“I used it all.” Justin’s tone was terse. “Even after cancelling the second day and refusing to pay Papa, the whole fiasco came in just under seven figures. I kissed some major tuchas in accounting to get the tech costs spread around, but I still had to pay the rest out of Strange Savage. I mean, you just don’t see creamed pigeon at craft services on a Weezer shoot, say.” The young executive pressed his lips together and stabbed at something on his plate. “Oh, Christ, don’t get me started.”
Uncle’s rectal muscles had little clench left after the last couple of weeks’ toll, but Justin could still get an involuntary flinch out of him at the mention of the Marie video. His pragmatic side had accepted Marie’s half-hearted version of the screening room incident, and he needed Justin in his camp, if only to share the inevitable fall this mess would provoke. Oddly enough, without a single cleavage shot, never mind one of the singer’s face, MTV had been airing “Ooo Lala” to great phones. He guessed that there were more foot fetishists in the eighteen- to twenty-four demographic than previously acknowledged.
Justin shrugged at the waiter’s reminder of extra charges for another dry piece of pita and dug into the plastic bowl of shared hummus that sat between them. He looked around nervously, but they were the only customers in the greasy falafel joint on Gower at three in the afternoon. He lowered his voice all the same. “That jerk in royalties got all snaky with me about another advance on Higher than Heaven, going on about some transparency shit and my involvement with your company. I think you’ll have to get the kid, or her lawyer if she’s not old enough, to sign off on it.”
Uncle stared pensively at the flecks of baba gannouj on Savage’s silk Industria jacket and fought back nausea. His mind travelled again to Eddie’s place, where Roc had been holed up in his room, refusing to communicate or work on any new material. As if reading his mind, Justin gestured with a forkful of pickled turnips. “Where the fuck are the rest of the songs for the Roc archive release? And don’t give me that ‘baking the master tapes to bring out the missing top end’ bullshit again. The stuff you played at the meeting was amazing, but people are starting to doubt that there’s anything else, and five songs is not enough to match the hype. It could be himself belching into a bullhorn; it doesn’t matter, Uncle.”
Uncle Strange nodded, trying to look engaged as he shifted uncomfortably in the tiny plastic chair. Justin leaned back and picked up a toothpick from the dispenser on the table. “You saw The Cocktails statement, no doubt — returns up the wazoo, God help us. And that press release about scaling back the tour to ‘get back to our roots,’ please. When I saw Frankie on E going on about wanting to be ‘closer to our fans,’ all I could think of was paternity suits or crushed soccer moms when Barry lands in the mosh pit.”
The flickering fluorescent light above Justin’s head was slicing rhythmically into Uncle’s brain, and he knew he had to bolt. Pretending to get a call, he dug his cellphone out of his caftan and headed for supposedly better reception in the mini mall parking lot. He nodded as if listening intently and tried not to look at the lamb carcass hanging in the restaurant window. Inside he could see Justin picking through the rest of the lunch, and he looked away to get his bearings. Returning to the table, he tossed down a twenty and shrugged. “Marie. Gotta go. I need to check out the mixes of a couple of new songs. See you at the Delray showcase at the Lingerie.” Justin belched and nodded, not looking up.
Uncle walked up to Franklin and called a cab to meet him in front of the Scientology Celebrity Center, one of the few places in Hollywood you could count on never meeting an actual celebrity of any stripe. Trying to work out the numbness in his lower back, he’d escaped the grease pit Justin had suggested for their tête à tête, and sweated his way up Gower Street in the afternoon glare. As he waited for the cab, Uncle admired the façade of the imitation Normandy chateau that according to Roc, used to be the Elysée Hotel, onetime home to Bogie and Edward G Robinson. He recalled his brief encounter with the “church” in the eighties, when Dianetics was synonymous with brainwashing. One good thing had come from the “Cold Spark” video shoot that Roc and the boys had done there — Danny had met his girlfriend Gwen by agreeing to a personality test after the shoot. It reminded him that Danny often seemed a heartbeat away from dedicating his life to some guru of the moment, and he hoped that none of his and Gwen’s hocus pocus tendencies were rubbing off on Delray.
The cab arrived, and he directed the driver to the office. As the springs in the frayed seat toyed with his sciatic nerve, he knew he was missing Marie terribly, flaming tarte that she was. Despite what he had told Justin, he hadn’t seen Marie in weeks, and the cold reality included the fact that there wasn’t a single bar of music recorded for her upcoming album. Fantasizing about the healing properties of her pout on his aching dome, Uncle left Marie a message inviting her to the Delray show, the one bright spot on the calendar.