AT 29 (55 page)

“Are you the Yank from Today Tonight?” The bartender was a heavy set, bald man in his forties. His question caught Jimmy off-guard.

“I'm the one.”

“What're you doing out here?”

Jimmy wasn't sure he should tell the stranger. He had yet to speak with Nigel Whitehurst. It didn't seem right to reveal the purpose of his presence to someone else beforehand. “Taking some time for myself before I go back home.”

The bartender's facial expression suggested that he wasn't convinced. “Way out here on the Great Ocean Road in winter?”

“It's a beautiful ride.”

“I saw you taking notes last night while Nigel was singing. Your visits have anything to do with him?”

“He's a terrific performer.”

“When he shows up.” The tone bordered on contempt. “My name's Horace.” He held out his hand. “I own the place.”

Jimmy took it. “What do you mean, when he shows up?”

“He's a bit unreliable what with the surfin' and other things. I'd fill this place every night if he kept to a schedule, but he comes and goes without much notice. The other four fill-in when he's not here, but he's the one people come to hear.”

“That's why I came back.”

“Too bad. He's not coming in tonight.”

Jimmy's heart sank. He was counting on approaching Whitehurst right after the last set. He felt the papers in his shirt pocket. The three songs needed more work, but he knew they would be perfect for the talented Australian. “Where is he?”

“Probably down the coast somewhere chasing waves.”

“It's cold and dark.”

“Or he's in one of his funks.”

“Meaning?”

“He gets into these moods. Doesn't come out of his place for days. Loves his magic green.” Horace detected the lack of understanding in Jimmy's reaction. “You Yanks call it pot.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“If you're lucky he'll be at his shop.”

He turned into the sandy entryway and slowly drove to the clearing where the small wooden building stood. A car with the lines of an El Camino was parked in front and a light was on inside the shop. He parked beside the Ute and got out to survey the entrance while he thought about what he would say. As he ascended the steps the door opened and Nigel Whitehurst stood staring.

“Shop's closed.” It wasn't a rebuke, merely a matter-of fact statement.

“I'm Jim Buckman. I'm from Blossom Records.”

Whitehurst stood silent for a moment, peering closely at Jimmy. Then his broad shoulders drooped and he raised his hand, beckoning him inside. Nothing about the interior was different from what Jimmy saw through the window a day earlier. Nothing except the sweetly nauseating aroma of marijuana and thin haze of light blue smoke hovering at the ceiling. Whitehurst strode to the sales counter and positioned himself next to the cash register. Jimmy followed and leaned on the counter a few steps away. He watched as the other man put his hand behind the register and came out with a half finished joint, trailing smoke into the air. Whitehurst took a deep drag and held it for five seconds before exhaling. He held the joint out to Jimmy who shook his head.

“I recognize you from Willies last night. You were writing something on a piece of paper at the bar. I've seen you somewhere before, too.”

“I just finished a tour.”

“That's it, caught you on the telly a month back. Now what's this about Blossom Records?”

Jimmy couldn't tell if Nigel was wasted. From the smoke in the room it appeared that he'd been at for a while. His eyes were bloodshot and it looked as though he hadn't slept since the night before, but he seemed to be coherent. He knew plenty of potheads. The veterans had a high tolerance before it muddled their brains. Whitehurst seemed like one of those.

“We want you to record for us.”

“I was wondering when someone would get in touch.”

“Then you know about the contract?”

“No, mate. There's no contract.”

“My boss says you've been taking money for two years.”

“Every month. Typical Americans throwing your dollars at anything that moves. I suppose you want it all back.”

“Not necessarily. Like I said, we want you to record.”

Whitehurst shook his head. “I'm not interested.”

Jimmy put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the folded contract. “I talked with Sister Marie Bonaventuri.” He unfolded it to the last page and laid it on the counter. “She's so convinced of your talent that she went out on a limb and signed it for you.”

Whitehurst looked at the signature. “That's hers. The other one's not mine.”

“Her assistant forged you name.”

“Les? She did that?”

“Yes.”

“Sister's up to her tricks. Now she's got others doing her bidding. Always manipulating.”

“She seems to have your best interests in mind.”

“You think so?” He was smirking.

“You should be in a studio with good material.”

“So you came all this way to tell me I should be like you?”

“We have a tape of you. I was asked to find out if it was for real.”

“How'd you get the tape?”

“Leslie and Sister Marie.”

“Am I for real?”

Jimmy stared back at the big man. “Yes.”

“Jimmy Button for real?” The comment threw Jimmy off. Whitehurst must have caught his reaction. “No, I shouldn't have said that.” He softened. “I appreciate your interest, but I won't record for you or anybody else.”

For some reason Jimmy remembered his initial response to Kevin Royce. Nigel Whitehurst was showing the same reluctance. He turned the contract over and looked at the notes he'd written on the back, his songs for Nigel. “I'd like to work with you.”

Whitehurst pulled once more on his joint then set it down and went through the narrow door that led into the living area. A moment later, he reappeared with a pen and checkbook in his hand. He opened the checkbook and began to write. When he finished he tore the paper out and handed it to Jimmy.

“Total comes to twenty thousand. The deposits stopped a few weeks ago.”

Jimmy took the check, but didn't look at it. “We want you to sign with us.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I saw you on that television show. Button, Buckman, the whole thing with the booze. That's not for me. Nothing against you or Blossom, but I like my life the way it is. I have enough to surf, sing and smoke right here. No need to make it complicated.”

***

“He said he's not interested.” Jimmy was back in his hotel room in Melbourne. Miles was on the other end of the line. “He wrote me a check for twenty grand on the spot.”

“He's honest. That's something. Did you try to convince him?”

“Of course. He knew me from my tour over here.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him I wanted to work with him.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Miles, he's special. I'd welcome the chance.”

“Maybe I should come over.”

“To do what? He's a hard case.”

“If I showed him how serious I am…”

“I don't think he'll budge. There's another thing.”

“What's that?”

“He's a pothead.”

“Lot's of people smoke pot.”

“And, lot's of people drink. You have rules, remember?”

“I could make the same deal with him. It seems to be working with you.”

“He doesn't want any restrictions. He said he likes it fine the way it is, surf, sing and smoke. He wants to keep his life simple.”

“We really ought to get him over here. I mean, if you think he's that good we shouldn't give up so quickly. Besides, you're there now. It'd be a waste not to make it work somehow.”

Jimmy agreed with Miles. Whitehurst was special. The three songs on the back of the contract were just the beginning, hastily penned based upon a brief listen. He was sure he could write more just as soon as he had the chance to analyze the full range of the Australian's talent.

“I've written three songs for him.”

Miles sat up in his chair. “When?”

“Right after I heard him sing. They came fast.”

“Does he know?”

“No. I don't think it would make any difference to him.”

Miles paused, “But you wrote them anyway?”

“He's world class, beyond rock.”

“We need to try something before we throw in the towel. Maybe Sister Marie could have a go at him.”

“She asked me to come by before I fly home.”

“Tell her what happened. Maybe she'll have some ideas.”

“There's something else.”

“More?”

“She told me he suffers from depression. The owner at Willies implied it, too. From what I could see, they're right. I think he compensates with the pot.”

“We can deal with that later. See what she has to say then call me.”

It was mid-afternoon when he arrived at the orphanage. Sister Marie was waiting in her office. This time she took the chair next to him rather than retreating behind her desk.

“So, tell me, how is Nigel?”

Jimmy thought he heard a touch of apprehension in her voice. Or, was it sorrow? Her eyes told him only the truth would do. “His voice is better than I expected.”

“Will he go to America with you?”

“No.”

“Does that mean you'll be going home?”

“Mr. McCabe hopes you might have some ideas.”

She gave this some thought, looking toward her desk. “What did Nigel say?”

Jimmy told her everything, starting with the first night just watching and listening at Willies. He described the opening songs on the violin and then the startling quality of Nigel's voice as he switched to vocals. He explained his conversation with Horace the next night, confirming what seemed to be depression. He struggled with how to tell her about the pot, finally letting it out in a matter-of fact way without implying judgment. He
told her of Nigel's mild surprise when shown the fraudulent contract, but he elected not to say that he called her a manipulator. He finished by stating exactly what Nigel said about Jimmy Button and the Today Tonight broadcast. “I think that's what's holding him back.”

“No, that's just an excuse. He's simply fighting me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He thinks I'm manipulating him. As long as he sees my hand in this he'll balk.”

So, Jimmy realized, she already knew. “Well, everything is out in the open.”

“Yes, that's better.”

“Do you know of anything that might convince him?”

She didn't answer the question. “I knew nothing of him playing the violin. Reina must have taught him.”

“Reina?”

She continued without acknowledging his question. “How many instruments do you play?”

“Guitar, keyboards and harmonica.”

“Self-taught?”

“Guitar and harmonica, yes. I had piano lessons when I was young.”

She abruptly changed the subject again. “You left an important piece of information out of your description.”

Jimmy was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You wrote some songs for Nigel.” Jimmy realized that McCabe must have called ahead and told her. He had simply forgotten. It didn't seem relevant.

“Three quick pieces. They're far from ready for him.”

“Do you often write music for someone other than yourself, out of the blue like that?”

Jimmy had to think before answering. He could remember only six songs that came to him inspirationally.
Lulu, Choral Guns, Peg
and the three he'd penned after hearing Whitehurst. All of his others were laborious efforts that took much more time. “No, not often.”

“Something about Nigel caused you to write them?”

“Yes. I can't explain. Sometimes it just happens.”

“You didn't mention these songs to him?”

“No.”

“I think you should. It will impress him.”

“I doubt they will convince him to sign with Blossom.”

“You don't know him. Underneath all that bravado is a sensitive child still trying to understand life. Everything he does begins with great success only to be derailed by some external event. He's extraordinary, but trapped in a cycle of failure brought on by his own distrust. I've spent years trying to make him understand that we all need other people to move forward in our lives.”

“What does that have to do with my songs?”

“A stranger does something so personal for him. He's not used to that. Take them to him. Show him how serious you feel about his talent.”

He waited for Leslie downstairs. It took some courage to overcome his nerves before inviting her to dinner. His confused feelings made him too anxious. He couldn't
get his head around his sinking self-confidence. He was desperate to make a good impression, but he couldn't relax. She appeared at the top of the stairs. He watched her descend, step-by-step, attempting to smile, but unsure that his lips moved. His admiring silence caused her to turn and look back as if someone else was the source of his attention. When she reached the last step he came forward and they exchanged a self-conscious hug, careful not to come too close. The smell of her made him weak.

The Japanese restaurant was two kilometers away. He was relieved to run the gantlet without a mishap along the way. It had been a long time since he felt the need to hurry around a car and hold the door for a woman. This time was too special not to be gallant.

The restaurant was thankfully quiet. A few tables were occupied, but there were plenty of others situated far enough apart so they could easily engage in conversation. They settled on the sushi platter.

“I'm glad you came back to Melbourne.” She radiated warmth. “I wasn't sure I'd see you again.”