AT 29 (63 page)

He sat for a long time, alternating between staring at her face and closing his eyes so he could remember her and the way she once made him feel. It was after midnight when he raised himself from the chair. In the morning he would call Felix. If his son could not help him then he would do it himself. And, he would not deny his feelings for Cindy. He could never act on them, he knew. Still, it was enough that he could acknowledge them, that he could admit them to the woman he loved. He carried the picture to the desk in the corner, her desk where she once paid the household bills and wrote letters to friends and family. He opened the top drawer and laid the picture gently inside. Then he closed it. “Farewell, my love.”

After a week of rehearsals the band was coming together. The concerns about Ted's powerful play abated. He was skilled at other wind instruments, as well, particularly the piccolo and flute. His range pleased Jimmy and inspired Sonny as the two players looked for ways to bring these other instruments into the heart of each song. Eugene and Melinda had overcome any jitters about accompanying these more experienced players. They showed off their own skills with renewed passion. For them the days were longer and harder, spending each morning with Jimmy and
Back and Blue
and each afternoon with their own group.

Ellis spent most of his time doing advance work. He traveled to Maine to scout the venues in Orono and Lewiston. It's not often that three bands on the rise came to play in these northern climes. To no one's surprise the concerts were sold out. Ellis was satisfied with both stages, small auditoriums with floors that could hold seats. He took notes, roughing out the locations for amps and speakers as well as reserving center stage for the guitar players.

He was a happy man. Jimmy was back in business, better than before. The British groups had come a long way since he shepherded them through their hiccups in England. Miles McCabe was proving to be a quick study who, bolstered by his financial know-how, steered a steady course to what Ellis was beginning to think could be chart-topping success. He admired the older man's willingness to listen, combined with his hard-nosed examination of every suggestion. It was a welcomed change from the days when Daisy Overton flitted aimlessly about.

The buses, three leases that would carry equipment, crew and players up and down the coast, were almost ready. It took some convincing, but McCabe finally authorized the gaudy paint job, huge reproductions of the album covers,
Back and Blue
most prominent, but the Brits covers plenty visible, too. Everything positioned neatly on the sides of each bus under a huge BLOSSOM PRESENTS logo in gold block lettering. All in all, it was coming together just the way Ellis envisioned. Once the albums were released in a few days, and combined with the kickoff tour, he expected the money to come rolling in. Each of the eleven college stops were scheduled for weekends, either Friday or Saturday nights. In between, Ellis planned to book as many clubs as possible. Nobody knew about that just yet. Get the Maine gigs out of the way then see what comes next. It was all happening fast. He liked that best of all.

Cindy sought Jimmy out as soon as he finished his morning rehearsal. She was excited, too. The Canadian's sound had finally broken through and she wanted Jimmy to hear it. The masters were finished the night before. Now, all she needed was validation. Jimmy would know. They listened to the tapes in the small studio. Jimmy showed no reaction until the last song was complete. Then he simply smiled and told her she had a winner.

Benson was in the large studio watching the Brits run through their act. Jimmy found him sitting with Chase. As he approached, Chase abruptly stopped whispering in Benson's ear and moved off. Jimmy wasn't disappointed to see him leave. He'd already decided the roadie was trouble. He was glad that he would be Ellis' headache. Benson looked up with a suspicious smile.

“What's up?” he asked, with his typical smirk.

“The Australian will be here Sunday. I want you to sit in with me and Sonny on three plays we're developing for him.”

“No problem.”

“We can run him during next week's rehearsals and take him up to Maine.”

“Gonna be a crowded stage.”

“Just the three songs. He needs the exposure. Besides, we'll be on the road. He can't do much alone down here in New Jersey until we get back.”

They arranged to gather in the small studio after Rebellion finished for the day. Jimmy found Sonny next door and asked him to explain the riffs so Benson knew what he was supposed to do. Then he went into a side office to read the unexpected letter he'd received that morning from Sister Marie Bonaventuri.

Dear Jim:

I hope this letter finds you safe and well. We enjoyed your visit with us in Melbourne. The boys received the albums you arranged. You continue to be the talk of Saint Malachy's, our very favorite famous artist
.

Nigel is staying here in Melbourne for several days before his departure. He closed his shop in Airey's Inlet, thank the Lord, and is quite busy planning for his trip to America. He is excited for the first time in a long while. Your work with him has rejuvenated his spirit. I cannot be more thankful
.

I write with a special obligation that you must accept. Nigel holds a place in my heart that transcends his growth to manhood and his departure from the halls of Saint Malachy's. To assume that this institution's responsibility for the welfare and care of those we have sought to nurture ends with their leaving is to be mistaken. That can never be. Too much love and caring prevents me, prevents all of us at Saint Malachy's, from ever letting go. We are wedded to our boys forever
.

Therefore, you must be my surrogate across the distance that will soon separate Nigel from his life here in Australia. You must watch out for him in the same way that I have done. Do not expect that because he is a man, he can take sole responsibility for all that will confront him. See that he is safe, not only from the temptations that fester in the entertainment world, but also from his inner turmoils. I bestow this duty upon you because we are all our brother's keepers
.

Yours in Christ
,

Sister Marie

The letter left Jimmy cold. He had his own problems. He could not be held to account by a nun a world away. Sure, he'd work with the singer. He made that commitment, but it ended there. He would not be a babysitter. That the letter failed to mention Les also stung more than he cared to admit.

***

The Wednesday night patrons knew the man at the counter in Herald's Bar and Grille around the corner from WAGZ's studio. He always took his vodka martini with three olives, usually emptying the cocktail glass and ordering another before he dug into a rare sirloin. Mike Winfield was a minor celebrity; his picture prominently displayed on the wall just inside the entrance, beaming at those who studied his image arm in arm with Walt Herald, the owner. This night was no different, except for the burly young stranger who came through the door and stopped to study the room. There were plenty of vacant stools. To those who noticed, it seemed odd that the man took the one nearest Winfield.

The DJ didn't look up from the paper he was reading, the day's Billboard 100.

“What're you having?” the man asked, beckoning the barmaid. Winfield gave him the once over, noting his size and the ill-fitting brown suit that had seen better days.

“Nothing, I'm just about done.” Strangers had approached him before. He was in no mood to endure the fawning of an obvious admirer.

“Martini?” The unknown man would not be put off.

“No thanks.” Winfield folded his paper and placed his feet on the floor to leave. Before he could take a step the stranger put his hand on his arm.

“Stick around.”

“Do I know you?” Mike was getting angry.

“We have a mutual acquaintance. Have another drink so we can talk.”

Winfield hesitated, giving the man a more careful analysis. Cop? It was hard to tell. Normally, the ones who looked as young as this guy wore the typical blue uniform. There was a slight bulge under his suit jacket. Mike had a nose for cops, but he couldn't be sure. The barmaid came over.

“Bring this man another. I'll have the same.” As she moved off to prepare the drinks Winfield watched the other man reach down to his belt and detach something. He brought it up and placed it on the bar, a detective's gold shield, NYPD. Winfield sat.

“What's on your mind?” He waited while the detective retrieved the shield and reattached it to his belt. The barmaid returned with two fresh cocktail glasses. She poured clear liquid into each and dropped in some olives as the men watched silently, waiting for her to finish. After she moved out of earshot the detective spoke.

“I like your show. Can't say I ever listened to it before this morning, but I'll be tuning in more often from now on.” Winfield took this in not sure where the conversation was headed. “I was hoping to hear that interview you did with that fella we know.”

“Yeah? Who's that?”

“In a minute. You have two daughters, don't you? Must be tough not being able to see them without supervision. Of course, that's better than not being able to see them at all.”

“What do my girls have to do with this?”

The cop ignored the question while he reached into his jacket and brought out a folded document. “Interesting deal you made with the D.A.” He unfolded the page and spread it on the countertop. “Let me see, six month suspended sentence for drug possession third offense, rehab. I'm sure that must have been tough. Oh yes, and a year's probation.” He looked up and faced Winfield for the first time. “Not a bad deal. Keep your nose clean and you'll be out of the woods. You'll even be able to see your kids without somebody watching over you.”

“I haven't violated the terms. What's this all about?” The detective reached into his side pocket and seemed to search for something else. Then he placed a tiny micro tape on the counter. Winfield/McCabe was scrawled on the label. The DJ looked at it without moving. “What's that supposed to be?”

“You can guess. Let's talk about the terms of your deal with the D.A. The key is you staying out of trouble. Now, there are all kinds of trouble. You look good so I'm pretty sure you're off the coke. I checked the traffic logs, no violations there. Noticed your bank accounts are getting healthy again. That might be something to look into. What do you think?”

“I think you're harassing me.”

“Depends upon your point of view.” The detective tapped the tape on the counter. “This is some pretty strong evidence.”

“You want me to believe that's something I should worry about? I don't even know what it is.”

“You can read. Says McCabe on the label. Miles McCabe, you interviewed him Monday.”

“So? Strictly legitimate. Part of my job.”

“This tape came later after you finished the interview.”

“Let me understand. Are you trying to say McCabe recorded what we talked about after the interview was finished? I don't believe it for a second.” Winfield reached for the tape, but the detective snatched it up.

“No need for you to have this. You don't believe it's real.”

“No, I don't.”

“Let's debate that for a moment. You can take your chances. If it is real you'll be back in court with your lawyers trying to explain it all away. But, suppose this is all a bluff. You can rest easy except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I know what you did. From now on I start paying extra attention to you. I'll begin with your healthy bank accounts. Maybe I find something, maybe I don't. Then I track down all the other folks you've interviewed since you hooked up with WAGZ. The badge tends to intimidate people. Somebody might talk. Maybe I find out you did the same thing to them that you're trying to do to McCabe. If I can't turn anything up there, I go through your phone records. Sooner or later something's going to show.”

“Does your chief know you're doing this?”

“Favor for a friend.”

“So when I have my lawyer give your boss a call, how's that going to play?”

“I'll let him listen to the tape.”

“Bogus tape. This is nothing but a shakedown.”

The detective threw his head back and laughed. He wiggled the tape between his fingers. “McCabe says the same thing.”

Winfield eyed the micro tape again, less sure of himself. “What do you want?”

“You to back off.”

“I'm not looking for trouble from you.”

The detective downed his martini and stood. “Think back to Monday morning. All those things you said you could do to help that recording company. Make sure you do it, no thought of return. Like you said before, just doing your job.” He threw a twenty on the counter. “Drinks on me.”

Winfield watched him go. He took a sip of his martini and thought about his two girls. Miles McCabe was smarter than he thought.

Jimmy left Manhattan early Saturday morning and headed north to Massachusetts. He never would have taken the time if the rehearsals weren't going so well. He could afford to take the time to check on George and the house. Nigel Whitehurst was scheduled to arrive at JFK late Sunday afternoon. Jimmy planned his return so he could pick him up and take him to the apartment.

On This Saturday Miles McCabe was in WAGZ's offices at nine a.m. A chastened Mike Winfield met him at the door and helped him carry cartons containing a hundred copies of each album, to the mailroom. The change in Winfield's attitude came as no surprise. Felix's son relayed a message that the DJ would likely cooperate. Sure enough, Winfield had called.

“I got the message.” That's all he had to say. It was enough.