Revenant Rising (70 page)

He returns to the bathroom, has second thoughts about going unshaven and about the length of his hair, which he meant to have trimmed a good ten days ago. Too late to do anything about either one now, and too late to make a production out of what to wear. If the blokes shooting the video don’t fancy his clothing choices of jeans, standard T-shirt and last night’s tuxedo jacket, then let them come up with something better. And he doesn’t much give a shit what his first appointment of the day thinks of his appearance.

Whilst he’s rather relishing freedom from hair stylists and wardrobe specialists, Bemus comes in to remind he’s not altogether liberated.

“We better get movin’ or the boss’ll be dockin’ our pay,” Bemus says, without knowing why a tired old joke gets a laugh this morning of all mornings.

The ride down Fifth and over to Broadway goes quicker than anticipated. Tom Jensen, who’s done the driving, lets them off in front of Nate’s building with minutes to spare. On the way to the massive brass doors, Bemus stares down any passersby inclined to gawk at the celebrity crossing their path.

On Nate’s floor they’re left to cool their heels in an otherwise unoccupied reception area furnished by Mies van der Rohe and decorated by Marc Chagall. Impressive as hell, if that’s where a bloke’s taste runs. Lillian, Nate’s PA, whom he’s only ever talked to on the phone, comes for him at the stroke of nine a.m., leaving Bemus free to contemplate whether the mobile suspended from the fourteen-foot ceiling is a Calder or a good imitation.

Nate’s private office is no less posh—which could start a bloke wondering just how much of this poshness comes from music business earnings. But percentages were never an issue; at no time in their long history have they ever mixed it up over money, and the trust that’s now lacking in their relationship is not of the sort that would have him calling for an independent audit.

Nate stands to greet him. “When I fielded your crack-of-dawn message earlier, I was pleasantly surprised that you wanted to meet here instead of your hotel.”

“I’m not doin’ you a favor, I’ve got other business that brings me in this general direction.” Colin takes a chair and assumes an insolent posture.

“May I offer you a light breakfast? Coffee? Perhaps a little hair of the dog after last night’s festivities?”

“I didn’t have any dog last night. Too much else to see to, same as today, so we can skip the refreshments interval and get right to it.”

“By all means.” Nate resumes his seat, displays a quizzical expression, the only indication he’s not in complete control of the meeting.

“You happen to work out this morning?” Colin says.

“No, why do you ask?”

“If you had, you would’ve seen that your housekeeping staff’s let you down. Rubbish was left lying round your gym where just anyone could see it. Sloppy, actually.”

For a ridiculous tick or two Nate appears to think a complaint’s been lodged about untidiness. Then, as full realization takes hold, Nate doesn’t so much as blink. “The investigator’s report on Laurel—the letter from the Icon people,” he says in a calm matter-of-fact way. A maddening way.

“Yeh. You might wanna stay close to your radio and keep an eye on your fax machine today.”

“If you haven’t already spread the word, I’ll save you the trouble. You can have my resignation right this minute. Let me call Lillian in to—”

“That’s it? No arguments, no pleadings?”

“What for? I’m guilty as charged. I went against your express wishes and had Laurel investigated. While I am profoundly sorry an operative with paparazzi ambitions may have caused her some unnecessary concern, I’m not at all sorry I ordered the background check. Given your history, I’d have been remiss not to. And if you’re so inclined, you can undoubtedly bring charges against me for misrepresenting your wishes to the organizers of the Icon Awards show. So . . . there you have it. Shall I have Lillian bring in the—”

“Yeh, have her get on it straightaway and when she’s done she can bring it to reception where I’ll be waiting.”

“Bugger all,” Colin grumbles when he’s out of earshot and feeling cheated. Aside from not engaging in a battle of words, he didn’t get to deliver the big farewell speech that gave credit where credit was due for Nate’s unquestionable saving of his life and fostering of his career—both before and after the accident—and went on to talk of the sort of indebtedness that can never be repaid and the sort of management that can never be tolerated.

Bemus, who’s not been told the reason for the stop here, looks surprised to see him back so soon and even more surprised when he plunks down in one of the architectural chairs like his appointment’s been deferred. Telling Bemus can wait. Telling other close associates can wait. But telling Laurel of the ending of an era and all those other things she needs to know can’t wait much beyond now if he’s ever going to settle down enough to get through the rest of the day.

He helps himself to the phone in a nearby conference room and figures out how to get an outside line. A call to Laurel’s hotel comes up against the same roadblock as before; a call to her office comes up empty, even though it’s now past nine and business hours should have begun.

“Shit,” he mutters and moves to rejoin Bemus, inwardly cursing the unbreakable ten o’clock booking that will see him trapped in a film studio instead of breaking into Laurel’s hotel room.

“Nate said to give you this.” Bemus hands over a sealed business-size envelope. “He said he didn’t wanna disturb you while you were on the phone.”

“Of course he didn’t, because by not disturbing me he’s managed to disturb me even more.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“No. C’mon, we’re done here.”

As seen from the Queensboro Bridge, the Long Island City landscape matches his frame of mind for bleakness and incoherent development. Alone in the back seat of the hired Jaguar, Colin scowls at the massive Silvercup sign when it looms up, pointing the way to their destination. He waits for one or the other of the lads to joke that there’s more bread in not making bread, but the only comment is Tom Jensen’s wondering aloud which part of the former bakery houses the music video stages. That question is answered when they spot a pair of limos disgorging Rayce’s usual retinue and Rayce himself.

“Bloody hell,” Colin says, “he’s not supposed to be here.”

“That’s not the way I heard it,” Bemus says.

“He’s not supposed to be here
yet
, fuckwit. He may have aided in piggybacking what I wanted on top of his studio time, but I didn’t cut any deal calling for him to be in the audience. Or in the video.”

Bemus and Tom exchange mock-alarmed looks, but they’re both smart enough to keep any wise-arse remarks to themselves as he exits the car, a bit befogged by something he’s loathe to call stage fright even though there’s no other name for it.

When they meet at the entrance, Rayce is as subdued as he ever is and without explanation for his early arrival. As they’re escorted—minus respective retinues—by a Silvercup rep to a destination deep within the building, Rayce’s chatter is minimal, touching only on what a long day this will be and what a long night last night was. Colin has even less to say. Especially about last night. All he can focus on now is finding a phone. Public will do, and if one can’t be found, he’ll pull rank and demand use of a private one.

But it appears phoning will have to wait when they’re ushered into a smallish studio where the band’s already set up and the technicians are making last-minute adjustments to the lighting. The setting is as asked for, a rather barebones audition-tape sort of backdrop with no otherworldly ornamentations in evidence or blue screens indicating the filmshoot could be morphed into one of those concept videos that would have him dancing on the ceiling or romancing a cartoon character.

“Ready when you are, Mr. Elliot.” An assistant director shows him where to position himself on a worn oriental rug that’s a touch of home. A soundman mics him, checks for feedback and echo; a guitar technician hands him an instrument belonging to Rayce that’s the next best thing to one of his own, so he has no good excuse for the uneasiness assailing him. And Rayce has disappeared into the dim beyond, so it can’t be the ancient hero–worship bugaboo making him feel nervous as a novice condom user.

The hastily made arrangements are without detectable fault. The musicians are beyond reproach, as was amply demonstrated by their performance at Static Studios a few nights ago. The director is a household name amongst discriminating filmgoers, and with time of the essence, there is no adequate reason to stall longer than the minutes already wasted on trying to pinpoint what’s wrong.

At the director’s go-ahead and a nod from him, the keyboard intro commences, joined by bass and drums that announce his lead and he knows in a flash what’s wrong. The words coming out of him are banal greeting card sentiments at best, unadulterated dreck at worst, and the snap decision to make this video for Laurel has to be the lamest most cowardly effort since Chamberlain sat down with Hitler.

He stops cold, prepared to walk away from the project regardless of cost to pocket or reputation, and a familiar overused voice from somewhere out there shouts, “Go to it, lad, or I swear to god I will.”

If any of the lot know what Rayce is referring to, they’re not letting on. The musicians regroup as a matter of routine.

“Ready when you are, Mr. Elliot,” the director repeats the phrase of the day with practiced forbearance and they begin anew. This time he makes it to the bridge before words that sounded good enough when written a week ago and still acceptable ten minutes ago, again come across as trite and ineffectual. He perseveres only because he knows like he knows the Queen is Anglican, that if he doesn’t see this through, Rayce will make good on his threat and take great and devilish delight in portraying a musical Cyrano on his behalf.

Three more takes put him in better synch with the director. With each repeat he’s less critical of the lyrics. But the longer this drags, on the more he feels he can do better—that inspiration doesn’t always guarantee excellence. In that respect, Nate could be in the room, eternally faultfinding and pushing for him to surpass himself—one of the reasons Nate is not in the room. In the midst of realizing he was also cheated of the chance to apprise Nate of the other changes brought about last night, he’s summoned back to the present by the assistant director.

“Fifteen minute break,” the bloke says and points to an overlooked bank of pay phones in a far corner of the studio when asked.

Colin dials Laurel’s office number first. At a bit after eleven she must be at work and maybe even eager to hear from him by now. Amanda picks up, confirms Laurel is indeed there, but indisposed, whatever in hell that’s supposed to mean.

“Are you sayin’ she won’t take my call? Did she tell you to say that?”

“She wasn’t specific to you but—”

“Then put me through.”

“I should warn you, she’s not herself.”

“Who the hell is these days? Now let me talk to her.”

“Okay, but you may be sorry. She has a killer hangover.”

“Well she didn’t get it from me.”

There’s a lot of muffled background talk before Laurel comes on the line “Yes?” she says as though she can’t possibly imagine why he’s half mad with trying to get through to her.

“About last night . . . please,
please
let me explain.”

“You’ve nothing to explain. Last night was a lovely business occasion. Very enlightening.”

“Laurel . . . Please don’t do this. Not on our last day, not when there’s so much else you need to know.”

“What else could I possibly need to know that your designees haven’t told me?”

“For one, that I’ve split with Nate, and wanted you to hear about it directly from—”

“You did not!”

“I did. And I wanted you to be first to know because you figured into the—”

“How
could
you?”

“How could I not? He was going behind my back at every turn and—”

“That’s the
worst
dumbest most stupid ungrateful rotten thing I ever heard of. Don’t you
know
when you’re well off?”

“Hey! You can’t talk to me that way. You’re not in charge of me. Not yet.”

“Yet?
Yet
? Don’t make me laugh. As though I would
ever
want to be in charge of you. David’s
entirely
welcome to you. You deserve each other. He never knew when
he
was well off either.”

“Laurel! No! You’ve got it all wrong. David’s got nothing to do with my decision, and he’s not my new manager.”

He feels compelled to go on talking even though she broke the connection right after he said her name in alarm. He eats up another minute of the four remaining by marveling at how fast and furious things can go wrong. Given this turn of events, he’d now be altogether justified in walking away from the video shoot. Quite. But he returns to it with the vigor and determination that eluded him earlier.

At the start of take six, whatever new dynamic he’s brought to the proceedings sparks everyone. It’s not hard imagining it as a sort of St. Elmo’s fire, zapping about, casting coronas, infusing the opening bars of the introduction with an electrical charge that can’t be ignored.

The first time I saw you, I knew I’d never be the same.

The line, however lacking in originality, now fairly crackles with portent.

I
. . .
loved you before I even knew your name.

Fair enough warning there with more to come in the unexpected syncopations and chordings of two verses dealing with self-denial, deprivation and unrelieved want.

He bends low over the guitar, urging from it a shrieking three-octave riff before the muttering bass signals the final repeat of the chorus.