Not the grave, Clay thought, knowing how Boyle liked to play with laptops left on the Generator’s coffee table.
“…and Rocco seems to think I should be helping you.”
“You know what happened to him, don’t you?”
“I know who happened to him, if that’s what you mean.” Roethke lifted the flask and Clay was treated to the sight of his bobbing Adam’s apple. “The master who pulls all the strings,” he muttered at last.
“You’ve met him.”
“Hell no. And I never want to.”
“He’s the one who sent that… girl after me?”
“Duh,” Roethke replied. “And not to be crass, but did you spend your seed in her?”
Clay hesitated, self-conscious, before shaking his head.
“Good. They say a succubus owns a man the moment she has his seed. She was sent as a first test. Looks like you passed, which should please him. He much prefers working with the tough-to-corrupt.”
Clay recalled his masked groupie, how he might have given her exactly what she wanted had Essie never shown, and he shuddered mightily. “What does he want with me? I’m nobody.”
“It’s more like, what do you want from each other?”
“I don’t want anything.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
Clay glared. “How does Rocco expect you to help me? You’re a washed-up wreck.”
Roethke shrugged back. “I’ve been in the music world long enough to know everyone. I could make all the right introductions, help you get what you want without needing to make a deal with the Master of Puppets.” Roethke glanced around again, more paranoid than ever. “Of course if I did that, I’d be screwing with his plans—and that’s still not something I’m willing to do. Rocco says I owe him, and that’s true. But I’m not him, you understand? I’m a survivor, not a martyr. And you survive in this town by looking out for yourself. Hank couldn’t accept that—he couldn’t handle the lies we told about Rocco being depressed and committing suicide. So he got on his bike and played chicken with the Coast Highway. Me? I’m fine hiding in Topanga.”
“You’re not here on Rocco’s behalf,” Clay realized. “Or mine.”
Roethke acknowledged the accusation with a tip of the cap. “I’ve set up a meeting for you —just not with the people Rocco wanted me to. All you’ve got to do is hear them out. Have a conversation.”
Clay glanced at his watch. 11:55pm. Five minutes till his meeting with the reps from Sweet Epiphany. “You’ll want to skip your face time with the indie label,” Roethke said knowingly, “and take this one instead.”
The front of the Viper Room was visible from where they stood. Clay could see his band now, congregating out front, wondering why the hell he was cutting it so close. And Clay felt the wildest impulse to shriek at the top of his lungs, just to let them know where he was. Part of him still expected his “succubus” to appear from nowhere with her castration knife. Except his throat was tight, mute as he watched a black Bentley limousine pull to the curb in front of the club. “Who’s the ride for?”
“Ask not for whom the ride rolls,” Roethke told him, “it rolls for thee.”
“Who’s inside, Barry? Is it the Hailmaker?”
“Oh, I doubt you’ll be getting an audience with him. Although if you don’t want him sending something worse than a little girl after you—or our Tigress—I’d get in that limo and listen real fucking close.”
The conviction in those words, the threat, squeezed Clay’s guts. Though he was determined not to show it. “You’re pathetic.” And before he knew what he was doing, Clay had Roethke by the vest and was shoving him into the lurid window of the tattoo parlor. The pane gave a thick thunk and the O and P in the open sign buzzed and winked out and back on again. “You deserve whatever empty fate is waiting for you.”
Roethke answered not with violence or fear or even amusement, but with a grim acceptance of what Clay told him. Whether they soon found him dead in his trailer of alcohol poisoning or slumped on some motel room toilet, or whether he lived to a ripe old age, miserable and unfulfilled, it all amounted to the same kind of doom. Barrett Roethke. Looked out for himself. Died alone.
The aging drummer swallowed without sipping his flask. “Rocco asked me to help you. I’m doing that—by giving the best advice I can. Don’t fight this the way your hero did.”
“But The Man isn’t going to force me into anything. Isn’t that right?”
“Do what you want,” Roethke concluded. “Just remember—‘In the battle between ants and the stomping boots of Gods, the sidewalk is never yours,’ brother.”
22
THE BACKSEAT
Gar Basserman was gone now, having drifted upstream, his spawning complete. Savy stood there, stag, looking apprehensive as Clay approached—as apprehensive as Clay felt about the black limo idling outside the Viper. “We were wondering when that slut would toss you out,” Fiasco—subtle as a hammer to the skull—shouted. Then he spotted the blood smeared on Clay’s clothes and his lips drew back. “Please tell me you didn’t go American Psycho on her.”
Clay barely heard the dig. “We have to cancel the meeting with Epiphany.”
His bandmates exchanged glances. Only Savy could, and did, grasp the significance of the tremble in Clay’s words. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“Someone else wants to meet us.”
On cue, the limo’s driver—a very tall, cadaverous man with the fleshy lips of a sax player—unfolded from behind the wheel and motioned them forward.
“Are you serious?” Fiasco said. “Who’s in there, David Geffen?” The driver stooped to open the back door, and Fiasco approached, shoulders hunched like a Boy Scout nearing a bear’s den; when he poked his head in, Clay heard someone greet him. Whoever it was, they were sans horns and hooves, because Fiasco happily returned the greeting and climbed in without looking back. Spider followed, and as Clay shuffled forward, Savy fell into lockstep with him. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
And what he wanted to tell her was everything—about the girl Roethke had called a succubus, about Essie interceding and getting stabbed, then appearing in his father’s car, unharmed. About how they were out of their depth here, way out of it. But there wasn’t time. The driver’s gaze was hard and cold on them and all Clay could whisper was a quick plea: “Resist. No matter what, Sav, resist.”
The man waiting inside the limousine wasn’t the figure from Boyle’s death video, and he wasn’t the man Dave Ganek had described seeing on the roof of that Mouth House so many years ago. He was, however, quite clearly a heavyweight. With his three-piece suit and carefully arranged salt-and-pepper hair, he exuded an aura of easy success and absolute authority, slouched as he was in a purple velvet seat with his fingers folded over his belly. Challenge me, the body language said. I dare you. “My name is William Priest,” he informed them. “I don’t live under the delusion that you’ve heard of me—but rest assured, you know my work.”
“What work is that?” Clay asked, making sure to meet his eyes.
The limo lurched roughly into traffic, sending Clay and his band sideways, knocking shoulders and knees. Priest’s response was a simple one: “I discover people.”
“Did you have someone at our show?” Savy asked. “How do you know us?”
Priest appraised her with his dark and confident eyes. “Word travels in my world. Your band has been turning heads since the party for Ricky Somebody’s daughter.”
“So you’re a manager?” Spider asked.
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve heard our tape?” Fiasco asked hopefully.
Priest’s nostrils flared, as if to take in their collective scent. “I’ve heard of your tape, yes. I’ve been at this so long, that’s enough for me.” He snatched a long-stemmed crystal glass from a drink holder—red wine, deep as Essie’s blood—and held it aloft. “So enjoy yourselves, the bar’s open, and we’re cruising Hollywood on All Hallows’ Eve.”
<
br /> Except it’s not Halloween, Clay thought. It was after midnight now. And he wanted to yell at Spider to drop the bottle he’d lifted from the built-in wet bar, wanted to tell them all what had happened since their set, and what was surely going to happen if they stayed in this man’s company.
“Relax, son.” Priest was watching him close. At being called son, Clay saw his own father, indignant and disturbed, staring out of the Mercedes. “I’m no devil. Just someone who’s been fortunate enough to make a living doing what he’s good at. Believe me, I didn’t leave a party at the Playboy Mansion to come dick you around.”
Everyone gave this a hearty chuckle, even Clay, and suddenly it was that much harder to jump out of the limo at the next stoplight. Not that the doors would have been unlocked anyway. No, they would need the cadaverous driver to let them free. And he wasn’t going to until Priest was good and done with them.
Glasses were circulated. Savy handed Clay one with the briefest of glances. “To cruising Hollywood on the Day of the Dead!” Clay shouted in a mock toast, and brought the crystal to his lips, let the wine touch his clenched teeth, but did not take the liquid in. “I’m relieved to hear you’re not out for blood, Mr. Priest. But, in my own blunt terms, what then do you want?”
The limo grew quiet. Fiasco gave Clay a look like he’d seen Clay shit on the carpet. If Priest took exception to the question, however, it didn’t show. He seemed more than happy to go through the motions. After all, would a shark mind circling its dinner? “I want you to sell a shitload of records, of course. I want us to go shopping for McLaren GTs together. But most of all, I want to see your music inspire millions. I know that’s important to you as an artist. And trust me, when I go to a Reading Festival or Coachella, I stand at the very back of those massive crowds, and I take a deep satisfaction at having played a small but vital role in getting my clients there.”
Spider finished his glass quickly. “What labels do you work with?”
“All of them. Name the one you like—and I’ll make it happen.” His eyes shifted back to Clay and Savy. “Now I know what you’re thinking: In an era of streaming services and three-second downloads, you can just throw your music online and be indie darlings. But the internet isn’t going to book a world tour and it isn’t going to put the best talent in your employ. And it won’t get you studio time with a producer who makes your good songs great, and your great songs classics.”
“Trust us, Mr. Priest,” Fiasco told him, “we couldn’t agree more.” And Clay returned the glare he’d gotten moments before. So much for ‘long live indie music.’ Fiasco never sounded more excited in his life. He had emerged from lifelong obscurity to find himself standing at the top of the world. It’s not the world you’re standing on, Fee, Clay thought. It’s a grave.
Maybe an entire graveyard.
“Those are resources we’d like to have,” Savy admitted. “But we just played on a stage as big as a coffee table. I’m not sure how a band goes from zero to Mach 3 in a night.”
“There is no overnight success,” Priest agreed. “Creating a killer brand is like building an army. You need infrastructure, manpower. Though you’d be surprised how fast I raise an army, Ms. Marquez. It could start here. Now.” Priest shifted his hand from his belly into the interior of his jacket. He had the appearance of a mafia don as he withdrew a—knife!—folded piece of paper. And the sight of the legal document was somehow worse than a weapon.
“Sign with me and I’ll have a seven-figure advance in your hands before Thanksgiving.”
Clay’s heart jumped, but not in the way Savy’s must have at that moment. He saw her jaw hanging. “Seven figures?” she echoed. For someone worried about her family, struggling financially, sleeping on a futon in a ghetto apartment, the number was staggering.
“We know you have a grandmother and two brothers you feel responsible for,” Priest told her. “And Joe, you have college loans you’ll still be paying in twenty years. And Gregory, your family is buried in bills from your father’s illness. How good would it feel to tell your old man that your drums—the very drums he’s always despised—were going to settle his debt?”
“Gregory?” Savy asked.
Fiasco pressed a thumb to Spider’s chest. “It’s him. But I barely know that myself and we’ve been friends since junior high. It’s his dad’s name, so even his parents don’t call him that.”
“How did you know that?” Spider asked Priest.
He grinned a secret grin, sipped his wine. “My team is very thorough. I’m not going to propose to anyone unless I know them inside and out. Although I wasn’t informed that you prefer a nickname to your given one—Spider it is and forever shall be.” He paused to let the idea sink in, Spider the badass drummer killing off Gregory the unfit son. “What I do know is you have ambitions to produce records. We can see to that as well.”
Spider looked uncertain. If all of this—Priest, the plush velvet seats, the limo, the stores and restaurants flying by on Sunset Boulevard, or no, they were on Santa Monica now, or no, where were they?—didn’t feel so utterly real and true, Spider might have expected to snap awake in bed. Instead, he spoke in an exaggerated whisper: “What do I have to do for it?”
And Priest lit up. Here was the question he’d been lying in wait for. “It’s not going to be free, I can tell you that,” he said with a laugh. “Ludicrous as it may sound, I sometimes get bands who are shocked to hear they actually have to work for a living. Being a rock star is full-time blood and sweat, boys and girl. Know that before you sign with anyone.”
“Only at most jobs, hundreds of fans don’t cheer you on,” Fiasco said. “And dozens of girls don’t show up to say muchas gracias!” He loosed a guffaw fit for a lunatic laugh track and chugged the rest of his wine.
“Hundreds of fans?” Priest beamed. “Dozens of girls? My friend, you need to expand your horizon. Try millions of fans, thousands of girls.”
“Horizon expanding,” Fiasco giggled.
“But we’re never going to see seven figures,” Clay told his bandmates. “After he takes his cut and the lawyers take theirs and the label hits us with all kinds of bullshit fees, we’ll be lucky to see laundry money.”
“It’s true,” Savy said. “Rocket Throne’s debut sold millions of copies and they didn’t see a dime for years.”
“Because they didn’t have a thousand-pound gorilla like me in their corner,” Priest retorted. “Split four ways, and considering the costs you wisely pointed out—plus the bloodsucking taxes you didn’t—you’ll still end up with six figures each. Low six, realistically. But your band possesses something rare and special and I will dangle an A&R rep from fucking Watts Towers to get you a fair shake on royalty rates and marketing. Simply put, I’ll get you paid some now, and a lot later.”
“We have another offer,” Clay persisted. “From Sweet Epiphany.”
“And what are they offering? A club gig with a PA that makes your ears bleed? I’ll get you on the marquee at the Palladium. And I’m talking tomorrow night. Headlining.”
“The Palladium?” Savy said, as if she’d never heard of the place.
“Imagine a sold-out debut. Four thousand salivating fans who—”
“I imagine a riot,” Clay cut in, “when they find out we only have thirty minutes of material to play.”
“Good. Play for twenty minutes. We want them rioting. Then we’ll ‘leak’ a few songs on the internet, and this winter you’ll go out on tour, opening for any band you want. After that, we get you in the studio, where Spider here will learn from the best producers in the world—C.C. Carusso or some other ponytailed wonder. And not at any deep-Valley shit pit either, but at our own personal facility. In the Virgin Islands.”
“Wow,” Spider said, and now the hesitation was gone entirely from his voice. Who could resist working with C.C. Carusso while sipping piña coladas in paradise? And Fiasco had been won the moment his ass met purple velvet. And Savy was silent now, ruminating.
But all
Clay could hear were Boyle’s words again, as clear to him as if his ghost was sitting right in his lap. They’ll take you to some paradise under the guise of getting high, getting laid, recording a record. And after a few days, you’ll be as good as bought. So there it was: After they had been buttered with a gig at the Palladium and basted with a high-profile tour, the Virgin Islands was where Farewell Ghost would be taken to be carved and eaten and passed through the Queen Bitch’s terrible guts. Clay felt a pain in his lower lip before he realized it was his own teeth biting into it. “Virgin Islands?” he said. “You don’t have anything closer—like, Maui?”
Priest’s eyebrows drew up. “I was always partial to the Big Island myself. But if it’s Maui you desire, we’re a phone call away.”
“Maui?” Fiasco grunted. “Don’t be such a fucking diva, Clay.”
“By the time your album breaks, your fans will be nuts for it,” Priest went on. “It’ll hit the charts and stay there and that’s all we really ask of you. Take the world by storm, and it will become your playground.”
“Holy crow,” Spider said. “Don’t say any more, my head’s going to burst.”
Smirking, Priest told them, “I want you to get an entertainment lawyer to look our contract over. Read the fine print. Make sure we’re giving you a fair shake. We’ll pay all necessary expenses, of course.”
He handed the contract directly to Clay and Clay took it slowly, like he feared the pages would combust and burn his strumming hand. “We’ll think about it.”
Priest stared back. This time, there was the slightest crack in his facade—or so Clay imagined. “Naturally there is a limit to doors like this being open. You have till tomorrow afternoon to get the contract back. Or the Palladium, Maui, the world? None of it happens. Understand?”
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