“They can get to be real assholes, some of them. And the ones who come across nicest on the interview shows and at Fan Fair and stuff like that are usually the biggest assholes of all.”
“Was Rebecca one of them? Did she have the big head?”
Ray hesitated, unsure, I thought, of what he really wanted to say. “A woman with Rebecca Gibson’s talent was entitled to be a prima donna,” he said. “You don’t realize the pressure that’s on these people. Of course, you’re going to be difficult when you go through what these people go through. Especially when it takes as long as it did for Rebecca.”
“Did it take a long time for her to get a break?”
“Rebecca Gibson worked her butt off for over ten years before she started to make even a little bit of money. Anybody who works in this business long enough gets hard, Harry. You got to be. Nice guys get served up on a plate. So you’ve got the natural, understandable artist’s temperament combined with a residue of vinegar left over from the struggle and all the times she got screwed. The two albums she did early on that cratered. All the broken promises, the rip-offs. Hell, the heartbreak.”
“So she was difficult?”
Ray sighed. “Man, you hit her on the wrong day, she’d rip your face off and stuff it down your throat before you could get your jaw shut back.”
“Funny,” I said, “she seemed just sort of flaky on the stage. Cute and flighty.”
Ray snorted. “That’s the act, man.”
“Woman like that must have made a lot of enemies. Tell me about this Faye Morgan.”
“Faye Morgan,” he said. “Best booking agent in the business. One of the few booking agents with a reputation for being straight with artists and promoters both.
Usually an agent will lean toward lying to one more than the other. But not Faye. She lies equally to both.”
“I thought you said she was straight.”
“In this business, if you lie to everybody equally, you are straight.”
Christ, I thought. What am I getting myself into?
“Great, so how are they connected?”
“Faye and Mac worked out a deal about six months ago, giving Faye exclusive rights to schedule and arrange dates for Rebecca. See, Rebecca’s got an album in the can. Supposed to be out next month. Everybody figures it’s going to be her breakout album. Coming out on Sanctuary Records.”
“Never heard of them.”
“Hottest independent company in the business,” he said.
“Why an independent? Why not one of the big companies?”
“Sanctuary’s independent, but they’re distributed by Warner,” he explained. “They’ve thrown a lot of money behind this album. It’s all contracts, man. Numbers and contracts.”
“Which can be forged, torn up, changed …”
“At the drop of a hat,” he said.
“So the hottest booking agent, the hottest manager, and the hottest independent record company were all getting behind Rebecca Gibson.”
“You got it, big guy. Rebecca Gibson was going to be fire in the sky.”
“Only now she’s the coldest thing going-a corpse in a casket.”
Ray gritted his teeth and forced a smile in my direction. “Harry, you got a weird sense of humor.”
Ray continued on for another hour with his insider’s account of the music biz. Funny, I’d gone through my phase of wanting to be a musician. The attention, the glamour, the babes. Great fantasy, only in my case I spent most of my daydreaming playing air clarinet to Benny Goodman records rather than air guitar to Dire Straits. I liked the stuff I heard back in the Sixties, but my father had a collection of old jazz 78s that really stole my heart. I’ll take the Quartet’s Palomar Ballroom recording of “Vibraphone Blues” over “Sympathy for the Devil” any day. Charlie Watts hasn’t got a thing on Gene Krupa.
Fortunately for the music world, I gave up that fantasy early. And the more I learned about the music business, the more I realized how fortunate it was for me as well.
I sat down in my office, alone now, and reviewed my notes. Where should I start? There were so many people who might have wanted to take a shot at her. Jealousies, rivalries, old simmering hatreds that erupt in passion and violence and blood. Treacheries and betrayals, lies and counterlies and counter-counterlies.
I shook my head, trying to stay focused. Too much to think about lately, all this chaos. Maybe I should run downstairs and get the late edition of the afternoon paper, check up on the day’s developments.
I threw my coat on, but the phone rang just as I was headed for the door. I reached for it instinctively, quickly, then stopped with my hand just above the handset. I fingered the tape in my pocket, the one where somebody had told me to enjoy these last few days of mine. What if …?
To hell with it. If it’s the same caller again, damn him, let him hear my voice. He can’t hide behind an answering machine forever, and neither can I.
I picked up the phone. “Denton Agency,” I said, coldly, professionally, partially holding my breath.
“I need a private dick.”
I spewed out a breath and giggled like a teenager. “Well, honey, you’ve come to the right place.”
“Good,” Marsha said. “I’m beginning to miss you a lot.”
“Just beginning?”
“Okay, already missing you a lot.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s any great comfort, the hormone levels are climbing into the stratosphere on this end, too. How are you? How long can you talk?”
“I’m fine. Who knows how long this blasted phone will hold out. They allowed food and supplies through today. We got Sterno, soap, batteries, and flashlights. But you know what they sent us to eat?”
“What?”
“MREs.”
“MR whats?”
“Meals Ready to Eat. Government supplies. Can you believe that?”
“Oh, no. You mean that freeze-dried shit?”
“Apt description,” she said, then sighed. “Oh, they’re not inedible. Filling, reasonably nutritious. But tasteless.”
“When you’re a free woman, we’ll hit the best restaurant in a four-state area. My treat.”
“Something with spices and sauces and bottles of wine, right?”
“You got it.”
“I think I’m becoming sensorially deprived,” she said. “All I’ve thought about for the last day and a half is food and sex. Not necessarily in that order. What have you been up to today?”
“We went to court for Slim’s preliminary hearing.”
“How bad is it?”
“As much as I hate to admit it, he could’ve killed her.”
“You think he did?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“You sound pretty preoccupied with it.”
“I was,” I answered, “until you called. Now my preoccupations have changed. How’s Kay holding up?”
Marsha’s voice lowered. “Frankly, she’s becoming insufferable. For the first day or so, she was as terrified as a cornered rabbit. But now she’s convinced we’re safe in here and she’s yacking away at ninety miles a minute all the time. And I can’t get away from her. The politics in here are weird, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there are five of us in here. Me, Kay, and three morgue attendants.”
“Let me guess: the three morgue attendants are all male.”
“And all under about twenty-five.”
“You don’t have to say it. I got the picture.”
Five people trapped together in tight quarters: two women, one in charge, and three young males. Yes, I thought, the dynamics could get a little touchy.
“So we’re all doing our level best, but frankly, it’s getting tough. I’m afraid we’ll kill each other before the wackos can get to us.”
I rubbed my forehead and fought the cramp that had erupted in the crook of my neck from having the phone jammed in there.
“Jeez, Marsh, I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just hang in there. We’ll be all right.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re being held hostage and you’re cheering me up. What’s wrong with this picture?”