Uncle awoke in his cabin at the San Ysidro Ranch with a raging case of the night terrors, having dreamt of murdering his best friend in the world. Images of Marie in her little red shoes stringing exposed wire across the empty stage of the Hollywood Bowl and Uncle himself methodically squirting Ultraglide on the wire gave way to a scene in which Roc stood silently at centre stage while Uncle ignited the whole sticky mess.
Shaking and damp, he got up and listened to Marie breathing softly, noticing that she pouted, even in her sleep. He shook off the nightmare but couldn’t rid himself of the idea that Marie was actually suggesting a real life version of the dream. Quietly sliding the door shut, he stepped into the cool night air and gazed up at the Montecito hills silhouetted by the moonlight. He needed clarity, maybe more than ever before, to get through the various minefields that lay ahead. Wasn’t he working in these people’s best interests as well as his own? Justin, the ultimate label weasel, spoiled industry brat, expecting Uncle to carry him. The Cocktails, a train wreck in the making if there ever was one. He glanced back through the glass door at Marie — this time, he’d really let his libido take the wheel. It was worth it, wasn’t it? And Roc — who would have expected him to dry up, with all the creative freedom in the world to do what he loved best? Or was he holding out, as Uncle suspected? And that fucking precocious little twat of a daughter, like he needed her in the mix. Thank God for the pride of Farcry, the hillbilly with a hit.
Later, Uncle tried to stay focused on Marie’s miniskirt as it travelled north, while she raced through a red light in downtown Montecito, singing along loudly with Serge Gainsbourg. Once they were out of the hills and they pulled onto the 101, he checked his messages and tried to disguise his surprise at hearing one from Roc.
“So, I am desiring the crab cakes from the Ivy, maybe some mimosa to erase my head. What do you say, my big boy, Beverly Hills or By the Shore?” Marie conducted the orchestra on the CD, raising her hand through the convertible opening in her Citroën’s roof.
“If only I could, my love, but the music business requires my attention.” The only advantage to disappointing Marie was the turn-on he got from her bruised puppy expression. “But this just means the joy of anticipating seeing you later, ma petite.” He was tuning up for a day of placating and manipulating. When she dropped him at the office a heart pounding fifty-three minutes later, she turned her cheek to him for the briefest of air kisses before screeching into the eastbound traffic on Wilshire.
The camera followed Uncle’s arrival as he stepped out of Marie’s car into the Beach Blast microphone. “Uncle, dude, was that Marie Ladurée? Righteous.”
“Hey, Chad, what’s up?” Uncle immediately had his guard up, given Beach Blast’s ongoing Roc reports.
“Ooo lala! Wicked vid, man.”
Uncle relaxed slightly. “Yeah, thanks. I know you guys have been calling about having Marie on Beach Blast, and we’re all over that.”
“Cool. The Delray duet was epic. Any thoughts of releasing that?”
Uncle was restlessly moving toward the door of his office. “Stay tuned, Herr Sparx. Listen, I gotta …”
Chad assumed an ultra-concerned expression. “That was so weird about Delray attacking Roc just before he cacked.”
Uncle paused. His gaze bored into the interviewer’s eyes. “Mistaken identity, Chad. Happens all the time. A dark parking garage, a brief encounter … memory’s a funny thing.” Uncle’s tone suggested a conclusion to the matter. “And in light of the loss of Roc, a truly superfluous pursuit.” Uncle winked at the camera. “Good catching up with you, brother.”
Chad nodded, giving Uncle his trademark spacey grin and rubbing his fingers together. “So I guess you’ll have a boatload of copyrights on that Roc box set, right, Uncle?”
The camera didn’t catch the tiny shudder that Uncle experienced on his way through the door. Inside, Candy stopped him with a finger in the air and a nod in the direction of his office. Sitar music wafted out.
“Sorry. I couldn’t stop them. At least they brought their own pillows.” Candy smiled and handed Uncle a three-inch stack of phone messages, the pink ones on top signifying priority. He noticed the name on the first one. “Max is pissed that you’re using Cockburn, who called him asking for copies of the Roc publishing deals. He says he won’t send them until he speaks to you, so … I faxed them an hour ago.” Uncle nodded appreciatively. “And I think Justin has you on speed dial, but I consolidated the forty-odd calls into one message.” Looking in the direction of the office, she added, “Let me know if you want me to run out for incense.”
Uncle entered his office warily and was immediately group-hugged by Delray, Danny, and Gwen, wearing matching lime green djellabas. “Welcome to our joy,” a dreamy and very pregnant Gwen offered as Uncle almost bounced off her belly. “We’ve moved into the ashram in Topanga Canyon; they’ve got a birthing pool that our doula says reduces cellular blockage.” Uncle just stared at them then switched off the Indian music.
“Rrright,” he said, “not too early for a Lone Star, is it, big boy?” He grinned at Delray, who had been uncharacteristically silent thus far.
“Hey, thanks Uncle, but I don’t like to dull my growth edge before noon.” Delray flashed a peace sign, grinning moronically.
“So, Danny, how are the rehearsals going? You guys were great at the Lingerie last week.” Uncle tried to shift into work mode, at odds with the prevailing grooviness.
As the three visitors sat down on their prayer pillows, Danny patted an empty one, indicating that Uncle should join them, a gesture he chose to ignore. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I’m leaving The Cocktails, and as a spiritual man yourself, I’m sure you’ll understand why.”
Gwen interrupted. “Terra Firma, or Danny as you have known him, has to follow his beacon, honour his mission.”
Danny continued, “We’ve got some issues, Uncle, and I don’t think that Frankie and Barry can overcome their personal toxic obstacles; but I’m going to offer a special prayer to choicefulness tonight.” Uncle nodded uncomprehendingly. “First, though, we’re going to fill the birthing pool with Kabbalah water.” He smiled so sweetly that Uncle didn’t have the heart to tell him to fuck himself.
“Hey, you two love doves, do you mind if I have a word with my man here?” he said, indicating Delray. “You’re welcome to use the phone in the other office if you want to page your doula or something.”
They nodded obligingly like a pair of matching plastic spaniels in the back window of a car. Uncle escorted them to the door and closed it before addressing Delray. “So, my brother, are you going to be purging your toxins in Topanga like Numb and Number, or could I interest you in a malted beverage?”
Delray glanced in the direction of the door and shrugged. “What the hell, don’t mind if I do.”
Uncle pulled a Lone Star from the fridge for Delray and one for himself, to take the edge off a day that had started badly. “Here you go, stud. So, Danny and the boys have issues, do they? Listen, Delray, you’re no pussy-boy, so I hope you’re not buying into this crap; it’s guru du jour with those two, you know.”
“Hells bells, Uncle, they’re makin’ me the godfather, and I feel like I need to step up. Besides, you should get a load of those hippie chicks in them see-through blouses at the outdoor prayer sessions.” Now he was talking Uncle’s language. “I’m not sure about them pit bushes, but you don’t have to fondle them, do you?”
“No, I don’t think that’s required. So, you’ll be at the ashram if I need to reach you?”
“Damn straight. Tonight we’re going to work on drawing the light and eliminating the chaos. Cool, huh?” Delray continued in a conspiratorial tone, “The only thing that gets me kinda skittish is when Gwen, or Stella Luna as she’s taken to callin’ herself, talks about her transparency aspirations. I mean, she’s got a bun in the oven for godsake, even if she is built like a brick shithouse.”
“Listen, I’ve got to get to work. Would you mind telling Terra Firma and Stella Luna that we can do some more sharing at another time?”
“All right,” said Delray, draining his Lone Star. “Dang, I needed that. Well, trust your journey, boss.”