Uncle trusted his journey, but not his girlfriend. As he made his way to the studio via Laurel Canyon, he flipped through some papers and listened in on Marie’s lunch at the Ivy with Julie. Some actor friend of Julie’s had sent over a bottle of champagne, and he heard the girls giggling and dissing the donor as the cork was popped. Uncle emailed Justin and Max Stone to avoid actual conversations. Marie’s lunch babble got cut off around Lookout, which was all right, because he wanted to focus his energy entirely on Roc Molotov.
In his message, Roc had said he had some things to play and things to discuss. Fair enough. As long as Roc didn’t want to go on any more field trips, Uncle could handle any topic that came up. It was the new music that he needed desperately, no matter what it sounded like. Uncle toyed with the idea of trying to slip the publishing reassignment contract past Roc, figuring that Cockburn would be cool with backdating it, thus resolving some sticky issues with the pesky teen.
As he pulled up, he noticed a motorcycle in the alley beside the studio and wondered if Eddie was having another midlife crisis. Alerted by the disarming of the security system, Roc came down to meet Uncle, and they embraced warmly. Roc noticed the smell of beer on Uncle and chose to ignore it; Uncle caught a whiff of some designer perfume on Roc but hid his puzzlement with faux warmth. “How are you, my brother? I was very happy to get your call. Can’t wait to hear the new songs.”
Roc was loose but reserved, Uncle could see. “C’mon in the control room. You want a drink?”
“Maybe an ice tea, it’s early.” Uncle grinned. “Hey, listen, just before we get going, I wanted to show you these.” He extracted an envelope from his bag. “The fan club’s taken it upon themselves to offer some ideas for a monument. What do you think?”
Roc found himself looking at an artist’s rendering of a tombstone in the shape of the headstock of a guitar, with the words ROC IN PEACE etched across the top. “Way cooler than Jim Morrison’s at Père Lachaise, wouldn’t you say?” Uncle leaned over Roc’s shoulder to share the viewpoint. “You know, with the beard and hair, you’re starting to give me a bit of a late period Jimbo vibe,” he went on jovially, “minus the breadbasket, of course.” He chortled, to silence from Roc, realizing that this might not have been the best opening. “Anyway, this can wait.”
“I’m not dead.” Roc spoke without emotion.
“Of course you’re not,” replied Uncle, trying to rescue the mood, “but the fans need somewhere to gather to share their grief.” He realized he was sounding like Gwen for a moment.
Concealing his disgust, Roc hit play, filling the room with the opening to “Pale Fire.” Uncle sat perfectly still in the big studio chair, knowing that he was hearing the work of an artist at his very best. As the half dozen songs played, his excitement grew as he realized that this was all he needed to complete the first Echoes release. He also felt a huge measure of pure relief, since this also represented the ticket to an ass-saving advance. He turned to Roc after the last song faded out. “Fucking amazing. This is the best work you have ever done. You know that, don’t you?”
Roc smiled. In spite of all Uncle’s inappropriateness, he knew Roc best, and his praise still carried some weight. “Thanks. Yeah, I know. I’m not sure where it all came from, but I’m just glad it came at all.”
“I have to be honest, my good man, I was a bit worried. It’s not like you to be so remote.” With his hands outstretched and stubbled head glowing, it struck Roc that Uncle resembled a saguaro cactus. “Listen, good news, I think the agent has neutralized the native burial ground issue on the Big Sur property, so we can start inspections. They’re saying there could be a flood insurance question that needs …”
Roc held up his hand at the whiff of bullshit that had entered the conversation. “Uncle, before you go any further, I’ve got something to tell you. I’ve engaged a new financial advisor who’s going to be overseeing all aspects personal and professional.” Uncle froze, expressionless, as Roc continued. “Not to step on the management side, of course, but you’ll need to provide full access to all the books, et cetera.” Gently putting his hand on Uncle’s back, he guided the big man out of the studio. “C’mon, let’s continue this upstairs.”
With his knees creaking like a rickshaw, Uncle laboured up the stairs after his friend. Roc called out from the porch with good humour, “Come into my office. I understand you two have met.”
“Emma.” Uncle offered a funereal smile. “Nice to see you again.” He struggled to keep his composure, pushing back for the moment the flood of questions rolling into his head.
“Karl.” Emma nodded coolly.
“Uncle, Emma’s going to look after the business side of my career from now on. She’ll work closely with her mother’s lawyers in Boston, and she’s engaged Wasserman out here on the financial management side. I’m sure this is not a happy situation for you, but we’ve discussed it, and it’s with her best interests in mind that I feel I need to make the change.”
Uncle tried to steady the ground beneath him and stalled. “Mind if I sit down?” He eased into a deckchair and nodded rhythmically, looking back and forth between Roc and his daughter. He attempted to inject some levity as Emma and Roc sat down. “Well, first of all, I’m delighted that you two were able to meet … here in the afterlife, but don’t you think you’re a little late, if you’ll pardon the term, to be renegotiating our business relationship, my brother?” In his swirl of thoughts, Uncle was trying to figure out how the two could have met. “Of course, Emma’s interests overlap with ours, but I still feel better qualified to guide the good ship Molotov through the rapids of the music business. I mean, thanks to good planning, right now you’re in the best shape of your career, Roc. And if you keep making music like what you just played me, this ride could go on indefinitely, right?”
Roc broke the brief silence that followed. “Uncle, let me cut to the chase. Emma has brought to my attention some pretty alarming discrepancies, to put it in the mildest of possible terms, in your accounting practices. As you know, this is not my area of expertise; I always trusted you to do what you do best while you offered me the same respect.” He noticed that Uncle’s eye was twitching as he nervously rubbed his head in circles. “And I still trust you. I just think that maybe you’ve gotten overloaded of late with new projects, and your joint venture with Justin Savage, and … I feel it’s for the best.” Uncle nodded, but Roc could see that it wasn’t in agreement. “Hey, can I get you something? I’m going to run down to the kitchen.”
“Yeah, sure, man, anything. Thanks,” Uncle said huskily. As Roc bounced down the stairs, Uncle turned his gaze to meet that of his rival for Roc’s trust. For a long moment, neither spoke. “You know, I’m sure it must have been very emotional for you two to meet for the first time.” Uncle measured his words. “Roc has been very protective of you all these years, Emma. And he relied on me to set up your trust fund and to look after your financial security with total discretion during that time. I only hope that you, perhaps unwittingly, haven’t exploited your father at an emotional time in his life.” He lifted his palms in a conciliatory gesture. “These … little problems, that you have quite correctly focused on, are typical of a business that I’ve spent my adult life operating in. I can assure you that any accounting irregularities can be easily rectified.” His tone turned honeyed. “Emma, your dad needs you for so many reasons right now. Just be a daughter to him. Let me handle the stuff I know best. I mean, if it ain’t broke …”
In the kitchen, Bobbie whispered unnecessarily, “How’s it going?”
“Too soon to tell,” Roc replied.
“I know he’s your friend, man, but there’s a bit of a vulture vibe,” Stick added nervously. “Should we have used a weapons detector?”
Roc smiled. “I think she can handle him.”
Bobbie curled up her nose. “You couldn’t pay me enough to share air with the likes of that reprobate.”
“Nice word, honey.” Roc hauled snacks out of the fridge and placed them on a tray as Bobbie threw on some napkins.
“If I knew which one was his, I’d have half a mind to …”
“Okay, I gotta go. Stick, do you know where the opener is?”
Back up on the deck, Emma’s tone seemed at once to mingle pathos, disgust, and amusement. “Cut the crap, Karl. Just because you’ve swabbed the decks doesn’t mean ‘the good ship Molotov,’ as you call it, isn’t leaking badly.” She shook her head and met his indignant expression evenly. “I don’t think you’re a crook, but I think you’re in some kind of mess, and, expert exploiter that you are, you’re done here. The quid pro quo is this — your agreement in exchange for delivery of the new material.”
His mouth tasting like sand, Uncle waited impatiently for Roc to return.
“And financially, it’s not a question of ‘overlap.’ As my father’s sole heir, his interests are my interests.” Emma could hear her father starting up the stairs, and she leaned toward Uncle, who was sweating heavily. “Besides, Karl, you’re going to have your hands full with his comeback.”