Long Black Curl (29 page)

“I'm
from
the twenty-first century,” Blasco said desperately. “Can you take me back, too?”

“Sorry,” Bo-Kate said, and touched him with the lipstick Taser. He let out a rippling cry of pain and collapsed beside the fire.

“What the hell was that?” Byron said, and limped away from her.

“Magic,” she said. “Come on.”

“No fucking way, whoever you are.”

“Byron, do you want to get revenge on the people who took you away from your wife and daughter? If you do, I can take you to them.”

He looked at her. His mind was clear, but overwhelmed with what he'd seen. He wanted to doubt her, but something told him that everything he'd heard was true, including her offer to put those responsible within his grasp.

“Wait, I have to put on my leg brace,” he said. He quickly took off his jeans and strapped the brace around his withered left leg. His bad leg was much smaller than his other, the muscles atrophied and stringy beneath puckered, scarred skin. When he finished, he said, “Okay, which way?”

“Wait,” she said, and walked over to him. She snuggled close and held up the phone. He saw both their faces on the screen. “Say cheese,” she said, and smiled.

He didn't. The flash made him blink, but he did glimpse the picture before the little screen went blank.

“What the hell kind of camera is that?” he asked.

“You'll see lots of things like this,” she said. “And can I ask you a favor? Give me that pick you've been using.”

“Why?”

She smiled, shy and seductive. “Because I'm a huge fan of yours, Byron. I bought all your records. I even ordered ‘The Girl Won't Stop' from Germany when they wouldn't release it here for being so ‘suggestive.' I'd love to have a real pick that you once used.”

He took the pick from his jacket pocket and gave it to her. She put it away and said, “Now. Follow me.”

“Which way?”

She grinned. “Downhill. It's all downhill from here.”

*   *   *

Bo-Kate looked at the sleeping form of Byron Harley, sprawled on his back in one of the old guest rooms. He was drunk, and the special valerian root she'd slipped into the moonshine had made certain he quickly passed out. She needed him out of commission while she decided her next step.

“So now that I've got you,” she said softly to herself, “what do I do with you?”

“You really can't figure that out?” a familiar voice said almost in her ear.

She didn't turn. “He's famous, and everyone thought he was dead. Am I supposed to claim I resurrected him?”

Rockhouse chuckled. “Good thing I'm sticking around to help you out. What makes this big ole sum'bitch valuable is that he's a
secret.
Nobody knew he was there 'cept me, ole Eli, and Marshall. And them other two never quite figured out who he was. I never had any particular need for him, so I just left him alone. But you? Hell, play it right, and nobody'll stand in your way, not even that little bitch Mandalay.”

“And how do I play it?”

“First, you make sure anyone else who knows about him won't talk. Then you trot him out as proof that the night winds are on your side, because look what they done brought to you.”

“I ain't heard shit from the night winds.”

“Don't matter. All that matters is what everyone else thinks. You got some good ideas, and people know that. This'll tip the scale in your favor. You just have to make sure nobody knows them other two knew about him.”

“How do I do that?”

“You need me to lead you by the damn hand?”

She turned, but no one was there. She knew what he meant, and as she stood there gazing at Byron, the logic of it grew more and more irrefutable. If she wanted what she said she wanted, it was, in fact, the only choice. She'd promised Byron his revenge, after all.

“Sleep while you can, Byron,” she murmured. “You're about to get your hands bloody.”

 

21

On an upper floor of the Flatiron Building in Manhattan, Jefferson Powell sat behind his desk, chin in his hand, listening to the distant voice of Rhett Carrington demand to be moved further down on the bill on a “new country” package tour.

Rhett was sex-symbol gorgeous, six foot two with sculpted abs that his unbuttoned shirt made certain were visible from the stage, especially after deftly applied spray-on highlights. He was from Arkansas, so when he sang of trucks, beer, and girls, he knew whereof he spoke. But he was both dumb as a tire and cocky as a Kardashian, which made him insufferable and explained the frequent turnover in his stage band. He had no concept of what made a song good or bad, could barely tell which end of a guitar was up, and took everyone's advice except the people who truly had his best interests at heart.

When Carrington finished his tirade, Jefferson said coolly, “Done? Are you done? Because I counted thirty-three uses of ‘motherfucker' in five minutes, and I don't want to stop you if you're going for a record.”

“Fuck you!” came the reply on the phone speaker. “I'm twice as popular as Blake Gilbert, I shouldn't have to go on before him.”

Jeff looked at his assistant Janet Ling. She was Asian, whip-smart, and surprisingly sexy for a woman who never spoke in public. But in private, she provided a valuable service by calling him out on his bullshit and suggesting solutions he had never considered. If half of being a good boss was surrounding yourself with brilliant people, then Jeff was the best boss in Manhattan.

Now Janet made a face and rolled her eyes. She and her boss shared the same opinion of this particular cash cow.

“You're right,” Jeff said. “I can count Blake Gilbert's fans on Homer Simpson's fingers. But he's handled by Creativity Incorporated, and they also handle Miranda Quick, so they're a package. I can't get them to move Blake even if I wanted to.” He rubbed his temples and said wearily, “You know, this is simple stuff, I would've thought you'd understand it by now.”

“I understand you ain't doin' shit for me,” Carrington said.

“Really?” Jeff laughed without any real humor. He was getting mad, and that brought out his own Southern accent. “You don't deserve me, you know that? I should really just cut you loose. Do you realize what you have the chance to do here? Not only make it impossible for Blake Gilbert to follow you, but to show Miranda Quick that you should be her opening act on her solo tour this summer. If you put some of that piss into your show that you've been using to cuss at me, you might just find yourself in a better place. That ever occur to you?”

There was a pause. “Naw.”

“I know.
That's
the shit I'm doing for you.”

“Sorry about that,” he said like a guilty teenage boy. Which, Jeff knew, he basically was, and would be until he stopped being a star.

“No worries, Rhett. How's rehearsal going?”

“Great. I nailed two of the backup singers at the same time two days ago. Got 'em both in the shower.”

Jeff sighed. “I meant the
music,
Rhett. How's the music going?”

“Aw, it ain't nothin'. It's all good.”

The band's drummer was a veteran touring musician who'd played with everyone, and whom Jeff paid to send reports back to him without Rhett's knowledge. He already knew about the two backup singers, which was no big deal to him; but Rhett was also blowing off the rehearsals, showing up drunk and high and then with an entourage of Arkansas rednecks who told him how awesome he was.

“Yeah, well, it better be,” Jeff said. “This is your chance, and if you blow it, it's nobody's fault but yours. Not mine, not the band's, not Blake Gilbert's. We clear on that?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Get back to work. I'll be in touch later in the week. Maybe I'll fly down and sit in.”

“Want me to set you up with one of them girl singers?”

“Hell no, I want 'em both, just like you.”

They both laughed, but when Jeff hung up, his laughter shut off like a tap. He rubbed his eyes, then got up and went to the window. Below, and above, Manhattan surged with life and vibrancy.

“Janet,” he said at last, “do you ever actually listen to Rhett Carrington?”

“I've heard him.”

“Yes. But do you
listen
to him? I mean, if he comes on the radio, do you turn it up or change the station?”

“Nobody listens to regular radio anymore, Jeff. They either stream it online, or use Sirius.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Janet, I'm just asking, however you listen to music, do you listen to Rhett Carrington?”

She thought about it. “I don't really know. I mean, I'm sure I've heard him, but he just kind of blends in with everyone else. One more Chippendale in a cowboy hat.”

“Uh-huh,” Jeff said. He always wanted the truth, and Janet always gave it to him. Of course, he had to factor in her professional determination to essentially take over his job one day, which meant she might try to deliberately mislead him to hasten his own demise in the industry. But in this case, she confirmed what he already knew: Rhett Carrington had peaked and, barring a miracle, was already on his way down. It would be time to unload him soon.

Janet went into the front room to type up her notes from the phone call. Jeff went back to his desk. He sat down, tried to get comfortable, but something made him edgy. It was a kind of gnawing uncertainty that he couldn't pin down to any particular cause, but it was impossible to ignore. Was it an omen? If he was still connected to the Tufa, he'd know, or at least know whom to ask about it. But that had ended a long time ago, leaving him with the psychic equivalent of a phantom limb.

His phone buzzed. “Sir,” Janet said, “your ten o'clock is here.”

He looked at the schedule. It was Krystal Bradbury, whom he'd heard during a trip to Austin a month ago. He'd flown her up here, put her up in the Ritz-Carlton overlooking Central Park, and generally sought to impress her with the world in which he operated. She had two essential things he wanted in a client: a great voice and a great figure. With those two things, he could get three solid years out of her, five if she didn't crap out like so many of them did. And who knows? She might be that rare one who had a sustained career.

“Send her in,” he said, and stood. If nothing else from his childhood remained, he still had his Southern manners.

*   *   *

Jefferson stopped at Your Mama Don't Dance, his usual watering hole. He kissed Violetta, the greeter, on the cheek as he went in and made his way to his usual small table, which a
RESERVED
placard held for him. He sat with his back to the corner, checked his phone for messages one last time, then smiled up at the waitress.

“Hey, Cassidy. How's it going tonight?”

“Busy as a fuckin' beehive,” she said in her harsh Irish accent.

“Are you the queen bee, then?”

“Ha! I wish. No, I'm just another drone.”

“Drones are males.”

“Really?”

“Really. They have one job, then they die.”

“Huh. That's sounds fucking brilliant.”

He smiled. “Anyone asking for me tonight?”

“Just the usual desperate fucking losers, Mr. Powell.”

“Well, tell them they've got five minutes. And bring me some of that 1958 Glenfiddich you keep locked away.”

“Why you always ask for that year, Mr. Powell?”

“It was a very good year,” he said, almost singing the words in a Sinatra voice.

Cassidy sauntered off. She was very attractive, and probably had a dozen Jersey gym rats vying for her attention. Her window of beauty was wide open now, but within three years would likely close with the addition of a husband who believed she slept around, kids who complained constantly, and in-laws who knew their boy could do better.

Almost at once a skinny young man with tousled hair and a soul patch came over. He was barely five and half feet tall, and wouldn't make eye contact. He sat down and said to Jeff's shoulder, “Hey. Nice to meet you, uh … sir.”

“What's your name?”

“Johnny Bryan.”

“Is that your real name?”

“It's two of 'em. Last name is Yosonovich.”

“No.”

“Yeah. The latest in a long line of Yosonoviches.”

Jeff smiled. “That's tough. You made the right call. So you've got five minutes—tell me why I should give a shit about you.”

“Can I play you something?”

“No, I want you to talk to me. I'll take it as a given that you can sing, and play, and maybe even write songs. If I'm going to put my time into you, I need to know what kind of person you are.” He smiled again. “Whether or not you're a real Yosonovich.”

“Okay. I'm from Michigan, and I've been playing down at the Billy Bristol's on off-nights, just me and my guitar. I'd like to put together a band, but I don't know the scene well enough yet. And I'd like to get a record deal.”

“Why? Cut your own, sell it online, keep all the money yourself. Why do you need a label?”

“Because it's my dream. I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a dream, would I?”

“It can become a nightmare pretty damn fast.”

“That's why I need a good manager. Like you.”

Cassidy delivered the whiskey, and it was like a smooth sizzle down his throat. He said to the boy, “Nicely done, Johnny. You worked the suck-up organically into the conversation.”

He smiled, and for the first time looked directly at Jeff's face. “I've been coming here for over a week, waiting to get up the nerve to talk to you. If that waitress hadn't told me to come over, I'd probably still be sitting at the bar, watching you drink.”

“That's creepy, Johnny.”

“I know. But what can I do?”