by Linda Barnes
In the middle of the sixth song, Dee hit a deliberately dissonant, jarring chord, and backed away from the mike, eyes flashing. “Jimmy,” she yelled, “are you listening to this shit or what?”
“Yeah, hon, what do you want?”
“Are you hearing that bass line?”
“I’m hearing it.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, it’s not what we’ve been doing, is it? It’s not what I want.”
Brenda said, “I thought I’d give it a try.”
Dee said, “You talk to me first next time.”
“I’ve been trying to talk to you for two damn days, and you’re all of a sudden so busy, nobody can freaking find you. I thought you’d like it.”
“It stinks, Bren. It sounds like a goddamn dog howling.”
“Kind of like a bitch, you mean?” Brenda said with a nasty edge to her voice. I decided to give her the same benefit of the doubt I’d given Dee: maybe she meant to mutter it under her breath, but her microphone picked it up and echoed it clear to the balcony.
“What did you say?” Dee asked.
The amplified voice interrupted her. “Okay, Brenda, can you just do what Dee wants here with the bass?”
“No, Jimmy, I can’t. It’s too damn boring. I’m gonna freaking fall asleep.”
Dee said, “Well, I can find fifty bass players glad to do it, better than you can anytime.”
“Oh, yeah?” Brenda unplugged her instrument, lifted it over her head, and carefully laid it down on the floorboards. Then she gave Dee the finger and walked offstage.
“Bren, get the hell back here,” the drummer yelled into his mike. His volume overloaded some circuit and the whole business fed back with a high-pitched hum that made me slap my hands over my ears.
“Jimmy,” Dee was saying, “I talked to her about that break a hundred times. It’s a blues thing, not a rock thing. I want something easy and bluesy. She’s giving me all this hyperactive-note shit.”
“Take ten,” Jimmy’s voice said wearily. The houselights snapped on and the sound technicians and the light technicians and the stagehands swarmed.
Dee shaded her eyes with her hand and surveyed the audience. I waved, and she yelled, “Hi,” and motioned me up onstage.
I reached over to the seat next to me to grab my handbag, a reflex move. There was nothing but air on the shabby red cushion. I quickly flipped up the seat, looked underneath, groped around on the sticky floor, and scanned the whole area. My bag was gone.
“You coming, Carlotta?”
“Shit,” I mumbled under my breath. “Coming,” I shouted out loud. I gave a quick glance around the auditorium: maybe fifty people. A movement at the top of the far aisle caught my eye, just the glimpse of a foot, the flash of a closing door.
“Be right back!” I yelled at Dee, and I took off.
Ten
I sprinted through the double aisle-doors, glanced left and right, saw movement from the direction of the lobby. I skidded left and went after it, just as if I were wearing a uniform.
The gnomelike man I’d met at the impromptu party in Dee’s room appeared out of nowhere. I almost careened into him. He yelled something as I ran by.
I could barely see the snatch-artist once I got outside. If he’d slowed his pace, tried to blend in with the street strollers, I’d have given up. But he kept running.
A novice.
He was a young tan kid in gang colors, wearing a watch cap in spite of the heat. Slight build. Five-six. I tried to get the details straight while I ran, but it was dark and I was furious about my handbag. I’m rarely careless with it. I almost never put it down. I even wear the strap crossed over my chest, bandolero-style, the better to frustrate hit-and-run snatchers.
Lulled by Dee’s songs, I’d tossed it on a chair and forgotten its existence.
It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t the credit cards. It was the sheer effrontery, the inconvenience it would cause, and the photo of my mom and dad—together and smiling for once—that kept me running. Not to mention wounded pride.
“Stop!” I shouted at the first corner. The street noises ate the sound. Cars honked.
The thief kept racing up Mass. Ave. toward the Christian Science Center and the Mother Church. I cursed my crummy running shoes—leather soles, not rubber. I was sliding with every sweaty step. By the end of the third block, I realized I was gaining inches, not feet, and I started looking for a cop car, knowing I’d hardly get lucky twice in a row. I could hear running footsteps trailing far behind me.
The kid had too good a head start. He would have gotten away easily if he hadn’t stumbled on a curb. He hit pavement next to a broken-down Chevy. He lay winded for a moment, and then started to use the car fender to boost himself back up.
“Drop the bag,” I yelled. At the same time my hand clamped onto his wrist. He had the bag in his other hand, but he neatly slid his arm through the strap, made a grab for the back of his pants, and came up with a knife.
It was a folding blade, maybe five inches, and he held it like an extension of his hand.
“You crazy bastard,” I said softly.
“Hey, watch it, lady.” The warning came from behind me. It snapped me out of my daze, and I let go of the kid’s wrist and stood motionless while he backed off, breathing hard. I memorized his narrow, high-cheekboned face, the acne on his nose and chin. I couldn’t get the color of his eyes in the dim light, and that pissed me off because I wanted to be a good witness at the trial.
Goddammit, what trial? Who the hell gives a damn about purse snatchers?
The kid turned tail and ran.
Hal, Dee’s road manager, appeared at my side. “I saw you shoot out of the lobby like your hair was on fire. What the hell was that all about? You almost knocked me on my ass.”
“Forget it,” I said to him, passing a hand over my sweaty forehead, trying to bring my breathing and temper under control. “He had a knife.”
“I saw that! Jesus, I saw! You don’t go up against somebody with a knife! You into that martial arts crap? A lot of good that does against a knife or a gun. I got a daughter myself. She ever chased after a guy with a knife, I’d—Shit, I don’t know what I’d do.”
I watched the kid disappear across Mass. Ave. into the maze of streets behind Symphony Hall.
Hal said, “So, what happened?”
“Guy stole my purse.”
I started marching back toward the Performance Center, walking fast to get the anger and adrenaline out.
“Right in the Center? You want to call a cop?”
“They don’t even fill out a form,” I said, which is not true. It’s just that they don’t do a lot more than fill out a form. Purse snatching is one of those crimes that’s so commonplace that the cops treat the victims like jerks. Well, what the hell do you expect, lady, carrying a handbag in this neighborhood at night?
I was not in the mood.
“Geez, I’m sorry I couldn’t do more to help you out,” Hal said, breathing hard. “Guess I’m not so fast on my feet anymore. You believe I used to be a pretty decent runner?”
He looked more like he used to be a department store Santa, but I didn’t say that. The chance of him having a heart attack while racing after me was probably far greater than the chance of my catching the thief. I didn’t say that either.
He was still puffing away. I thanked him for coming to the rescue, and he managed a grin. He had a round-cheeked face, a pointed chin, a widow’s peak. His eyebrows were shaggy and graying, like his hair. Winded, he looked older than he had the night before.
“I never carry much cash,” I said, as much to myself as to Hal. “It’s the other stuff I mind. The license, the credit cards, the keys.”
Hal said, “Your car keys? You be able to get home?”
“I’ll take a cab,” I said. “No problem.”
“What are you gonna pay the cabbie with? I can spot you a twenty.”
“Thanks,” I said, “b
ut no. I’ll do okay.” I keep a bill under the insole of my shoe like a lot of cops. Change in my pockets.
“So you were watching the show?” Hal said after half a block of silence.
“Dee invited me.”
“Hey,” he said, “no problem. Anything Dee says goes. She’s something, isn’t she? This new record, with the live cuts, it’s gonna blow everything else out of the water.”
We walked another silent block.
“How old is your daughter?” I asked, just to be saying something.
“Fifteen,” he answered with a sigh. “They all want to be rock stars at fifteen.”
I considered my little sister, Paolina. Just turned eleven and entering the dangerous age. Would she want to be a rock star too?
“So you’re an old friend of Dee’s,” Hal said, still breathless but gamely keeping up his end of the conversation.
“You?” I asked in return. “You know her long?”
“Well, I started with her as a roadie back in the seventies. Worked for her off and on since then. I’ve carried her guitar through fifty states and most of Europe. She’s always been square with me. Far as I’m concerned, creeps I’ve worked for, that qualifies her for sainthood.”
“You’re the road manager, right?”
“Yep.”
“What is it you do?”
“Everything.”
“You got an office with a phone?”
“You want to call the cops?”
“Just report my credit cards. Won’t take long.” All I have is my Harvard Coop card and Visa, and I wouldn’t have Visa if it weren’t for the rental car companies. Try to rent a car without a major credit card, and you’ve got yourself a hassle.
Hal said, “The Performance Center lets me use a hole-in-the-wall for the week. It hasn’t got much, but it’s got a phone. Hey, could you walk a little slower, maybe?”
“Sorry,” I said. The guy couldn’t have been more than five-five, with a barrel chest and short legs that were going twice as fast as mine. “Dee wanted to see me during the break.”
“You play bass?” Hal said hopefully.
“Do I look like a bass player?” I asked.
“You look like a lady who answers all my questions with questions.”
“Sorry,” I said, which was not a question, but not an answer either.
“Dee will want to see me too,” he said ruefully, after a brief pause. “She’ll want Brenda’s ass fried on a plate, and a fat slice of mine next to it. You’ll see.”
“She tough to work for?”
“Dee? Compared to most of the freaks in this business, no. And yeah, she’s a bitch to work for.”
He led me up a narrow flight of steps, concealed from the lobby by draperies, into an office so small there was barely room for both of us, a desk, and a filing cabinet. I did my phoning, which took twice as long as it should have. He shuffled some small slips of paper into an open drawer, closed it, and pretended not to listen.
“How do I get backstage?” I asked.
“Don’t interrupt if they’re playing, okay? I was kidding, you know, about wishing you were a bass player. This stuff with Brenda, it’s happened before. Believe me, they love each other like sisters.”
“Backstage,” I said. “You’re gonna tell me how to get there.”
“Yeah.” He gave me some fairly complex directions. “And, listen, if you were my daughter, I’d add some advice.”
“Such as?”
“Don’t chase robbers. We’ve got a police force.”
“I know,” I said. “Thanks for trying to help me out.”
“What did I do?” he protested, his grin shining through.
“Thanks anyway. You’re up for the Good Samaritan of the Week award. And so far, there’s not much competition.”
Eleven
I followed Hal’s directions through the lobby, back into the auditorium. Technicians were working onstage and Dee was nowhere in sight. I went through a draped doorway, up a steep short flight of stairs, and found myself surrounded by amplifiers and roadies. A hallway beckoned; I figured there had to be dressing rooms somewhere.
I located Dee’s by the sound of her voice, opened the door after a cursory knock, and found her yelling at a tiny woman who was waving a needle and thread like a banner.
“I like the damn pants tight,” Dee shouted at the seamstress. “If they split, they split.”
“Wear clean underwear,” I offered automatically. My mother used to say that: wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a car on the way to school. Think of the embarrassment if you have to go to the hospital in dirty underwear, or worse, with a safety pin holding your bra strap together.
It worries me when I find my mother’s words coming out of my mouth.
“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting half an hour.” Dee rounded on me, and the tiny seamstress took the opportunity to escape. “I was counting on you to find Davey, find him fast,” she went on angrily, not waiting for a response. She kicked off her heels, and four inches of white pant cuff brushed the floor.
“You know anybody who works with you and likes to steal ladies’ handbags?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Somebody ripped me off. Just now.”
“You want to go call the police or something?”
“Does the building have security?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” she said sarcastically. “Great security. Somebody tries to steal this building, I just bet the old-geezer patrol will notice.”
“That good, huh?”
“I wouldn’t leave a nickel in this dressing room. That’s how good. I give everything to one of Hal’s people. That handsome Jody guy, if I can find him. Now, you want to call the police or what?”
I sighed, and thought about all the Dumpsters and construction sites near Symphony Hall. “I’ll take care of it later.”
“You couldn’t find Dunrobie?”
“Give me more time and—”
“Can I trust you?” she said suddenly, more like an accusation than a question.
I raised an eyebrow. “That depends, doesn’t it?”
She reached inside her jacket, pulled an envelope out of the inner breast pocket, hefted it in her hand, and turned it over slowly. She bit her lower lip and tried to stare me down.
“Am I missing something?” I asked. “Because I like to have all the pieces before I play the game.”
She started to speak, stopped, and closed her eyes. She looked drained, a different woman entirely from the electric wonder onstage.
“Whatever it is, Dee,” I said, “whatever’s going on, the music’s fine. The music’s terrific.”
She didn’t open her eyes, but she leaned against the closed door and started to talk. It seemed like she was talking to herself, but she must have realized I was still there, since she was blocking the only exit. “I worked my butt off to get where I am, and it bums me out that Dunrobie thinks he can pull this kind of shit.” She stuck out her hand and gave me the envelope like she was glad to get rid of it.
It was standard size, embossed with the return address of a Stuart W. Lockwood, Esquire. Sent to Ms. Dee Willis, care of the Four Winds Hotel, 100 Boylston Street, Boston. Typed at the bottom were the words “urgent and extremely personal.” It had been neatly slit by a letter opener.
I unfolded a sheet of stiff paper. The attorney’s name, address, phone, and fax were engraved top center. It was dated August 12. Three days earlier.
Dear Ms. Willis:
I represent Mr. David C. Dunrobie. Your recordings of “For Tonight,” “Little Bit of Love,” and “Jenny Lou” are based on his compositions “Sweet Lorraine,” “Duet,” and “Missing Notes.”
You have failed to list Mr. Dunrobie as the composer of these songs, and you have further failed to list the songs under their original and correct titles. Your actions have deprived my client of his licensing fees and copyright payments, and constitute conversion of these songs to your own
use.
“Sweet Lorraine,” in particular, under your title, “For Tonight,” has earned considerable remuneration, from recordings by other artists as well as yourself.
My client has suffered serious economic as well as emotional damage as a result of your conversion of his work. This matter requires your immediate attention. Please call me within the week and advise me how you intend to remedy this situation. If we have not heard from you by the close of business, August 19, 1991, my client has instructed me to proceed with enforcement of his rights under the law, including an injunction to prevent the performance and sale of these songs while this matter is in dispute. Litigation of these issues would necessarily involve other parties such as MGA/America, the manufacturers and distributors of Change Up.
I await your response.
Sincerely,
Stuart W. Lockwood, Esq.
I turned the page over; there was nothing on the back.
“Why the hell have I been chasing my tail all day?” I snapped. “Dunrobie’s lawyer ought to know where he is.”
“Do you believe this?” Dee grabbed the letter and waved it in my face before tossing it on the floor. She bent quickly and retrieved it.
“Happens all the time,” I said. “You read about it in the papers. George Harrison stole “My Sweet Lord’ from so-and-so. Michael Jackson, all those people. You may not have realized you were doing it at the time, you just borrowed a riff here or there and whammo.”
Dee glared at me. She spoke in an angry whisper, checking frequently to make sure the dressing-room door stayed shut. “If you don’t believe me, nobody’s gonna believe me. It’s like this great American myth: If you’re famous you steal things from the little guy.” She clenched her fist, and then, not knowing what to do with it, let it fall to her side. “I am not going to have this happen to my life. I am not going to let Dunrobie do this to me.”
