by D. J. Manly
Published by Mojocastle Press, LLC
Price, Utah
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
The Russos: Episode Eight
ISBN: 1-60180-040-1
Copyright ã 2007 D. J. Manly
Cover Art Copyright @ 2007 April Martinez
All rights reserved.
Excluding legitimate review sites and review publications, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Copying, scanning, uploading, selling and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission from the publisher is illegal, punishable by law and will be prosecuted.
Available online at:
http://www.mojocastle.com/
Also By D.J. Manly:
Connor’s Storm
Melting Ice
The Russos: Digital Soap
Dedication:
To my readers.
The Russos: Episode Eight
Previously on The Russos...
Angelo gets a record contract, and goes on the road, but doesn’t tell his father. Tony graduates from high school, and Sam comes out to Los Angeles for the graduation party. Tony gets a big surprise at his grad. Drake is upset when he finds out about Angelo’s record contract.
And Now...Episode Eight of The Russos
“We have only been under contract for a week and already you’re complaining,” Sam Dunkin accused Angelo. “We have to give these songs a chance, we’re not working hard enough.”
“Who’s not working?” Angelo returned. “Shit, I’m here at seven every morning and we work until six, sometimes seven at night. Give me a break. I still think Alan should give us the opportunity to do our own stuff our way.”
“You’re stubbornly refusing to give your all to those songs because they’re not yours!” Sam grumbled. “And where is all this so-called music of yours anyway?”
“I have some...well…a few songs that I’ve written,” Angelo replied a little hesitantly. “We might try one of them sometime.”
“Well, I’m not wasting my time on any garbage you write,” Sam retorted, picking up his guitar and beginning to tune it. “We’ll stick to the songwriters here who have made hits for rock bands. It’s a tried and true formula. I don’t want to wait until I’m seventy to be famous! I’ll be too damn old to enjoy it.”
Mike chose that moment to walk into the sound studio. He noted the dark expression on Drake’s face as he bent down to check out the synthesizer and looked at Sam. “What have you done now?”
“Nothing. I’m tired of Mr. High and Mighty Drake Russo Junior here bitching about the songs we’re working on all the time, that’s all. He’s shortchanging the songs we’re working on because he’s an egotistical prick and wants everything his own way.”
“Fuck you!” Drake returned. “I’m not any more goddamned egotistical than you!”
“Then stop trying to change the songs. Play them like they’re written.”
Angelo sighed. “They’re boring that way. It’s not our style.”
Mike nodded his head. “You know, I tend to agree with Angelo. Playing these scripted songs take away all our spontaneity and creativity. It’s not us. I think we should talk to Concord.”
“Another shit disturber,” Sam spat. “Concord doesn’t want to hear your petty little problems. He wants us to make a hit. He wants to see we can make money. Once we make a hit, you can play the Star Spangled Banner for all I give a shit, but now we stick to the songs that have a shot at making the charts.”
“In all fairness, Sam,” Mike volunteered, “we’ve only been at this for a week.”
“Ya...so let’s get to work,” Sam growled.
Angelo glared at him. Mike hid a smile as he climbed up behind his drums. They began to play a song written by two of Concord’s songwriters called ‘Get Over Me’.
Denise Hobbs and Lenard Macintyre, a husband and wife team, had already written six songs that had made it to the charts. Several prominent rock groups had performed their music. These were no amateurs, and Angelo had nothing against the song itself. It was a good song, but it would have been better for someone else. All he could see when he looked at the notes on the score was how he would change it to suit him.
He found it difficult not to improvise as they practised the song. When he did manage to slip in something of his own creation, Mike would follow and sometimes even do a little improvising himself. Sam, however, would stop dead and demand to know what in hell they were doing.
“Improvising. Ever heard of it?” Angelo mocked.
“Ya, I heard of it, but we’re not doing it. It’s not in the music.”
“Can’t you follow by ear, for Christ’s sakes, or do I have to make you a map to let you know exactly where I’m going all the damn time?” Angelo placed his hands on his hips and glared at him.
“Christ, you’re in a bitch of a mood. Missing your little magazine boyfriend back in Ventura? You need to get laid bad.”
Mike stepped down from his drums now and went to stand in front of Angelo. Sam was getting far too personal, and he sensed Angelo was inches away from sending Sam flying across the studio. “Look, let’s take a break, okay?” Mike commented in a light tone. “This is not working. Let’s set up a meeting with Alan Concord and ask his advice.”
When Angelo nodded, Mike turned and looked at Sam. “All right with you there, Sam?”
“Why not?” Sam threw up his hands. “He’s going to view us as malcontents and try to find a way to break our contracts, but that’s fine.” He sneered. “That’s what I get for getting involved with the son of a second-rate rock star!”
Angelo made a lunge for him, and had him around the neck, positioned down under his arm before Mike could do anything. “My father is not a second-rate rock star!” Angelo told him angrily as he tightened his hold around his neck. “You’d be lucky to ever be one-third as talented and successful as my father is in your life time, you bastard!”
Sam groaned in protest.
“Angelo, let him go,” Mike urged gently.
Angelo tightened his hold again, almost bending Sam double.
Sam let out a cry of pain.
Angelo looked at Mike, realizing that he could easily break Sam’s neck, and released him.
Sam jumped away from him, clutching his throat. He started cursing.
Mike told him to shut up. “I’m going to go and set up a meeting with Concord. Let’s call it quits for the day. Go home. I’ll let you know later when the meeting is going to be.”
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure, let’s waste time. We’re supposed to perform this number in front of a committee next week who will vote on whether or not...”
“Well...it’s not,” Angelo snapped. “Even if we practised this song twenty-four hours a day for a goddamned decade, it wouldn’t be ready. We need another song.”
Sam shook his head. “If we fail, it will be your fault,” he accused. “Personally, I think you don’t care because you always have Daddy to bail you out.”
“Watch it, Dunkin!” Angelo warned, making a move toward him.
Sam grumbled something, turned his back and slammed out of the studio.
Angelo sat down on the floor and let loose a sigh. Sam was right for one thing; he was missing Matt. They had been inseparable for the last few days Angelo had been in Ventura. Matt had been there with him to help him out when Angelo had to tell Richard that he no longer needed him.
Richard was enraged. He accused Ange
lo of everything from betrayal to fraud and then went out, got drunk and came back again, crying and screaming outside Matt’s living room window. It had been a terrible scene. Angelo still felt bad about having to let Richard go and he was hoping that once Richard calmed down, they could talk about it.
Matt had called him on the phone every night since he’d been in Arizona. He filled him in on how the writing up of the interview he did with him was going. They talked about life and their hopes for the future, and Angelo looked forward to his phone calls.
Matt promised to come out to Arizona on the weekend. That was four days away. It seemed like forever. He was lonely. And although he liked Mike, he missed his family and he was unhappy with what was going on with the music.
Angelo had taken a room at a boarding house that was within walking distance of Concord Studios. He talked about moving into an apartment with Mike, but neither had done much by way of trying to find one, because they had neither the time nor energy for apartment hunting. Mike was staying at another boarding house down the street, but was planning to move out. The landlady was nosy and extremely fussy. She was on his case for all kinds of things. Sam had taken a room at a rundown hotel near the downtown core, and seemed prepared to stay there.
When the phone rang at eight-thirty, Angelo was in a deep sleep. It took him a while to realize that someone was pounding on his door. Finally he heard someone yell, “Mr. Smith, there’s a phone call for you.”
“Okay,” he called back as he stumbled out of bed.
What he hated most about living in a boarding house was that the phone was in the hallway and everyone could hear what you were talking about.
He wasn’t able to say anything to Matt even remotely affectionate because he knew practically everyone eavesdropped on each other’s conversations. There was not much else to do.
He went out into the hallway and took the phone from Mr. Potter, an elderly gentleman in his seventies who answered the phone every time it rang. His room lay directly across the hall from where the phone sat, and rushing to pick it up appeared to be his self-designated occupation.
“It’s that young man again,” Mr. Potter whispered, placing his hand over the receiver.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter.” Angelo gave him a tolerant smile and took the phone.
He waited until Potter had slowly walked back to his room and then again very slowly closed his door, making sure to leave it open just a crack.
“Hello,” Angelo said into the phone.
“God, you have such a deep, sexy voice,” Matt murmured. “I miss you.”
“Good. You’ll appreciate me all the more then when you see me. How are you doing? How is work?”
Matt laughed. “I can’t concentrate, I keep thinking about how beautiful you are and well...you can guess the rest.”
“Stop...” Angelo warned him.
“So say something outrageously sexual to me so that you can scandalize the people at that boarding house you’re staying at!” Matt teased.
“I don’t think so,” Angelo replied in a guarded voice, but he wanted to laugh.
Matt began to describe in detail the things he planned to do to him as soon as he saw him, and finally Angelo convinced him to cut it out. “You are at an unfair advantage here, Matt. Stop it. You have the luxury, I don’t and you will pay,” he whispered into the receiver.
Matt laughed. “I hope so. I have been a very bad boy.”
Angelo clicked his tongue.
They went on to talk of other things. Angelo told him briefly about the problems he was having at Concord and how discouraged he was beginning to feel.
“You’re a talented musician, Angelo. You don’t need that crap. Just split from there.”
“It’s not that easy, Matt. I’m no quitter, and Concord is giving me an opportunity. You know the industry.”
By the time he hung up with Matt, he was beginning to think that Matt had a point. Maybe he should get out while the getting was good. He could cut himself loose of Sam Dunkin at the same time. Maybe Mike would go with him. But they had a damned contract. He was obligated to stick it out for at least a year. Shit. What had he done?
A few minutes later, Mike called. It was just before the nine o’clock deadline.
The landlady, Mrs. Bloomfield, gave him a dirty look when she handed him the phone, the first time since he’d been here that Mr. Potter hadn’t got there first. She looked at her watch as she padded down the hallway in her puffy blue slippers. “Five to nine, Mr. Smith!” she called out loudly in her authoritative voice.
“Yes, Mrs. Bloomfield,” he replied, making a face at her as she disappeared downstairs.
Mike told him that Concord had agreed to a meeting with them tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. “I told him a little about the problems and he seemed sympathetic. He wants to talk.”
“Good, thanks, Mike,” Angelo said.
They talked a bit longer, mostly about their eccentric landladies, and then rang off. Mike didn’t bring up the fight Angelo had today with Sam, and neither did Angelo. It seems they both just wanted to forget about it.
As he climbed into bed, he forced himself to feel optimistic that they could work things out tomorrow.
It was almost midnight when Angelo heard the phone ringing out in the hall. Only emergency calls were accepted at this time of night. It probably wasn’t for him.
The ringing stopped--or at least appeared to--as he languished in between that hazy state of sleeping and wakefulness.
Someone was knocking on his door. It was Mrs. Bloomfield.
Angelo moaned and climbed out of bed, searching for his jeans in the dark. “A minute...wait a minute...” he called out, then rushed to the door and pulled it open.
There was a dim light glowing in the hall. Mrs. Bloomfield was quite the sight in her blue curlers and cold cream. She pulled her robe around her, as if he would be interested in seeing what lay underneath it, and told him that the phone call was for him.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bloomfield,” he managed, walking into the hallway.
She followed on his heels. “This will not be tolerated here, young man. This is a respectable establishment.”
Angelo nodded. “It must be an emergency, Mrs. Bloomfield,” he said as he picked up the phone.
“Didn’t sound like it to me. There is music playing in the background...like at a party or something. Anyway, this is a warning, Mr. Smith.”
“Ya...okay, Mrs. Bloomfield,” Angelo sighed, picking up the phone. “Hello,” he said.
“Well, hello there yourself, Mr. Smith,” the voice drawled. It was his father.
There was a long silence, then Angelo said, “Hello, Dad. How did you know where to find me?”
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” Drake laughed. “Remember how you used to try and sneak off with some of the kids you’d meet when we were on the road and I’d always find you, usually just before you were about to get into some real trouble?”
“Ya, but I’m not fourteen anymore, Dad,” he remarked, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure how he felt talking to his father right now. He only knew that his chest felt tight and his tone must have sounded a little strained.
“No, you’re not fourteen anymore.” Drake sighed. “Sometimes I wish you were. I miss those years.”
Angelo didn’t reply. It was true. They were good years for the most part. He had some great memories from those times, and some painful ones as well.
“So, the reason I’m calling is...well...I guess I’m calling for a lot of reasons. I want to see you,” Drake told him.
“Where are you?”
“Here in Phoenix. I’m staying at Alan’s house.”
“I see. I didn’t know you were so chummy with Alan Concord.”
“Alan and I go way back. He used to collaborate a lot with Frank in the old days. Concord was just a seedling back then.”
“So you know about the contract, then?”
“Yes. Congratu
lations, by the way. I wish I had known earlier. Why didn’t you tell me? I might have given you some advice.”
Angelo could tell his father was hurt; it came through quite clearly in his voice. “I...don’t know why. I just didn’t, that’s all. How is the video coming?”
Drake detected the bitterness almost immediately. He took a breath. “About the video. I want to...”
“Dad. It’s your business who you want working with you on your music videos...for whatever reason,” Angelo replied stiffly.
“I am not sleeping with Tony, if that’s what you’re implying!” Drake growled into the receiver. “I know you think I let Tony in on the video because we’re having wild, wonderful sex every night together but I assure you, it’s not the case. Johnny wanted Tony in--”
“Dad. Stop!” Angelo barked. “I don’t want to talk about that, and I especially don’t want to see you right now. I’m tired and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.”
“Don’t hang up,” Drake pleaded.
“I’m still here.”
“I need to talk to you about your mother’s wedding. She really wants you to be there. You will be there, won’t you?”
“When is it?” Angelo asked.
“Next week, Saturday. They’re being married at Johnny’s house in Beverly Hills in front of a judge. The whole thing will be catered and the reception is going to be held outside if weather permits.”
Angelo sighed.
“It will mean a lot to her if you come. She wanted you to be an usher. You know I’m the best man?”
“Yes. I figured you would be,” he mused. “Who else would Mac have as his best man? Weren’t you the best man for him when he got married the last time?”
“Ya. Angelo, don’t change the subject. You should call your mother. She misses you. She worries about you and...what am I saying? I miss you. You’ve been gone since Christmas with not even a word. I need to talk to you. Something has happened, and we need to sit down and talk. It’s important, Angelo.”
