Cory's Dilemma

by Dan Petrosini

  Cory’s excitement rose. He was on the right track. Humming a series of notes, a text came in. Seeing a preview of the message, Cory hesitated before opening it.

  Lying is going to cost you. I want 200,000 thousand and I want it fast.

  Cory typed back: What lie? I didn’t lie and I don’t have that kind of money.

  Bullshit. You gave a half a million to a hospital.

  I didn’t actually give them the money. I got six months to pay it.

  I don’t do installment plans. You find the money and fast or you’ll regret it.

  I can’t get the money. I’m going on tour and then I’ll make some. You’ll have to wait.

  You play with fire, you get burned.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  If you don’t send the money, you’ll find out.

  I told you I need time.

  No more time. Send the money. NOW!

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Tracy came off the elevator with a shopping bag from Nobu. “Hope you’re hungry. I got a great assortment of sushi.”

  “I’m starving, thanks.”

  She set the contents on the table. “You know, we’ve been getting calls all day about having you appear on the talk show circuit. Doing this cancer thing was a stroke of genius.”

  “I gotta be honest with you, I know it was a public relations kind of thing, but I really feel like I have to do something.”

  “Okay, when you get back from the tour, we’ll get you on some shows and you can talk about it. You know what would be fabulous? Hooking up with the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”

  “I don’t know. Being around kids that are dying? That’s depressing.”

  “But it makes them happy.”

  “I get it, but maybe working as a spokesman or something. An ambassador. You know, cheering kids up and shaming people with money to pony up for a cure.”

  “A lot of people believe the medical industry doesn’t want a cure. There’s too much money in keeping things like they are.”

  Cory picked up a pair of chopsticks. “Are you saying there’s a conspiracy? Let kids suffer and die so they can make money off them?”

  “Just in America, the National Cancer Institute spends six billion a year on research. And they’re only one organization. That’s a lot, but one hundred and fifty billion is spent treating it around the world.”

  “This is all fucked up.”

  “It’s a huge problem. Don’t get all down about it. Do what you can and leave it at that.”

  “I got to do more. Right now, I have some name value. Where could we leverage it while we can? And not just making kids forget for a second they’re going to die.”

  “What about St. Jude’s? They have a research hospital for kids with cancer.”

  “Really? That sounds like a cool fit. Call them, see what we can do.”

  * * *

  The sound of a tune Cory had written for Linda startled Cory. It was his phone. He couldn’t remember changing the ringtone. Tracy was calling.

  “Hi Cory, I just wanted to let you know it’s done. Kenshaw is on board, and Donny is out.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I just, you know, we go back a long way.”

  “I know, that’s why I wanted you to be sure.”

  “Can’t we, uh, reverse it?”

  “It’s done already.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “Well, he was surprised and couldn’t believe it. He wanted to know if you were the one behind it.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “What was I supposed to say?”

  “He say anything else?”

  “Wanted to know who was replacing him, and I said it was Kenshaw. He said he couldn’t believe it.”

  Cory’s phone vibrated. Another call was coming in. It was Donny. He swiped it away. “That was him.”

  “Talk to him, you’ve been friends a long time.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Sorry.”

  A voice mail hit his box. “I got to go.”

  Cory looked at the voice message. His finger hovered over delete but hit play instead. His shoulders sank when he heard Donny’s voice: “Tracy just told me I’m being replaced. I don’t know what to . . . I just can’t believe it. I mean, you can do what you want, but at least have the balls to tell me yourself. I don’t know what’s going on with you. You know what? Actually, I do. You changed, man. You’re not the same Cory I knew my whole life. All the drugs and drinking are fucking you up, man. Open your eyes before it’s too late. I’m telling you, you better wise up. I’ll see you around.”

  Cory sighed at Donny’s last words. He knew he wouldn’t see him, and if he did, the relationship would never be the same. But whose fault was it? Twisting the cap off a fresh bottle of Pappy Van Winkle, he pushed a growing feeling of guilt aside.

  Sipping the bourbon, Cory’s stomach churned. Yeah, Donny was his best friend, but this was his band. He could do what he wanted. Donny was probably jealous. And what was that bullshit he happened to run into Linda? Was he trying to take advantage of their separation?

  It hit Cory that Linda would find out. He had to make sure she knew it was about the music. Kenshaw had been on the road with the best, and he could solo. That was it. The band needed another world-class soloist, and Kenshaw was the one.

  It made sense, and she didn’t know anything about music anyway. Cory went into the bedroom, spilled two Adderall pills out, and washed them down with bourbon. He dialed his phone.

  “Hey, Linda, how you doing?”

  “Fine, Cory. What do you want?”

  “How are the kids?”

  “They’re fine.”

  “Fine? Is that the word of the week?”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to tell you something about Donny.”

  “Donny? What about him?”

  “You saw him recently?”

  “Yeah, at Whole Foods, what about it?”

  “And that was it?”

  “What was it?”

  “You saw him and that was it?”

  “We talked for a couple of minutes, that’s all. What are you trying to say?”

  “Nothing, just that Donny is out of the band.”

  “He left?”

  “No, I replaced him with Kenshaw.”

  “Why?”

  “We needed someone who can solo, and Kenshaw is a monster.”

  “How could you do that to him?”

  “I didn’t do anything, it’s what the music needed.”

  “You’re pushing everybody away. I hope you’re happy, goodbye.”

  “Wait—” She hung up. Cory hit redial and it went to voice mail. “That bitch!”

  Cory went into the kitchen and added ice to his drink. He opened the fridge door to grab an Evian and dropped his drink on the floor. “Fuck!” He kicked the shards of glass aside and filled another glass with ice and bourbon.

  Cory plopped on the couch and drained his drink. He put the TV on and poured another drink. He cycled through a hundred channels before shutting it off. Cory went into the bathroom and popped a handful of Tums into his mouth. He chewed them and put his mouth under the faucet to wash away the chalky taste.

  The movement made him dizzy. He shuffled to the couch, kicking off his shoes. The room was spinning and Cory closed his eyes. His stomach heaved, spraying bile up his throat. He swallowed it down, but a wave forced him up.

  Cory ran to the kitchen sink and puked. He stepped back. “Ouch! What the fuck?” He looked at the blood pouring from his foot and threw up again.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “Tracy, I need help. I cut my foot. It’s real bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bleeding like crazy. I can’t stop it.”

  “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
<
br />   “What does that have to do with anything? My fucking foot is sliced open!”

  “Call 911. I’ll be right over.”

  “911? I need help.”

  “I’m not a doctor and I’m twenty minutes away. Call 911, I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  Cory dialed 911 and wrapped a towel around his foot. Ten minutes later a pair of medics with EMT jackets on trampled into the apartment. A police officer came in behind them.

  On the floor, Cory had his foot propped against a kitchen drawer. “What happened, sir?”

  “I cut my foot on some glass. I, I dropped a glass and went to clean it up and I stepped right on it.”

  The medic unwrapped the towel. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. This looks like it needs to be stitched. We’ll have to take you to the hospital.”

  “No. Can’t you do it?”

  “I’m a paramedic and can suture, but I’d need a doctor’s authorization.”

  “Please get it. You know who I am, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if I go to the hospital, the press will be all over it, and, you know, it won’t be good. They’ll say all kinds of shit about me. I’d really appreciate it if we handle this here.”

  “Let me make a call.”

  The police officer stepped forward. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “I had a couple of drinks.”

  “By the looks of the vomit, I’d say you exceeded your limits.”

  Cory shrugged. “I’m in the privacy of my own home.”

  The officer turned to the medics. “You need me?”

  They shook their heads. “Okay, I’m done with babysitting a drunk.”

  “What’d he say?”

  The medic said, “That he’s leaving.”

  “He fucking better.”

  “Sir, if you don’t calm down, we’re going to have to do this at the hospital.”

  After stitching up Cory, the medics left. Adjusting the pillow under his leg, Tracy said, “Dr. Boren is on the way. He wants to take a look at this and wants you on antibiotics. He wants to make sure you don’t get an infection.”

  “All right. It feels pretty good right now.”

  Tracy went into the kitchen. “I hope this doesn’t interfere with the tour.”

  “No way, I got to tour. I’ll be okay in a day or two.”

  Picking up pieces of glass with a towel, she said, “I hope so, but it looked like a really deep cut.”

  Cory shrugged.

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  “Nothing, I dropped a glass, and trying to clean it up, I stepped on it.”

  “There’s vomit all over the place.”

  “My stomach was bothering me, and when I cut myself, I just upchucked.”

  “You were drinking bourbon on an upset stomach?”

  “I was putting the glass in the sink.”

  Tracy picked up the glass of bourbon on the coffee table. She looked at Cory, who closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Cane in hand, Cory limped into his manager’s office and settled into a chair as Baffa asked him how his foot was. After being assured the injury was nothing to be concerned with, Baffa changed gears and the pleasantries vanished.

  “We take our role seriously, Mr. Lupinski. It’s impossible for us to meet our fiduciary responsibilities if clients aren’t forthright. We understand you make the decisions regarding the music you create, but authorizing a sizable bonus to replace a player is something we need to know about. Before, not after it happens.”

  Cory shrunk in his chair, feeling as if he was being scolded by the grammar school principal.

  “In order for this relationship to be effective, we need to know about all financial transactions, in particular, outflows. Especially large donations, such as the St. Jude’s one.”

  “But we didn’t pay them yet.”

  “And it’s a good thing, as the funds aren’t available. But even so, that commitment sits on your balance sheet as a liability. It affects your cash flow and the ability to borrow.”

  “Sorry, I guess I should’ve asked first.”

  “We support the philanthropic efforts of our clients. In fact, we encourage it, but not at the expense of solvency. We’ve modeled revenues and expenses.” Baffa slid a graph across the desk. “We’ve adjusted for the higher salary cost for the new player and reduced projected revenues from album sales and touring—’

  “Why?”

  “Given the negative publicity surrounding the, uh, accident in your apartment, we believe it’s prudent to revise it downward. This graph displays a healthy trajectory by cutting two outflows.” Baffa passed a document covered in green to his client. “The Connecticut home needs to be sold, and the support to your friends needs to be seriously curtailed. Assisting loved ones is noble, but you can’t afford to do fifty thousand dollars at a time.”

  “I don’t want to sell Connecticut.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. You don’t have much equity in it, but the mortgage and upkeep represent substantial outflows. What I’d suggest is putting it on the market. Estates of this magnitude take a long time to sell. The pool of buyers is limited by the price. If the financial picture significantly brightens, you can remove the listing.”

  “How much money can I get out of it?”

  “That would depend on the sales price less expenses. I’d estimate less than a hundred thousand.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Okay, meanwhile, I took the liberty of asking Sotheby’s to conduct a market analysis.”

  “How much cash do I have?”

  “Essentially, nothing. We’re expecting streaming royalties to come in, but they’re highly unpredictable and are slated to cover a portion of your housing expenses.”

  “The tour will get things back to normal.”

  “In preparing the financial models, we spoke with the label to get an estimate of the numbers, and there seemed to be a bit of concern over ticket sales.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I understand the previous tour was entirely sold out, but this one is lagging behind.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Cory couldn’t believe he was sitting in another office. He was glad he’d chosen music over a nine-to-five gig in a stuffy office filled with people wearing suits and fake smiles.

  His divorce attorney, Larry Gold, was rambling on about the weather. Cory wondered if he would be paying the thousand-dollar-an-hour rate or whether the clock would start when the small talk ended.

  “So, it’s good to finally meet you in person, Mr. Lupinski.”

  “I just wish it weren’t over a divorce.”

  “My job is to help you through the process and defend your rights as a father.”

  “Okay, you said we had to talk about the children. What exactly did you mean?”

  Gold clasped his hands. “Your wife has filed a motion to deny you visitation rights during the separation.”

  “How can she do that?”

  He lifted up a multi-page document. “The motion’s legal argument is you’re a danger to the children.”

  “What? That’s crazy. I would never do anything to hurt my kids. I love them. They mean everything to me.”

  “Demonstrating your devotion to the court shouldn’t be challenging, but we’ll have to address your, uhm, erratic behavior.”

  “What?”

  “They’re claiming recent episodes are evidence of instability. They reference suspected substance abuse, and in a call with opposing counsel, they made it clear they would use the knife incident as proof you can be violent when under the influence.”

  “This is bullshit. Yeah, okay, I lost it when my manager stole my money, our money. But I mean, come on, the judge would understand something like that.”

  “The circumstances may be mitigating, but it’s a damaging event that the judge
will have to consider.”

  “But—”

  “They also referenced a recent radio appearance when you appeared intoxicated, a hotel suite that you allegedly trashed, and several incidents where you were reportedly inebriated.”

  “Just a little partying after a show.”

  “Would you consider going into rehab?”

  “Would it help?”

  “It may. I’d have to weigh the admission of an addiction against seeking help for a problem. It could go either way, but most likely, you’d be unable to see them until you completed the program.”

  “I’m not doing that.”

  “Another way to ensure visitation during the time a divorce agreement is negotiated would be to agree to supervised visits.”

  “Supervised?”

  “A monitor would be present during visits.”

  “They think I need a fucking babysitter? This is bullshit!”

  “Please, Mr. Lupinski. Exploring options is part of the process. Family courts generally favor mothers in custody battles. I’ve represented entertainers and public figures, usually their high profile is an advantage. In this case, though, we’ll have to find an effective way to rebut the danger argument, or there’s a high probability the judge will not allow unmonitored visits.”

  Fingering the bottle of Adderall in his pocket, Cory said, “Please, you have to find a way to help me.”

  “I’ll do my best. It’s critically important that you keep things on an even keel until the hearing. Another incident would seriously damage whatever chances we have.”

  * * *

  The driver said, “Mr. Lupinski? We’re in front of your building.”

  “Uh, yeah, thanks.”

  Cory nodded to the doorman and kept his head down as he hustled inside. He kept replaying the closing words his attorney had said: ‘whatever chances we have’ His father had always said that lawyers overstated your chances of success in the early stages and would flip to trying to settle things as the case neared a conclusion.

  Stepping off the elevator, Cory wondered if that was what Gold was doing. Though Cory never met him before, the initial conversations were always a reassurance that a court would never deny him joint custody. Now, with a hearing looming, Gold was backpedaling like an Olympian medalist.