Seven

Leaving the label’s shiny Burbank offices, Roc reflected on the general ugliness of the San Fernando Valley, knowing he was not the first to entertain these thoughts. As the endless copy shops, taco joints, and manicure emporia blurred by, it struck him that the entire Valley seemed to have been designed one afternoon in 1956 by someone whose pinnacle achievement was the Bowl-a-Thon in Van Nuys. Uncle was staring at his laptop and ohmmming to himself till he turned to Roc.

“That wasn’t too painful, was it?” Greeted by a sullen silence, he went on, “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll get you out of that beach stunt; we just had to play along. You ever try to deflate one of Stan’s thought balloons while it’s airborne?”

“Let’s not talk about anything airborne for the moment, Uncle, if you don’t mind.” In reality, Roc was seriously trying on the idea of doing the stunt, realizing that it would be the only way he’d be on Beach Blast in this lifetime. Under the hype of the meeting, Roc saw it for what it was: a show for himself and his manager, and he knew from years of playing along that it would take a lot more than a few key interviews and some good reviews, if he dared hope for those, to break this record. Radio was tighter than it had ever been, and he wasn’t up for a big tour; no one was convinced that touring was anything more than preaching to the choir anyway. Sure, he could do a couple hundred thousand copies out of the box, but that would barely pay for the catering at the video shoot, mention of which had been noticeably absent from today’s strategy session.

“Hey, seems like Justin’s got his shit together,” said Uncle.

“Yeah, smart kid.” Roc winced at his own description of the young exec in charge of his future.

“Recognize the last name?”

Roc paused before replying, “Savage wasn’t it? Oh right, let me guess, Doc Savage’s kid?” He laughed, thinking about the legendary concert promoter who filled arenas and federal courtrooms with equal ease in the eighties. “I’d almost forgotten about Doc. Did they ever put him away?”

“Nope. All the flunkies took the fall as usual. Doc owns one of the Netherland Antilles or somewhere like that. He just can’t leave.”

At that precise moment, Justin Savage was sitting at the computer in his office firing up his email. He clicked Warren Blade’s address from the company directory and typed in “Roc Molotov” under subject. Just then, something on the MSNBC ticker caught his attention, and he accidentally entered Roc’s name under cc. He turned back to the screen.

W - update me on the rm ctalaogue deal we ahd the mtg this am cool till some pimplein nikes came up witht areal idae fuvckhaed i don’t know how much hang timw i canm give this turkey - J

In his office on the third floor, Blade was proofing the liner notes of the newest preteen divas compilation. The Stan Getz/Chet Baker Sessions was playing in the background and seemed right at home with the redwood walls that hadn’t changed since that record was made. He looked at the e-mail and replied,

J - I’m on it - W

Curious, Warren thought when he noticed the cc to Roc Molotov. Not like the old days, he mused, when lying to the artist was the way to go.

Uncle snapped a handkerchief across his dome till it glowed. “I’m going to drop you at the hotel. I’ve got a little snog-and-bonk lunch with Marie. We can go over the new radio reports later. You wanna invite Nature Girl, and we can all check out The Cocktails at the Whiskey tonight? Should be amusing.”

“No, thanks. I’d have to talk to them. And for the record, Bobbie and I are not happening anymore,” Roc replied flatly.

Uncle arched a brow and a small smile showed through. “Marie’s got a sweet little friend, you want me to fix you up? Remember her from the pool the other day? Stunning.”

“Stunned?” Roc grunted.

“You gotta lower your standards, brother. What is it with you and these wholesome types? You’re missing a world-class ledge on this one. You could hold the next G8 meeting up there.”

Roc shook his head in disgust at Uncle’s lasciviousness, but he couldn’t help laughing as well. It was true, he liked down-to-earth women, and he slept alone most of the time, unlike Uncle, who pursued the rock ’n roll life with vigour and amazing success for a bald faux guru with the sensitivity of a vulture. Contrary to the image of his profession and the unwritten law that any man who makes his living with a guitar is expected to copulate until his member falls off from exhaustion, Roc sought relationships. Not always deftly, or with the right women, but he actually liked to know the middle name of the person in his bathroom.

“Later, Roc,” said Uncle, patting his friend on the back as the doorman held open the car door. “Grab a little sleep, put a ‘do not disturb’ on the phone, and you’ll feel better.”

Once Roc was walking into the lobby of the Sunset Lagoon, Uncle leaned over to the driver. “Take Coldwater. We have to go back to the valley. I’ll direct you.”

He pulled his vibrating cellphone from underneath the white caftan and looked at the caller’s number. “Hey, Danny, how’s it going? I can’t hear a thing. Tell those goofballs to stop playing for a minute.... Uh-huh ... it’s going to be great, man, celebs for days, lots of press, everyone from the label…. No, Roc can’t make it, I think his mother’s in town or something.... I’m on my way, and we can go over the set list then. Later.” Uncle then hit his newest speed dial entry. “Hey my little bonbon ... oui ... me too, listen I’ve gotta do something and then I’ll pick you up. Don’t overdress. À bientôt.” He hung up, smiling. Inviting Roc to the Whiskey had been a calculated risk, but it had to be done, and if there was one client that Uncle knew well enough to take that chance with, it was Roc Molotov.