“Holy shit! What’s this picture over here?“
With a swirl of his ankle-length, cotton print jacket, and trailing a plume of cigarette smoke over his shoulder, Stuart Bonney strode up over the framed photograph on the wall and tapped it with his thin forefinger. With a sweep of his other hand, he brushed the long hank of dark hair from in front of his left eye, but it immediately fell back into place.
“Hell, boy, that there’s Jimi Hendrix, of course,“ Al Silverstein replied as he folded his stubby arms across his chest and gave Stuart a self-satisfied grin. “See right here? It’s even autographed by him and the other two guys in the Experience.“
“I know who it is, but you mean to tell me Hendrix actually recorded here?“
“Sure he did.“ Al gave his balding head an exaggerated nod that made his fleshy jowls jiggle like twin bowls of Jello inside his tight shirt collar. “Back in the sixties. Jimi stopped by for a few sessions. That was just before the Monterey Pop Festival.“
“Un-fucking-real,“ Stuart said, his voice lowered to an uncharacteristic near-reverential whisper. “I can’t fucking believe it. And you were working here back then?“
Al’s smile widened into a smirk. He looked almost as if he were gloating. He was a short, rotund man who stood a whole head shorter than the rail-thin Stuart, but there was something about him that made him seem bigger...a lot bigger. Maybe it had something to do with his near legendary status in the music industry.
“You have to remember, Stuie, that I own this goddamned recording studio, so of course I was here. For every goddamned session. I’m telling you, they were just starting to get some attention stateside—Monterey’s what finally did it—but they laid down the heaviest fucking tracks I ever heard. None of them have ever even been released, of course.“
“No shit,“ Stuart said. He was suitably impressed, but he was trying his best not to let his irritation show. No one had called him Stuie since he was a little kid. Even his mother stopped calling him that.
“Oh, yeah,“ Al said, frowning slightly. “They—uh, the rights are all tangled up in the legal problems with Hendrix’s estate. You know how that goes.“
“Fucking-A I do,“ Stuart said. He inhaled and blew out a thin stream of smoke. “But don’t tell me you still have ’em. Those tapes, I mean.“
Al shrugged casually, his smirk lifting one corner of his mouth as his dark, deep-set eyes beamed. “Sure I do. They’re locked up, safe and sound in the studio vault along with a whole shit-load of other stuff probably nobody will ever hear.“
“No shit. Like what?“
“Hell, I’ve got some unreleased material the Stones recorded here, back when that blond guy—what’s his name? Brian? Yeah, Brian Jones—back when he was still alive. He did some incredible shit with a sitar. I can’t remember the dates exactly, but it had to be sometime during one of their first North American tours. Hell, Lennon was in and did four or five solo numbers back when he was out here on the West Coast, carousing around with Nielsen and those guys. I’ve got some tracks the Doors laid down just before Morrison went over to Paris, a few things by Stevie Ray—“
“No shit. You mean to tell me you’ve got some unreleased Doors material?“
“’Bout half an album’s worth. Four songs they started working on right after they’d finished L.A. Woman.“
“No shit,“ Stuart said, shaking his head in absolute amazement. “I never realized they had started on another project back then.“
“Yeah, and just about that time McCartney was supposed to come in for a few days, but he had to cancel at the last minute. Too bad,“ Al said, shaking his head.
Stuart took another pull on his cigarette, then exhaled gray smoke from his nostrils as he moved a few steps further down the hallway to the next framed photograph. It was a black and white glossy of Jim Morrison, leaning with one foot against an amp. He had a whiskey bottle clutched like a baseball bat in both hands and was looking down at the floor, his head tilted so his long, curly hair covered his eyes, but Stuart immediately recognized the smirking curl on Jim’s upper lip. When he was a kid growing up in Chelsea, Massachusetts, Stuart had practiced that sneer in front of the bathroom mirror night after night. Scrawled across the bottom of the photograph, right across his black leather-clad crotch, was Morrison’s signature in gold ink.
“I can’t fuckin’ believe you’ve recorded all these dudes, man, and no one’s ever even heard about it.“
“Well, I wouldn’t say no one. A few people have.“ Al dropped his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “This studio is just sort of a...a little trade secret, you might say. I don’t have to advertise all that much because people pretty much hear about what we’re doing here, and they come to me.“
“I’ll bet they do, but—I mean...shit, man, look at these fuckin’ pictures on this wall!“ Stuart let out a smoky gasp. “I mean, it’s a fuckin’ who’s who of rock ’n roll history.“
“You bet’cha ass it is, Stuie-boy.“
Stuart almost exploded.
Stuie-boy!... No one ever called him that!
Al went on talking, not even noticing Stuart’s irritation.
“And if we can work things out between us, do you know who’s picture’s gonna up on this here wall next, right alongside the Lizard King and Hendrix and Janis?“
He smiled a wolfish grin as his voice trailed away teasingly, but Stuart didn’t have to answer him. As far as he was concerned, he knew damned right well who it was going to be.
Stuart Bonney was the lead guitarist for Brokenface, a fast-rising hard rock group out of Boston. After a string of “almost-hits“ from one label, their first album from Relativity Records had charted in the top fifty under its own steam last spring. It had gone all the way to number one following their tour last summer opening for the Dave Mathews Band, but it had stayed there only one week because U-2’s new album came out. Unlike most groups who usually took a year or two to come out with a follow up album, Brokenface had gone into the studio the day after the Dave Mathews tour ended in August to start recording Zygomatic, which they wanted to have in the stores for Christmas.
But there were problems.
The band wasn’t very happy with the way things were going with their current studio, especially with Ed Simmons, who had coproduced their first Relativity album. There was a subtle but very definite pressure from the money men upstairs for them to come up with something just like the last record...something that would hit the top ten as soon as it was released, but all Simmons kept saying was, “I don’t hear a single here! Do you?“
Over the past few weeks, the internal pressure had been building steadily. At times, it threatened to unravel the entire band. That’s why Stuart had taken the weekend off to drive from L.A. up to San Francisco. Like a lot of rockers, he had heard through the professional grapevine about Al Silverstein’s Sharp Sounds Studios, and he wanted to talk things over with Al, see what was up. He wasn’t all that serious yet about bagging the whole project. At least not yet. He was just sniffing around, looking to keep his options open. Stuart wasn’t all that easy to impress, either, having cultivated an unflappable image of cool...something he had to do after the album hit so big.
But when Stuart realized the roster of people Al had worked with over the last forty years or more, he knew he was going to push for the rest of the band to come up for at least a few weeks to see if they could get anything happening. It couldn’t be any worse than the problems they were having now. And if things went too badly, Stuart was thinking about bailing out of the group entirely and working on his solo project.
Stuart continued moving slowly down the hall, puffing on his cigarette and exclaiming surprise over some of the other framed, autographed photos, which included Buddy Holly, Sid Vicious, Janis Joplin, and John Lennon. Al kept up a steady stream of chatter, detailing for him who had recorded here and when, and emphasizing that most of the material had never even been released.
It wasn’t until he was nearing the end of the hall that something struck Stuart as...well, odd. Frowning, he looked carefully at a photo from a recording session with the original Pretenders. His mouth dropped open, and he almost said something, but he remained silent as he let the implications of what he was thinking sink in.
“That there’s a couple of the original members of the Pretenders,“ Al said, his voice sounding unnervingly close and loud behind Stuart’s back. “Chrissie couldn’t make it for the session, but we laid down some backing tracks. That Chrissie Hynes has got one hell of a voice, don’t’cha think?“
“Umm...yeah,“ Al replied, nodding his head absently as a thought formed more clearly in his head. “It’s—ahh, it’s too bad half the band had to go and O.D.“ He could feel Al, standing close to his shoulder. He took a quick step to one side, hoping to put a bit more distance between them.
“And how about this one of Stevie Ray Vaughn?“ Al said, indicating the last photograph on the wall. “That’s one helluva shot, ain’t it?“
“It sure is,“ Stuart said, but he was still distracted by what he was thinking. He realized that not only was this wall a history of rock n’ roll; it was also a nearly chronological photo gallery of the dead legends of rock n’ roll.
“This one of Stevie Ray,“ Stuart said. “It, ahh, it looks like it was taken... When was he...?“
Stuart’s voice faded away as he tapped the photo with his forefinger, hitting it hard enough to knock it a little off kilter. Grunting softly, Al reached past him and straightened it out while Stuart leaned down and buried his cigarette butt in the sand-filled ashtray on the floor beneath the picture.
“You were saying...?“ Al said.
His breath washed like tepid water over the side of Stuart’s face, but in spite of its warmth, it gave Stuart a subtle chill.
“When was this—ahh, picture taken?“ Stuart asked, aware of the slight quaver in his voice. He stared at the photograph of Stevie Ray for what felt like way too long, waiting for Al’s reply as steadily strengthening rushes of cold squiggled up and down his spine.
“Not too long before the plane crash, actually,“ Al said simply, and then he sighed. “It was horrible, the way that happened, wasn’t it?“
“It sure was,“ Stuart said softly.
Al’s voice and heated breath were still too close for comfort. Stuart wanted to put a bit more distance between him and Al, but he didn’t want to appear too obvious about his discomfort, either. For an instant, he wondered if Al might be gay, and this was his way of working up to hit on him.
After sucking in a deep breath, Stuart turned and looked at Al, determined to make it clear there was no fucking way he was into that; but he found he couldn’t maintain eye contact with the man for very long, so he turned back and stared blankly at the photograph of Stevie Ray Vaughn. Reflected light, probably from the flash when the picture had been taken, made the guitar in Stevie Ray’s hand look like it was blazing with white laser fire.
Carefully avoiding Al, Stuart started walking back down the hallway, checking every photograph as he went, trying to put all of them into chronological order. All of the pictures had obviously been taken here in the studio, most of them while the singers and musicians were actually working. As he neared the end of the corridor, the thought that had been niggling at his mind finally became a firm conviction.
Every single one of these pictures had been taken shortly before the performer died, most of them within a matter of weeks if not days.
The thought chilled Stuart.
“You want to take a minute to check out the studio itself?“ Al asked as he crossed the hall to a closed door. “We’ve got some remarkable state-of-the-art equipment in here, and the acoustics are absolutely unique. I guarantee you’ll get a sound here that you won’t get at any other recording studio.“
He fished in his pants pocket until he produced a large brass key, which he inserted into the door lock. He smiled over his shoulder at Stuart as he turned it.
The moment Stuart heard the lock’s tumblers click and saw the door swing open, a shudder rippled through him, and he felt suddenly weak in the knees. His lungs hurt because he’d been holding his breath, and his mind became a roaring, white blank as he followed Al into the spacious studio. He hardly registered what he was looking at as he scanned the room with its glassed-in sound booth spanning the length of one wall. Arrayed around the spacious room was a chaos of sound boards, instruments, foam-covered microphones, stacked amplifiers, folding chairs, tables, and a tremendous assortment of guitars and other equipment. Al was prattling on about something or other, but Stuart found it almost impossible to pay attention to what he was saying as he tried to process what he was thinking.
No way! It can’t be, he told himself over and over. There’s no fucking way there’s any kind of connection!
But he couldn’t deny it. Every single one of the people whose photograph adorned the Sharp Sounds Studio walls had died not long after that particular picture had been taken. Another thing that struck Stuart was, from what he knew about rock ’n roll history, he’d bet his left nut most rock critics would agree that every single one of those pictures had been taken when the artist had been at the peak of his or her career. Maybe not their peak in popularity, which in most cases had soared even higher following their deaths, but at least they were at their artistic peak!
The more he thought about it, the more obvious the connection became until Stuart was absolutely convinced.
“So...?“ Al asked, gesturing around the studio with a wide sweep of his hand. “Would you like to play a little something for me? See how it sounds?“
Startled by the question, Stuart looked around, blinking his eyes like a mole caught out in the sunlight. He had been so wrapped up in his line of thought that he felt almost as if he didn’t belong here, as if he had no idea who he was, or what he was doing here.
Al walked over to where there were several guitars arrayed in foam-cushioned guitar stands. He selected one, a black-bodied Martin acoustic, and hefted it before handing it over to Stuart.
“Come on,“ Al said, smiling and nodding eagerly. “I’ve heard your records, but I’d like to hear what you can do on your own. Tune it up and play a little something for me. I’ll go into the booth and get the tapes rolling.“
“I, uh, I don’t know, Mr. Silverstein.“ Stuart stammered. “I mean, I’m not, uhh—“
His first thought was that he might be violating his Relativity contract in some way, especially if Al recorded it, but he pushed that objection from his mind and sat down in one of the folding chairs. After adjusting one of the microphones so it was close to the sound hole of the guitar, he strummed the strings a few times and turned the pegs until he was satisfied that it was in tune. He figured what the hell. He’d play a bit of “Find Me a Star,“ a song he had written a few years ago but was keeping from the band because he thought it was so damned good he was saving it for his solo album.
He heard a tap-tapping on the window of the sound booth and, looking up, saw Al leaning on both fists over the control board. He raised one hand and touched the headphones he had put on his own head, then pointed down at the floor by Stuart’s feet. Stuart looked around until he saw the set of headphones that was hanging on the microphone stand. He picked them up and slipped them on, adjusting them to fit his ears comfortably.
“Can you hear me all right?“ Al asked.
Coming through the headset, the man’s voice seemed much too close for Stuart’s comfort, but he forced himself to smile broadly as he gave Al a quick thumbs-up.
“The vocal mike’s on, too. Just say a few words so I can check the levels,“ Al said.
Stuart cleared his throat and said, “Check. One—two. Check. One—two—three.“
“Okay, we’re ready to roll,“ Al said, smiling at him from the glass booth. “Just let ’er rip whenever you feel like you’re ready, okay? One, two, three... “ He counted and then pointed at Stuart. “We’re rolling.“
Stuart checked once more to make sure the guitar was in tune, then started picking the opening melody of “Find Me a Star.“ As Stuart’s fingers glided up and down the strings, the music broke the muffled silence of the studio. Trying to get into the song, Stuart experienced at least a momentary measure of satisfaction. The fact was, he loved playing guitar. When he was in junior high school, he had found music and used it to escape the turmoil of living in the slums of Chelsea with his divorced mother and two younger brothers. Music had always been a refuge, even after he’d achieved a certain level of success and had plenty of money to buy whatever he wanted. He always found comfort and escape when he was playing and singing.
Turning his head away from the microphone, Stuart cleared his throat and then began to sing, letting the words and tune carry him further away. His sudden irrational fears about the photographs in the hallway seemed to melt away, and he was soon lost inside his song. The notes seemed to issue from the guitar like a gush of warm water that surrounded and soothed him. His voice, which he had never had all that much confidence in, seemed to sound infinitely smoother and richer in this room. He hit every note with a precision and confidence he had never felt before in his life. By the time he was into the last verse, his eyes were actually misting with tears.
As if for the first time, Stuart truly heard and felt the gut-wrenching longing and deep loneliness that was at the heart of his song. He heard it now as a desperate plea for a tiny measure of peace and tranquility in his hectic life as a rock n’ roll star.
The only problem was, Stuart knew he wasn’t at the top yet.
Not really.
At least not as far as he was concerned.
No, he still felt as though he was nothing but a phoney, a fraud, a rock n’ roll wannabe who could still be impressed by pictures of the truly great dead rock stars—the real legends of rock.
So what if his band’s album had made it to number one? Brokenface had only been in the top spot for one week! That was squat! Nothing! Lots of groups did that and quickly dropped out of sight and into the “Where Are They Now?“ file. One hit wonders. A flash in the pan. Stuart knew the pressure was on him and the band to deliver a follow-up that sold. They had to make a record that would get them back into the top spot and keep them there for more than one week. If they didn’t do that, then in a few months they, too, would be gone and forgotten.
Stuart hit the last chord and sustained it, letting it fade slowly away as his voice dropped off to a trembling, breathy whisper. For a long time, there was perfect silence in the studio. Then, after drawing a slow, shaky breath, Stuart heard the muffled sound of Al’s applause through the glass of the control booth.
“Fantastic! Fan-fucking-tastic!“ Al shouted, his voice sounding too close and loud for comfort through the headphones.
Feeling absolutely drained of everything, Stuart stared blankly at the fat man in the control booth. For just an instant, he saw—or thought he saw—something, a spark of red that flashed in the man’s eyes. Stuart grunted with surprise, telling himself it was just the reflection from the control panel’s lights. But whatever it was, it immediately brought Stuart’s twisted train of thought roaring back even stronger. And with it came a frightening question.
Who the hell is this guy, anyway? Powerful waves of shivers raced up Stuart’s back and then broke across his neck like a surprise dousing of ice water.
“I’m telling you, man,“ Al said, his voice still rasping with excitement inside the headphones. “That was unbelievable! Absolutely fantastic!“
Stuart started to get up from the chair, but Al waved him back down.
“Stay right where you are,“ he shouted. “I’ll let you hear the playback. I’ll fool around a little with the mix as we go.“
Stuart was still feeling emotionally and physically drained after singing the song, so he slung the guitar to one side, slouched back in the chair, and closed his eyes. After another few seconds during which he tried his best not to think any more about the photographs out in the hall, the sounds of his guitar and voice filled the studio. Once again, as he listened to the song he had just finished playing, he experienced perhaps even more deeply than before that undefined sense of loss and loneliness and hurt. And once again, the song carried him away, reminding him just how hard he had worked to get where he was today, and how much he still wanted to make it all the way to the top and stay there.
Maybe it was simply the power of suggestion, but even in playback, Stuart thought his guitar playing and singing had vibrancy, a richness he had never heard before. He couldn’t help but remember what Al had said about how he could get a sound in this studio that was absolutely unique.
As he sat there with his eyes closed, his head swaying gently back and forth in time with the music, a sudden flash of light startled Stuart. His eyes snapped open, and as he looked up through the brilliant blue-white afterimages that zig-zagged across his vision, he saw Al. In his hand was the camera he had just used to take a picture of him.
“Hey,“ Al said, smiling as he shrugged. “I had to take at least one picture of you for—you know—for posterity’s sake. You never know when someone’s gonna hit their peak.“
Blinking away the afterimages of the flash, Stuart saw Al’s mouth widen into a hard, almost frightening smile that looked like a pained grimace. Blue and white dots were still swimming across his vision as he stood up and pushed the chair away with the backs of his legs. The thought came back to him, screaming in his mind—Who the fuck is this guy?
“So, what did you think?“ Al asked excitedly. “How’d it sound to you?“
“Unbelievable,“ Stuart said in a whisper that almost cracked with tension. A subtle, loose trembling ran through his body as he started toward the studio door that led back out into the hall. Al was close behind him. Casting a sly glance over his shoulder at the man, Stuart wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see that same vibrant red glow deep within his eyes, but Al looked back at him with a steady, clear gaze.
“It sounded...absolutely fantastic,“ Stuart said softly, horribly aware of how shaky his voice sounded. When he shouldered open the door and stepped out into the corridor, his gaze was drawn against his will to the row of glossy photographs.
“And hell,“ Al said, “that wasn’t even with a good mix. Why, I’ve got a sound engineer, a guy named Eddie Pearl, who can jack that up so it sounds ten times better.“
Stuart was speechless as he nodded absently. He suspected that Al was fishing, that he wanted him to say something more about the quality of the sound, but all he could think about was the every one of the people in these photographs was dead. Rationally, he knew that it wasn’t possible each of these people’s deaths could be connected—in any way—to their having recorded here, but he couldn’t get that thought out of his mind. Every one of them—from Buddy Holly to Stevie Ray Vaughn—had recorded here, and every one of them had died shortly thereafter.
“But they were all...all at their peak,“ Stuart said in a hushed voice. His feet made a soft whispering sound on the carpet as he started toward the exit.
“What’s that?“ Al asked, regarding him with a deepening frown. “What’d you say?“
Stuart opened his mouth, desperately wanting to say something to Al about what he suspected, but he said nothing as he pushed the door open and stepped outside. The afternoon sun dazzled his eyes, making everything appear hazy and indistinct.
It seemed so foolish now, he thought, but he was suddenly afraid that, if he did agree to record at Al’s studio, then he, too, might die before he got old, as the old son went.
But isn’t that the rock n’ roll legacy? He thought. Live hard and fast, make a lot of money, fuck a different woman every night, and then die young!
The thought tantalized Stuart, and he told himself that, even if this was the case, it might not happen right away. There was no doubt in his mind that each of those musicians had died at the absolute peak of their artistic abilities. If nothing else, Stuart was convinced that he had a long way to go before he approached their status as rock legends.
But even if he had peaked, what did it matter?
The driving force behind his career up until now had been that he was going to make it!
Make it big!
If recording at Sharp Sounds Studios could somehow guarantee something like that, then maybe—Christ, yes! He was willing to take the chance. He’d pay Al Silverstein double...hell, he’d pay triple what Al was asking to use his studio.
“So, we got a deal?“ Al asked, his face split by a wide smile that made his teeth flash in the sunlight. “You think you and the rest of the band will come here to see what we can do?“
Leaning much closer than Stuart found comfortable, Al seemed almost to be leering at him. He could feel the man’s warm breath on his cheek. Once again, for just an instant, Stuart thought he caught a flash of red light deep within the man’s dark eyes. Out here in the bright sunlight, after being in the subdued lighting of the studio, Al’s face seemed unnaturally white. He appeared to be a man who seldom if ever came outside during the daytime.
Stuart tried not to read anything menacing into Al’s words or tone of voice, but just contemplating the offer made him shiver inwardly in spite of the warm sun on his back.
“Where are you parked?“ Al asked, shading his eyes as he scanned the small parking lot beside the building.
“Over there,“ Stuart replied, nodding in the direction of the red Corvette that sat in the shade across the street.
“Well, let me walk you to your car,“ Al said, stepping even closer to Stuart. “You know, you’ll want to think about all of this very carefully. I don’t make an offer like this to just anybody, you know.“
Stuart bristled inwardly. He wanted to remind Al that his band’s latest album, for which he had written the words and music for more than half the songs, had charted at number one. Sure, it had only lasted at number one for a single week, but there was no fucking way he was just anybody! Not after all the years he’d dedicated to his career.
But Stuart was sure Al Silverstein wasn’t the kind of person who would be overly impressed by anything Stuart had done. No, not a man who had actually been in the studio when Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison.
Stuart didn’t say anything as, side by side, they crossed the street. Once they were standing beside Stuart’s car, he fished the keys from his pants pocket and unlocked the door. Looking past Al to the small, brick building, he silently weighed his options whether or not he should record here and if he should record with or without the rest of the band. Finally, though, he raised his right hand, clasped Al’s hand, and shook it firmly. He was struck by the man’s cold, dead-feeling handshake, but he pushed that thought from his mind and said, “Yes sir, Mr. Silverstein. I’d say we’ve got ourselves a deal.“
A tight smile spread across his face, and his insides felt like they were vibrating at an unnaturally high frequency until he let go of Al’s hand. A hard lump formed in his throat, and no matter how hard he tried to swallow it, it wouldn’t go down.
“It might take us a couple of days, maybe a week or two to work out all the details,“ Stuart said, his voice sounding unusually tight. “But I’m telling you, man—“
Looking back at the studio building, he whistled between his teeth and shook his head as he tried to recall the clarity with which his voice and guitar had sounded just moments ago in there. But the sound was elusive. It was already slipping away, and all he was left with was a strange yearning to hear it again. If Al could make a whole album sound like that, there was no way he could let the opportunity slip.
“The way that playback sounded,“ he said, shaking his head wistfully. “Shit, man, you must be working some kind of magic in there.“
“Oh, we do,“ Al said, still smiling widely, his teeth gleaming in the sunlight. “We most certainly do. And now you’ll be one of the very select few who gets to record here at Sharp Sounds Studio.“
Stuart froze for a moment. Licking his lips, he said, “A select few.“
Al nodded gravely. “Absolutely true. I don’t record just anybody but—sadly—all of them have … well, as you probably already know from the pictures in the hall, every one of them is dead. Hendrix, Lennon, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin...all of them are gone. They’re dead...dead legends of rock ’n roll. It’s tragic, really, how so many of them were just starting to reach their peak when they died.“
“Yeah, but there—there’s no way...“ Stuart said, shaking his head. He bit down on his lower lip but was unable to keep from saying what he’d been thinking all along. Closing his eyes for a moment, all he could see in his mind was the line of framed black and white photographs on the wall in the corridor.
“But there’s can’t be any connection, can there? I mean...all those people didn’t die just because they...because they recorded here. How could that be?“
Al shrugged. “I don’t know,“ he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravely growl. “Maybe there’s no connection whatsoever...but then again, maybe there is. I guess what it all comes down to is how much you want it...how much you’re willing to risk.“
Al had been smiling all along, but now his smile spread even wider, exposing the top and bottom rows of his wide, flat teeth. He looked like he was about to take a bite out of something. Shadows from the leaves overhead shifted across his face, making his skin ripple like he was underwater. Feeling weak in the knees, Stuart opened the car door and sat down behind the steering wheel.
“But you can rest assured, Stuie-boy,“ Al said, leaning forward with one hand resting on the opened door, the other on the car roof. “If by any chance you do meet an untimely death...well, just like all those other famous rock stars, you’ve already laid down one track here. And I’ll be sure to put that photograph I took of you up right there on my studio wall.“
He straightened up and, taking a deep, shuddering breath, looked up at the sky, a wide smile spread across his face.
“There’s one thing to think about, Mr. Bonney.“
At least he stopped calling me Stuie-boy, Stuart thought with a certain grim satisfaction.
“What’s that?“ he asked.
“You already got to record at Sharp Sounds Studio. You might at least be famous for that!“
With that, he slammed the car door shut and gave Stuart a big wave before crossing the street, heading back to the studio. Even when he was in the middle of the street with bright sunlight pouring down on him, his body seemed somehow insubstantial. He looked almost like the shadow of a passing cloud, shifting across the hot asphalt. Stuart shook his head, not even looking as he slipped the key into the ignition and started up the car.
“Yes, goddamn it,“ he whispered, glancing at his reflection as he adjusted the rearview mirror. The gleam in his eyes frightened him, but he had already made his decision. He shifted the car into gear, but before pulling out of his parking space, he pressed down hard on the brake pedal and jammed the shift back into park. His mind was whirling, and all of his thoughts centered on the basic question Al had raised.
How much do I want it... How much am I willing to risk? There was no doubt about it; Al could get some incredible sounds. Recording here would guarantee that Brokenface’s follow-up CD would hit the top of the charts. Stuart knew he should feel happy—elated that Al had agreed to let the band record there, but for more than a full minute, Stuart just sat there, nervously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he considered what he had just agreed to. The clearest, most rational voice in his head was telling him that thinking he would die just because he recorded at Al’s studio was absolutely crazy. There was no way all those people’s deaths could be connected with their having recorded here.
But another voice deeper in his mind was demanding attention. It was telling him that it might already be too late. He had already agreed to come back to Sharp Sounds Studio to record some more. If he followed through with those plans, it might mean that he would die shortly thereafter.
A cold tightness verging on panic gripped him by the throat as he considered this but—finally—he came to a decision. He couldn’t risk it. He didn’t want to die even if it meant he joined those ranks of dead legends.
This whole fucking thing is crazy! He told himself, but now he was sure he didn’t want to take that kind of chance. Although there were a few problems with the ban right now, things were going fairly well. They were getting good airplay, and although their new album might not be in the stores in time for Christmas, things were coming along just fine.
Why take a chance of messing things up?
He’d go back in and tell Al thanks, but no thanks.
His decision made, Stuart turned off the ignition, opened the door, and stepped out onto the street. He tossed his car keys once into the air and caught them, then slid them back into his pants pocket as he started across the street. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he never even saw the car that had just turned the corner and was heading straight toward him.