“How did this happen?” Mary asked.
“Howard,” Goldie guessed.
“Howard,” Enid agreed. “I s’pose you could say I got some contractual difficulties.” He glanced over at Cal, eyes pleading. “I was hoping maybe you could help out, being a lawyer and all.”
Calvin stirred, a look of incredulity on his face. “You’re serious? A contract you signed with your manager is making your music… backfire? When Goldie said Magritte was protecting you from your manager, I had something a little more… physical in mind.”
Enid sighed. It was a sound that seemed to come up from the pit of his soul. “When I was hungry, barely scraping by on gig money, Howard and I made a gentleman’s agreement. Handshake deal. He did real well by me-got me choice gigs. Great gigs. I played at Legends, man- Buddy Guy’s club. This was no small shit. He got me seen by people-the right people. So, I signed an exclusive with him. He got me a recording deal with an outfit called Primal Records. Also exclusive. I gig when Howard says ‘gig,’ and if Howard doesn’t say ‘gig,’ I don’t. You follow? According to the contract, if I play without his say-so, there’s repercussions.”
He laid a subtle stress on that last word, and I could not help but think what a strange word it was, at once bland and full of threat. And, in this case, most descriptive. I could almost see the twisted consequences of Enid’s art ricocheting through an equally twisted reality, finding circuitous paths to unexpected victims.
Repercussions.
“But how can you be sure it’s the contract?” asked Mary. “Maybe it’s coincidence or something completely unrelated.”
Smiling what was not at all a smile, Enid reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and fetched out a thin sheaf of papers. Without ceremony, he crossed to the fireplace and tossed them into the flames. Then he put his hands in his pockets, leaned his shoulder against the mantel and watched them burn. We watched with him.
When the pages had completely blackened, Enid picked up a fireplace poker and stirred them to ash. Then he turned, reached into his jacket pocket a second time, and pulled out an identical sheaf of papers.
“When I left Chicago, I left this behind. I mean, with all that shit going down, who’s gonna think to take along a damned contract? But while we were on the road, I opened up my guitar case and there it was, lying on the bottom, all neat and tidy. I’ve tried tearing it up. I’ve tried throwing it in the river. I tried burning it three times, sayin’ prayers and singin’ hymns all the while. I’ve even had Mags try to get rid of it. It comes back. Every time.”
Cal was nodding, and I could see the lawyer mask slip into place and his eyes become winter landscapes. He held out his hand. “Let me take a look at it.”
While the others hovered over the document, speaking in hushed voices, I slipped over to Colleen’s chair and perched upon the arm. “May I ask,” I said, “why you are so much about the discovery of secret treachery?”
She turned her head enough to see me, but her eyes met mine only for an instant. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re not cynical enough.”
“Oh, yes. I’m such an idealist, such a Pollyanna. Always, the rose-colored glasses.”
“You are an idealist. You see people the way they want you to see them. You buy their hype.”
“Ah. Do I?”
She sat up straighter and met my eyes. “You do. It’s an endearing quality, Viktor, but stupid, and will probably someday get you killed. And it’s not just you. Goldie is hot for that cute little flare, and Cal’s hot for the Source, and he looks at Mary McCrae as if she were… I don’t know, Joan of Arc and Mother Teresa rolled into one. Somebody has to keep a straight head.”
“And that would be you, yes?”
“Somebody has to.”
“And how do you see them, boi baba?”
“As they are. I see them as they are.”
“Vitsishye glaz choozhoi da nyeh vidishyeh svoy,” I said. “What?”
“A proverb of old Russian grandmothers: ‘The eye that sees all things sees not itself.’ ”
“Yeah, well, I know a few proverbs myself, like: ‘Trust no one.’ And: ‘If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ ”
“Ah. And I suppose it’s because you are such an untrusting person that you are marching off into the heart of darkness with the rest of us?”
“I’m marching into the heart of darkness, as you put it, because it improves the odds. I’m not good with people, Doc, but I’ve got damn good survival skills, which have really come in handy lately, wouldn’t you say?”
She was right, of course. She had skills that very much increased the odds of Cal getting where he needed to go and doing what he needed to do. I could not help but contrast them with my own, which were conspicuously lacking.
Even Colleen’s dream had reminded her of something that now might be of use. It had reminded me only of a lesson I had learned most recently from my failure at the mill-that while I might be an asset in a medical emergency, I could be a liability when the goal was simple survival. An unpleasant truth. And despite Colleen’s belief to the contrary, my glasses were not rose-colored enough to disguise it.
TWELVE
CAL
I’m no entertainment lawyer, but legalese is legalese, and the intent of the contract was crystal clear. It relieved Enid Blindman of a great deal of personal control over his career and the music it rode in on.
The parties named in the contract were Enid himself (hereafter referred to as “the Artist”), Howard Russo (hereafter referred to as “Management”), and Primal Records (hereafter referred to as “Primal Records”).
Stripped of that squishy outer skin that legal jargon provides, the stipulations were draconian: the Artist was not to perform his music except with the express written consent of Management. Outside of Primal Studios, he could only record it by “special arrangement” with Management and Primal Records. And heaven help the poor fan who bought a bootleg tape or CD.
All in all, it was a fabric I was more than familiar with. I had constructed contracts like it with my own two hands and glibly defended their provisions, trying to be worthy of Ely Stern’s regard. The thought turned my stomach and made my skin itch. I recalled that Tina’s skin had itched while she was changing.
If there were a God, I’d pray that He let me redeem myself in some way before I mutated into something in keeping with my occupation. Alas, alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees. If I changed right now, I might end up as a viper with good intentions.
I gave the contract a second thorough reading, underlined a few clauses, jotted a few notes, then sat back and stretched, aimlessly clicking the point of my pen in and out. It was late… or early, depending on how you looked at it. The Lodge’s roomy lounge was quiet except for the snap and crackle of the fire in the grate. Beyond the aura of the lamp, it was swathed in moody but comforting shadow.
Mary had gone up to bed, Colleen and Doc were curled up in opposing chairs on either side of the fire. They seemed in emotional opposition just now, too. It bothered me-the strange static between the two of them. But I couldn’t afford the head space at the moment to worry it or puzzle it out. Later, I told myself. Later, I’d talk to Colleen.
Enid was drowsing, too, his breathing labored, his lanky frame draped over one end of the rustic plaid sofa. Magritte had fallen asleep and come to rest on the sofa’s lumpy padding, her head in Enid’s lap. Goldie was hunkered down at the fireplace, trying to make coffee.
I had contemplated putting this off until I’d had some sleep, but it was hard to look at Enid and imagine sleeping. In all probability I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway until I’d at least gotten a handle on the legal issues. There was a mystical part of me that hoped I might ingest the contents of Enid’s contract while my very literal consciousness was half asleep, then digest it while I was fully asleep.