a drug dealer.
That almost makes sense. He wondered, Who did I fuck over? Did the band sell some pot on this guy’s turf and now he’s going to make an example of me? And the fear threw his petty vanity into stark relief.
The snowflakes blowing across his face in the high wind started to melt a little faster on his flushed skin. He understood in that moment that even though he would have gone through with it, his suicide wouldn’t have been motivated by pure despair and self-loathing. It would have been his last shot at infamy in the absence of fame. Now the prospect of getting whacked by a drug lord and making the papers as a dim-witted, small-time pot peddler scared the hell out of him. It was a pitiful fifteen minutes. Jumping from the bridge, a guitar left behind, would have put a stamp of authenticity on his death. Suffering Artist: Exhibit A.
Billy approached the car, and the stranger smiled. He swept his hand toward the soft red interior in a grand theatrical gesture ending in a slight bow.
Billy found his voice, hoarse and ragged. “How do you know my name?”
“I’m a fan. Good show tonight. I can tell you weren’t at your best, but I have a knack for spotting potential.”
“You were at the bar? I didn’t see you.”
“I saw you.”
“Who are you?”
“Trevor Rail. I’m a producer. Grab your guitar. Let’s take a drive.”
Five
The air inside the limousine was redolent of rich leather and fine tobacco. A red lava lamp on a low table between the backseat, where Billy sat rubbing his cold hands together, and the rear-facing seat where Trevor Rail settled in was the only source of light in the cabin. It must have been on for a while, because the lava was surging and writhing as if trying to break free of the glass. Rail cracked a window, withdrew a slim metal case adorned with elaborate scrollwork from his inner breast pocket, and offered Billy a cigarillo. Billy shook his head. Rail took one for himself and lit it with a silver Zippo, also engraved, possibly depicting a rooster with snakes for legs, but Billy only caught a glimpse.
The producer didn’t say anything for the first few drags, just sat there, appraising Billy wreathed in scarlet-tinged smoke. Billy had the feeling the guy was taking inventory of his assets. Tallying points for cheekbones, subtracting for the understated chin, adding a few for hair. Of Trevor Rail's own features, Billy could see now how handsome he was: slightly hooded lambent blue eyes coming across as a disquieting shade of pale here in the lurid light of the cabin, salt and pepper goatee tapered to sharp sideburns, teeth that would have been white as alabaster in clear light, here taking on the appearance of scintillating rubies when at last the man smiled and asked, “Do you write most of the material?” There was a hunger in the question.
Looking at those teeth, Billy felt that his hands might never be warm again, but he found his voice and said, “Some. All of the lyrics, some of the music.” He shifted in the luxurious seat and cast his gaze down at the guitar case resting at his feet. “Jim’s good at connecting parts and coming up with arrangements.”
“How about that one, ‘I Like to Watch.’ You write that?”
“Yeah. That’s one of mine.”
“First piece of valuable advice: dump them.”
“Huh?”
“Your mates. Dump them.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t need them where you’re going.”
“And where’s that?”
“If you listen to me, the zenith, my boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me guess. The band considers itself a democracy. Everyone tosses his spare cash in a jar; everyone contributes something to the overall sound, eh? Even the drummer gets a writing credit on your CD because you’re the Four Musketeers. Brothers-in-Arms. Am I right?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you know what constitutes a song by the definition of the United States Copyright Office? Lyrics and melody.
That almost makes sense. He wondered, Who did I fuck over? Did the band sell some pot on this guy’s turf and now he’s going to make an example of me? And the fear threw his petty vanity into stark relief.
The snowflakes blowing across his face in the high wind started to melt a little faster on his flushed skin. He understood in that moment that even though he would have gone through with it, his suicide wouldn’t have been motivated by pure despair and self-loathing. It would have been his last shot at infamy in the absence of fame. Now the prospect of getting whacked by a drug lord and making the papers as a dim-witted, small-time pot peddler scared the hell out of him. It was a pitiful fifteen minutes. Jumping from the bridge, a guitar left behind, would have put a stamp of authenticity on his death. Suffering Artist: Exhibit A.
Billy approached the car, and the stranger smiled. He swept his hand toward the soft red interior in a grand theatrical gesture ending in a slight bow.
Billy found his voice, hoarse and ragged. “How do you know my name?”
“I’m a fan. Good show tonight. I can tell you weren’t at your best, but I have a knack for spotting potential.”
“You were at the bar? I didn’t see you.”
“I saw you.”
“Who are you?”
“Trevor Rail. I’m a producer. Grab your guitar. Let’s take a drive.”
Five
The air inside the limousine was redolent of rich leather and fine tobacco. A red lava lamp on a low table between the backseat, where Billy sat rubbing his cold hands together, and the rear-facing seat where Trevor Rail settled in was the only source of light in the cabin. It must have been on for a while, because the lava was surging and writhing as if trying to break free of the glass. Rail cracked a window, withdrew a slim metal case adorned with elaborate scrollwork from his inner breast pocket, and offered Billy a cigarillo. Billy shook his head. Rail took one for himself and lit it with a silver Zippo, also engraved, possibly depicting a rooster with snakes for legs, but Billy only caught a glimpse.
The producer didn’t say anything for the first few drags, just sat there, appraising Billy wreathed in scarlet-tinged smoke. Billy had the feeling the guy was taking inventory of his assets. Tallying points for cheekbones, subtracting for the understated chin, adding a few for hair. Of Trevor Rail's own features, Billy could see now how handsome he was: slightly hooded lambent blue eyes coming across as a disquieting shade of pale here in the lurid light of the cabin, salt and pepper goatee tapered to sharp sideburns, teeth that would have been white as alabaster in clear light, here taking on the appearance of scintillating rubies when at last the man smiled and asked, “Do you write most of the material?” There was a hunger in the question.
Looking at those teeth, Billy felt that his hands might never be warm again, but he found his voice and said, “Some. All of the lyrics, some of the music.” He shifted in the luxurious seat and cast his gaze down at the guitar case resting at his feet. “Jim’s good at connecting parts and coming up with arrangements.”
“How about that one, ‘I Like to Watch.’ You write that?”
“Yeah. That’s one of mine.”
“First piece of valuable advice: dump them.”
“Huh?”
“Your mates. Dump them.”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t need them where you’re going.”
“And where’s that?”
“If you listen to me, the zenith, my boy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me guess. The band considers itself a democracy. Everyone tosses his spare cash in a jar; everyone contributes something to the overall sound, eh? Even the drummer gets a writing credit on your CD because you’re the Four Musketeers. Brothers-in-Arms. Am I right?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you know what constitutes a song by the definition of the United States Copyright Office? Lyrics and melody.
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