outlaw spirit?”
“Yes.”
“That American thing?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it to me, Needle.”
This was his day, his chosen time. He felt sick with luck. “Yes, okay.”
“Get on a plane down here tomorrow.”
“You want me to bring it in person?”
“Needle, I got no basket for my eggs. I need a desperado to come down and get me out of trouble. It’s RADIO, remember?”
RADIO was Radio Artists and Development International Organization, a word problem Phil Needle could never remember because the R in RADIO stood for “radio,” as if the whole thing was nothing more than a mass of cells splitting and resplitting instead of what it was, which was a professional organization that met once a year in a beachfront hotel in Los Angeles. Leonard Steed was on the board and was the one who got the networks involved, so what had begun as a few days of socializing had become a monstrous band of cutthroats and swaggering, misbegotten bullies plotting ventures well into the night. Phil Needle always came back with a sunburn.
“You told me it wasn’t a good idea to go this year.”
“I told you that as a consultant, Needle, but as a producing partner I’m telling you to fly down here tomorrow and bring me that show. I have one shot with the network at Saturday breakfast and I’m not giving them a man worrying about his wife.”
“Okay.”
“What does that mean, okay ?”
“Yes, I will go.”
“This is a downhill battle, Needle. They want something from me. You have a show you’ve been telling me I will like because it has everything we were just talking about. We walk in that room together, Needle, and no treasure will be denied us.”
Phil Needle held his head in his hands and opened his legs wide in his chair. He had not made money for the first two years after New York, and the first time he finally did, with a six-ad campaign for Frankie’s, he cried. The second time he bought some things. Third time cried. Fourth time bought some things. Fifth time bought some things. Sixth time bought some things. Seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth time bought some things, and then alternated buying and crying until this very moment. He thought about what to say, the line he could utter into the phone that would bring this treasure closer. “Yes,” he said.
“Good,” Leonard Steed said. “That’s the other line. See you tomorrow.”
The phone clicked off. Levine came in without knocking. “Just who I wanted to see,” he said. “That was Leonard Steed.”
“I know.”
“How do you—”
“I answered the phone.”
“Right. I need to go to Los Angeles tomorrow, for RADIO.”
“Radio?”
“Radio Artists and Development International Organization. Book me on a flight first thing tomorrow morning.”
Levine handed him an envelope. “I got the tickets like you asked me,” she said.
“Already? But I just—”
“Tortuga, tomorrow night. Two tickets.”
“You’re pretty good with the promoters,” Phil Needle said.
“So you’ll keep me around?” She asked it like it wasn’t a question, and then stood on tiptoes to take her bag off the hook on the back of Phil Needle’s door. Her skirt rose very, very slightly, and Phil Needle wanted to touch on that briefly—the reason, if there was a reason, why Alma Levine kept working here.
It was the end of her first week, and everyone had gone home except for Phil Needle, who had been talking to the Fiona’s people. Their club, Fiona’s, had hosted some of the greatest American musicians on its stage, thanks to their estates, who agreed to license the likenesses and music of various artists on posters, shirts and recordings from the Fiona’s archive. Only one photo existed of Fiona herself, laughing at a speakeasy with a long strand of pearls dangling into her drink. Six weeks of research had failed to turn up the woman’s actual identity. Actual clubs, in the tradition of the original Fiona’s, were due to open over the next five years. Phil
“Yes.”
“That American thing?”
“Yes.”
“Bring it to me, Needle.”
This was his day, his chosen time. He felt sick with luck. “Yes, okay.”
“Get on a plane down here tomorrow.”
“You want me to bring it in person?”
“Needle, I got no basket for my eggs. I need a desperado to come down and get me out of trouble. It’s RADIO, remember?”
RADIO was Radio Artists and Development International Organization, a word problem Phil Needle could never remember because the R in RADIO stood for “radio,” as if the whole thing was nothing more than a mass of cells splitting and resplitting instead of what it was, which was a professional organization that met once a year in a beachfront hotel in Los Angeles. Leonard Steed was on the board and was the one who got the networks involved, so what had begun as a few days of socializing had become a monstrous band of cutthroats and swaggering, misbegotten bullies plotting ventures well into the night. Phil Needle always came back with a sunburn.
“You told me it wasn’t a good idea to go this year.”
“I told you that as a consultant, Needle, but as a producing partner I’m telling you to fly down here tomorrow and bring me that show. I have one shot with the network at Saturday breakfast and I’m not giving them a man worrying about his wife.”
“Okay.”
“What does that mean, okay ?”
“Yes, I will go.”
“This is a downhill battle, Needle. They want something from me. You have a show you’ve been telling me I will like because it has everything we were just talking about. We walk in that room together, Needle, and no treasure will be denied us.”
Phil Needle held his head in his hands and opened his legs wide in his chair. He had not made money for the first two years after New York, and the first time he finally did, with a six-ad campaign for Frankie’s, he cried. The second time he bought some things. Third time cried. Fourth time bought some things. Fifth time bought some things. Sixth time bought some things. Seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth time bought some things, and then alternated buying and crying until this very moment. He thought about what to say, the line he could utter into the phone that would bring this treasure closer. “Yes,” he said.
“Good,” Leonard Steed said. “That’s the other line. See you tomorrow.”
The phone clicked off. Levine came in without knocking. “Just who I wanted to see,” he said. “That was Leonard Steed.”
“I know.”
“How do you—”
“I answered the phone.”
“Right. I need to go to Los Angeles tomorrow, for RADIO.”
“Radio?”
“Radio Artists and Development International Organization. Book me on a flight first thing tomorrow morning.”
Levine handed him an envelope. “I got the tickets like you asked me,” she said.
“Already? But I just—”
“Tortuga, tomorrow night. Two tickets.”
“You’re pretty good with the promoters,” Phil Needle said.
“So you’ll keep me around?” She asked it like it wasn’t a question, and then stood on tiptoes to take her bag off the hook on the back of Phil Needle’s door. Her skirt rose very, very slightly, and Phil Needle wanted to touch on that briefly—the reason, if there was a reason, why Alma Levine kept working here.
It was the end of her first week, and everyone had gone home except for Phil Needle, who had been talking to the Fiona’s people. Their club, Fiona’s, had hosted some of the greatest American musicians on its stage, thanks to their estates, who agreed to license the likenesses and music of various artists on posters, shirts and recordings from the Fiona’s archive. Only one photo existed of Fiona herself, laughing at a speakeasy with a long strand of pearls dangling into her drink. Six weeks of research had failed to turn up the woman’s actual identity. Actual clubs, in the tradition of the original Fiona’s, were due to open over the next five years. Phil
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