Born of Greed

by Baroni, J. T.

  She took a bite. “This is fantastic. It tastes just as good as the scampi I’ve had at Jimmie’s Crab Shack over the years. And you do make me feel like a princess, Jack.”

  “You look like a princess in the candlelight. And you make me feel like a king,” Trotter complimented, and took a sip of his Chardonnay. “How’s your song coming?”

  “Oh, it’s coming along pretty good. There was a couple of rhymes I wasn’t happy with before, but now, I think I got the words how I want them. Now I have to hire a band to cut the demo.” She took a bite of her salad.

  “Then what?”

  “Then I shop the song to artists. It helps if you know a publisher, or an agent. At best, an attorney. And I think I know somebody who knows somebody.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “That would be better than great. I want to prove to Amy that I don’t need her. She claims she’ll retire after her concert obligations are met and I’m planning on banking some serious cash till then.”

  Trotter topped off both their glasses, and then raised his. She brought her glass to his and he made a toast, “To your new song being another number one smash hit. And to the day when we can get you away from your evil twin, and live a life of luxury.”

  “Here, here,” Amber added, and smiled.

  Then she noticed a look in Trotter’s eyes she had never seen before. He had a determined, devilish look about him, almost to the point of being sinister.

  Small talk followed until their salads, linguine, and wine were finished, then Trotter asked, in his British slang, “Do you care for any dessert, Your Highness?” She smirked and sarcastically replied, “What do thou have to offer, King Jack?”

  “I have a royal fruit cup, or perhaps, strawberry cheesecake for the princess?”

  “I think I would just like a double serving of…you!”

  Happily, he obliged his princess. Twice over as requested.

  Then they indulged in cheesecake.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Oh, Baby, rock and roll is here to stay. It will never die.”

  Danny & the Juniors

  “Happy New Years, Jack!” Amber exclaimed to Trotter as the two of them stood in front of his big screen TV set, watching the giant lighted ball land in New York’s Time Square, where as close to a million people crowded the streets to welcome in 1986.

  “One of tonight’s bands performing live is…The Beach Queens!” Dick Clark told his TV audience. “And they tell me they’ll be singing their brand new, never heard before song, ‘When Angels Fly!’”

  Trotter’s jaw hit the floor. With a big smile on her face, Amber said, “Surprise! I’ve known for two weeks now they were going to do this. It was so hard not to tell you.”

  “This is absolutely fantastic. What a way to start off the New Year!” Trotter congratulated her. “This is unbelievable; I just have to wonder what the rest of ’86 holds in store.”

  Patiently they waited for The Beach Queens to do the song. Finally, the cameras zoomed in on the four beautiful teen girls, all dressed in expensive sable furs covering their bikinis. After they finished the song, the applause and the roar of the crowd proved to Amber that her song would become a hit.

  Two weeks into the New Year, Amy flew into a rage when she found out about Amber selling her song to The Beach Queens. Driving home in her Ferrari one afternoon, she realized the song she was singing along to was Amber’s lyrics! She was fit to be tied.

  As typical, Trotter and Amber were poolside when Amy stormed out of the mansion with her usual gin and tonic in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “You ungrateful little bitch!” she screamed at Amber. “You went and sold that song to them fucking Beach Dykes!”

  “That is a fact. And I’m actually expecting to receive some healthy royalty checks from this song,” Amber stated in a somewhat snobbish tone.

  “I thought I was going to do that song. I ought to fire your ass.” Amy got louder.

  Very calmly, Amber stated, “You said hip hop was not going to catch on out here on the West Coast, so I figured you didn’t want to do the song. Go ahead and fire me if that’ll make you happy.”

  “Micky already had a melody for the lyrics. And it sure as hell was not that rap shit,” Amy was quick to point out, shouting even louder.

  Still composed, Amber responded, “Micky’s a jerk. His melody sucked. His version surely would’ve killed the song. I’ve been watching the sales of this new tune, and it is apparently breaking records of any other song ever released. Sales have surpassed “One Little Kiss.” Oh! It’s destined to be a number one top seller,” she added very casually, sarcastically smirking at her sister.

  “You’d be flipping fucking burgers if it wasn’t for me giving you an income! And this is the thanks I get?” Amy’s hand shook as she finished her Tanqueray and tonic. “Get your shit together and get the fuck out of my house,” she demanded.

  “Thank God! I was getting tired of playing Fontaine anyways. You’ve no idea how many times I got my hair pulled at the last concert. And I swear to God I’m getting carpal tunnel from signing your autograph a thousand times.”

  Amy’s eyes widened; she was expecting a rebuttal, not a thank you. Life on the road without Amber doing the shit work flashed through her mind.

  Amber continued, “At least now, I’ll have more time to finish my new song.” Then she stood, placed her towel around her neck, and started to walk away. “It was real nice working with you, Jack.” They shook hands and Amber turned to walk away.

  “A new song? What’s the title?” Amy shouted.

  Amber stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What do you care? I’ll be sure to send a finished demo to your agent for review and consideration, as well as one to the Dykes, as you like to call them. They told me to send any future projects I do. You have fun touring, now.” She waved, and then continued walking away.

  Reality hit Amy. “What’s the fucking title, Amber?” Her twin hollered again. Obviously very irritated over Amber’s nonchalant attitude.

  Looking over her shoulder once more, Amber said, “Won’t Ya Be My Lover Boy.”

  Trotter took in the whole scenario with a dumbfounded look on his face. He knew Amber wanted to build a nest egg, but why was she happy that Amy fired her?

  Amy snuffed out her cigarette, stood, and hollered to her sister, “Amber! Wait!”

  Neither Trotter nor Amy saw the smile that went across Amber’s face; it was no longer there when she turned around to face Amy. “What?” It was her turn now to be agitated. “What do you want? I’m in a hurry. I have a song to write.”

  “That title sounds pretty catchy.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Maybe we can make a deal?”

  “I don’t see how. You fired me.”

  “I was only kidding.”

  “Jack, did you hear Amy fire me?”

  “Yes I did. Her exact words were, ‘Get your shit together and get the fuck out of my house.’”

  Amy started to say something to Trotter, but she rolled her eyes instead. Then she addressed her sister, “Okay! You’re not fired.”

  “Well in that case…I quit!”

  “What? You can’t quit.”

  “Want to bet on that?”

  “Oh come on, Amber,” Amy pleaded, “We are a team.”

  “I’ll come back only if you apologize. And give me a raise.” Amber placed her hand on her hip, waiting for a reply.

  “All right, I’m sorry. I’ll give you a 10 percent raise.”

  “I’ll accept your apology only if you give me a 20 percent raise. Effective today.” Her other hand landed on her other hip.

  “Fine. Twenty percent. But I get to hear the demo first; before the Dykes do.” Amy conceded, desperately wanting another hit song.

  “Agreed. Apology accepted. Now, you go and tell Nancy to make the change in payroll before you get too drunk and forget,” spoken as if to a child. “That was only my first drink. But to make you happy,
I’ll do it right now.”

  She picked up her empty tumbler and left to find her secretary.

  Trotter let out a low chuckle. “You’re quite the cunning little bitch. You even had me convinced for a while you were happy to get out.” “I know her all too well, don’t I? That was just too easy,” Amber said with a smile.

  “A 20 percent raise! That sounds like a good reason to celebrate. How does Jimmie’s Crab Shack sound?” Trotter suggested.

  “Excellent idea! My treat.”

  Then a puzzled look overtook Trotter’s face. “I didn’t know you’d already started another song.” Amber laughed. “I didn’t.” Then they both had a good laugh, all the while making sure Amy could not hear them.

  * * * *

  Three and a half months later, April 30th, the two of them were celebrating at Jimmie’s once more. “Happy Birthday, Jack,” Amber told Trotter as she slid a small gift box across the table.

  “Wow! It’s beautiful,” Trotter said as he took the eighteen-carat gold chain holding an elaborately decorated ankh from the box.

  “I’m glad you like it. Do you know what it is?”

  After a moment’s thought, he replied, “I know it is an Egyptian symbol.” He put his hand to his chin in deep thought. “Does it represent…fertility?” he asked. “Nope, but you’re close though. It’s an ankh. The Egyptian symbol for long life. Let me help you put it on.” Standing behind him, she draped the gold chain around his massive neck and did the clasp.

  “Now, I feel like Blaze.” Trotter joked.

  “It does look good on you. You needed some jewelry.”

  “And I have a surprise for you. I put your old boyfriend behind bars today.” He stated as he broke open a lobster claw.

  “What old boyfriend?” Amber asked, puzzled.

  “Micky,” Trotter said, digging lobster meat from the tail section.

  “Well, that certainly is good news. How long do you think he’ll get?” Amber asked as she buttered a warm roll.

  “We got him on possession charges only. He’ll be back out in five years. Three with good behavior.”

  Trotter was disappointed Micky went down without resisting arrest. He so badly wanted to hurt that little bastard, again. The way Trotter manhandled the little punk though teetered on the edge of police brutality.

  * * * *

  The year 1986 ended with no major excitement. A few more concerts were history. Amber and Trotter were on a first name basis with Sharon now, the bubbly waitress at Jimmie’s.

  And done to a reggae tone with a hip-hop beat, Amber’s new song was finally mastered to her liking; it was totally different from anything on the market. She hired three different demo bands to cut the song until the finished product was the way she heard it in her head. Amber knew in her heart if The Beach Queens were to sing her new tune, she would have another hit. Keeping her promise though, she gave the first listen to her twin.

  “Do you really think the teeny boppers are going to like this shit?” Amy asked her sister, after listening to the demo CD.

  “Yes, they’ll like this blend. They liked ‘When Angels Fly’ didn’t they? If you want to remain a headliner, you have to diversify. Go with the times. All the big stars did a disco song when disco was big.”

  Amy pulled a blank contract out of her drawer. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll sign this as mine. I’ll even give you an extra ten percent in royalties, if you agree to no reversion clause.” The reversion clause, usually agreed upon for two or three years, granted the seller the rights back to a song if the buyer did not make a go of the song.

  Amy filled in the information and then signed the legally binding contract. “Here, sign.” Which Amber did. Amy gave a copy to Amber, and then secured her own copy in her corner safe.

  Then she ejected the demo CD from the stereo and turned her back to Amber. “What does my T-shirt say, Amber?”

  “Disco sucks.”

  Amy snapped the demo in half and tossed the pieces into the garbage can. “Just like disco, this is where this kind of shit belongs! I won’t sing it. And I won’t fucking promote it.”

  * * * *

  “What did you do then?” Trotter asked Amber as he held her trembling little body. He rushed from a surveillance set up to her apartment after she called him, explaining through tears she needed to talk to somebody. Then she continued telling him what happened between sobs after he arrived.

  “What could I do? She locked up her copy of the agreement. I didn’t say a word to the bitch. I just left. I came home and called you.” Trotter realized how mad she was; she hardly ever swore.

  “I can’t believe she’d do something like that. Yeah, what a bitch,” Trotter agreed, and then asked, “So? What are you going to do now?”

  “Being a cop, you ought to know a few good hit men,” Amber said, half seriously. “I don’t know what to do, but I’d love to see her go down. She’s got me so…pissed.”

  “Sorry, I had all the hit men arrested. But I could have the DEA storm her mansion when we know she scored some flake.”

  “Yeah!” Amber got all excited and her tears stopped. “That would ruin her for good.” She giggled.

  But then realizing the consequences, she frowned. “No, that’s not good either. She’d be able to buy her way out of going to prison. Then, if there was no more Fontaine, I’d be unemployed. Maybe I can put the mole on my face and punch out some paparazzi, or act drunk in a nightclub. You know…cause her some negative publicity.”

  “Then she would fire you for sure,” Trotter was quick to point out. “I wouldn’t go and do something rash right now. Maybe it’s from watching my father plant seeds and then waiting five months till he reaped the rewards; or maybe it’s from doing months of surveillance on a drug dealer till we know we can put him away; but I’ve learned why patience is indeed a virtue.”

  “I know, but I want revenge now. I suppose you are making a lot of sense. What really pisses me off is that nobody will ever hear my song. I always get such a good feeling at the concerts when she asks the crowd what they want to hear, and they all scream out, ‘One Little Kiss.’ That’s my work. My creation. She’s too stupid and stubborn to take my advice on doing more than just mainstream pop. I just know this song would have climbed the charts. It kills her to see me have any success. She’s always been so greedy toward me.”

  “Look what happened to the last person who hurt my little princess; he’s doing time. Amy will get hers in the end too, I promise you. She’s up against you…and me. Together, we will take her down, but only when the time is right, and…the crops are ready to harvest. Your song will be heard. Trust me.”

  Being in those muscular arms of his, and hearing his promise of revenge, Amber felt one hundred percent better. “She’s going to retire in three years. The crops ought to be pretty damn ripe by then.”

  “Well, until then, we’ll just keep squirreling away as much as possible so we can move to a place where you won’t need to wear this silly wig.”

  “Amen. God, I hate wearing these things. She’s got me so mad I forgot it was still there.” She stepped back from him and undid the hairpiece. Her long blonde hair fell about her shoulders.

  “I guess that means we’re in for the night?”

  “Yeah, I don’t feel up to going anywhere tonight. How’s hamburgers sound?”

  “That depends on who’s cooking, and what you’re having for dessert.” He mischievously smiled.

  “The usual, strawberry cheesecake.” She raised her eyebrows. “And you’re cooking, Farm Boy!”

  “Farm boy? Where did that come from?” Then he started to tickle her.

  Laughing while trying to escape his grip. “Squirreling away! I reckon only them there farm boys from over yonder in Iowa go and talk funny, if y’all know what I mean. Yuk, yuk, yuk.”

  Trotter let her squirm out of his arms; then he chased her to the bedroom.

  * * * *

  Finally! The last year of concert obligations was around t
he corner. Trotter made reservations at Jimmie’s for celebrating the arrival of 1990. Every table was booked.

  “Hello, Jack. Good evening, Amber. Happy New Years to both of you. Your favorite booth is reserved and waiting for you.” Sharon informed them at the reception desk while Trotter had both hands on the wheel, pretending to navigate a boat through rough waters.

  “We’re serving buffet style tonight. Eat and drink as much as you want. Oh! I put a New Years present on your table.”

  “Why thank you, Sharon,” Amber said.

  “Yes, thank you,” Trotter added. Then they both simultaneously told her, “Happy New Year.”

  “My pleasure. You two are my best customers. I hope you both have a prosperous 1990!” She smiled and gestured with her hand toward their table and the humongous buffet. “Dock the boat, Jack! Enjoy!”

  Amber led the way through the noisy people to their booth; they seated themselves.

  “What a lovely gift,” Amber said. “A chilled bottle of Chardonnay.”

  “Yes, that was awful nice of her,” Trotter said as he glanced around their favorite, little restaurant. Then in his British accent, Trotter declared, “I don’t see Chardonnay on any of the other tables, My Lady.”

  “Perhaps Sharon was not baffling us with bullshit when she said we were her favorite customers.” Amber laughed.

  Trotter had to chuckle from her remembering his line from so long ago. “She certainly did dazzle me with her brilliance, though. I’ll give her that.”

  “God, Jack, just think. It’s been five whole years already since we had our first date. Right here, in this very booth.”

  “Yeah…and boy am I ever glad they fixed the spring Jackie Gleason broke,” Trotter said, bouncing up and down.

  “Well, you did complain to Sharon about it enough times.”

  “That spring was a pain in my ass,” Trotter said in a very serious tone, with a sober look on his face. That caused Amber to giggle like a little girl. Then a huge smile went across his face, as he poured the wine.