Uncle’s head throbbed in time to the drilling on Laurel Canyon, which was down to one lane, his car, of course, being the first one stopped as the traffic flow changed direction. The guy in the hardhat and yellow vest looked like Frankie Cocktail, for god’s sake. Uncle wondered what would become of those lugs if he didn’t rescue himself first then pull them into the lifeboat. Emma had demanded nothing short of a full-fledged concert featuring Roc and the boys. They’d been dumped off the Knack reunion tour; availability wasn’t an issue. But Roc, what was to be done here? His friend was in a new place creatively, spiritually, whatever. It was as if the presence of these women had both reawakened him and rendered him oblivious to the fact that he was supposed to be dead. Even as Emma had tossed off revenue projections from the concert like a veteran Hollywood business manager, Uncle had visions of fraud charges and his reputation in tatters. And how would a duped public respond to Roc’s return? He knew the label, with their inbred short-term thinking, would love it; and Justin … with the moral compass of a Washington lobbyist, having learned the business at the knee of his father, Doc Savage, the payola king, could justify anything. Roscoe had gotten out of the car and was having a smoke with the road crew, who seemed to have gone on a break, forgetting the row of cars that stretched back to Ventura Boulevard and beyond. At least the drilling had stopped. To relax, Uncle turned on K-Mozart radio and began to shave his head while the car was still.
Once they hit Sunset, his cell was working again, but before he had a chance to make the first call, the phone vibrated and Marty Cockburn squawked into his ear.
“Okay, I’m looking at a fax from Stasiuk, and it’s nasty, Uncle Strange. They’re threatening to hold all Roc-related revenue in an escrow account, which I’m confident they could swing long enough to draw blood, unless … hang on, it continues on page two…. I must be missing something … unless you agree to Emma’s concert proposal by the fifteenth blah blah blah. I’m sorry, Uncle, I’ve got to call them; this doesn’t make a damn bit of sense to me. I mean, what the …”
Uncle cut him off. “She wants a concert with The Cocktails in L.A. … a comeback show … with Roc.” He could hear all the assertiveness drain from his voice.
“I don’t get it. The guy’s dead.”
“Well, she thinks he’s alive.”
“I see. And is he?”
Uncle paused, starting to reply, then paused again. “Marty, we’ve got lawyer-client privilege here, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Let’s say he is. What kind of issues do you see coming up?”
“Issues!” The attorney’s voice distorted badly, and Uncle held the phone at arm’s length. “Let’s see. Assuming no life insurance claims, debt problems, and no fake ID and living in Sarasota scenario, I think Roc would be in the clear.” Uncle tried to jump in, but Marty steamrolled over him. “But for you, braniac, it’s not so good. And unless you envision incarceration as a nice respite from life’s nagging little difficulties, Uncle Strange, you might want to consider faking your own death, assuming that’s what we’re talking about here.”
“I didn’t say that, Marty,” Uncle said softly, trying to lower the intensity of the conversation.
Marty snorted into the phone. “I’m thinking ten to fifteen for fraud with time off for keeping your caftan clean. Uncle, listen. Deep breath time here, my friend. I know Stasiuk’s partner, Horvath. I dealt with him on that Aerosmith thing. Remember when Joe borrowed Ahmet’s yacht and sailed it to St. Barth’s? I’m sure …”
“Forget it, Marty. This girl’s crazy tough. And she fucking hates me.”
“So what, she can start her own local chapter of the club. Where’s your fight here, Uncle? Listen, we’ll move first. Sue her ass, make her prove who she is. Meanwhile, my wife’s bookie’s brother is a judge in Jersey. They’ll have to fight us on jurisdiction. You can make your money moves while it’s being sorted out. C’mon!”
Uncle, slumped in his seat, had stopped listening. “Marty, I’ve got to call you back.” As Roscoe pulled into the parking lot of Les Deux, Uncle was rubbing his head in circles when he spotted Marie’s car. Finding a wayward tuft, his hand shook as he took a swipe with the razor, resulting in a stream of blood running down beside his ear. As he dabbed himself with a Kleenex, Uncle used all his compartmentalizing skills to file away the Emma dilemma and focus on sweeping Marie off her little red stilettos. He popped open the velvet jewellery box one more time and examined the colossal bauble inside. Marie’s reference to a “celebration” reassured him that she knew where tonight was heading.
Accustoming himself to the shadowy interior of Les Deux, Uncle was escorted by the owner, Michelle, to a quiet table behind an Oriental screen. Marie had her back to him, her bare shoulders an intoxicating invitation. Putting his hands over her eyes, he kissed Marie’s neck and whispered in his worst French accent, “Who ees eet?”
“François?” she cooed suggestively. Seeing Uncle’s surprised reaction, she pouted theatrically. “Oh, a little funny for my big man is too much?”
Uncle recovered quickly and slipped into the banquette beside her. She pressed into him, revealing the satiny minimalism of her dress. His woes became distant.
“You are liking?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I can resist everything except temptation,” he grinned.
“Ah, so it’s Monsieur Wilde tonight.” Marie signalled the waiter and whispered in his ear. She was applying a lip massage to Uncle’s lolling dome when the server returned with a bottle of absinthe and two tall glasses with spoons containing sugar cubes. Marie waved him away and seductively poured ice water over the sugar, watching intently as their drinks slowly turned a milky green colour.
As they clinked glasses, a stout, overdressed troubadour with coke bottle glasses approached their table carrying a guitar and launched into a foggy version of “La Mer.” Marie’s head bobbed in time, and a befuddled Uncle sipped his cloudy cocktail. The singer concluded his performance with a low bow and a smile revealing dodgy dental work as Marie handed him a bill.
Oysters on the half shell, followed by little goat cheese pastry items and something flaming led to more absinthe, chocolate, and eventually, Marie feeding Uncle figs with his eyes closed.
“I have something for you,” he slurred, heavy-lidded, grinning stupidly.
“Ah, but first, moi.” Marie signalled to the waiter, who arrived with a long florist’s box. Uncle fingered the ring container in his pocket as the waiter laid the box on the table with a thunk after clearing the dinner debris. Marie, seemingly unaffected by the evening’s consumption, opened the gift like a quiz show presenter, revealing a crowd of long-stemmed roses. Uncle cradled her buttocks and smiled thickly.
“You must look inside,” she said, lifting his hand from the banquette to the bouquet. A puzzled Uncle felt something cold and hard beneath the flowers and parted them to reveal a semi-automatic rifle, gleaming in the greenery. He pulled his hand away as if a thorn had punctured it.
“A Mas 49-56, mon amour. It usually comes with a bayonet and a grenade launcher, but … the French are so thoughtful, non?” Uncle felt his stomach rising inside him and the room pulling him into its spin. He rose on wobbly legs and excused himself. Lying on the floor of the washroom cubicle, blotting his face with a fistful of damp paper towel, he tried to regulate his breathing and rehearse a hasty departure line.
Minutes later, Uncle grabbed the sides of parked cars for support as he wove through the lot towards Roscoe’s limo. From his vantage point in the back seat of the darkened car, he watched Marie’s Citroën peel out of the lot onto La Grange. He handed his credit card to Roscoe and gestured in the general direction of Les Deux. While waiting, Uncle downed a couple of Evians and a handful of Advil and flicked on the TV. He dimly noticed the tribute concert video of “My Next Life” as Roscoe slipped into the front seat. A slow smile of sweet relief crossed Uncle’s face as he watched the familiar images on the small screen; he felt that clamp of tension release a degree or two. Noting Uncle’s expression in the mirror, the driver discreetly lowered the window a couple of inches, assuming a major digestive impasse had been resolved.