“And?”
“And, what?”
Roger said, “And you burned the place down.”
Slev, Constantine, and Gale looked at Roger. Gale said, “What do you mean?”
“If you’d been watching the late news last night, like us, you’d have seen the story that SYAMF burned to the ground last night.”
Now the three looked at Jinny. Gale said, “You burned a place down because a guy didn’t like the color of your pants?”
“He tore them, the little rat. My favorite pants. And he hit me in the back of the head. And, I didn’t burn the place down.”
Roger said, “Who did?”
“They did. I convinced them to.” Roger motioned ‘more’ with his hands. “When I first got there, a guy was cutting the weeds in the parking lot with a mower, and he had some gas cans in the shed, and so I got the cans and took them back into the building, and suggested to the guys in there that they, ah, use it there, inside. And because I was the one pointing the gun at them, they became convinced that doing so was in their best interest, in the long run.” His recitation lapsed, and he ate some more of his omelet. His third omelet. Three potatoe and onion omelets.
Guignard finished for him. “And that was that.”
Just like Roger and Gwen had said the night before, Slev, Constantine, and Gale now said, “That’s our boy.”
Chapter 44 – Renee Fleming
After the dishes were cleared, Gwen asked Roger, “What do you have on Renee Fleming?”
The others looked at him expectantly, hoping he had come up with an idea that would work as well as his idea had about getting a superstar for the ballet production. He successfully had gotten Pete Townshend to sign on for that. Now he had to do the same for Paul; get Renee Fleming to sign on. He said, “I do have an idea. It may work, it may not. There are two parts to it, and they both have to do with Paul and Anna. Part One is that they choose two songs from her CD, Dark Hope. Those are the songs Paul says make her the greatest of all female pop singers. Paul and Anna choose the two songs, and record their own version of them. Covers. They have a simple recording studio, wherever Jools has them hidden. They said that. So they sing and do the instrumentals, and Paul works his magic. He’s one of the great pop singers of all time, right? This becomes a tribute to Fleming. It’s Paul McCartney saying, ‘I love these songs you did so much, I did my own version of them. For you, Renee.’ They record these covers in their studio, and get them on CD. That’s Part One.”
Gwen closed her eyes and absorbed the idea. One great artist paying tribute to another, hoping to gain influence. Yes! She said, “And Part Two?”
“Part Two is a followup. Paul takes the first two original songs he writes for the opera, and records them with her in mind. Not how he plans to play them for the performance, but for her. Maybe he tries to sing them like her. Not that he has the vocal instrument she does; no one else in the world has that. But he tries, somehow, to show her what it would be like for her to sing his songs, the ones he’s writing for the opera. He sings them with a feminine vocal, records them and puts them on the CD with her two songs. Then, he records a letter to her on the CD. A love letter. Paul McCartney writing a love letter to Renee Fleming. He tells her what he’s doing, he’s writing a rock opera, and he loves Dark Hope, and he wants her to sing the opera. Tells her no else in the world can sing the songs, because he’s writing them for her. Tells her he will sing them with her, live in performance, world premiere. He puts all this luvy duvy stuff on the CD, and we send it to her.” He sat back and looked around the table. Shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, it may work, and it may not.”
Gwen was so happy he was her husband. She looked around the table, and didn’t see a lot of reaction from the four Russians. After all, they hadn’t grown up with the Beatles, and were not show business types. So it wasn’t fair to expect a lot from them. She looked at Gale, who said, simply, “That’d work on me.”
Gwen thought, “It’d work on me, too.”
Chapter 45 – The Junes Make Enemies
About the time Jinny was stuffing his face with omelets, potatoes, and onions, the NNs were heading to the Waffle House for their brunch. They were on the interstate, that being where the House was, and as they drove by the huge sign that said SYAMF, they saw a crowd standing around the sign. This was unexpected, the clientele of that establishment not being known as morning persons. The NSSMIBC yelled, “Holy Shit, the place is a pile of ashes.” So the big Dodge pulled off at the next exit and circled around the block to the parking lot. The four of them piled out and walked over to the group that was looking at the ashes.
The BMIBC asked, “What the hell happened?”
One of the owners was there, along with several of the guys who had been persuaded by Jinny to anoint the interior with gasoline and provide a spark of ignition. One of these guys turned at the question, and seeing who had asked it, suddenly became animated. He said, “The hell that happened was because of you guys.” He looked at the owner of the place and said, “It was because of these guys. These guys from Idaho. The guy that done this was looking for them. Then he went crazy, waving guns around, shooting, we was all ducking bullets. He had an AK47 and three handguns. And it was cause of these guys.”
The other guys who had been present were surprised at first at this description of the event, but they caught on quickly, and nodded their heads towards the owner, saying, “Yeah, lots of guns. Crazy man, crazy.”
The owner turned towards the NNs and said, “Who’s this guy, says he’s a friend of yours? Why’d he do this? What do you have to do with this?” and he waved his arm at the pile of ashes, formerly his primary means of earning a living.
The NNs scrambled into denial mode, them sensing a disturbing trend in the conversation. “We don’t know anyone around here. No friends from this hood. We just stopped in for a coupla beers, shot the shit for a while. That’s it. We don’t know anyone that did this. Who did this?”
One of the boys said, “Guy came in last night, asking for some guys from Idaho. Said he was a friend of yours, asking if we knew where you were. We covered your ass, said we didn’t know you, and then he went crazy with the AK. We’re lucky we’re alive.”
The BMIBC thought for a few seconds, looked at his two boys, and then swiveled his head to look at Richard, who once again became terrified and went into possum baby mode, inching over towards the NSSMIBC, ready to hop on his back, if he’d let him. The boss man said, “You know this guy? Know who did this?”
Just like the other guys had done, Richard went into denial mode. Heck no, he didn’t know anyone who would do this. Didn’t know anyone who owned an AK and three handguns, shoot up establishments and then burn them to the ground. He carried on for a while, under the influence of nervous energy. When he ran down, the BMIBC went over to the pile of ashes, picked up the charred remains of a pool cue, and stood in front of Richard. “I think you do know who did this. And you’re going to tell me. Or you’re going to eat this stick. Right here, right now.” A couple of the other guys pointed fingers at Richard, weighing in as heavies.
Richard looked over at the NSSMIBC, hoping to see a ray of sympathy in his face, and an indication it would be ok for Richard to climb up on his back and bury his face in the guy’s shirt collar. What he saw instead was the look of a jackal, an animal waiting for another animal to make the kill, which then would move in for the leftovers. Hope faded, and Richard resigned himself to squealing. He wasn’t a tough guy. He was a writer, for god’s sake, a wimp, in essence. He wasn’t made to stand up to threats and intimidation; so he squealed. “Jinny,” he said.
“What?”
“It was Jinny, probably.”
“Jinny who?”
“Little Jinny.”
“Little Jinny, who?”
“Little Jinny Blistov.”
“Who’s that? Why’d he do this?”<
br />
“He’s a Junie.”
“A what?”
“A Junie. A friend of the Junes.”
The owner of SYAMF, owner of what formerly was SYAMF, said, “Who the fuck are the Junes?” First he looked at Richard, then he looked at the NNs.
The boss man said, “They’re some people we have some business with here.”
“What kind of business?”
The boss man was not intimidated. He looked the biker owner in the eye and said, “Personal, business.”
“Well, now it looks like I got personal business with them, too.”
After a few seconds of thinking, the boss man said, “I’ll take care of this. I’ll deal with the Junes.”
Richard, forgetting his possum persona for a second, said, “You and whose army?”
Chapter 46 – Going After Renee
Blissfully unaware of events and discussions transpiring up the interstate from idyllic Sullivan’s Island, Paul, his daughter, and Anna sat in the studio and began writing the opera. Paul sat with the synthesizer on one side and his Rickenbacher on a stand on the other. Stella sat at the control panel of the recording equipment, and Anna sat at the Steinway. Paul said to Stella, “Play Mad World again, will you, hon?” Stella loaded the CD, found the track, hit the play button, and Renee Fleming sang her mournful rendition of the Tears for Fears song. Paul picked up the bass and played a simple line, tuning his mind to her singing and the key. Then he began singing along with her in his normal voice.
And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I’m dyin, are the best I’ve ever had.
He played the bass line and sang with her in unison for the first stanzas, then magically shifted into singing with her in perfect harmony for the remainder. This was Anna's first exposure to musical genius; to recognition of pitch, timber, rhythm, and melodic line. Paul’s accompaniment was perfect and effortless.
At the end of the song, he put the bass back on the stand and swiveled to the synthesizer, where he flipped a switch, turned a dial, and placed his hands on the keyboard. He looked over at Stella and nodding, telling her to record. Then he turned to Anna with a look of supporting confidence, telling her to play with him. And he began the song again, instrumentally. The tone he’d set on the synthe was similar to a cello, or rather three cellos playing together. He pushed a toggle pad, then a button, and a bass line started, similar to what he’d just played. The melody flowed through the cello lines, and when it was established, he looked again at Anna, who began a piano line counterpoint. After a dozen uncertain bars, her mind shut down and her intuition kicked in. She stopped thinking and starting feeling. Paul smiled at her, and went back to refining the settings on the synthe. First the bass line, then the tone of the cellos. They played through the song together twice, still just instruments, getting into the groove, adjusting their timing and rhythm as they sensed each other’s playing. Stella checked the dials and confirmed the computer was recording through the mikes.
Paul closed his eyes and began to sing again, differently, which caused both Anna and Stella to look at him. He sang like Renee Fleming, sounding remarkably like her in phrasing and color. She is a full lyric soprano, commanding the entire range from soprano to contralto. On Dark Hope she sings almost exclusively in the lower register, her tone rich and throaty, threatening an ensemble attack that never quite comes because her single voice is so powerful and resonant. It was because she sang in the lower register that Paul was able to mimic her so well; for that reason and because of his own formidably versatile vocal instrument. He made it through the lyrics once, and started again at the beginning. Anna looked at Stella and shook her head. Renee Fleming was in the room with them, and it was wonderful. Paul smiled again at Anna, encouraging her, telling her that her playing was ok.
Far down the concrete corridor Anna and Stella heard the boom of the huge iron doors opening, and then footsteps. Anna said, “I’m gonna ring his neck.” Paul was oblivious to Jools entry into the studio. Jools started to say, “How is everyone, this beautiful morning,” when Anna practically took his head off just with the look of daggers she sent his way. Embedded in the look was the unmistakable message, “Shut up, Jools, or die.” He shut it, listened to Paul sing, and entered a state of mesmerization. Paul sang through the song twice, with Anna getting more comfortable on the piano. When he was done he asked Stella to play Oxygen, and he and Anna played through that three times, him singing with his natural voice once and his Renee voice twice. He worked the synthe continuously, adding instruments, changing tones, modulating rhythms. Anna did her best to keep up. Paul refined the orchestrations to where he was playing mostly rhythms, leaving room for her to play lead melodies. She knew she had to keep it simple, and it began to work.
They stopped playing, and Paul smiled. “The girl is unbelievable. What a range. Her voice is so strong and rich and pure, it’s like an entire chorus singing perfectly in unison. I’ve never heard such a great singer. We gotta get her.”
Jools looked at Anna for permission to speak, which she granted. “I’ve never heard you sing like that on any of your records. That was great. You going to use that in the opera?”
“You bet I am. If we get her, it’s going to be the greatest singing in the history of rock, her and me together.”
“You mean Renee Fleming?”
He nodded.
“I got news about her. From the Junes. Want to hear it?” He was looking at Anna, knowing she was in command.
She said, “Make it quick. We’re in a groove here, which you’re disturbing.”
“Roger and Gwen called. Said they had a plan to get Fleming to sing on the project. They asked if they could come here to tell us about it, but Scotilly said no. Said we were busy burying the heads out in the garden of some other people who tried to trick us. Told the Junes they had to tell us the plan over the phone.”
“Cut the crap, Jools, and get on with it.”
“Ok. Roger said what you should do is to do covers of two of her songs from Dark Hope, as an homage. Record those onto a CD.”
Anna and Stella looked at each other, understanding that is what they just had done.
“Then Roger says you should write your first two original songs for the opera, and record them on the same CD. He said maybe you could try to sing like her a little, to show her what it would sound like with her singing. Said you could sing one track on a song like her, and a second track, a harmony track, with your normal voice.”
Paul nodded. Of course.
“The last thing you should do is record some luvy duvy stuff on the CD, like a letter, telling her how great she is, and how you want to sing and perform with her, and how this will be the greatest rock opera ever. Said you should lay it on thick, McCartney and Fleming together, the greatest singing duo in history. Stuff like that. Then we send the CD to her. Roger said it would work on both Gwen and Gale, so maybe it will work on her. Said Gale’s a romantic pushover, but not Gwen.”
Paul stood up and went to the piano, where he sat next to Anna. He composed a simple melody on the spot, and a stanza of new lyrics:
Lovely Renee, singing like a chorus,
Telling a story, of men and women together,
Another singer, flowing around her vocals,
Crying a melody, of men and women apart.
He looked at Anna, and then at Stella. “That works for me. How about you? Can we do that? Do you think it’ll work?”
Anna said, “If that doesn’t work, the woman has no soul. And from Dark Hope, we know she’s got soul. It’ll work.” She looked over at Stella.
“He’s my dad, so the whole romance thing passes me by. But from what I understand, he, and his songs, have a certain effect on a large segment of the female population of the world. So, maybe it’ll work. I’m not a good judge of that stuff when it comes to him.”
Jools said, “I kno
w. We should get Scotilly in here, let her hear the stuff, get her opinion.”
Anna kept up her relentless ballbusting, never cutting Jools a break. “I thought she’s supposed to be a Taliban trained terrorist head chopper. Yet you say we should listen to her opinion when it comes to the effect of romantic music on a certain woman, a great artist?”
Jools scrambled, said, “Well, she’s a refined head chopper. And that’s not her only skill. She has a soft side, when you get to know her.” He paused, scrambling more. “And, after all, she’s the one who’s behind this whole opera thing. It was her idea, remember. She’s a, a, a multifaceted person. A renaissance person. And what about that Japanese guy from a few years ago. He was a head chopper, but he wrote plays, poetry, and directed films, too. A renaissance guy”
Anna and Stella were too young to remember this person, but Paul knew of him. “Yukia Mishima. I remember that from a long time ago. It was a world-wide story, very dramatic and weird.”
Jools said, “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“You have it backwards, Jools. He wasn’t a head chopper. He was a head choppee. He did a strange ritual thing. He was an artist, but also a political activist. He tried to stage a political coup that would restore the Japanese monarchy, the Emperor. When that failed, he had one of his boys chop off his head. Then that guy had another guy chop off his head. So, not exactly the same thing as Scotilly.”
Jools said, “Oh.”
Anna was glad she’d missed the Mishima thing. Stella said, “Ok, so we have a plan to get Renee. Let’s get to work. Get the CD done and send it to her asap.”
Anna asked, “Did Roger say anything else? Anything other than about getting Renee?”
“Well, yes, he mentioned one other thing in passing.”
“What, Jools?”
“He said they’re coming.”
“And what do you take that to mean?”
“Not sure.”
“Yes you are. You know what he meant.”
The Kidnapping of Paul McCartney Page 18
