“Blow me.”
“It’s not Wednesday.”
Deb gave each of them a look. “Ya’ know something? I always thought you two would get over yourselves as you matured… ”
“We gave up on that maturity stuff when we hit our fifties,” Polanski put in.
“Apparently,” she sighed dramatically. “What time’s warm-up?”
“Three,” her husband said.
“Might not be back by then,” she said, kissing him quickly on the lips. “Have a good one.” And she left.
The phone rang and Polanski answered. “Andy… Yes she is, send her up. Oh, and Bobby? Give her a thorough pat down… nope, just trying to brighten your day.”
One of the boards was headed ALLIANCE, the other OBSESSION. The first had only a single seven line bracket with all of the spaces except Acoustic filled in with coded song title tiles from the eighty or so choices placed haphazardly around it. The other had four brackets, two completed while the others had been left blank on the Finale line, waiting to be filled from over 200 additional tiles. Lera tapped the pointer on the Acoustic line beneath ALLIANCE. “I still think it’d be a good play to park the cover in here so we could give Chris another lead and kill off two birds with one song.”
“Probably right. Eighties or Pandora?”
“If she tries covering Laura people are going to be comparing them and end of the day, Laura does Laura better than Chris ever could.”
Polanski nodded. “Who the fuck came up with this eighties-or-opponent cover bullshit anyway?”
“Pretty sure it was Franklin. But soon as I heard the first iteration, which was only the opponent option… I mean Pam was humping all over the idea of us doing one of theirs knowing that… ”
“Laura does Laura better.”
“Right. So I floated the suggestion that maybe the cover option should be expanded, you know, how could we ever hope to do justice to anything from Pandora’s catalogue?”
“I can think of ten for starters. You’re a lying fucking weasel.”
“I have my moments.”
They both laughed.
“So I guess with all the eighties covers that’ve charted the past… shit, this has been going on for a year now… ”
“Okay. What’cha got for Chris?”
Lera studied the Alliance board then began pointing out some possibilities. “Blondie’s Call Me? Quarterflash’s Harden My Heart? She kills on that slow version of Dress You Up In My Love.” He paused. “Nice version of Every Breath You Take? SweetDreams? Waite’d be impressed with her version of Missing You. Bangles’ Eternal Flame?”
“Isn’t Susanna gonna do that one tonight?”
“Pretty sure she’s leaning to Manic Monday.”
“Prince on keyboards?”
Lera grinned. “Seeing he wrote it I’m sure he could handle that eventuality.”
Polanski reached for the Act Three Set List then ran a finger down the Artist column. “He’s slotted near the top and she’s in… he decide what he’s doing?”
“We’ve got fake books for half a dozen possibilities.”
“A Let’s Go Crazy - Watchtower medley is the only possibility.”
Lera gave an approving glance. “Returning to the task at hand…”
An assistant stepped into the room. “Lorraine Rivers to see you?”
“Bring’er in Clark,” Lera said.
“Is this really necessary?”
“She told me she had some new intel, our ears only.”
Polanski rolled his eyes then lit a cigarette as Rivers was escorted in. She looked to be closing in on fifty, her dark blue suit giving the impression of a successful business executive, which she was—if one considered a career as a highly decorated CIA operative before becoming a sought-after consultant in the private sector. Though diminutive, her pretty face and playful eyes topped by a massive heap of dark red hair had probably cracked some doors other agents couldn’t even hope to budge open.
“Andy, David,” she said as she went to the center of the room and gazed at the boards, nodding as she studied them, finally observing, “Hey, you guys come up with all this by yourselves?”
Polanski flicked a finger at the top of the Dunhill, extinguishing it.”Where’s that suitcase you call a briefcase?” he chided.
“Didn’t want to… do you think the security guys here are wound a little too tight?”
The two men exchanged grins. “Bobby’s just lookin’ out for us,” Lera said.
“He was certainly looking for something on me.”
She returned her attention to the boards, then stepped to Lera and took the pointer. Moving to the Obsession display, she tapped the second bracket.”You’ve got most of it.” She removed the Waiting For Bluebirds tile from the Acoustic line then positioned it over Finale.
“Ain’t no way,” Polanski coughed. “Nobody in their right mind’d wrap with a ballad.”
“It’s not a ballad anymore,” she replied.
The men traded nods of realization. One of the best tools in Pandora’s box of tricks was their superb ability at revisiting old songs then making them new, such as I’m Your Girl (Not Your Friend) which they’d massaged so well that it held the Billboard trophy for same-song Top Tens, four different versions having charted in the same number of years.
“Nice move,” Lera acknowledged. “But that leaves acoustic open and they don’t have anything to match Bluebirds.” He looked to the Obsession board and gestured, “Which one? Sunday Sunset?”
“Nothing you’ve heard,” Rivers grinned. “Nothing anybody’s heard, but shall tonight.”
“And you know what it is?”
“Ought to cover my fee, eh?”
“Lay it on us.”
“Best I can tell, it’s titled I Wanna Rock And Roll or I Wanna Be In Rock and Roll. Pretty sure it’s a song Loveland wrote a long time ago and’s been waiting for the right time to trot it out.”
“What else?”
“How do you mean?”
“Lyrics, subject matter.”
“It’s about a guy who’s a lawyer then decides… ”
“Stop right there,” Polanski ordered. “Then decides to start a band?”
“How’d you know?”
Polanski motioned her to step closer. “I’ll be damned. Dave? Remember?”
He shook his head. “Refresh my memory.”
“That party we were at back in… remember? The… after the Grammys when Obsession had a near sweep? Their first big win?”
“The one when Pam and Laura screwed us out of Best Song?”
“The same.”
“What happened?” Rivers asked.
“So we’re at this private soiree,” Polanski continued, “put on by… who was it, Dave? The computer guy.”
“Paul Allen.”
“Right. So I’m nursing my wounds with a little help from my friend Johnny Walker… ”
“We did get two trophies that night,” Lera said to her.
“So I’m sitting there and who should step up… make that stagger up… but the evening’s golden girl.”
“Now I remember,” Lera chuckled. “She was loaded! Had champagne glasses in both hands.”
“She staggers up and says, ‘Can I buy you a drink, Mizzer Plolanski?’I accept the offering, she looks around then asks, ‘Mind if I have a seat?’ I say, ‘Be my guest… ’”
“And she climbs right onto his lap!” Lera interrupted. “Wraps an arm around his neck and dumps a whole glass, runs right down the front of his jacket. Andy acts like nothing’s happened.”
“So she leans in, gives me a little grind with her ass, then starts whispering that the first song she ever wrote was about me and that I was the only person she’d play it for… and this is a direct quote… ’Les you promise promise promise someday you’ll write one ’bout me or sumpin’ simler.’”
“Just then,” Lera said ominously, “Stacey steps up.”
“Who’s Stacey?”
“King.”
“Stacey King as in Sports Illustrated and Revlon?”
“Uh-huh. And she was not a happy camper.”
“So I tell Laura thanks, she struggles to her feet… ”
“Stacey gives her the hairy eyeball… ”
“And suddenly she’s sober as Bill W. Clears her throat, apologizes for dumping the bubbly on me, says she was just kidding though didn’t say about what.”
Rivers looked to the boards then back. “So now what?”
“We’ll take it from here,” Lera replied as he moved to the coffee table, grabbed an envelope marked LR, then stepped back to hand it over.
“I’ll get the invoice out next few weeks.”
“This can’t wait ’til then. Check it out.” As she began to open it Lera added, “I exhausted my quota but prevailed on Andy to secure his last pair.”
Inside were two backstage all access chits accompanied by two passes for the Wisconsin Bar post-concert party. “This is such a nice surprise,” then hugged Lera as his partner applauded softly. “And I appreciate your generosity, Andy.” She smiled saucily. “If I can ever return the favor, just ask.”
Polanski stood then took her by the arm, leading them to the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused. “How many years were you with the Agency?”
“I resigned the day after my twentieth anniversary to make sure all my bennies were locked in.”
“Clearance?”
“Top.”
“What’d you pack?”
“Gen-Five Glock.”
“I’m surprised.”
She grinned. “Why?”
“With a Typhoon-Class body like yours, I’d guess all you’d have to do is get the enemy into the sack to finish him off.”
She blushed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He relit the cigarette then reaching the door, opened it. “Lori, did you violate any state or federal laws to obtain the information that you just shared with us?” Then he blew a stream of smoke past the left side of her face.
She removed the Dunhill from his lips, took a drag then replaced it as she exhaled the smoke past the right side of his. “Perhaps.”
He cuffed her arm. “Keep up the good work.”
Returning to the great room, he sat beside Lera on the couch. “So now what?”
“Setting sentimentality aside, if this is some sort of love letter to you, Chris’ll have to come back with something that… something that’ll even things up. But we still need to get the’80scover out of the way.” He looked to the boards and gestured. “Any ideas?”
They sat silently staring at the options, then Polanski stood and walked to the display, lifting a tile reading Donna then fastening it over Acoustic. “How ’bout this?”
Lera made a face. “You want Christie to sing Who’s Holding Donna Now? I don’t get it.”
Polanski removed a blank tile from the board, scribbled something on it with a marker then held it behind his back. “It’s from the eighties.”
“Yeah, I know. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
Polanski slapped the tile over Donna, replacing it with Laura.
Lera’s face brightened as he mouthed some of the lyrics. “Ahhhh. Davie likes it.” Then he thought a moment. “Except it’s told from the POV of a guy who wishes he was the one who was holding Donna. I’ve got a feeling Chris won’t be too keen on singing Laurie a love song.”
“She’s not going to.” He paused. “I am.”
Lera shook his head though grinned. “Andman? You have reached a new level of diabolicity.”
Polanski tipped an imaginary hat. “Pleased to meet you. You don’t have to guess my name.”
Lera eased to his side. “Let’s break this down. Harry can play his J 45. DJ acoustic bass, Mick on his small kit. CC and BB can handle the background vocs. What’a ’bout you? Maybe roll out the small Steinway?”
“Fine.”
“That leaves me. Shit, the Rhodes’d be perfect but no plugs allowed. Maybe… you know what might be a nice touch? I think they’ve got my Zuckerman in one of the trucks.”
“A harpsichord would be an excellent touch. Long as you don’t start in with that Addams Family crap.”
They both laughed.
“Promise. Now… hey! How about this? We haven’t used up our three sidemen option. How about we get us a violin, a viola and a cello to cover the synth backing?”
“Marcy?” Polanski called. In a moment she stepped in.
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re going to need two… no, a violinist, a violist and a cellist for tonight. Pros. Get on it.”
“On New Year’s Eve? I… ”
“Preferably,” Lera interrupted, “two males and one female who have their own tuxedoes or gowns.” He looked to Polanski, who nodded. “Tell them to be here by 4:30. Charts to be provided at that juncture.”
“I’ll do my best but… ”
“Ten grand apiece,” Polanski added. “Now.”
“Yes, sir.” And she left.
“So much for no audibles,” Lera offered. “But what if Lorraine’s got it wrong?” He paused. “Wish we had confirmation from another source.”
“Don’t worry, lad. You score the arrangements, I’ll handle the rest.”
***
After being cleared by Security on thirty, Spotswood and Denny made their way to the second suite, the door opening as they stepped up.
“Hey Reg,” she greeted the huge man. “What’s poppin’?”
“Me ’n Luke’r just having our third helping of a five pound omelet they sent up. Wanna join us?”
“Is any left?”
“Sure.” He grinned. “At least an hors d’oeuvre’s worth.”
As they stepped through the hallway into the great room, Spotswood saw the other guard who was bigger than Reg. The man stood, wiped his hands with a napkin then gestured to the far side saying, “Ms. Watts is in the kitchen.” Following the instructions he found her sitting at the center island scattered with copies of USA Today, the Las Vegas Sun, the Wall Street Journal, Billboard, two transtabs, a laptop and a pair of transphones.
If Laura was the face of Pandora’s Obsession, Pam was the brains behind the whole operation, along with being the cement that held all of the parts together; the oil that kept the machine lubricated. Though not a physical match for the tall, beautiful front woman who garnered most of the attention, she was pretty enough to be sometimes featured in magazines and print ads, especially for the Just Me line of cosmetics she represented, aimed at regular girls who didn’t choose to overdo their war paint. While practically all of PO’s songs were credited to Watts & Loveland, many believed she’d penned the best of them with little or no input from her partner. Though specializing on bass, she could expertly handle most stringed and keyboard instruments along with being an excellent percussionist. What her vocal range lacked in range was compensated for in depth, and she knew how to milk it well enough to contribute some of the best backings in the business; often retained by other performers to spice up their recordings.
But it was her other skills that really set her apart from the pack. Her sharp business eyes and dogged determination was the force behind what was now officially known on NASDAQ as PBOO, a mini-conglomerate of companies handling a soup to nuts montage of goods and services ranging from publishing to logistics, production to products, all revolving around the internet powerhouse pandorasobsession.com. She was so central was PBOO’s phenomenal success and accompanying value that the rest of the group had pleaded for her to take a bigger piece of the pie before the IPO. She’d declined, stating that none of it would have come about without the band, and that that band consisted of seven equals.
Perhaps most importantly, however, was her relationship with Loveland, depending on circumstances serving as best friend, mother confessor, task master, compass, guardian and tranquilizer. Though her partner was unarguably one of the most accomplished live performers around,
Spotswood knew from firsthand experience that her line between pop perfection and total meltdown was a narrow one indeed. Among degrees of attention deficit, bouts of moderate agoraphobia, claustrophobia, anginophobia and only God knew what other fears, along with the occasional panic attack prompted by nothing in particular, every concert was a high wire act. Put her in a recording studio or an interview situation or a social gathering, she was right as rain. Put her on a stage and it was Anything Can Happen Day.
The rumor windmill had been spinning for years about a possible lip-synching body double sometimes sitting in for Loveland, focused on concerts when she never left the protection of her keyboards and wore one of the wide-brimmed sunhats that were always on hand. But he’d not seen any evidence of that at the eight shows he’d witnessed while researching Inside The Box and the standard explanation was a recurring knee swelling problem the singer had suffered from since a lacrosse injury in 12th grade. And in any event, the detailed plans for every live performance didn’t leave any leeway for the prerecorded tomfoolery often employed by large chunks of the competition.
The individual flow charts Watts constructed varied from show to show, but once established the day of the concert, exceptions simply weren’t made. While Pandora’s Obsession’s on-stage presence often seemed as casual as a rehearsal, every detail was planned down to a matter of seconds. The easygoing banter between Watts and Loveland, a hallmark of not only their recitals but also some of their most popular recordings, was scripted beforehand. The time between songs was likewise charted to the point that if a round of applause lasted too long, the band still launched into the following number when the countdown monitors fizzed down to zero. With the typical presentation planned for between two hours thirty and two hours forty, he’d not seen one that missed the mark by plus-minus 5 seconds.
“Well Jonathan P. Spotswood,” Watts beamed as she stood and held her arms apart. “Come to mama.” She hugged him hard then eased away, touching his cheeks and brushing at his hair. “You get better looking every time I see you! God, how long has it been?”
“The launch party last March?”
“You’re right. You’re right.” She grinned. “You are tearing up the best seller lists like nobody’s business. How’s it feel to be a famous writing and television sensation?”
Weekend at Prism Page 16