Revenant Rising (35 page)

“Good heavens, what did he do?”

“You’ve heard of the Wish Upon a Star Foundation?”

“Wish fulfillment for children suffering threatening illnesses? Yes, I have. David once served on their board.”

“It was through David that I first heard about the organization and got involved. I recently started participating again, but to get on with it . . . Anthony broke a house rule by using the fax machine and it seems he sent a request to the British office of the foundation.”

“Whatever for?”

“Using a fake name, he passed himself off as terminally ill and wishing for a visit from a star before he breathed his last.”

“Don’t tell me . . . ”

“Yeh, he did. He asked for a deathbed visit from yours truly.”

“Oh . . . my . . . god,” Laurel claps one hand over her mouth and swivels her chair in the direction of the credenza.

“Are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry.” She laughs without restraint. “I can’t help it.”

“That was my reaction when I got off the phone—damned near pissed myself laughing at the kid’s sheer audacity, then I couldn’t get to sleep for wondering what to do about it. About him. I’m startin’ to think I should just give in and go home, actually. I’m afraid that may be the only thing for it.”

“Oh.” She falters for a moment. “Are you sure? Do you really think that’s the only recourse?”

“Do you see another?”

“Well, if you go home now you’ll give him exactly what he wants along with tacit approval of his methodology.”

“You think so? That’s interesting. I hadn’t got round to looking at it that way. You make a good point, a very good point.” He brightens a little, releases a shadow of the killer smile.

“Even if you go home strictly to reprimand him, he’ll still have accomplished what he set out to do. I know it sounds cruel, but—”

“No, not necessarily. Now that I think about it a bit, what you say makes perfect sense. Brilliant it is. By staying put I give him no power. I doubt even my mum can argue with that.”

“Do you expect any fallout from his prank? This assumes the fax actually transmitted, was received, processed and treated as valid.”

“I understand what you’re asking—is someone at the Wish Foundation going to recognize the request as coming from my son.”

“Yes, will someone be able to pick up on the fact your eight-year-old son concocted an elaborate ruse to make you come home? That would make quite a story for the tabloid press—the legitimate press as well.”

“I rather doubt that’ll happen. My participation in their program is conditional upon my contributions remaining private. Any attempt on their part to publicize my involvement will put an end to it, and I’ve alerted someone in Nate’s London office to remind them of just that. The only real fallout I expect will be from Nate himself. When he finds out he’ll shit a brick.”

“I understand he’s shat several recently.”

“So you’ve heard?”

“Indirectly.”

“Is there a problem with Nate? Are you all right about meeting with him next week?”

“That needn’t be discussed right now. Right now I’d rather hear how Anthony’s mischief was discovered . . . if you don’t mind sharing that with me.”

“I don’t mind at all. He left the original document in the fax machine where my mum found it when she was placing a grocery order. She later discovered that he’d composed the original by borrowing from previous correspondence with the foundation that he found in my desk. Because he is allowed access to a typewriter and he’s seen others use the fax, the rest had to be easy for him.”

“After thinking up a scheme like that, almost
anything
else had to be easy for him. Are you sure he’s only eight?”

“I ask myself that regularly and hope to hell I can somehow channel his abilities for the forces of good instead of evil. Did either of your brothers show a bent for creative mischief?”

“Nothing
that
creative, but they did have their moments, especially as teenagers. Once I found Michael, the younger one, attempting to make brownies, which was totally out of character because he had no interest in cooking and didn’t even like sweets that much. Turns out the recipe included a special ingredient he tried to convince me was oregano. Another time, Ben, my other brother, who wasn’t licensed at the time, took the car without . . . Wait a minute. Oh no you don’t. We’re not playing
that
game again. We’re here to talk about you, not me.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a game.” He hits her with the full-intensity smile.

Like hell he wasn’t. She takes up her pen and stops short of drumming it on the desktop. “You mentioned other theories you wish to discuss, something that will further our progress, I hope.”

“That would be my constant hope and I believe what I have to say is relevant to the . . . uh . . . cause,” he says.

“Well, let’s hear them, by all means.”

“From things you said yesterday I theorize you’re at a crossroads for being newly free to do what you want instead of what’s dictated.”

“Yes, that is fair to say, but I thought I made it clear just now that we’re not talking about me anymore.” She waggles the pen between her fingers like a clumsy baton twirler.

“We’re talking about you as you relate to me and the crossroads I’m at.”

“Where I am in my life has absolutely no bearing on where you find yourself to be.” She drops the pen.

“Oh yes it does. It bloody well does when it reminds that I’m in a similar place . . . that I’m finally in a position to make choices that are mine alone.”

“But—”

“Hear me out. Please.”

“Very well.” She drops the pen into a desk drawer.

“In my business, someone other than the artist invariably dictates the conditions of initial success. Keep that person or persons well fed and the artist maintains a platform, even if it’s not entirely his own. Nearly all of us have to sell out a bit in the beginning—feed the god of commercialism before we can feed the god of artistic endeavor. Many of us settle for tradeoffs—one formulaic release earns us the right to produce an experimental one. A few of us hold out for complete autonomy, complete control, and if we get it we can wind up as hybrids because we may have forgotten how to be true to ourselves in the process.”

“What have my present circumstances to do with any of this?”

“Everything. Yesterday I experienced the equivalent of your thirtieth birthday—that final requirement you had to meet—by cutting myself loose from a record label that nurtured by smothering, and you were there to remind me of the importance of pleasing myself, of being honest with myself above all else,”

“I still fail to see—”

“Laurel . . . I sense that you’ve had to be someone else for so long you wouldn’t recognize your true self in a mirror . . . metaphorically speaking.”

“I’m not sure I care for that image, no pun intended.”

“Please don’t be offended. I’m not speaking critically, I’m speaking from experience. I know more than a bit about having to sell myself as something I’m not. And I know something of transitions. I was already pushing hard for change when the crash enforced it. If it seems I’ve been taking literal measure of my own celebrity lately, it’s because I’ve begun questioning if I want to be celebrated in that way any longer.”

“What do you mean? You can’t be thinking of giving up what you do, can you?”

“No, not at all. I’ll never stop being a musician, but I’ll never again go about it the way I once did. And, from you, I get the distinct feeling you’ll never again practice your profession the way you did when the terms were spelt out for you.”

“I see.”

“Do you, then? You’re not just saying that?”

“Yes, Colin, I do see what you mean, and as applied strictly to you it is indeed something to ponder and probably deserves a chapter. In fact, the subject of transition is an excellent lead-in to what I’d like to discuss today.” She recovers the pen, selects a fresh legal pad from the credenza, and prints a word on it in large block letters before she leaves her chair. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable on the sofa over there while I—”

“Where will you be?”

“I’ll be elsewhere for a little while and while I am, I’d like you to jot down in order of importance the topics you think best relate to this working title for your biography.” She hands him the legal pad. “I’m sure you know the term, and I think you’ll agree it could be a positive way to refer to the enforced pause in your productivity.”

He frowns over the word for a moment. “Jesus, Laurel, bloody
brilliant
, that is. That’s not just a working title you’ve come up with, that
is
the title—
Intermezzo
. There can’t be a better word. Bloody perfect, it is. I . . . I don’t know . . . what to say.” He frowns again as he moves to the sofa.

He’s still focused on the pad and the solitary word when she thinks to take him her pen and explain that her phone’s been lighting up like a pinball machine. “I really should see what that’s all about, and there are some other calls I meant to take care of earlier.”

“Earlier, as in when you got here and found that I’d shown up before the appointed hour.”

“That would sum it up nicely.”

“You will come back, then?”

“Well yes, of course.”

Why would he ask? Why would he have to ask? Does his concern bespeak possessiveness more than dependency or the other way around? Is this only standard behavior for a much-catered-to rock star? Should she even care?

“I won’t be long,” she reassures, “just long enough for you to get started on those topics.”

In the outer office Amanda hands her a stack of messages.

“My god, what’s going on?” Laurel responds. “I shouldn’t have any calls this morning, at least not here.”

“That’s just it,” Amanda says, “all the people expecting to find you at home on a Saturday morning have called. One of them—a Mrs. Floss—has called three times, and Nate Isaacs has called twice.”

Laurel riffles through the messages. Amanda’s assessment is correct. Most are from intimates who wouldn’t think twice about phoning her at home on a Saturday morning. “I’ll be in the small conference room. If anyone else calls, transfer to that extension.”

“Will do, but what about him?” Amanda cocks her head in the direction of the inner office.

“I left something to keep him occupied, so please don’t disturb him. Okay?”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Closed inside the conference room with fifteen and more phone messages spread out on the table in front of her, Laurel debates which, if any, calls she’s inclined to return. Several are the equivalent of junk mail and can be set aside. Mrs. Floss gets an automatic pass, as does Ryan Walker for whom absence has not made the heart grow fonder. David’s not going to make the cut either, although he does deserve a progress report. Her brothers and sister can wait because chances are she’ll see them tomorrow. That leaves just Nate Isaacs to deal with or suffer the consequences.

She dials the number he left and prepares to hear an intermediary tell her to hold for Mr. Isaacs. Instead the great man picks up.

“Laurel Chandler returning your call.”

“Good morning, Ms. Chandler. Because he’s not at his hotel, I assume Colin’s with you.”

“He is in the building, but he’s busy at the moment. May I give him a message?”

Nate Isaacs pauses so long she begins to think the connection has broken. “He’s unable to come to the phone, is that it?” he finally says. “You
are
calling from work, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am at my place of business. I’m calling from a conference room while Mr. Elliot uses my private office to determine topical priorities for his biography-in-progress. I prefer not to disturb him unless there is real need.”

“I might have known.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Never mind. When you decide that he may be disturbed, please tell him Anthony’s caper was leaked to the papers. I have that on good authority. He also should be told that Saul Kingsolver’s putting up a fight and David Sebastian’s on it. Be sure to tell him reliable word has it that Sarjit Singh at the Rajah label is showing interest. And let him know Gibby Lester was found dead in his West Village shop yesterday, a presumed homicide. Oh, and there are a couple of recent purchases he needs to verify.”

“Does any of this require his immediate attention?”

“As in right this very minute? I suppose not. I would, however, like to hear from him the minute he’s free.”

“I’ll let him know, and the minute he’s free I’m sure he’ll be in touch.”

“Make it soon, okay?” I’m going to be hard to catch until Tuesday morning at the earliest. Which reminds—are you free to meet with me for dinner on Tuesday?”

“Dinner is not necessary.”

“Oh, I don’t know. A spoonful of caviar will certainly help the medicine go down, won’t it? Shall we say seven if that works for you? I’ll confirm by noon on Tuesday.”

“Very well. We’ll exchange confirmations by noon on Tuesday. Until then, good day.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Laurel scoops up all the messages and returns to Amanda’s territory, where she feeds them into the shredder one by one.

“Uh-oh,” Amanda says, “I’m guessing something didn’t go well and I’ll nominate Nate—”

“Went fine. No problem.” Laurel sails on into her own office, where she discovers Colin has drawn shooting stars and cascading hearts around her
Intermezzo
inscription and started what only can be another adventure of Jeremiah Barely-There in the space below.

“Oh, let me see.” She sits on the arm of the sofa and reads over his shoulder.

Look whose come to Goosemud Road
By way of the Alhambra
We find Vasco and Viola da Gamba (short 3 syllables, cadence)
He’s the almost explorer and all-round amusing fellow;
She’s the instrument of his desire and known as Mellow Cello
.

They’ve been to Argentina where they learned to dance the samba
They’ve passed through Vera Cruz where they learned to sing LA Bamba
Bellow hello (elaborate)
Shout Caramba (reorder)
Ravello (where)