by Linda Barnes
“For?”
“It’s one of the AA things. The twelve steps. Go back and apologize to the people you hurt when you were an addict.”
“You can apologize if it makes you feel better,” I said. “It doesn’t change anything.”
He walked away.
“Cal,” I hollered after him. “I would appreciate it. I would deeply appreciate it if you’d help me find Davey.”
Twenty-Seven
Dee had moved down a floor to 718. She still rated a suite, but it wasn’t half as grand as the last one. I used Mooney’s name as a password to get by the two plainclothesmen guarding the door. I wondered if they were keeping Dee in or reporters out.
She wasn’t alone.
Hal was hovering nervously over an elegant gent who sat bolt upright in an easy chair. I recognized him from the party: one of the men who looked like he’d stepped out of an ad for expensive evening wear. Maybe he was afraid his suit would wrinkle if he leaned back. Dee, forcing a smile, introduced him as Mr. Harvey Beringer, an executive vice-president of MGA/America, who just happened to be on his way out.
Mr. Beringer seemed surprised at the news of his departure. Dee looked like she was having a hard time controlling her temper.
“Great, Dee,” Hal said sarcastically as Beringer banged the door shut.
“You’re next,” she said to Hal. “Scram.”
Hal said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Dee,” I said, “I need a copy of that letter you showed me. From Lockwood.”
“What?… Oh. I, uh, don’t have a copy.”
“Trust me with the original,” I said. “I won’t lose it.”
“Hal, for chrissake,” Dee said, “can’t you just take a walk?”
“No way,” he said. “You’ve got two more press guys and three more MGA reps to reassure. They’re waiting.”
“Dee,” I said, “give me the letter.”
“I told you to forget about it.”
“Too late.”
Her face didn’t change, but her breath came a little faster. “Well, I don’t know if I can find it, see?”
“Then just tell me the titles of the three songs,” I said evenly.
She looked at me, a long, slow gaze, then she yanked open a dresser drawer, pawed under some scarves, and pulled out the envelope.
“I’m gonna pay him,” she said. “Whatever he wants.”
“Can you pound any sense through her thick skull?” Hal said to me, sinking down on the easy chair Mr. Beringer had vacated.
Dee paced the length of the room. Then she said, “Hal here thinks if I need money so badly, I should borrow it from a loan shark. You know, somebody who’ll break my fingers if I come up short.”
“Shut up,” Hal said.
“You shut up,” Dee replied bitterly. “First sign of trouble, and you’re coming apart at the seams.”
“First sign of—I like that! Never have I had somebody die on a tour of mine! Never!” There were two glasses on the marble-topped table next to the easy chair. Hal picked up one that was still full of amber liquid and downed it quickly.
“You know somebody in the loan business?” I asked Hal when he seemed to calm down a bit. “Somebody local?”
“A shark,” Dee snapped.
“A friend,” Hal said defensively. “A guy who’s loaned me money in the past.”
“Hal is a gamblin’ man,” Dee said, giving the words the same intonation she does on one of her songs. “He likes the part of the tour that goes through Atlantic City best.”
“He knows about the money?” I asked.
“I know she’s trying to make some dumb deal with MGA/America she’s gonna regret for the rest of her life,” Hal said. “You can get more than you’re asking for, Dee. More money. More clout. You couldn’t be hotter. If MGA doesn’t want you, Capitol, RCA, anybody, will sign you. For a big fat advance.”
Three hundred thousand seemed like a big, fat advance to me.
“Dee,” I said, “in the letter, is he asking for the right amount?”
“What do you mean?”
I glanced over at Hal. He might know Dee needed money, but what else did he know? “Would a jury give him more?” I asked Dee. “Would a judge?”
“Hal,” she said, “get the hell out of here. Now. Or I swear, you’re fired.”
He left, announcing that he’d be back in three minutes tops and slamming the door angrily.
“Three hundred thou is about right,” Dee said, still holding on to the envelope, still pacing. “If he’d written the songs.”
“Why? How would he come up with that number?”
“Mechanicals,” she said.
I’d heard the term at the MGA party, but I still didn’t understand it. “Explain,” I said.
“You don’t make money from royalties in the music business, not unless you’re a superstar with a studio by the balls. You make money on what you write, especially songs other singers cover. Because for every copy of your song that’s sold, you get your nickel. Or your two-point-five, depending.”
“Depending?” I asked, more puzzled than before.
“Listen. You got your recording studio, your songwriter, your song publisher, and your singer. Let’s forget about the singer for now. The songwriter’s share is always a nickel. That’s mechanical; it’s carved in stone. If you keep your publishing rights, you get the whole nickel. Now, sometimes songwriters talk about ‘losing’ their publishing rights. If you lose your publishing rights, you get two-point-five cents a copy. The song publisher splits your nickel with you.”
“How do you ‘lose’ your publishing rights?”
“A lot of companies put it right in the contract. They get the publishing rights, or you don’t get to do the album. And you’re young and stupid, and you don’t know enough to hire a lawyer or a manager to tell you to hold out for the whole nickel. I lost the publishing on ‘For Tonight.’ If I lost the rest of the nickel on that one, I’d go broke. Thank God, you can’t negotiate the two-point-five away. If you could, some maggot businessman would figure out how to nab it.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “How does this add up to three hundred thousand?”
“Work it out. An album goes gold at five hundred thousand copies, platinum at a million. I write one song on a platinum album, I earn twenty-five thousand dollars. You know how many golds and platinums ‘For Tonight’ wound up on?”
“Nope.”
“Well, three hundred thousand dollars is just about what I’ve made on that song. It sounds like a lot, maybe, but it’s come in dribs and drabs over, what? Twelve years. It’s my living money.”
“And the other two songs the lawyer mentioned?”
“Nobody else covers them. My money song’s ‘For Tonight.’”
“And Davey would be able to figure out how much you’d earned on it?”
“Anybody in the business could figure it out. But we’re getting away from the point here. I wrote the goddamn song.”
“But that’s not the point, is it, Dee? That letter’s not about mechanicals, or rights, or who wrote the songs.”
“It says what it says,” she answered after a long pause. She stopped pacing long enough to draw the drapes aside with her hand and stare down at the street below.
“Dee, don’t do the MGA deal yet. Give me a little more time.”
“To find Davey? Davey’s gone nuts.”
“Cal Therieux’s out looking for him.”
“Cal,” she repeated slowly.
“Did you know he was here? How come you didn’t tell me to start with him?”
She swallowed hard, let the drapes fall back in place. “We lost track,” she said. “Just another boy who stole a little piece of my heart. How did Erma Franklin sing it? I always liked her version better than Janis Joplin’s. ‘Take it! Break another little piece—’”
“Give me the letter, Dee.”
“Why don’t you just butt out of my life?”
“I can’t believe how much I u
sed to admire you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because you didn’t know me. You never saw anything but my hands on a guitar. You thought the songs I wrote were me. You still do, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe you still hate me a little for Cal, huh?”
“Maybe.”
“So why the hell should I trust you?”
“Who else have you got?”
“Don’t lose it,” she said when she finally handed over the envelope.
As I left, I could hear her singing “Piece of My Heart.” She was staring at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.
Down in the lobby I used an elegant pay phone to ring Joanne at D Street.
“Mickey,” I said. “Mickey who works for the Gianellis. He’s a shark, right?”
“You broke down and asked the boyfriend?”
“I haven’t even seen Sam,” I said.
“Well, you’re out of date. Mickey Manganero used to be a shark.”
“Atlantic City?”
“Bingo. If that’s the appropriate term.”
“And now?”
“Skipped up the ladder. Money laundering. Nobody’s sure how he handles it, but he seems to handle it in fairly big chunks.”
“Drug money?”
“I can let you talk to a narc.”
“No. Let it go for now. Mickey got a rap sheet?”
“Since Juvie Hall. That’s sealed, but he’s been busy ever since. Car theft, burglary, molestation. Almost got him on a rape. He likes young girls.”
“How young?”
“Why don’t you ask him? I’m sure the boyfriend can set up a meet.”
“Maybe I will,” I said.
Twenty-Eight
I couldn’t get an appointment with Stuart Lockwood. I couldn’t get one under my own name. I couldn’t get one by mentioning Dee Willis’s name. I couldn’t get one under an alias. Either business had improved dramatically or Lockwood was allergic to the sound of my voice.
I called Taylor Baines, of the gorgeous office and influential practice. The man who wanted to do his all for any artist employed by MGA/America.
Mr. Baines was cooperative. He had his efficient secretary telephone Stuart Lockwood’s inefficient one. A suddenly liberated Lockwood assured Baines he could attend a three o’clock meeting with no difficulty.
Baines and I met in his lush office at two thirty. After politely offering coffee, which I accepted, he said to me, “I don’t know about this. It’s tough to throw a scare into a lawyer.”
“There are lawyers, and then there are lawyers,” I responded once the coffee lady had come and gone, silently leaving her tray of steaming china cups. “You already scared him. He’s coming. And if he can be impressed, your office is the place to do it.”
“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” he agreed, taking time to stir his coffee and spin his leather chair to admire the view. The ocean was more blue than green today. The water closest to shore had a brownish cast. I wondered where they were digging the third harbor-tunnel.
“If I were trying to make it as a lawyer in this town, I’d want to do you a favor,” I said.
“We do steer a lot of overflow business to smaller firms,” he observed.
The secretary ushered Lockwood in at a quarter past three although I was sure he’d arrived earlier. Baines had given instructions not to bring him in until he’d cooled his heels in the outer office and had sufficient time to admire the floral arrangements, the original oil paintings, the rosewood furniture.
I’d briefed Baines, and he started off. I stayed in the room, but he didn’t introduce me. Lockwood obviously thought I worked for the law firm, and his estimation of me skyrocketed. He smiled at me.
“I assume you’re handling the Dunrobie case on a contingency basis,” Baines began. He didn’t offer Lockwood coffee even though our cups were still half full.
“I can’t discuss that,” Lockwood answered predictably.
“Then let’s discuss blackmail,” Baines said, with a perfectly charming smile.
“Blackmail,” Lockwood repeated. He scratched his nose with his index finger, hurriedly stuck his hand in his lap when he realized what he’d done.
“The use of letters, containing threats and producing fear, to obtain money. Would you agree on the definition?” Baines said smoothly.
“Well, yes. On the definition.”
“Blackmail is a criminal matter. When a blackmailing letter is sent through the mails, the charge of federal mail fraud can be appended.” Baines took his time rereading the letter, then offered it to the lawyer. “I assume this is your letterhead and your signature.”
Lockwood reread it carefully and nodded.
Baines said, “Then I can’t really think of a good reason not to call the police. Maybe you can tell me one.”
Lockwood wasn’t worried yet. He said, “I believe it is customary, in any attempt to prove that a crime was committed, for the prosecution to show that there was both criminal intent and a wrongful overt act.”
Baines held out his hand until Lockwood, somewhat reluctantly, handed back the sheet of stationery. “This paper would, I think, constitute a wrongful overt act. The only question is criminal intent.”
“Whoa,” Lockwood said, losing the casual air he was struggling to maintain, “you’re talking crazy.”
“Tell me about this client of yours and we’ll see who’s crazy,” Baines said. “It won’t look good when you’re named as an accessory,” he continued severely. “But perhaps this is your own idea, and there is no Mr. Dunrobie.”
“What do you mean? Of course there’s a Dunrobie.”
“A man, I understand, with no telephone?”
“He calls me.”
“And that doesn’t seem odd to you?”
“I’ve only recently established my practice in this state. I can’t pick and choose my clientele the way a more established lawyer might.”
“And if you need to reach Mr. Dunrobie?”
“I can get in touch with him.”
“At 825 Winter Street, Suite 505D?”
“How did you?—Did she?—That’s a privileged communication—”
“Through what is known as a ‘mail drop’?”
Lockwood hadn’t known that; you could tell by his face. But he made a quick recovery. “He calls me, like I said.”
“Have you ascertained—excuse me, did you try to ascertain whether your client is a man of good faith? By that I mean, do you have the sense that he in fact knew Miss Willis?”
“Look, I don’t take nuisance suits. I’m not an ambulance chaser.”
“Then you did believe that this man was unlawfully done out of monies due him?”
“I did. I mean, the first time he showed up with his story, I gave him the brush-off. He looked too young, like he’d have been a kid when those songs were written. But then he came back with evidence that seemed to prove his case.”
“What did he return with, exactly?”
Lockwood hesitated.
“Come, now. If you’re going to be difficult, I’ll simply file a discovery motion before we go to trial,” Baines prompted.
“He showed me her photograph, suitably inscribed.”
“I imagine she sends a great many photos to fans. What makes you think he’s not some crank?”
“Look, if this is supposed to impress the hell out of me and make me tell him to drop the suit, forget it. The man has a valid case.”
“So do we, against you, for federal mail fraud if nothing else.”
I could see Lockwood’s Adam’s apple work. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Dunrobie hasn’t exactly given me the go-ahead to do this, but I’d rather settle out of court. He has given me a figure to shoot for. What he’s got is the original sheet music to the songs. You know. His titles over her songs. The exact lyrics.”
I said, “You can get note-for-note transcriptions through mail-order houses. And if the guy has musical
training, if he has an ear, he could have transcribed her material himself and called it whatever he liked. It’s not hard. All you have to do is buy a record.”
“He also showed me self-addressed, postmarked, sealed envelopes—intact—that, he assures me, contain the identical songs.”
“Have you had the postmarks authenticated?” I asked.
“A postmark is acceptable in a—”
“Sixteen-year-old kids know how to alter the birth dates on their driver’s licenses,” I interrupted. “It’s even easier to change a postmark; mail’s not laminated.”
“I didn’t see the need to involve experts until they were necessary,” Lockwood said, not meeting my eyes. “My client didn’t want expenses mounting up.”
“Can you read sheet music?” I asked him.
“No.”
“Have you had anyone who reads music take a look at this stuff?”
“Not yet.”
“May I see it? Just the copies. I won’t break into any sealed envelopes.”
His eyes shifted to his briefcase. He’d brought the file along.
“We would appreciate it,” Taylor Baines said into the growing silence.
Lockwood shuffled through his case, and finally handed over three Xeroxed pages, paper-clipped at the left-hand corner. I removed the clip, spread the sheets on the desk.
Baines raised his eyes questioningly to me.
“The Library of Congress accepts tapes for copyright purposes now, but they didn’t ten years ago,” I said. “Back then, a musician—even a musician who didn’t read music—would get somebody to write out a lead sheet—that’s the melody line. He might make it as simple as possible, or he might get fancy and stick in the tablature—that’s a six-line staff that shows the guitar fingerboard.” I tapped the pages on the desk in front of me. “But nobody who knew what he was doing would use this for copyright.”
“Why?” Lockwood demanded. “What’s wrong with it?”
“The sheet music for ‘For Tonight’ runs about six pages. I’ve seen it. I’ve played it. You’ve got three pages here.”
“So, maybe it’s a sample,” he said.
“It’s not the melody. It’s not the lead sheet,” I said. “All you’ve got here is the bass line.”
“Are you sure?” Baines asked me.
I nodded, then said to Lockwood, “Did you know that Dee Willis’s bass player is dead?”
