by P G Loiselle
“Enough dicking around. I’ll lay it on you straight up. I can’t record with you anymore. At least not right now. I don’t know what you’re up to and into, but when you get your act together and you’ve cleaned up your mess, we can talk again.”
My life was caving in before my eyes, and there was nothing to do to stop it. I felt helpless, like Amy feels, stuck at the warehouse without a plan to quash Stone. I didn’t even mention the recording contract we signed with his studio. The only reaction I could give was a lame, “I understand,” as I did with Craig.
“One more little thingy,” he said, softening up into the old Jake. “This palaroonie of mine, promotion manager from WHJY, dropped by on the lookout for new acts for their Rocky Point band battle. I took the liberty of fixing him up with a rough mix of your last session. He already knew who you were and seemed impressed with the recording. Anyhoo, he’s got your number, so you might get a call. No promises but who knows.”
“Yep, who knows,” I said, revealing not even a hint of emotion. “Gotta go, Jake. Later.” This time I hung up, cutting off the conversation without waiting for a response.
The whole of Sunday was squandered by chewing on and regurgitating the bits and pieces of events, incidents and exchanges from the last forty-eight hours. Through all this mental gnawing, I can’t stop thinking that I must be the one who caused these problems, as if I did something horrid in a past life and my karma is catching up with me. Right after my parents died, once I was over the shock, I was down in a hole, as low as you can go. I’m starting to slide back down that same hole, hoping that when I hit bottom, the only other place to go is up. Honestly, the hole keeps getting deeper, and the bottom can still drop out on me, and us, and any or all of us could still fall a long way. Amy said it’ll get worse before it gets better. How much worse? If only I’d already know how this will end? What will life be like in a month? In six months? In a year? Will I even exist? What’s going to happen to Amy? Starting tomorrow, I’m stuck in the office for the next five days, and there’s nothing to look forward to, no gig, no recording. Do I even have a band, a group of individuals bound by a purpose, the purpose of making music, music that others want to hear and experience? All this thinking and writing is draining, sucking dry my life force. What I really need now is to crawl into bed, curl up into a fetal ball and hope for another miracle, a solid one with staying power, one that doesn’t backfire, one that leads to a happy ending. Again, hope is all I have right now. Is that enough to keep me going?
Monday, July 27, 1987
He yanked the foam-covered headphones off my noggin as I sat at my cubicle desk, trudging my way through the buildup of paperwork. “What a lovely day. Don’t you think, Moore? A shame to cut yourself off from the wonder of what nature throws our way. Isn’t it?”
Him again with that ‘lovely’ act, I thought. Every one of my muscles stiffened, like I was stricken with Rigamortis, thinking that he’d confiscate Amy’s listening device and have his forensics team rat me out. Without turning, I retorted. “Lovely? Seems to be a favorite word of yours, Mr. Carney. It’s pouring rain, and I heard a bad storm’s brewing.”
As if on cue, a whip-like crack jolted me up an inch from my seat and the ensuing blast of thunder shook me all the way down to my gonads. Out of nowhere, the splattering precipitation pelted the metal shell of the office building as wind gusts screamed forebodingly through the Monday morning air. Not seeing the onslaught on the outside from my daylight deficient workspace left the battle of the elements to the darkest corners of my imagination. I continued working, appearing concentrated, as if alone and shrouded by perfect silence. An eternity of seconds went by before Carney started in on me again.
“Well, I think it’s lovely. Yes, a lovely day after a lovely weekend.” The guy was so plastic, taking fake to new heights. He chucked the headphones onto my desk. “My weekend was lovely, Moore. And yours?”
I swiveled in my chair to face him. He wore dark glasses and his face looked swollen and bruised. “Cut the crap, Mr. Carney. You know what happened. Your boss and his goons were behind it.”
“My, my, aren’t we testy, Moore. I got to admit, I did hear something of your, well, dilemma at the, what’s the place called? Ah yes, the Showroom. Yes, your dilemma at the Showroom” His deliberate, over-pronunciation of the ‘o’ in the first syllable when saying ‘Showroom’ sounded rather queer. “There is an easy solution for that. It’s all up to you now.”
“I’m glad you think I can solve it, but you’re completely wrong. And if I could do something, what you’re insinuating isn’t a solution for me. When are you going to give up and realize you’re wasting everyone’s time, including your own?” I stood and was rearing for confrontation. We were uncomfortably close, my nose to his chin, and I was up against the partition wall. Carney refused to back off. “You need something from me?” I asked, super annoyed. “Because I have lots to do and no time for this bullshit. And another thing…”
Carney cut me off mid-sentence, taking the upper-hand. “You listen to me, Moore. If I want to spend the whole day, every day, at your desk, haunting you, I will. I pay you to be here, and I own you for eight hours a day, a third of your workweek life, half of your weekday awake-time. If you don’t like it, mister, feel free to quit and go live on the streets.” His voice quieted, so that nobody else could hear, and he spoke through his clenched teeth. “And be prepared to pay your debts in-full…on the spot…with interest.” He inched even closer and his stinky breath wafted into my nose. “Or better yet, if you don’t start being more cooperative, I’ll fire your ass on the grounds of…of…stealing, from the company.” He rolled up his eyes and grimaced. All ten fingers interlocked in front of his crotch, and he uttered a string of words as if he were thinking out loud. “Yes, that’s it, embezzlement.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, speaking at a normal level, and folded my arms to nudge him back.
“I’m sure I can conjure up something. As you know, the police are on our side, and we have lots of friends in high places. They’d nail you to the wall and a conviction would be certain. After you got out of jail, if you ever got out, you’d be a felon. That pornographic photo of you in the Foxy Lady, which I’d surely submit as evidence of your obvious lack of character, would be the least of your problems, Moore. You wouldn’t work another day of your worthless little life in a job as good as the one you’re fortunate enough to have today. You’d be lucky to flip burgers if anyone would even have you.”
All the events of the past week left me blank. I stood there like an idiot and had no comeback. I didn’t even think about mentioning the two-thousand dollars I had to repay the sharks.
“Moore, I want your…no, I demand your cooperation. Think about it, long and hard.” With still nothing to say, Carney must have sensed that he had me. “One more thing. If I ever catch you listening to music on my watch, I’ll smash that little noise-maker of yours and fire you on the spot.” After milking every iota of the situation that he could have, he curled up the ends of his slippery lips and limped away like a cheerful, broken soldier, humming “Singing in the Rain”. The crash-boom-swish of the squall outside was far from relenting, and the florescent glow of the cheap office lighting seemed to dim, along with my prospects.
The instant I got home from work, I tried reaching Amy and Stevie. They were nowhere to be found. Mike was third on my list, and he picked up the phone on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s me.” I tried to be as upbeat as possible. “Survive the storm?”
“Barely. It was a deluge. I thought the Blackstone was going to wash over its banks. Luckily, it stopped before there was any flooding. What’s up with you?”
“Could be better, could be worse. After Friday night, the weekend went downhill from there. You know, life sucks and then you die at some point. I’m not dead though. Not yet anyway, so that’s positive. What are you up to?”
“Not much. Hanging out. But hey,” he said changing his tone. “I was going to call you tonight anyhow. Have something interesting to tell you.”
“Interesting, huh? Well, I have interesting things to talk to you about too. Why don’t you swing by for some interesting beers?”
“Going to my mom’s for supper first. I’ll come by after I eat…homemade beef ravioli. Can’t miss that.”
“Love your mother’s cooking. Bring leftovers, will you?” I hung up the phone, curious about Mike’s news, and although I was only kidding about the leftovers, it occurred to me that I should eat something. Normally I can’t miss a meal, but oddly enough, I wasn’t the least bit hungry.
An hour later, the doorbell rang, and without me even getting up, Mike strolled in with a twelve pack of Bud tucked under his arm. The raviolis were M.I.A., so it’d have to be liquid dinner. Without saying a word, he put the beers in the fridge, grabbed four bottles and joined me in the living room, where I was lodged into the corner of the sofa, facing the bay window. He handed me two of them and placed himself at the other end of the seat. Both of us, almost perfectly synchronized, opened one of our bottles and almost chugged down the entire contents. This was followed by a tasteless display of stereo belching, each burp more grotesque than the other. It felt so good.
“You first,” I said expecting something bad.
“Me first? I was hoping you’d go first.”
“No, you first. I’m dying to know what it is.”
“My news is pretty juicy,” Mike said and gazed at a stack of music magazines that were on the coffee table in front of him instead of looking at me.
“Start talking already. Will you?”
“Fine, fine. Don’t get so testy.” He swung his legs onto the couch, facing me, and sat up Indian-style. He took a long deep breath, expelled the air at once and began. “Ok…well you know this Scheister guy who wrote about us and Fast.Fun! in the Boston Circle, right?”
“Course, I know him.”
“Well, the office secretary found out who paid him to write the article.
“You told Susan about our meeting with the video guy?” I was more than annoyed.
“Susanne. Her name’s Susanne. And no, well, yes. I mean, she knew about the article, and it just came out when talking about the meeting with Tim. She’s like a sleuth, has a knack for finding out all sorts of information.”
“Fine. Who was it then?”
“Ready for this. Turns out that Fast.Fun!’s management paid Scheister to write it.”
“Fast.Fun!’s management? What assholes.”
“Yep. But it gets even better. Guess who Fast.Fun!’s management is?”
“How should I know? Tell me already?”
“Crown Entertainment. They’re the ones who set up the Faneuil Hall concert in the first place.”
“They also screwed us for the limo ride to Boston. There was hardly any gig money left, those bastards. I could have used the cash. Why would they want to bust our balls by having Scheister write those lies about us? Craig said they loved us.”
“Maybe to make Fast.Fun! look better than they are? But hold on. Do you remember the guy’s name from Crown?
“Ronnie, right?”
“And guess what his last name is?”
“Stop with the twenty questions. Just tell me dammit.”
“Ronnie Souza. And his son’s name is none other than Denis Souza, aka Fango.”
“Fango? Whoa… No wonder Fast.Fun!’s been able to get to where they are. Certainly wasn’t because of talent. Daddy Big Bucks is carrying them.”
“Now, get this, I haven’t even told you the most interesting fact. Their last name is Souza, right. Souza’s what nationality?”
“Spanish? No, wait, it’s Portuguese,” I said correcting myself.
“That’s right, Portuguese. And who do you know that’s Portuguese?
“What’s this a frickin’ game show? I know lots of Portagees. Amy’s one for Christ’s sake. No idea what you’re trying to get at, so get to the punchline, will you?”
Mike grinned. “Stone is Portuguese, Joey da Silva.” His face looked like it was about to spit out the motherload. “Now my friend,” he said with a glint in his eye, “get ready for the icing on the cake with whip cream and cherries on top.”
I sat upright, Indian-style like Mike, and locked onto the center of his vision. Something significant was coming, and I didn’t want to miss a single nuance.
“It was long ago. Stone’s father and mother had him when they were still teenagers. His mother’s family ended up moving down to Florida because they were so ashamed that their daughter had a baby out of wedlock, being strict Catholics and all. Stone’s mother, a Martines, couldn’t marry Stone’s father, a Da Silva, because her father, Mr. Martines, hated the da Silva family. On top of that, her parents forced her to sign over full custody of baby Joey to Stone’s father. They wanted nothing to do with a da Silva boy. Susanne mentioned that it was a huge scandal at the time. It was right before the big war and the Fall River Catholics in that neighborhood were forced to take sides.” He emptied the rest of his bottle in one gulp and put it down next to the full one. “Now get this. A couple years later, Stone’s mother marries a guy down in Miami named Vic Souza. And this Vic guy is Ronnie’s father. She was pregnant again, but this time with Ronnie. Get it?”
Mother had Joey out of wedlock, then she had Ronnie with her husband Vic... “Holy shit. That makes Ronnie and Stone half-brothers.”
“Bingo. They’re half-brothers.”
I pondered that thought while Mike twisted open his second beer and swigged it down. I followed suit and contemplated on reaching for something stronger such as Jack Daniels. I decided against it to keep a clear head.
“So, they’re in cahoots against us. Or is this all one huge coincidence?” I asked.
“Not sure how Susanne got all this info. She didn’t say anything about Ronnie and Stone being in business together. I’m the one who asked about Ronnie’s relatives once I found out he was Portuguese.” He snorted up a noseful of air. “Had a gut feeling, you know. Anyway, Susanne went back to her source, whoever that is, and found out the rest”
“What do you think, Mr. Gut Feeling? Are they both out to get us?”
“It’s hard to believe it’s all a big coincidence. Susanne’s trying to get more information, but until we know more, I’d have to assume they’re plotting against us.”
I nodded in agreement, and we both stared into space for a while, trying to make sense of this intricate web of facts and circumstances.
When I finally got over the shock of Mike’s story and it was my turn to talk, I bared it all. I told him about Craig’s phone call, about Jake scrapping the recording project, and about Carney’s threats, barring the loan. I shared my fears about being stuck in a menial job for the rest of my life and my dreams of making it big being crushed under the weight of reality. Finally, I told him how I felt about Amy and my suspicions about her and Stevie.
He seemed to understand it all, especially the jealousy. Usually, Amy or Stevie would be my go-to people for serious shit like this, but they were part of the problem. Mike was phenomenal. He listened to every word and amazed me with his empathy. He reciprocated by opening up on some personal topics of his own and put his complete trust in me. That time we had together on the way to Boston put a huge crack in any barrier we had between us; however, that conversation tore down the wall altogether. He can be a nervous geek mama’s boy sometimes, but he’s still a great guy. We were each on our fifth beer, getting tipsy when the phone rang. I wasn’t going to answer it but thought it might be Stevie or Dale, or even Tommy. So, I picked up.
“Hi, I’m looking for Luke Moore.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Brian James from WHJY in Providence.”
“HJY?” Taken off guard, m
y intonation shot up an octave. “Oh, hi.”
“I’m promotion manager for the station and Jake from Free Range Records gave me a demo tape of yours. I must say, we’re very, very impressed. There are some really great tracks, and you five sure know how to rock.”
“Thanks, Brian. I mean, Mr. James.” I tried to come across calmer than I was. I knew what was coming next.
“Brian’s fine. Hey, listen. You might have heard about the Battle of the Bands we put on at Rocky Point. Have you?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“We’ve got a special edition coming up. The battle’s airing live on the radio, and the winner’s going to play a couple weeks-worth of shows as back-up band for none other than Aerosmith on their upcoming tour.
“Seriously? Aerosmith?”
“That’s right and Four-n-Moore has a great reputation around the area. After hearing that demo tape too, we think you’d be perfect contenders. The only catch is that it’s in two weeks, so you wouldn’t have much time to prepare.” He let the proposition linger, maybe waiting for my reaction. “What do you think?” he asked, prodding me along. “You interested?”
“Hell yeah, I’m, I mean we’re interested. Us, the band, Four-n-Moore. But I…I just need to make sure, you know, confirm with the other guys.” I couldn’t avoid the stutter. “But I bet, I’m sure, no I’m positive they’ll be totally into it. Yes, totally into it.” My voice got all tiny. “Can I give you an answer tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s fine,” he said. “Let me give you the lowdown already so you can tell it to the others…”
Brian laid it all on me down to the minutest details, and I listened with all the concentration I could muster up on a five-beer buzz. After talking about all the crap going on and my crushed dreams only minutes earlier, this was the miracle I, well, we needed. If we could reach those masses, we might be able to make it nationwide on our own and Stone, Carney, Herbie, Rodney, Ronnie and all those other clowns might leave us alone. We’d be too hot and out in the open. Or with the money we’d make, I could buy our way out of it. Amy would hate me if she found out, but it can’t go on like this forever. By the end of the conversation I realized that I was already assuming we would win. Then a funny thing occurred to me. Brian told me so much about the contest yet didn’t even mention who our contenders would be. So, I posed the not so trivial question.
