Killer Riff (4 page)

“And we’ll see you later,” Cassady said helpfully.

“No, you won’t,” Kyle said politely, “but with any luck, she will.” He caught my hand in his for one last moment, then let it slide away as he took a step back.

I wanted to show some modicum of self-control, yet I drifted after him, less following him to the door than being pulled along by his gravitational field.

At the door, he paused, but rather than blowing me a kiss or even winking, he grinned as he walked out the door. “Remember, most MEs know what they’re doing.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re perfect,” I said, grinning back. It was as refreshing as a good-bye kiss, and I was delighted. Returning to my seat, I could feel how we were going to slide back together, mesh again with our troubles behind us. Right up until the moment Cassady popped me in the bicep.

“You told him?”

“Tricia said to be honest with him,” I said, rubbing my arm.

“Oh, my word, not in the first ten minutes,” Tricia protested, moving her bicep out of Cassady’s range.

“It’s all right. Everything’s going to be just fine,” I said, which at the time I thoroughly believed.

Cassady shook her head. “Are we to assume that he doesn’t agree with Olivia’s hypothesis?”

“He does not.”

“And are we to assume that it just makes her theory all the more appealing to you?”

“No,” I said honestly. As though they’d been rehearsing this moment while in the restroom, Cassady and Tricia linked arms and looked at me expectantly. “I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it,” I continued. “And I will be completely frank with you, Kyle, and my editor throughout the entire process.” I raised my right hand in a three-finger salute. “And obey the Girl Scout laws.”

“You are such lightning bait,” Cassady said with a crooked smile, “I’m not sure it’s safe to stand next to you, much less go to dinner with you.”

Tricia detached herself from Cassady and took my hands in hers. “I believe you can do this. Balance everything. And you know I’ll be here for you if you need help.”

“I didn’t say I was abandoning her,” Cassady pointed out. “I said she was dangerous to be around. Which is one of the reasons we love her.”

“And I, you,” I said. “Now, drink up and let’s get some dinner.”

We went to Heartbeat and immersed ourselves in great food, wonderful wine, and grand conversation about every topic under the sun. Except Kyle. When Cassady attempted, I parried by asking where her relationship with Aaron was headed, and she withdrew with uncharacteristic speed. Tricia offered her single status for examination, and we proposed a number of possibilities for pursuit, but none of them captured her imagination. So we moved on to broader questions of politics and culture, equally unanswerable, until it was quite late. Sated physically and emotionally, we sauntered off to our separate cabs and headed home.

By the time I was back in my apartment, the caffeine in my Irish coffees was outperforming the Bushmills and I couldn’t settle down. I told myself it had nothing to do with the fact that it was after midnight and I hadn’t heard from Kyle yet. It was important to take things slowly and not raise false expectations about our slipping back into our old routine as though no time had passed, no feelings had been hurt, and no land mines had been stepped on.

Determined to put my agitation to good use, I changed into my Washington Redskins sleep shirt and sat at my laptop to refresh my knowledge of Russell Elliott, Micah Crowley, and Subject to Change before meeting with Olivia. But as I began surfing, I realized I was missing an important element for my research. Digging through my CD cabinet, I found
Film at Eleven
, the band’s third album. The one that was played at almost every party we went to sophomore year of college.

I hadn’t listened to it in a long time, but as soon as I heard the opening chords of “Go to War for You,” memories pushed to the surface like swimmers coming up for air, and I could smell the sweat and smoke of the crowded off-campus apartments, taste the cheap wine we drank in those days, feel the pulse of the bass line through my back as I leaned against a wall with my lips pressed against Tom Donaldson’s ear in a futile attempt to have a conversation. The images and sensations flooded back with a startlingly visceral punch, and I sank to the couch, letting them wash over me until the song was over. With everything he got out of a cup of tea and a cookie, I wondered what Proust would have done with the greatest hits CD from his favorite band. And a couple of Irish coffees.

When the second song started, I made my way back to my laptop. Nearly every one of the fansites featured the same picture of Micah on its home page, taken from a
Rolling Stone
article about the band seeking new direction that had been published only two months before Micah died. Mcah shirtless and sweaty onstage at the Meadowlands, his wavy, shoulder-length hair clinging to his neck in damp spirals, one hand on the microphone stand and the other held out to the audience either in blessing or in a request for a moment’s quiet. What made the picture so resonant was the look on his face, pleased but perplexed, as though he couldn’t be sure how he’d gotten to this place. It was that flash of vulnerability Cassady had been talking about, and fans had responded to the picture ferociously. It graced the cover of the greatest hits CD that was released after Micah’s death.

Pictures of Russell were harder to find, but then again, it had never been Russell’s job to be center stage. He said in every interview I read that he loved his behind-the-scenes role, that he had no musical ability or aspiration, that his gift was finding the ways to make it easier for Micah to bring his artistic vision to life. I did find one picture from the same
Rolling Stone
article that showed Russell, slight and tailored, leaning forward out of the shadows to whisper into Micah’s ear as the band prepared to take the stage. They’re both smiling mischievously, like little boys enjoying a joke they’re not supposed to be old enough to understand. Gray Benedek, the keyboard player, is walking past them with the sour smile of an older brother who knows the joke well and can’t believe they find it funny. The rest of the band is obscured by the other three, their expressions unclear.

Subject to Change had recorded six albums and when Micah died, had seemed poised for entry into that rarefied stratosphere where the Stones and U2 reside. There’d been no talk about drugs or any other issues previously, so his death came as a huge surprise; I could picture Carl Davenport walking into the bull pen at
Youth & Beauty
, the magazine where I was indentured as an editorial assistant, and announcing the news in a hushed, cracked voice. Carl, the photography editor, had a TV in his office, and he let us all cluster before it as CNN ran the short-on-details story with the soon-to-be-iconic picture of Micah floating over the anchor’s shoulder. Everyone in the room had a story about seeing the band in concert or hearing one of their songs on the radio at an auspicious moment in their lives. A fleeting moment of unity in a pop culture that had only gotten increasingly fragmented since then. It was shocking to realize it had been almost ten years.

I found a few articles from after Micah’s death that had floated the possibility of the band staying together, but before too long, Russell and Gray held a press conference to say that since Micah had been the soul of Subject to Change, they would not continue without him. Jeff Ford joined Downward Spiral, replacing their drummer who had died in a tour bus accident. The bass player, Rob Kenilworth, dropped off the grid and was rumored to be living the high life somewhere in the South Pacific. David Washington, the guitarist, wound up starting a jazz quintet that had won the
DownBeat
readers poll for best electric jazz group the last two years. Gray Benedek had started a couple of different rock bands, but none of them had lasted more than two albums, and he was currently more in demand as a producer than as a musician.

Gray and Russell had put together a memorial concert to mark the fifth anniversary of Micah’s death; it was a benefit for Women Against Oppression, a human rights group Claire Crowley, Micah’s widow, had embraced after his death. The concert also served as the musical debut of Adam, Claire and Micah’s son, who at twenty-three was given the daunting task of filling in for his father as vocalist on several of the band’s biggest hits. People had been struck by how much he looked and sounded like his dad, and Russell had announced that he’d be producing Adam’s first album. I found a picture of Adam backstage that night, looking stunned but happy. A young woman clung to his arm; the caption identified her as Olivia Elliott.

I took a second look at the picture, trying to reconcile the lanky, jeans-clad girl gazing adoringly at Adam with the crisp, mature professional in the Escada suit I’d seen in the coverage of her memorial for her father. We all change in five years, but the transformation here was startling; it was hard to see that it was the same person. As I studied the picture, I was struck by the body language, the implied intimacy in the way their bodies were touching. I wondered if there’d been something between her and Adam Crowley. He’d be easy to fall for, I reasoned, with his father’s knockout sexuality combined with a hint of gentleness. Vulnerability, Cassady again would say.

As I moved my attention back to Olivia, I had the sense of having seen the picture before. I typed in a new search and brought up articles on Russell’s funeral. There it was: a picture of the mature Olivia standing in a very similar, seemingly intimate pose with Micah’s other son and Russell’s last star, Jordan Crowley.

Adam and Jordan were half-brothers. While Adam’s mother was Micah’s wife, Jordan’s mother was Bonnie Carson, whose résumé as girlfriend to the stars was much more stellar than her résumé as backup singer. There was significant tabloid and fan hysteria after Bonnie revealed Jordan’s paternity when Jordan was eight years old and Adam was eleven, including speculation about whether Micah would leave Claire, with whom he’d supposedly been having difficulties. But while he acknowledged Jordan as his son and gave the boy his last name, Micah didn’t leave his wife. In public, at least, Micah and Claire remained together and gracious, welcoming Jordan and Bonnie into their family circle.

Olivia, whose mother had died when she was only seven, and her father had been part of the circle, too. I was beginning to think the interview with Olivia should focus on her front-row seat for some intriguing family dynamics rather than her father’s legacy when the phone rang.

“First ring,” Kyle said quietly when I answered. “You’re working.”

“After midnight,” I replied. “So are you.”

“We’re wrapping up, but I think I should go home.”

It wasn’t until I felt the pang that I realized how deeply I’d been hoping he’d come by, even if he didn’t stay all night. I was like a junkie falling off the wagon; now that I’d had one taste, I had to figure out how to get my hands on more. But some lingering shred of decorum prevailed, and I said, “Okay.”

“It’s not, but it is better this way.” We considered that statement a moment before he added, “Not as much fun, but better.”

“If it’s not as much fun, how can it be better?”

“Broccoli’s good for you.”

“Are you saying our relationship is a vegetable?”

“This is why I have to go home. I can’t keep up.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet.”

“No, you won’t be. Which is perfect. But I’m beat. And you have work to do.”

“Work can wait.”

“So can we.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I was afraid he’d hung up. Then he said, his voice huskier than usual, “It was really good to see you.”

“It’d be even better to see you again.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“You better.”

“You bet.”

“Good night, Mr. Townshend.”

“Good night, Mr. Daltry,” he said with an approving laugh, and hung up.

As tempting as it was to now put the Who’s
Face Dances
on the CD player and sing “You Better You Bet” at the top of my lungs, I knew that could easily lead to my playing air guitar on the coffee table at three a.m., and I needed to attempt to settle down so I could get a good night’s sleep before meeting Olivia. So I swapped out
Film at Eleven
and put on
The Good Fight
, Subject to Change’s fourth album, the one with the uncharacteristic power ballads that gave them three
Billboard
number ones. I drifted off in front of the laptop with Micah Crowley singing about love, betrayal, and girls with long hair and longer legs.

“Long-Haired Girls” was still running through my head the next day as I got ready to meet Olivia Elliott in the flesh. Rocking out in front of the bathroom mirror, singing into the handle of my hairbrush as if I were fourteen again, I remembered that although I’d broken the news about Olivia’s suspicions to Kyle, I hadn’t told Eileen. But I rationalized that while I’d told Kyle to keep him from being upset because I’d kept it from him, Eileen was already upset with me and I didn’t need to nudge that thermometer up any further. Certainly not until I knew whether there was any basis for Olivia’s concerns.