The Hour of the Innocents Page 20

  She came out of the corridor that led to the ladies’ room and headed straight for me. As if I wore a neon sign with her name on it.

  She smiled: Grace Slick on the cover of Surrealistic Pillow.

  “You were bad, man. I mean, you guys were evil.”

  Joan understood a lot of things.

  “I guess that’s a compliment.”

  She laid a flame-shaped hand upon my sleeve. “Oh, come off it. You know you were great.”

  I had believed that she drew me because she was sane. But kindness was Joan’s real attraction. Beyond the splendid sex and cynic’s veneer, she was kind. Without calculation.

  “Joan, I just—”

  A sleek dude stepped between us. Hair long, but not too long. Gold-rimmed glasses, trimmed mustache, clear skin. He wore a leather jacket that looked as if native servants had saddle-soaped it for months. I pegged him for late twenties or early thirties.

  “If I’m not intruding, I’d like a word,” he said.

  The sunshine girl of sex, Joan smiled. “You know how to reach me, when you want to,” she said, then headed straight for the exit.

  Mr. Cool held out his hand. He looked West Coast, or maybe Manhattan. Those were worlds I knew only from magazines and books, so I couldn’t read all the signals. But he didn’t look Philly.

  “Milt Ehrlich,” he said. “Eclecta Records.”

  I shook his hand. He gave me a business card. In the bad light, I could just make out his name, the logo of the label, and “Artists and Repertoire.”

  In the background, Cupid’s musicians were finally taking the stage, plugging in and screwing around with their tuning.

  My new acquaintance followed my eyes.

  “I didn’t come down from New York for those clowns,” he said. “The closing act was the draw. Mind if we go in the dressing room and talk?”

  I didn’t mind.

  As we crossed the hall, I saw Larry Masters leaning against a vertical beam, alone. Of all the different kinds of alone you can be, he looked the worst. I suppose the whole scene seemed a lurid bacchanal to him, a mockery of what he’d been through, of his recent whys and wherefores. Or maybe he had understood more about Matty’s playing than he could bear.

  Milt Ehrlich and I sat down in the smaller dressing room, which had been abandoned. The stink from the nearby toilet trumped a ghost of pot.

  “You’re the songwriter,” he said. “Am I right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You look like the songwriter.” He smiled a big-city smile. “Frankly, you wouldn’t be in that band if you weren’t. You’re not bad, but they’re better.” He interlaced his fingers and pulled them apart again. “Your lead guitar player’s got the best chops I’ve heard in a long time. And the singer, the guy on bass, has great stage presence.” His eyes drilled harder. “You’re not signed to anybody?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad. Your songs are good, by the way. They grab the ear and stick with you. Good arrangements. A producer could work with that material. How many originals on your playlist?”

  “Seventeen,” I said immediately. “We’re working on two more.”

  “Same quality as what you played tonight?”

  I shrugged. “To the extent I can judge.”

  “It really was a powerful set, one serious trip. And I almost didn’t make the scene in time to catch it, I was waiting on a call from the coast.” His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. “I don’t think you made yourselves any friends in the other groups on the bill, though. Where are you boys from?”

  “Pottsville.” It was the only town of ours that I thought he might know.

  “Pottstown?”

  “No. Pottsville. Up the line, in coal country. Schuylkill County.”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’ve driven through there. Never felt the urge to stop.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend stopping.”

  “Tough place?”

  “Tough place.”

  “And you’re hungry. All of you. Right? I mean, you’ve got an edge—I wouldn’t want to meet your guitar player in a dark alley. Or the drummer, for that matter. You’re not exactly living off Daddy’s checkbook, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Cut a demo yet?”

  “We’re going into the studio soon. In January.”

  “Send it to me. The address is on the card. Call me and let me know it’s coming so it doesn’t end up in a stack somewhere.” He reached into the pocket of that flawless leather jacket and drew out a gold-trimmed pen. “Give me the card back for a second. Or never mind.” He pulled out another card, wrote a word on the back, and handed it to me.

  The word was “cacophony.”

  “It’s a code,” he told me. “Say it when you call. It tells my secretary to put you through, that you’re not bullshit. If I’m not in, she’ll take a message and make sure it gets to me. So … just curious now … what would you think about signing with Eclecta? I don’t mean we’re there yet. Far from it. I need to hear a tape, see you a few more times, run it all by Mac Steinman and a producer or two before we get to serious talking. But how do you feel about the label?”

  I tried to be cool, to keep my excitement under reasonable control. Eclecta was the in label, known for the best sound engineering and production in the business. A few of its bets had gone huge in the past few years, elevating the label from hipster obscurity to wide cult status. Eclecta was the label serious groups aspired to be on.

  “It’s a good label,” I said. “Good sound quality. Good bands.”

  “And we don’t cook the books, by the way. Ask anybody who’s signed with us. We don’t pay as much up front, I’ll tell you that right now, but our groups actually get their royalty checks.” He grinned. “And don’t tell me it’s all about the music, not the money. Even if you believe it. Get an album out, and see if you’re not checking the mailbox every single day. Happens to every group that walks into a studio.”

  “It’s all about the music,” I said.

  He answered with a slow, knowing nod. “The songwriters always say that. It’s always the songwriters who’re pure as Orphan Annie. Then they go to court over their publishing rights, fighting for every last penny. But look, Will. Do your demo. And don’t rush it, I can’t sell anybody up in New York on a rush job. Take your time, get it right. Then send it to me.” He rolled back in his chair, as if nursing a bad spine. “I take it you haven’t even been talking to other labels, to anybody else?”

  “No.”

  “Well, if they approach you, talk to them all you want. But don’t sign anything. Not until you’ve had a chance to do your homework. Based on this one hearing, I think the Innocents would be a good fit with Eclecta. Frankly, we just signed a political-activist band from Detroit that isn’t a quarter as good. So give me a chance to make the case. To you and to my people. Once we’ve got a solid demo.” He glanced toward the door. “Speaking of the business end … that guy who had your lead singer cornered?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “Well, take my word for it. Your pal was talking to Danny Luegner. He’s in the management game. Thinks he’s a producer, too. But he’s strictly Mummers Parade. Philly, not Manhattan.” Milt Ehrlich’s facial muscles tightened. “I’m not into put-downs, not my thing. Negativity’s a bummer. But—and I’m telling you this for your own good—don’t sign anything Danny Luegner puts in front of you. Nothing, never. Danny isn’t Santa Claus. Nobody in the game wants to deal with him, outside of some Mob clubs and one-hit-wonder labels with zombie engineers. Eclecta won’t have anything to do with him, I can promise you that. Not under any circumstances. Mac hates him, and Mac doesn’t hate many people, he’s very Zen. Danny Luegner’s the original scumbag. If he ever gets your name on a contract, he’ll tie you up in knots for the rest of your life. And it won’t be about the music for Danny, I’m ashamed to call him a landsman.”

  He pulled out a silver case and offered me a thin black cigarette. I shook my
head. He lit up. “I wouldn’t give him my piss to drink if he was dying of thirst in the desert. Don’t lose my card, all right? Your band has a future, Will. I’ve heard enough bands to know. Just keep your shit together.”

  Then he was gone.

  When I went back out into the hall, Cupid was wrapping up its set. It had not been their night. The applause faded quickly.

  Angela appeared beside me. We both looked at the stage. Reviving an old habit, she leaned her shoulder against my upper arm.

  “You were fantastic,” she said.

  “Matty was great.”

  “Matty was beyond great. But the whole band was fantastic. You know how you looked? I mean, you yourself?”

  “No. How did I look?”

  “You looked like you always wanted to look. For once. Mr. Rock Star. For real. So who was that guy you went off with?”

  “He’s from a record company.”

  She pulled away. “Well, go find Frankie and tell him. Some little fucking Jew has him cornered. Does that mean you’ll get a recording contract?”

  “Maybe. We’ve got to do the demo. It’s complicated.”

  “Figure it out, okay?” She grew pensive. Uncharacteristically so. “I need you to figure it out, Will.”

  A cast of light revealed her worsening skin.

  “I’ll do my best,” I told her.

  Angela cackled. “You really were great, you know that? The rock star under the fancy lights. With the girls all lined up. It’s a shame Little Miss Genius wasn’t here, ain’t?”

  She reached up and gave me the last fallen-angel kiss I would ever receive from her. Even her lips felt too thin.

  * * *

  We stopped for coffee at the Howard Johnson’s on the turnpike. Adorned with Santa caps, the waitresses working the night shift just wanted the pain to stop.

  Crammed into two booths, we were simultaneously weary and buzzed, aglow with vanity and wreathed in cigarette smoke: the band, Joey and Pete, plus Angela and her tribe of Catholic school girls who’d decided they didn’t want to become nuns after all. I drank black coffee and ate a brownie.

  “This guy’s talking serious money,” Frankie said. “I mean, he’s ready to go.”

  I swallowed. Too fast. “I told you what the guy from Eclecta said. Nobody in the business—nobody serious—will deal with that guy. Danny Luegner’s notorious.”

  “All I know is he says he can deliver. I’m all for giving him a chance. Anyway, how do you know that guy was really from Eclecta? He could’ve been some phony trying to come off as a big deal, some plastic fuck.”

  I pulled out the business card again.

  “He could’ve had that printed up,” Frankie declared. “Anyway, those Jews are always trying to give it to each other up the ass. I wouldn’t trust any of them without a signed contract.”

  “Yeah, and how many Jews do you know?” Angela asked from the adjoining booth.

  “You stay out of this. Listen, this Luegner guy wants to sit down and talk turkey.”

  “How do you know he’s not a phony?” I asked.

  “He manages Cupid. That’s why he was there tonight.”

  “Yeah, they’re really going places.”

  “They weren’t so bad.”

  “They weren’t so good, either,” I said.

  “They weren’t,” Matty agreed. Stosh did a drumroll on the tabletop.

  A sour-faced waitress poured another round of coffee. “You know, I can’t tell the boys from the girls anymore,” she said. She’d already given up on her tip.

  “You probably never could,” Angela told her.

  “You, you’re a little hussy, if ever I saw one,” the waitress said. “With that bleach-blond hair.” She slumped off.

  “You’re a hussy, Angela,” Frankie said. “You hear that? With bleached hair.”

  “And you never noticed? Yeah, that’s me. Mrs. Franklin T. Starkovich. I guess I should pull my pants down and show her.”

  “Look,” I said, “the first thing we need to do is to get in the studio and cut the demo. And we need to do it right. I mean, this is it, this could be our break. We’ve got a guy at Eclecta Records interested, for God’s sake. That’s what we always wanted.”

  “That’s what you always wanted,” Frankie said. He chuckled. “I’m holding out for Reprise. Me and Frank Sinatra. I could dig that.” He started singing “Strangers in the Night.” Making a show of eyeing up the waitress, who was wiping the counter and chewing her lip.

  “Give her a break,” I said. Waitresses, the beaten-down ones, conjured my father. He was always a good tipper, even when times were hard. He told me never to stiff the little guy. He never understood that he was a little guy himself.

  “Get her phone number,” Stosh said, knocking off a flam with his index fingers. “Bark wants her phone number.”

  “You shut up,” Angela told him. “Red needs to put some manners on you. Will’s trying to tell you something.”

  Frankie’s expression shifted. Then he smiled again. “When Angela was little, she always wanted a hamster. She got Bark instead.”

  “Let’s just do the demo tape, all right?” I said. “Then we can talk managers and record deals. Meanwhile, we’ve got all the work we can handle.”

  “We’ll have more after tonight,” Stosh agreed.

  Matty yawned. When he stretched, his arms became a wingspan.

  “We need to do the demo tape,” he said. “Right after the holidays. Then we’ll see.”

  And that was that.

  “Ask that old bitch for separate checks,” Frankie said. “Just to piss her off.”

  As we crowded out past the locked-up gift shop, I told them, “I’ll be right back.” It was a kid’s gesture, but I went back inside and laid a buck on the table by the pennies they’d left as a mockery of a tip. I apologized to the waitress for our behavior. She was too tired to be interested.

  One of Angela’s friends waited for me outside by a newspaper box. She asked if she could ride home with me.

  I told her no.

  SEVENTEEN

  I finished re-stringing my Les Paul, then pulled on a coat and went out to get the mail. I received one card, but it was the best of the season.

  “Happy Halloween” had been crossed out and “Merry Christmas” penned in underneath. The image was of a grinning witch on a broomstick, flying across a huge orange moon.

  Joan was cool. She didn’t sign it or show a return address: nothing to give a jealous girlfriend evidence.

  I needed the boost. It was Christmas Eve. I tried to put a good face on it but felt about as lonely as the old not-quite-bums in the Davis Hotel lobby. The impulse to dial Joan’s number hit me powerfully, but I mastered myself. Despite a growing disenchantment that I could not admit, I was determined to be Laura’s white knight. Angela’s revelations hadn’t released me, they’d sentenced me.

  Anyway, Joan would have Christmas plans. The family thing, at least. Calling her only to be put off seemed a worse prospect than not calling her at all.

  I didn’t know what to do about, or for, Laura. I tried to love her nobly, but her final exams confounded my best intentions. She studied obsessively, treating me as an annoyance, almost an enemy. There were nights when I felt like a mere bedroom appliance. Laura fucked with grim determination, ever less interested in pleasing me. Off the mattress, she became abusive, deriding my music. She challenged me to drop the guitar and “write seriously.” But to me, rock verged on the sacred. We, the music makers, were the apostles of a new art form. Laura was scornful.

  I did write a short story. To please her. And to show her that I could. She read it in my presence and grew livid.

  “You plagiarized that,” she said. Peering at me past eyelid battlements. “You copied that, you stole it.”

  I hadn’t. I was furious.

  “From who? Where? Tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” she told me. “I haven’t read everything in the world.”

  “Then ho
w do you know I copied it?”

  She put on an expression that sought to be knowing and superior but just looked miffed and bitchy.

  “I know,” she said.

  But she didn’t know. And I was incensed when, in an odd way, I should have been complimented. But I had been up against the charge before. In tenth grade, I wrote a melodramatic poem of a dozen quatrains for an English class and a teacher I admired. Called to the principal’s office, I found the teacher waiting with an accusation of plagiarism. Prefiguring Laura, he could not say from whom or where I’d lifted it, but he thought the poem too good for student work.

  The poem was entirely mine. Seething and self-righteous, I stood up for myself. Lacking evidence, the teacher soon backed down—disappointing the principal, who saw me as pure trouble. The irony was that the poem was utterly wretched. By the time I began to grow my hair, the thought that I had written such mush mortified me.

  After dismissing my story—just before she went home for Christmas break—Laura demanded a major bedroom performance. I did my best. For the first time in my life, I found making love a chore.

  Between sex and sleep, Laura clung to me terribly, a cartoon character grasping a branch at the cliff’s edge. In the morning, she told me she didn’t think I should waste my time trying to write.

  And yet, she was piercingly beautiful. My sense of her physical being had been the product not of infatuation, but of judgment. Her profile belonged to an Edith Wharton heroine.

  For Christmas, I gave her an emerald-and-gold French scarf. She admired it politely, wore it around the apartment, and then forgot it when she left for the bus station. She gave me a paperback of Flaubert’s Sentimental Education, unwrapped, commenting that it was better when read in French.

  Devils chased her.

  My mother was gone for the holidays, too, but that was a relief. Our relationship had been improving, but I was plagued by the memory of the Christmas before, when our dinner together in the old house had pantomimed a Eugene O’Neill play. This year, she’d been invited to Florida by a Swarthmore chum. Palm Beach sounded like a suck-ass place to me, but I got the sense that my mother was going to be introduced to an eligible bachelor.