It was in the blackest of moods that Roc picked up the phone in his hotel room on about the tenth ring. The odour of last night’s room service sitting at the bottom of the bed rolled up to his nose. The TV was, of course, still on.
“Show time, superstar.” Uncle began humming “I Don’t Like Mondays.” “Meeting’s in forty-five minutes. I sent up some breakfast for you. Listen, I’ve got someone here who’d love to meet you. Won’t take a minute.”
Roc cleared his throat to try to object, but Uncle had already hung up. The doorbell sounded, and the room service waiter rolled in a tray carrying an urn of coffee, a few silver lids over breakfast, and an orchid in a tiny vase, the latter probably being the most edible item, thought Roc.
“Take this for you, Mr. Molotov?” the man smiled, indicating the disaster at the end of the bed.
“Yeah, sure, gracias.” Roc yanked the blanket up so he could reach for his wallet beside the bed, causing the tray to cascade to the floor, launching remnants of last night’s poached sea bass, vegetable medley, and crème caramel onto the carpet. “Oh, sorry, man.”
“No problem, Mr. Molotov.” As the waiter cleaned up, Roc doubled the tip and headed for the shower with a cup of coffee. Glancing at the TV, he saw The Cocktails video playing with the sound off as he accidentally stepped on the remote, causing the room to suddenly fill with “Stop Before I Start.” “Oh, God spare me,” he grunted.
Eyes closed with the shower beating mercilessly on his shoulders, Roc told himself, Focus, focus. He had to put the image of Bobbie having it off with someone in her car while she was talking to him out of his mind. He tried to recall one of Uncle’s meditations, but none would come to him.
He was putting on his trademark eyeliner while wearing his Sunset Laguna bathrobe when Uncle rang, then let himself in with his latest conquest in tow. Roc thought she looked vaguely familiar then remembered that it was the girl from the pool that Uncle had been chatting up yesterday. Uncle was dressed in one of his flowing white outfits, and his head glowed as he extended his palms outward and grinned a little lustily for this hour of the day.
“Introduction ... Marie ... Roc Molotov.” Uncle sounded like he was rolling a spitball when he pronounced the “r” in Marie.
“Hi, nice to meet you, Marie.” Roc adjusted the belt of his robe to make sure he was decent.
“Enchanté, Mr. Molotov, I’m such a huge fan of mine.” She left the “h” off “huge,” and her smile filled the room. Over her shoulder, Uncle was making melon shapes with his hands, which Roc tried to ignore.
“Excuse us, Marie, we’ve got to get ready for a meeting. Uncle, give me a minute, and I’ll meet you out front.”
“Absolument, mon ami,” Uncle replied in a hideous accent as he escorted Marie from the room, winking before closing the door behind him.
Uncle was in the back seat of the dark blue Lincoln Town Car with his laptop open when Roc slid in beside him. “What do you think of the mademoiselle, my brother? She’s French, you know.”
“Really?” said Roc in the most disinterested tone possible.
“Uh-huh, her dad’s some big Parisian film director in town working on a sequel to Madame Bovary, I think she said. Marie’s a singer.”
“As Flaubert no doubt would have wanted it. Can she sing?” Roc wasn’t looking at Uncle.
“Probably not. But did you get a load of the rack on her? Mon Dieu! You could serve a ten-course gourmet meal on those babies.”
“Could we get to work here, Uncle?” Roc tried to ignore his manager’s puerile obsessions. “What’s the agenda today? Any new action on the single to talk about?”
Uncle ignored the question. “So, d’you end up seeing Miss Alfalfa Sprout last night? Anything organic happen?” he snickered. Roc just stared out the window at the passing cars on the freeway as Uncle’s tone became serious. “Look, it’s over to them today. We delivered a brilliant record. Now it’s up to the suits to do what they do and shift some units. I’m not going to lie to you, the single is starting slowly, but sometimes that’s the best way to go if you want long life at radio. Slow and steady, right? Remember ‘She’s Gone’ by Hall and Oates. From Abandoned Luncheonette? Two years later it was a smash, right? Let’s just listen to their plan and stay positive.”
Roc closed his eyes again and tried to clear his mind as the car pulled into the record company’s visitor parking.