Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  Spotswood thought to ask who the her was but decided against as he had a pretty good line on Polanski’s MO.

  “Marcy?” Lera called, and she came to join them. “Progress?”

  She beamed. “All three from the Philharmonic. Dressed to the nines. But I had to agree to three extras on top of their fees to close the deal.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “They each get a copy of their scores autographed by you.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “That’s all three. One each?”

  Lera nodded as he gathered up the sheets. “You are one tough negotiator.” He handed the stack over. “Get, uh, six copies. In color so they don’t miss the stress points.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Aside from saying how lovely you look today?”

  She smiled, looked away then left.

  Polanski lit a cigarette, took a drag then dropped it to the floor and stubbed it out with the heel of his black alligator Lucchese boot. “Seeing our primary lead vocalists are occupied elsewhere,” he announced as he removed a remote control-looking device from the pocket of his jeans and began to spin it by its silver chain, “how about if we run through one of my leads and make sure the System can fill in the assigned dead spaces.” He turned and raised the device toward his usual spot on the right side of the stage lineup, paused, then lowered it. “Jeremy?”

  He stepped across. “Yes?”

  “Just out of curiosity, could you tell me where my instrument is?”

  He pointed to the silver Fender Stratocaster on a stand beside a Yamaha MultiPlex keyboard. “There.”

  Polanski sighed. “By instrument, I mean the System?”

  Jeremy thought a moment. “In the auditorium.”

  “Yes, I understand that part.” He paused. “Raise your right hand.”

  Hansen and Wingrove shared a laugh, the latter mumbling, “Here we go again.”

  “Do you promise to tell the whole truth so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you recall having a telephone conversation with me last Tuesday?”

  “I do.”

  “Could you share the contents of that conversation with the members of the jury?”

  “I could.”

  “Well?”

  Jeremy thought another moment. “You asked if the set list display boards had arrived and I told you they had and were already in your suite.”

  “And do you recall I then asked that you have the backup System transported from my home to where we are currently standing?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “After I told you about the displays you told me you had another call coming in and would I hold on and I did for about ten minutes and then I waited for you to call back but you never did and I haven’t talked to you since we had breakfast this morning.”

  Lera, Hansen and Wingrove applauded, Hansen shouting, “The witness is dismissed!”

  “All right, all right,” Polanski said as he raised his hands in surrender. “Directed verdict against the plaintiff.” He then strapped on the guitar, fired up his antique Fender Showman amp then stepped to a standing mic and tapped the head to check it had power as the others manned their own instruments. Giving them a quick look, he set himself in his typical pose—feet wide apart, the neck of the guitar parallel to the floor. “This is one of the first songs I ever learned in my formative years.” He paused. “I think I was looking for a girl like the one Eric Carmen was writing about.” After another pause, he counted off, “One, two, three, four” then played a pair of three quick chords as the others joined in. He repeated the chords twice more then dropped his hands away from his axe, folded them behind his neck then slowly turned to the empty drum kit behind him. “Jeremy?”

  The manager stepped to the other side of the mic. “Yes?”

  “Do you know where our erstwhile percussionist is?”

  “Mick?”

  “Far as I know, he’s the only one we’ve got.”

  “Beats the shit out of me.”

  Wingrove roared while Hansen just shook his head.

  Polanski let out a deep sigh. “Okie-dokie. You’re all excused until six o’clock local time, at which time we’ll meet backstage to complete our preparations. Your punctuality would be appreciated. And you very patient security ladies and gentlemen? Please give me a few moments alone to gather my thoughts.” As they filed out, he added, “Jip? A word with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Close the door.”

  He did, then stepped back as Polanski pulled over a pair of stools and motioned him to have a seat.

  “Jip,” he began as he sat down himself, “do you recall thanking me after the interview and stating that if there was anything you could ever do for me, all I need do was ask?”

  “Yeah. I… ”

  “That time has come. I have a question.”

  “Funny, but I’ve got one for you, too.”

  “Feel free.”

  “Yesterday when I was talking to Christie, she said that she’d agreed to do the Battle back in May.”

  “And?”

  “But that all came down in October when Laura posted the invitation, right?”

  The man chuckled to himself then slowly shook his head in disbelief. “Think that one through for a moment.”

  He did. It was pretty simple the way the whole transaction had unfolded. “I must be missing something?”

  “I’d say you’re missing a bit more than just one thing.”

  Spotswood cleared his throat then looked away, embarrassed.

  “Let’s see if I can help you,” Polanski smiled. “Ten weeks ago, Laura Loveland, based on a suggestion made to her by Franklin Potcheck, based on a suggestion made to him by Jonathan P. Spotswood, that being you who, I might add, allegedly did not conjure said suggestion, posted an open letter on Pinkiefinger addressed to Andrew Polanski, that being me, requesting I consider the possibility of… what’d she call it? A friendly dustup? To be held on New Year’s Eve, that being today, in the midst of the World Standoff! Tournament festivities. Mere hours later, I consented. Are you with me up to this point in the narrative?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did it not occur to you that perhaps The Alliance, being in great demand for extremely lucrative performances at private affairs, especially when they fall on popular party nights when billionaires like showing off for their friends and enemies alike, might already have been booked at an alternate venue?”

  Spotswood could feel his cheeks tingle and his stomach churn. He gave no reply.

  “Did it not occur to you that an undertaking such as the one you will be witnessing tonight, if properly executed… I mean, we’re not talking some impromptu Let’s raise a few mil for a Save the Squirrels shindig… would involve a tremendous amount of planning, scheduling, publicity, logistics, negotiations, et cetera?”

  He looked back. “I didn’t.” He paused. “I was so caught up in how fantastic it all seemed and how perfectly… ”

  “Stop right there. You might be on to something. The concept of per-fec-tion. My white whale.” He removed a pack of Dunhills and a small box of wooden matches then fired one up, blowing a stream of smoke off to the side. “When I first heard the proposition, I couldn’t resist that siren call. Ex-act-ly what I’d been waiting for for years. I chance to go out at the top with a bunch of fireworks and take early retirement from the business. But not settle in to being one of those greasers old Dave is always accusing me of.”

  The both laughed. Polanski flicked off the ash from the cigarette and dropped it to the floor.

  “Early retirement?” Spotswood grinned. “You? C’mon. You’ll never quit.”

  “Not quit living. Just move onto some new challenges.” He paused. “The game of life’s clock is constantly running, my friend. And currently, Father Time remains undefeated.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen on my watch. You’ve got… shit, even if the current lineup cal
led it a day after tonight, you and Dave alone could keep topping the charts until hell freezes over.”

  Polanski shrugged his appreciation of the compliment. “Perhaps. But I’ve been thinking lately that my skill set could be deployed in a more substantive field.”

  “The stuff you mentioned in the interview?”

  “Nah. That’s what you expected me to say.” He looked about the room. “Public service, maybe?”

  Spotswood chuckled. “Running for Commissioner in Santa Fe County?”

  “I highly doubt campaigning would suit me, but I’d accept an appointment on the Federal level.”

  “I never did well in Civics class, but I’m pretty sure there’s no Secretary of Cultural Affairs position on the list.”

  “Not yet there isn’t.”

  Spotswood knew from the tone of his voice that Polanski was serious, but was more interested in how the Battle actually came about so repeated what Christie had mentioned.

  “In response to your query, Potcheck and Walbee contacted me last spring. Must have been the night of the day you’d passed it by them, no later than the following evening. Laura and Pamela didn’t know anything about it. If they had us on board, getting Obsession on the bill wasn’t going to present any difficulties.”

  “Man, I am one clueless dope,” Spotswood sighed.

  “Not in my estimation, Jip. Nor in the estimation of others.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Lemme finish this part. Off the record.”

  “Okay.”

  “So the wheels were set in motion. First item on the agenda was buying The Alliance out of gig we had scheduled for tonight in… at an undisclosed but very exclusive location. Our fee was fifteen mil though it was coupled to a very hefty default clause. Frank wrote a check to cover that plus tossed in a four bedroom suite here, eight seats in his box and invites to the after party to assure our disappointed host wouldn’t discuss the transaction. That done, we got Laura and Pam on a conference call and they agreed to everything proposed before seeing the fine print.”

  “That story you guys gave me in the… ”

  “Just an element in the mythology building process.” He paused. “We told you what everybody wanted to hear. We told you how the magic supposedly occurred.”

  “I bought it.”

  “How about Linda Bowen? Think she got the questionable idea of adding some competition to her show last night, called up our host a few days ago and said You know Frankie, how about I share the spotlight with Angie Caulfield.” He paused. “Great career move, eh?”

  Spotswood slumped. “Man. And they… the two of them made it look so natural. Spontaneous.”

  “It was well-rehearsed, Jip. This whole thing,” he continued, motioning about, “has been well-rehearsed.” He smiled. “Now let’s discuss you.”

  “Could we maybe do that some other… after the concert?”

  “Lemme ask you a question. About your anchoring duties.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why do you think they chose you?”

  He noodled it through. “Well, I’ve done a real good job at Pinkie I’d say, and I already work for Franklin, and he likes keeping things in house.”

  Polanski motioned for more.

  “They’re both big fans of the books, Ben especially. I’m… what would you call it? A source authority when it comes to you guys and Pandora. My podcasts get pretty high marks so they know I can handle myself in front of a camera.”

  He motioned for more.

  “Uh… and I think they both really like me. Respect me.”

  “Can’t argue with any of that. And you’re really looking good. Noticed that at the ranch. You been working out or something?”

  “Christie asked me that.”

  Polanski smiled. “I’ve always thought she had a thing for you.”

  “Really?” Please say yes, Andy.

  “Just a few comments here and there over the… and now that her misguided fascination with Blair has disintegrated, I’d say she’s yours for the… have you two ever, you know… ”

  “Not… nope,” he replied wistfully. “Technical difficulties beyond my control.”

  “Pity.”

  He wanted to ask what that meant, but didn’t.

  “So your benefactors are sitting around one afternoon having martinis and Franklin says You know something? I think Jon Spotswood would be a good choice to anchor the broadcast. I really like him. Then Ben says He’d be perfect. I really respect him.” He raised his chin. “Just like that?”

  “Have I missed something else?”

  Polanski glanced at his watch then stood. “I’ve got a few million things to take care of before Witchcraft.”

  Spotswood chuckled. He’d picked that song in the office pool bracket as CCBBA’s opener while most were betting on it as the lead pipe lock closer. “I won’t quote you on that.”

  Instead of rushing out, Polanski placed a hand on Spotswood’s shoulder and slowly led him toward the door.

  “I’d guess, knowing Walbee, he probably had more surveys, more studies, more profiles done on you than on a hooker with a vibrating epiglottis.”

  Spotswood laughed.

  Polanski didn’t. “You were chosen for reasons that go far beyond sitting in a chair to keep an audience amused.” He paused. “Larger reasons. More important reasons.” He paused again. “They’ve got plans for you. They’ve got plans on a lot of fronts.” He stopped walking to light another cigarette, then began rotating the box of matches among his fingers as a magician might a silver dollar.

  “Big plans? For what?”

  Polanski blew a stream of smoke off to the side. “Who do you think’ll win tonight?”

  “Like you said, too close to call.”

  The man took another drag then dropped it to the floor, stubbing it out. “I’m thinking the skirt will be on the canvas before the end of round one and I’ll have blown a 50 amp fuse by the fifth.” He paused. “We’re geared up to… Obsession’s not just going to be beaten. Obsession’s going to be beaten with impunity.” He paused again. “Unless Ben’s wish comes true.”

  Spotswood was puzzled. Polanski used the term skirt sparingly and always affectionately in reference to women he genuinely admired and respected, but the tone of his voice spoke otherwise. “Ben’s wish? You mean like rigging it or something?”

  “Not as in tampering with the voting. No way he’d ever try a stunt like that. But it’s… he thinks it’s time to move out the old and bring in the… a new guard. A new dawn.” He nodded. “Another part of the emergent mythology. Plus, I believe he might have plans for me, too.”

  Spotswood had no idea where this was going but was always intrigued when Polanski’s confidences were shared with him. Probably, he thought, Andy was simply venting his frustration over two of the group not showing up and one making an early departure from the last warm up the band might ever again conduct, or about forgetting to tell Jeremy to ship something, or perhaps simply concerned there might be some other details he’d overlooked. And when he became agitated, he often started rambling to mask it, repeating code words and crafting complicated analogies often referencing themes contained in his best songs—loss, journey, discovery, enlightenment and redemption.

  He took Spotswood by the forearm, heading toward the door again, then stopped and pulled him around so they were face to face. “America drifted off course years ago when the CYD wave washed over her bow. My country, this massive, gorgeous ocean liner, has been rudderless since then. What used to be an orderly, stable society is now a mishmash of childish obsessions and leaderless government, social upheaval and troubling misdirection.” He paused. “But the winds of change have begun to blow, Jip. And you are going to be one of the men… one of the crew… who’re going to help set things straight.”

  He must really be stressed out. “I am?”

  “You just can’t hear that wind yet,” Polanski smiled, raising the matchbox near Spotswood’s ear and rattl
ing it a few times. “It’s currently just a rustle, but a few Novembers from now you’re going to be standing on the deck as she pulls back into port.”

  “Andy, I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

  They both laughed, Polanski patting his shoulder a few times. “Just remember this conversation. When it all starts coalescing you’ll look back and think Man, should have seen that one coming!”

  Spotswood nodded, “I promise,” then glanced about. “Anything else?”

  “You were about to answer my question.”

  “I already did, didn’t I?”

  Polanski thought a beat, furrowing his brow. “Inside The Box, my second favorite book of yours.” He grinned. “You got a thing for Laura, too? Seems as if she took quite a liking to you.”

  Spotswood felt that tingling in his face again. “She’s just… she’s so nice to everyone. You know that.”

  “True, true. But the item that jumped out at me is when you described that scene when the two of you were in a rehearsal room waiting on the rest of the band to arrive and she picked up a guitar and played a song that you took as almost embarrassing, like you were getting a look at the diary of a… a… ”

  “Of a teenage girl who’d found the boy of her dreams and wrote him a love letter, but never addressed the envelope.”

  “You do have a way with words.”

  “I try.”

  “Lots of writers try. You succeed.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Speaking of words, you never mentioned any of the lyrics, or even a title.”

  He hadn’t because she’d made him promise, as the final chord was fading away, that he wouldn’t. It was the first complete song she’d ever composed though neither planned to record nor perform before an audience. It was, she’d dreamily admitted, a special little gem to keep hidden in a single stone jewel box. But there was no question in his mind who the boy was—he was standing right in front of him.

  “That’s because she asked me not to. Because it was kind of personal.” His mind raced, trying to come up with something more convincing. “You know, like those demos you recorded after… ”

  “After Grace died?”

  “Yeah. Those, so… ”

  “I played them for you to show how awful our next album could have been.” He chuckled. “Talk about self-indulgent crap.”