the old man. What the hell!
Being sober brought all these stupid emotions to the foreground. At least when he was half-lit, he didn’t have to realize that he wanted his father’s approval, he wanted him to give a damn about what he did.
Drawing a deep breath, he released it. On the television screen, men in white hats were shooting at men in black hats. Western logic – it was always easy to know the good guys from the bad. He appreciated that efficiency. It took a whole lot less effort if things were simply black or white, no shades of grey.
He thumbed on the phone and pulled up the video he’d made, then he sent it to Hifler before he could talk himself out of it. He put the phone face down on the coffee table, so he couldn’t see the screen, and settled back into the couch.
“So, how did the bad guys know the payroll was coming in on the stage coach again?” he asked his father.
Henry never turned away from the television. “If you were paying attention, you’d have noticed the deputy riding out of town headed east. He was warning them.”
“He’s a double agent?”
“Yep, but don’t worry. They string him up for it before it’s over.”
Jaguar made a noise of disgust. “Way to ruin it for me, Pops.”
Henry looked over at him and smiled.
CHAPTER 13
Jaguar and Henry walked into the Hammer Tyme on Monday morning. Late summer sun filtered through the windows, bathing the tools in a rosy-light. As the buzzer sounded on the door, Tate Mercer walked out of the storeroom, smiling when he saw them.
“Hiya, Jaguar,” he said, holding out his hand.
Jaguar took it. “Tate, how are you?”
“Good. Good.”
Jaguar motioned to his father. “This is my dad, Henry.”
The two men shook hands. “Nice to meet you, sir,” said Tate.
“I saw you at my wife’s funeral. I thought you were with the sheriff’s department.”
“Only as needed,” said Tate.
Jaguar looked around. “Where’s Logan?”
He didn’t seem to be in the store. Neither was Bill Stanley, who so heartily disapproved of Jaguar.
“He’s down at the high school, re-enrolling for his senior year. He went to a continuation school last year because his mom’s sick, but they both decided it would be best for him to complete his senior year at a traditional school. School starts in two more weeks.”
“I’m sorry to hear about his mother,” said Henry.
Tate nodded.
Jaguar was distracted, thinking about Sophia. She was five. Would she be starting school this year? He needed to ask Pam about that.
“Can you believe it’s nearly September?” said Henry.
“No, sir, I can’t. I don’t know where the time’s gone,” answered Tate.
Jaguar frowned. He’d been here in Sequoia since July. He’d only planned to come for the concert at Redwood Stock after the 4th, but then he’d realized how bad his mother was, so he’d stayed after everyone else went back to Los Angeles. It was nearly September and he had no firm plans to return home.
“So, how can I help you?” asked Tate.
Jaguar blinked at him, then looked over at his father. “Sorry, um, we want paint. We’re making a room for Sophia in the house.”
“Okay. What color?”
Jaguar and Henry exchanged a look. They hadn’t talked about that. He didn’t even know what colors So
phia liked. He could opt for the traditional pink, creating a princess get-away for her, but he hated to lock her into anything stereotypical.
“Blue,” said Henry decisively. “I want a powder blue.” He nudged Jaguar with his arm. “I saw these decals in a magazine. They were butterflies, blue butterflies like the one in the picture with your mother. I want to do Sophia’s room in butterflies. That way she might feel close to her grandmother.”
Jaguar didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t realized that his father had given this so much thought.
“What do you think?” asked Henry, his face alight in expectation.
“Yeah, I think it’s great. Let’s do it.”
Tate smiled. “I’ve got the perfect color, and you know what? I’ll bet Trixie down the street might have some accessories that would go with your theme.”
They followed him over to the paint section where he selected a blue very close to the color of Sophia’s eyes. Henry nodded.
“That’s the one.”
“Great.” Tate grabbed two gallons and carried them back to the counter with the paint swatch, Henry and Jaguar trailing after him.
As Tate began mixing the color for them, Jaguar leaned against the counter. “So, what are you doing Saturday?” he asked Tate.
Tate looked up. “Saturday? I think I’m free.”
“How would you like to help me build a jungle gym in Pam’s backyard?”
“A jungle gym?” asked Tate.
Jaguar nodded. “With swings and everything. I’ll buy the beer.”
Tate laughed. “Sounds like a plan. What time?”
“Ten?”
“You’ll shoot me the address?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be there.”
Jaguar crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ll bring the tools, right?”
Tate laughed. “I’ll bring the tools.”
Jaguar’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. A message from Desmond Hifler showed on the screen.
Call me ASAP. It’s important.
Jaguar felt a tightening in his gut. Hifler must hate the song. Or the band was breaking up and going their separate ways. He was sure it had to be bad news.
Henry gave him a questioning look. He showed his father the message and Henry’s brows rose.
“This can’t be good news.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Henry.
“He never asks me to call. He either calls me or he sends me a text. He never asks me to call him.”
Henry shrugged. “You’ll never know until you call,” he said logically.
Jaguar knew he was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to know he was about to lose the only thing that had given his life meaning the last few years – he was about to lose his music.
* * *
Jaguar spent the rest of the day working in the room for Sophia with his father. They patched up any holes that had been hammered into the walls for pictures and washed the window and window sill. Jaguar had even vacuumed. He didn’t remember the last time he’d vacuumed anything. Then he and Henry had painted the room.
By late afternoon, Jaguar realized they’d been working for hours without speaking, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. And the physical labor kept his mind off Hifler’s message. When they were done, they cleaned everything up and stood in the middle of the room, surveying their work.
“Not bad,” said Henry, his hands on his hips. “Not bad at all.”
Jaguar had to agree. The light blue had brightened the room and once they got curtains and a bed and linens, it would be homey. He’d go into town tomorrow and see Trixie for accessories, then he’d ask Zion for help buying bedding and furniture for Sophia.
He went to shower, while Henry made them dinner. Sitting down at the table, Jaguar was surprised when Henry set a shot of tequila in front of him. He fingered the shot glass, but he didn’t take a sip. He marked that Henry had his own shot next to the stove where he was cooking.
“What’s this for?”
Henry tossed his shot back, shivering as it coursed down his throat. “We put in a full day of work. We get to celebrate. I ordered the butterfly decals. They’ll be here by the end of the week.”
Jaguar lifted his shot and swallowed it. “I just wish I knew when was the right time to have Sophia stay here.”
“Ask Sophia. It’s her decision.”
“Good call.” Jaguar twirled the glass around between his fingers.
“You call that manager back yet?”
Jaguar shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t think I want to hear what he has to say.”
“What do you think it is?”
“He hated the song. The band’s breaking up. I don’t know.”
Henry poured himself a half shot, leaning against the counter. “Seems to me it would be better to know what it is than speculate. Whatever it might be, you can take it. If you can face thousands of people in an audience, you can make a phone call.”
It wasn’t bad as pep talks went, Jaguar thought, especially as he knew for a fact that Henry didn’t have much experience with them. He pulled out his phone and brought up Hifler’s contact information.
Steeling himself, he pressed the icon and held the phone to his ear.
“I’ve been waiting all day for you to call. What have you been doing? Communing with nature?” came Hifler’s voice over the line.
“Something like that,” said Jaguar, steeling himself. He wasn’t usually this insecure. He’d written hundreds of songs in the past, but he hadn’t written for so long. He hadn’t wanted to write, he hadn’t felt the need to do it like he had when he was younger. He knew he was rusty. He knew the first writing after such a drought might seem anemic.
And this one was personal. That’s what scared him the most. Not that his other songs hadn’t been personal, but he’d poured a lot of his anger and regret and confusion into this one. If Hifler rejected him, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
“This song,” began Hifler. “This song is going to catapult us back to the top of the charts, Jaguar.”
Jaguar felt a rush of relief so intense it made him dizzy. He knew Hifler was still talking but he couldn’t make out the words.
“…on the scale of an Adele hit. This will be the song of the year. I predict it. You just wait until the next Grammy’s, man, and there we’ll be, accepting our award.”
Jaguar shook his head to clear it. Henry carried the bottle of tequila over and poured him another shot. He tossed it back, curling his hand around the glass. “Slow down, Desmond,” he said. “Go back. You think the song’s that good.”
“I think it’s a gold mine. We needed something to get us back in front of the world. Well, this is it. We’re here, baby.”
Jaguar gave his father a shocked look. “He likes it.”
“I gathered,” said Henry, smiling.
“He thinks it’ll go platinum.”
“Wow.”
“…and we’ll pick you up at the airport tomorrow.”
“Wait. What?”
“I got the band all assembled. I bought you a plane ticket. You leave from Fresno, God help you, at 9:00AM. Maddog will meet you at the airport and bring you to the studio. We’ll record the song and then I’ll host an impromptu gathering for radio exec and the media at my place.”
“Hold on. This is moving fast, Desmond.”
“We need to strike now. Anaconda is fading out of people’s memories. We need to bring it roaring back and you’ve just given me the ticket to do that.”
Jaguar stared out the window at the backyard, watching the redwood trees sway in the breeze. If he left tomorrow, he wasn’t sure how long he’d be in LA and he was just making progress with Sophia. He had to finish her room with his father and then build the jungle gym on Saturday. It was a bad time to be going home.
He met his father’s expectant look. “I have to come back here on Friday night.”
“What? Friday night we’ll hit the
clubs, make personal appearances, remind people who you are.”
“I can’t. The rest of the band can, though, but I’ve got something here.”
“What?”
What? He knew if he told Hifler he was building a jungle gym, the manager would laugh himself into a stroke.
“I have a personal appearance scheduled up here.”
“A personal appearance? Seriously, Jaguar? Which do you think is going to get you more mileage? A personal appearance in Treeville or Los Angeles. Just think about it.”
“I have and you’re right, but I made a promise and I’m sticking to my promises. I need to do this, Desmond.”
“Fine. The rest of the band will hit the scene, but you gotta get back here permanently, man. I’m telling you this song is gonna launch a comeback tour.”
Jaguar wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wanted a successful music career. Or he thought he did. Music was all he’d ever had in his life, but going on tour meant months away from home. Months away from his father and Sophia. He wasn’t sure he wanted that anymore.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, but just rent me a car. Don’t send Maddog. I’ve got a new driver now.”
“Rent you a car? What are you talking about? Maddog will be there with the limo.”
“I don’t want the limo, Desmond. I just want you to rent us a car. We’ll meet you at the studio.”
There was a pause on the line, then Desmond cleared his throat. “You sure you’re all right, man?”
“I’m fine.”
“I mean, you sound like the Jaguar I know, but the words don’t match.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait. We’re going to make bank off this song, man. I tell you, bank.”
Jaguar disconnected the call and stared at the picture of the band on his display. Somehow it didn’t feel right to make bank off a song he’d written about Nancy. He shook himself and forced a smile for his father.
“Well, that was a surprise,” he said. “That is not what I expected at all.”
Henry pushed himself to his feet and went back to the stove. “You should have more faith in yourself,” he said, then turned his back and continued preparing dinner.
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