Spider Kiss (10 page)
"We'll be needing your superlative stenographic abilities, my dear." Freeport leered at her. To Shelly, it was the smile of the cat, gauging tibia, fibula and femur. To Jean Friedel, it was a return image of her own come-on.
To Colonel Jack Freeport, it was getting the job done. A girl who thought she would get something for "service" would be certain to give good — service.
"Jean, I'd like you to meet Luther. You'll be taking down some things Luther has to say in a few minutes, and we want to be sure you keep it in strictest confidence.
"We have big things planned for this boy." He waved her on to Luther, who stared at the tall, dark-haired girl with an open appraisal.
It was slave-block time in the land of Luther Sellers.
The boy leaped up and shook hands with the hotel stenographer vigorously. His smile was as engaging in intensity as his scowl had been facing Asa Kemp. "I'm very pleased to meetcher, Miss —" He left it hanging the way he had seen it done in the movies.
She gave him a beggar's smile and moved the flash and fire back to Freeport. "I'm ready any time you are, Colonel."
I'll just bet you are
, thought Shelly.
Freeport waved Shelly and Jean to chairs at the table, settled back with another pill and a glass of water. For a moment Luther stood staring at the trio, then he too sat down, placing himself across the table from the others. Almost as though sides were being drawn up.
"Well, Luther, it's time we dispensed with some very small business details," the Colonel said. He beamed at the boy and opened his mouth to speak again.
"Sixty percent." Luther stopped him. "I get sixty percent of my own contract."
Shelly was too amazed to notice the Colonel's expression, but he was certain it was one of blood-draining confusion. Of course, the boy would pull off no such hat trick, but the gall … the temerity …
One hour later, far less time than any of them thought it would take, Colonel Jack Freeport (Savannah, New York, Cannes and London) had agreed to a contract the terms of which assigned Shelly Morgenstern thirty percent of Luther Seller's earnings, himself thirty percent, and the boy retained forty percent. It was not that unusual a legal form, except Freeport had never before gone that route. He owned one hundred percent (where more was not feasible) of any enterprise he dipped into, and at the end of that contract, there were several shifts in attitude.
Freeport realized he had a live item on his hands, one which was not going to be duped, and for that reason came to the competition better prepared; Freeport was unsettled about Luther's hipness in gaining majority control of his own contract — how had he pulled
that
cursed stunt? — but he was already counting unhatched chickens.
Luther's opinion had changed, also. He was not so much in awe of these dynamiting promoters. He had bluffed once, had made it stick, and realized his muscles were firmer than he had thought.
Shelly changed his mind radically: Luther's brand of WhatMakesSammyRun was not innocent ruthlessness. It was calculated. At that moment, what had been vague distaste for his brain child, turned chameleon-like into outright dislike.
As for Jean Friedel …
The base of operations had shifted. In her heart of hearts she could not see the difference between grave-robbing and cradle-robbing. All's fair …
And so that was how Luther Sellers gained control of the valuable contract of Stag Preston.
Since one admired the other so much, it seemed just naturally the way the old mop flops. Or as Shelly put it in one of his getting-more-frequent introspective moments:
That, friends, is how the old train derails
.
Phil Moore did things with Luther Sellers that Pygmalion would have admired. It was decided at a policy meeting that they would avoid the Jerry Lee Lewis image (spangled jackets, yellow ochre peg-cuff pants, fifteen pounds of marcelled hair, green lace shirts), while at the same time steering away from the Pat Boone brand of cleanliness. He was consequently inculcated by the mysteries of slim Continental suits, Italian loafers, conservative gray ties and a manner of walking, talking,
thinking
that retained the minuscule charms of his Kentucky roots, forcefully brought out the humble, disarming manner so psychologically necessary for proper identity, while at the same time reinforcing the animal sexuality of the boy.
They tried names on.
Luther fitted badly inside a charcoal-gray name like Bruce Barton. He glared out hostilely when covered with Alan Prince. The vulgar innuendo of Brick Colter sat on his shoulders jarringly, and Matt Gore almost made it but was eventually discarded because the sleeves were too long.
It was Shelly who came up with Stag Preston.
Natural? Like a run of sevens.
As it was analyzed nine months later in a journal of general semantics: "We cannot by any means overlook the simplest explanation of the surname; it is that combination of onomatopoeia and naturalism quickly identified as masculine, forceful, imperative. Stallion, stud,
stag
— each of these conjures the phallic interpretation, sets aside any misconceptions of homosexuality due to the nature of the bearer's style or bearing, and leads the gestalt female attention to the heart of the bearer's presentation. 'Preston' bears the same
hard
quality, in much the same manner employed by Thomas Hardy when he called the hero of
The Mayor of Casterbridge
Michael
Henchard
. Henchard, trenchard. Such awareness, on the part of those responsible for Mr. Preston's public image, of the subliminal potency of the
sound
of certain words, merely indicates yet another of the many reasons for this young man's success."
Joe Costanza and Shelly held long conferences, far into the night, first mapping out the larger areas of promotion, then fine tuning the program, eventually dwelling with almost pathological attention on the smallest details:
Who should get the first news break about Stag?
(If we give it to Cholly Knickerbocker no one will notice it outside of New York, but we'll have a strong source in Manhattan for future use. But if we plant it with Winchell, not only will it make his column, but he's got that new tv spot, and a mention there — mysteriously tipped as he's made a rep doing it for the past seven hundred years — we'll get a nation-wide break. Then there's Kilgallen, or maybe Hedda … or a parlay, handing it out in three different regional areas … the overlap might not be too bad. But if one tipped to the other's having the same info, we might make an enemy or three …)
What label should we record him on?
(If we set up our own company, we lose out on the effective promotion someone like Columbia or Victor might give us. But if we go for one of the big boys, we'll have to cut them in for a taste …)
Who gets the first tv look at him?
(If we go the Dick Clark route, then he gets identified as a teen star, and the adults sneer. If we avoid Clark and go the Sullivan or Dinah Shore way, we lose the instant identification of the teenagers. How about …)
What product tie-ins should we allow?
(Cereals are out — pre-teens. The T-shirt, charm bracelet, chewing gum bit might be a little too adolescent. If we try to foist off Stag Preston dinner jackets we'll get laughed at all the way to AfterSix and back. No, best we stay in the sport shirt and after-shave lotion area, with a try for the teens on their own level, but decorous, like very decorous …)
Finally, it came time for the pitch.
Shelly made his phone calls — how would the hipster operate so easily, without that wondrous gadget? — and the studio was reserved. A rented studio, a pick-up orchestra, special arrangements commissioned by an unnamed top female exec of a top record company, mastered by a top technician working for one of the smaller jazz labels, and a small group of background singers prepared to drop in
Doo-wah
or
Oo-oo-ooo
when needed.
Out of that session (it was a take on the third try) came Stag Preston's first record, "I Don't Know You Anymore," b/w "Car Hop Angel."
Demo discs were cut off the master and surreptitiously circulated to the four or five most influential A&R men in the trade, with no build-up, merely the word that they had come over from Freeport. They were listened to with careful attention, and tentative feelers came back to the suite in the Sheraton-Astor. Shelly held them off, parlaying interest in the anonymous singer (for there had been no explanatory label on the demos) and promising something very interesting, very soon.
Something very soon was three days later; something very interesting was a personal invitation to the A&R men who had received the demos, to be Colonel Jack Freeport's guests at a high school sock hop in Parma, Ohio.
A chartered plane flew Freeport, Shelly, Joe Costanza and their guests to Cleveland where three Cadillacs sat panting, prepared for the drive to the suburb of Parma.
The high school was ablaze with lights, and one of Cleveland's leading disc jockeys, Bob Mandle, was waiting. The sock hop was a benefit to raise money for the high school's new library and auditorium. Mandle had been contacted to plan the show, had imported up-and-coming rock'n'roll talent who would work cuffola for the publicity — and Freeport had mildly suggested Stag Preston be made a featured headliner.
He was billed as "A Surprise Mystery Guest" which conjured images of anyone from Frankie Avalon to Lanny Ross, depending on who was conjuring.
The A&R men knew only that they were going to meet the mystery talent Jack Freeport had avoided discussing with them. Shelly could see interest in their faces; arrangements such as these were tantamount to an offer of big gold.
When Mandle led them into the huge gym, Shelly realized Freeport had done more than merely suggest that Mandle feature Stag. (It was a sort of brainwashing that had been effected by the weeks of preparation of their talent; he no longer thought of the boy as Luther; now he was Stag, even in unguarded thoughts.)
A suggestion might have gotten Stag a spot on the bill, but the opulence of the decorations, the almost studiedly melodramatic stage on which the artists would perform — Shelly dredged up memories of Warner Bros. musicals circa 1940 — meant the Colonel had shelled out some sugar to swing Mandle to his way of thinking. Some money that had been spent to do the place up the way Freeport thought it should be done up — all the better to showcase you, my dear: a contribution to the library/auditorium fund — one of Mandle's weak spots in these days of public service, now that the payola stink was dulled by the shortness of public memory.
"Seats for you in the front row," Mandle said, grinning, his expression that of a college senior. He waved them to the padded chairs facing the stage. "Show's about to start."
Already the gym was filled. Almost eight hundred boys and girls were jammed into the gym, filling the chairs behind the A&R men, overflowing into the back of the room where they were packed, standing.
Freeport nodded to Mandle, who made a thumb and forefinger circle, still grinning boyishly. Then he went behind the rigged curtains, and the sounds of guitars tuning, squawking saxophones, a set of traps floated out to key the high school crowd higher.
Shelly leaned over to Freeport. "I'll take a look in on the kid. See how he's doing." Freeport nodded, his eyes straight ahead. This was payoff time for the Colonel, and his stomach was erupting. Shelly withdrew a bottle of capsules from his jacket and pressed it into the older man's hand. Then he rose, excused himself, smiled at Sid Feller of ABC-Paramount and moved toward the swinging doors to the locker rooms.
The locker rooms had been set up as dressing rooms and Shelly passed down the rows of metal lockers noting the half dozen groups or individual talents Mandle had managed to suck into this benefit.
Luther was alone in the last row.
He was sitting disconsolately on a bench, clad only in socks, shorts and T-shirt. His hands down between his knees. The expression he wore was one of expectation, not nervousness. Shelly lit a cigarette and stood behind the boy, studying him.
Stag Preston sat there. A shadow, a flicker, a hint of Luther Sellers remained, but now it was Stag Preston who looked out of the dark, hungry eyes. It was someone new, a creature of comment and gold dust and wishful thinking. But it breathed, and it moved, and it was real.
"Scared?" Shelly said, softly. He realized as he said it that he hoped it was true; there had to be a chink in the armor somewhere. But even as Stag Preston's head came up and around, Shelly knew it wasn't true. The hard, wanting gleam was still there, shining dully.
"Hi, Shelly," Stag answered.
"Scared?" he asked again, by rote.
Stag Preston's face twisted in the semblance of a smile. His voice sounded far away, bemused, preoccupied: "No, not scared, just thinkin'."
Shelly sucked on the cigarette. "About what?"
"Oh, about this 'n' that. Thinkin' about Lou'ville and gettin' outta there … 'bout what I was, what I'm gonna be."
What are you going to be, Stag; what?
Shelly thought.
"You haven't come that far yet," Shelly said.
Stag Preston looked at him sharply. "Oh, man, you don't
know
. You just don't
know
! I've come all the world away. I've made it out, I've busted loose, an' I ain't — I'm
not
goin' to stop till I've got it all. All of it.
You
see."
Shelly crushed the cigarette underfoot. Perhaps this was the moment of truth. Perhaps this might be the story Shelly had suspected might be there. He'd wet-nursed this kid for weeks through all the training, all the publicity preparations, but had gotten no closer to him. Maybe this would be the moment when he could work up some warmth for Stag Preston.
"You really want to make it, don't you, kid?"
Stag nodded. There was a softness in his smile now. "Ah sure do, Shelly. Ah never wanted anythin' so much in all my life. You don't know how bad I had it … really bad …"
