They knocked their glasses together and each took a sip.
Chapter Eight
The long holiday was finally over. It was Wednesday July fifth and things were starting to return to summertime normal.
Sarah came in at nine, put a new bouquet in the vase on her desk and knocked on the door. It was already over ninety outside, and the air conditioners were on full blast. Her hair was a mess from the heat and she had her brush out, preparing to repair the damage.
“Come in, Sarah.”
Holding the brush in one hand she opened the door and entered. “Hey, boss, how about some breakfast?”
Lowell picked his head up from the computer screen. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
“What would you like?”
“Something different, you decide.” He put his head back down.
Sarah ordered him a Spanish omelet loaded with vegetables and just a bit spicy. When it came to his vegetarian diet Lowell allowed for eggs, if they were organic.
When the food arrived Lowell insisted on hearing all about Sarah’s long weekend with Rudy. It had started out okay, she said, but by the second day had deteriorated into their usual arguments. They did make up though, on the way home, and had formed yet another in a long series of truces.
“What you said in the reading still holds?”
He nodded. “You’ll understand in a few weeks. For now just stay the course and do what feels right. You’ll know what you have to do when the time comes.”
After breakfast Sarah called Lieutenant Roland and got the number of Freddie’s manager, Larry Latner, called and made an appointment.
***
Latner’s office was in a private brownstone on West 76th Street between Columbus and Central Park West. It was a medieval looking structure, made of stone and brick, four stories high. There were two entrances, one for the residence and one on the basement level for the business. He went down the four steps and rang the bell.
A tall blonde in a short red skirt answered.
“May I help you?”
“David Lowell. I have an appointment with Mr. Latner.”
“Please, walk this way.”
“If I could walk that way I wouldn’t need the talcum powder,” he said, half to himself.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing, just an old joke.”
He followed her into the basement of the building, which consisted of a suite of offices complete with a reception area. She pointed toward several chairs.
“Please have a seat and I’ll let Mr. Latner know you’re here.”
He sat and scrutinized the office. There was a desk where a cute woman with dark hair cut in a pageboy sat typing. On the wall hung about a dozen gold and platinum records, all framed and noted. In the magazine-stand next to his chair were copies of Billboard, Cashbox, and several other trade papers. Not a Time or Newsweek in sight.
A few moments later the inner door opened and the tall blonde reappeared. “Right this way.”
He stood up and followed her into the private office. Once he was inside she disappeared once again.
A short, stocky, man with a terrible comb-over sat behind a large metal desk. He was wearing a black t-shirt and a tan sport coat with a large brownish stain on the lapel.
“Come in, come in.” His spoke in a high nasally twang. He stood and extended his hand, which Lowell shook. It was a weak, damp handshake. “Larry Latner. Please, sit down.”
“David Lowell.” He took a seat, nonchalantly wiping his clammy hand on his pants.
“I understand you’re working with the police on Freddie’s murder.”
Lowell nodded.
“You’ll forgive me if I’m a bit abrupt, but we’re all shell-socked and in mourning. This is terrible, just terrible. Freddie was like a son to me.”
“I completely understand. I’ll be as brief as I can. I’m interested in Freddie’s life, his friends and enemies, anyone that may have had a reason to kill him.”
The manager sat back and smiled. “I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of stories by now about Freddie and his, uh, shenanigans. Well, let me tell you something. Nobody gets to where Freddie and the band got without stepping on a few toes. Sure, they were wild boys, back in the seventies and eighties, but that’s all behind them. We were all kids once, right?”
“Freddie was forty-two when he was arrested for driving his car into the living room of an ex-wife’s home,” replied Lowell. “I guess adolescence lasts a little longer if you’re in the music business.”
“Well, yes, it did take Freddie a little longer to grow up, it’s true. But he finally got sober and started behaving like an adult. Besides, his talent was its own excuse. Do you know how many records he sold?”
“Is that how you judge talent, by how many records are sold?”
“Well, yes.” He popped a handful of M&Ms into his mouth. “This is America. That’s exactly how we judge everything.”
The intercom buzzed. “Excuse me a moment.” Latner picked up the phone. “Yes, what is it? Okay, tell him I’ll call him back in fifteen minutes.”
He hung up the phone. “Sorry about that.”
“So, Freddie may have made a few enemies in his life.”
“I suppose so, but then, who among us hasn’t?”
“Hmm, yes. Well, I’m also interested in Freddie’s economic situation.”
“What about it?” He grabbed another handful of M&Ms.
“What sort of shape was he in, financially speaking?”
“Rocket Fire is one of the biggest acts in the world. Their last tour grossed over sixty million dollars. Their last album sold half a million, and their next one is going to be the biggest of their career, unfortunately.”
“Why unfortunately?”
“It’s because of Freddie’s death. The album is due out next week, and we expect it to debut at number one in Billboard. It should sell between eight and ten million.”
“So Freddie’s death is actually good for business?”
“Well, in the short run it is. But of course, without Freddie there is no future. No more tours, no more albums, only reissues and compilations. There are some tracks the band never released that might be put out in the next few years, but for Rocket Fire, that’s all she wrote.”
“This isn’t very good news for you then, is it?”
“You see this townhouse? I own it, along with another in this neighborhood that I bought in the eighties for peanuts. I have a house in Florida and one near Malibu. If I quit the business tomorrow I would still have enough money to live out several lifetimes. I don’t need any more. But yes, Freddie’s death is certainly going to limit my business.”
“What will you do?”
“I do have other acts, and I’ll continue to manage Rocket Fire’s catalogue and make sure the rest of the boys can continue to make a living. They’re like my family. Someone has to look out for them.”
“They can still make money?”
“Oh sure. They all own a piece of the records, although not as much as Freddie and Ritchie Polk.”
The phone rang again. He picked it up. “What now? Who? Okay, put him on…George, I really can’t talk right now…Well, can’t it wait? Okay, use the red cover and blue background. With the white lettering we’ve got it…That’s right, red, white, and blue, now you get the picture? …All right I’ll call you back.”
He hung up. “I’m sorry again, but things are just moving quickly and I can barely keep up. Where were we?”
“You were telling me about Ritchie Polk.”
“Ritchie is the guitar player and co-writer of the songs. He and Freddie split the majority of publishing rights, which is where the real money is.”
“I’ve heard that before about publishing rights. Tell me a little about that. How is the money earned?”
“When an artist or a group puts out a record, there are several ways the act can make money. The singer gets a piece of artist’s royalties, and sometimes the musicians get a s
mall piece, especially if they are in an ongoing group, such as Rocket Fire. But it is the writer and publisher of those songs who collect most of the money. They each take in a large share of what’s called performance and mechanical royalties. These are the most lucrative pieces of any composition.
“The writers and publishers get paid every time a song is played in a concert, on the radio, TV, or movies, and gets picked up in survey. The money is collected through the performance organizations. The largest are ASCAP, short for the American Society of Authors, Composers, and Publishers, and B.M.I., or Broadcast Music Incorporated. Anyone who wishes to broadcast a recording registered with one of these organizations must pay a fee, which is then transferred to the accounts of the writers and publishers.
“With me so far?” He grabbed another handful of M&Ms.
Lowell nodded. “Of course.”
“Okay. Mechanical royalties are collected through the Harry Fox Agency, whose purpose is to collect monies owed the artists, writers, and publishers directly from record companies and other vendors. A certain amount is collected for each song on an album based upon how many copies it has sold. They also collect money from movie sales, TV, the Internet, ring tones for cell phones, and any other way a song can generate income.
“These are the two main ways a songwriter makes his money. And if you write hit songs you make a fortune. A song at the top of the charts will be played thousands of times for a few weeks or months, depending upon its popularity, generating hundreds of thousands of dollars of income in a short period of time. Thereafter it continues to create income as it gets picked up by secondary and oldies stations. Some writers have only one hit in their entire careers, but it can produce enough income that, if invested carefully, can last for years.”
“And Freddie and Ritchie wrote how many hits?”
“All told they’ve had thirty-two top ten hits, eleven number ones.”
“So Freddie was wealthy when he died?”
“Sure was. Although there was a time in the nineties when his spending surpassed his income and he was cash-poor for a few years.”
“That’s when he took out the Bowie Bond.”
“Oh, you know about that, huh?” He seemed surprised. “Then you know Freddie was set for life no matter what happened in his future.”
“And how much was the bond issued for?”
The manager leaned back in his chair and paused for dramatic effect. “Fifty million dollars,” he finally said.
“Fifty million. And has it been worth the investment?”
Latner nodded. “I don’t pay much attention to it, but I’m sure it has. Do you know how much those songs generate a year, between ASCAP, money from oldies stations, TV, movies, and now the gigantic TV commercial market aimed at the baby-boomers? They’re using all the old songs to sell cars, diapers, toilet paper, anything. That bond is as good as gold.”
“Well, if you could make a list of anyone you think might have a grudge against Freddie, I would appreciate it.”
“Sure, I’ll email it to you.”
“How about Marty Winebeck?”
“Marty Winebeck, talk about ancient history. How did you even hear about that? I don’t even know where Marty Winebeck is, or if he’s even alive, do you?”
Lowell shook his head.
“He was just a punk anyway, looking for an excuse to sue Freddie because he couldn’t make it on his own. Why? Do you think he’s involved in this?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past him. The stink he made, the trouble he cost Freddie and the boys was unbelievable, and all because of a little misunderstanding.”
“I heard that it was a bit more than that.”
“Oh musicians are all children,” said the manager. “They have fights, you patch things up and move on to the next city. You don’t sue your friends and bandmates, it’s just not done.”
The intercom buzzed and Latner picked up the phone. “Tell them to wait just a minute.” He hung up. “I’m sorry to cut you short but my one o’clock just got here and I’m swamped with work.”
Lowell rose. “That’s quite all right, I was finished anyway. Thank you for your time.”
On his way through the reception area he passed a group of five long-haired young men in their twenties. Probably one of the hottest acts in America, he thought to himself, and I don’t have a clue who they are. Getting old sucks.
Chapter Nine
Vivian had made the necessary arrangements for Freddie’s memorial service, then went back to LA to check on her house, get some fresh clothing, and tie up some business. Although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, Lowell missed her.
He had gone over as many details of the case as he could, but needed a break to get perspective. He kept himself busy, talking to his daughter in Dallas several times, reviewing some loose ends from previous cases, and even ran the reservoir in Central Park, like he had promised himself he’d do. He couldn’t walk for two days.
Vivian returned the following Friday, the day before the service. Lowell didn’t call her, leaving her the peace she would need before an emotional day.
Freddie’s funeral was a madhouse.
The streets had been blocked off and nobody was getting near the place without a pass. Andy drove Lowell and Vivian within two blocks, only to be waved away by a policeman standing in front of a yellow barrier.
“Andy, we’ll get out here. I’ll call you when we’re leaving, should be in about an hour.”
They walked across the avenue and passed the police barrier, after first displaying their invitations. Normally Lowell would have avoided this at all cost, but he couldn’t refuse Vivian’s request.
When they reached the front of the funeral chapel the paparazzi attacked Vivian like a minnow in a sea of barracudas. Lowell did his best to keep them at bay, although he couldn’t prevent them both from being photographed repeatedly.
But there was plenty of other fodder to keep the gossip mongers busy. Limo after limo was dropping human cargo at the barricade and rock’s royalty, wrinkled and otherwise, was in full display. This was, to date, the social event of the rock and roll season.
Once they were inside all was calmer. The press was not allowed inside, and cameras were strictly forbidden. The chapel hall was massive, one of the biggest in New York, but it still couldn’t hold the throng of fans, friends, and enemies who wished to see Freddie off to his final journey.
It looked like a who’s who of show business. Superstars, movie stars, record executives, secretaries, and wannabes crowded the hall. Most of the local politicians had come, more fans of the potential votes than of Freddie’s music.
Freddie’s grubby manager, Larry Latner, and two other men approached.
“Vivian, how are you? I’m so very sorry. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, you know you only have to ask. Your father was like a son to me.”
“Thank you, Larry.” She hugged him. “I know how close you were to him. This is David Lowell. He’s working on the case.”
“Yes, I know Mr. Lowell. Any progress?”
“We’re following up on a few leads.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do for you as well.”
Vivian touched Lowell’s arm. “David, I’m going to find my seat and say hello to a few people.”
“Of course. I’ll join you in a moment.”
Lowell turned and faced the other two gentlemen. One was tall and thin with a childlike face, despite his obvious middle-age. He had long hair, parted in the middle and thinning on top. He wore John Lennon glasses.
The other was much shorter, had a full beard, neatly trimmed, and also wore his hair about shoulder length. They were both dressed in black suits. And they were both trying too hard to look young and hip.
“Oh, forgive me,” said Latner. “This is Robert Frey.” He motioned toward the tall one, “and Johnny Gleason,” he nodded toward the shorter. “Robert is Gene’s
manager and Johnny is Redfish’s manager.”
“Do you think Freddie’s death is connected to Gene and Wally?” asked Frey.
“I would assume so,” said Lowell. “It seems an awfully big coincidence for the three to be murdered, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know that much about it,” replied Frey. “Besides, the police still aren’t sure if Gene was murdered or if he fell or jumped from the window, isn’t that right?”
“That is technically true, but since Freddie’s death they have all been listed as murders.”
Gleason nudged Frey.
“Wally’s turnout was the biggest.”
“You’re crazy. Gene’s was much bigger.”
“You’re nuts. What do you think, Larry?”
Latner turned to them. “We’re at a funeral, for god’s sake. What difference does it make?”
The other two blushed slightly.
“Besides,” continued Latner, “I was at both and neither one had nearly as good a turnout as this one.”
Frey shook his head. “Gene’s was. Don’t you remember how many cops they needed?”
“That’s because you had Gene’s at a small church. Of course it’s going to overflow if you put too many people in it. That’s like pouring ten ounces of booze into a six ounce glass.”
“Do you even know what the hell you’re talking about?”
“Well, Freddie was able to get a full house and he was a devout atheist.”
“I wonder if he still feels that way?” said Frey, looking up.
“Oh please,” said Latner.
“Gentlemen, a pleasure.” Lowell tried not to let his sarcasm show.
“Of course. We’ll see you after the sho…service.”
As he walked away he heard the three managers continue to argue over who’s funeral was the best draw.
***
Vivian and Lowell sat in the front row. Vivian looked around the room. “I thought for sure my mother would show up. She said she’d consider it. Even though they’ve been divorced for a long time, I still thought she’d make it. I guess some wounds never heal.”
“Give her time,” said Lowell. “She must grieve in her own way. Don’t forget, she’s probably mourning many things today including I’m sure, her own lost youth.”
Death in the 12th House Page 6
