Eleven

I followed Hal’s directions through the lobby, back into the auditorium. Technicians were working onstage and Dee was nowhere in sight. I went through a draped doorway, up a steep short flight of stairs, and found myself surrounded by amplifiers and roadies. A hallway beckoned; I figured there had to be dressing rooms somewhere.

I located Dee’s by the sound of her voice, opened the door after a cursory knock, and found her yelling at a tiny woman who was waving a needle and thread like a banner.

“I like the damn pants tight,” Dee shouted at the seamstress. “If they split, they split.”

“Wear clean underwear,” I offered automatically. My mother used to say that: wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a car on the way to school. Think of the embarrassment if you have to go to the hospital in dirty underwear, or worse, with a safety pin holding your bra strap together.

It worries me when I find my mother’s words coming out of my mouth.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting half an hour.” Dee rounded on me, and the tiny seamstress took the opportunity to escape. “I was counting on you to find Davey, find him fast,” she went on angrily, not waiting for a response. She kicked off her heels, and four inches of white pant cuff brushed the floor.

“You know anybody who works with you and likes to steal ladies’ handbags?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Somebody ripped me off. Just now.”

“You want to go call the police or something?”

“Does the building have security?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” she said sarcastically. “Great security. Somebody tries to steal this building, I just bet the old-geezer patrol will notice.”

“That good, huh?”

“I wouldn’t leave a nickel in this dressing room. That’s how good. I give everything to one of Hal’s people. That handsome Jody guy, if I can find him. Now, you want to call the police or what?”

I sighed, and thought about all the Dumpsters and construction sites near Symphony Hall. “I’ll take care of it later.”

“You couldn’t find Dunrobie?”

“Give me more time and—”

“Can I trust you?” she said suddenly, more like an accusation than a question.

I raised an eyebrow. “That depends, doesn’t it?”

She reached inside her jacket, pulled an envelope out of the inner breast pocket, hefted it in her hand, and turned it over slowly. She bit her lower lip and tried to stare me down.

“Am I missing something?” I asked. “Because I like to have all the pieces before I play the game.”

She started to speak, stopped, and closed her eyes. She looked drained, a different woman entirely from the electric wonder onstage.

“Whatever it is, Dee,” I said, “whatever’s going on, the music’s fine. The music’s terrific.”

She didn’t open her eyes, but she leaned against the closed door and started to talk. It seemed like she was talking to herself, but she must have realized I was still there, since she was blocking the only exit. “I worked my butt off to get where I am, and it bums me out that Dunrobie thinks he can pull this kind of shit.” She stuck out her hand and gave me the envelope like she was glad to get rid of it.

It was standard size, embossed with the return address of a Stuart W. Lockwood, Esquire. Sent to Ms. Dee Willis, care of the Four Winds Hotel, 100 Boylston Street, Boston. Typed at the bottom were the words “urgent and extremely personal.” It had been neatly slit by a letter opener.

I unfolded a sheet of stiff paper. The attorney’s name, address, phone, and fax were engraved top center. It was dated August 12. Three days earlier.

Dear Ms. Willis:

I represent Mr. David C. Dunrobie. Your recordings of “For Tonight,” “Little Bit of Love,” and “Jenny Lou” are based on his compositions “Sweet Lorraine,” “Duet,” and “Missing Notes.”

You have failed to list Mr. Dunrobie as the composer of these songs, and you have further failed to list the songs under their original and correct titles. Your actions have deprived my client of his licensing fees and copyright payments, and constitute conversion of these songs to your own use.

“Sweet Lorraine,” in particular, under your title, “For Tonight,” has earned considerable remuneration, from recordings by other artists as well as yourself.

My client has suffered serious economic as well as emotional damage as a result of your conversion of his work. This matter requires your immediate attention. Please call me within the week and advise me how you intend to remedy this situation. If we have not heard from you by the close of business, August 19, 1991, my client has instructed me to proceed with enforcement of his rights under the law, including an injunction to prevent the performance and sale of these songs while this matter is in dispute. Litigation of these issues would necessarily involve other parties such as MGA/America, the manufacturers and distributors of Change Up.

I await your response.

Sincerely,

Stuart W. Lockwood, Esq.

I turned the page over; there was nothing on the back.

“Why the hell have I been chasing my tail all day?” I snapped. “Dunrobie’s lawyer ought to know where he is.”

“Do you believe this?” Dee grabbed the letter and waved it in my face before tossing it on the floor. She bent quickly and retrieved it.

“Happens all the time,” I said. “You read about it in the papers. George Harrison stole “My Sweet Lord’ from so-and-so. Michael Jackson, all those people. You may not have realized you were doing it at the time, you just borrowed a riff here or there and whammo.”

Dee glared at me. She spoke in an angry whisper, checking frequently to make sure the dressing-room door stayed shut. “If you don’t believe me, nobody’s gonna believe me. It’s like this great American myth: If you’re famous you steal things from the little guy.” She clenched her fist, and then, not knowing what to do with it, let it fall to her side. “I am not going to have this happen to my life. I am not going to let Dunrobie do this to me.”

“Is it too late to list him in the credits?”

“Davey Dunrobie never wrote one word or one note of any song I sing.”

“So ignore it. Throw it away. Let him sue you.”

She pulled over a rickety wooden chair, turned it backward, and sat on it. “Let me explain a few facts of life here, Carlotta. This could kill me. Really. You know for four whole years I couldn’t get a studio to back me on an album? For four years, I’m like this fucking over-the-hill has-been. And those are the nice rejections. I put my money, damn near every dime, into Change Up, and I got Jimmy Ranger to mix it on spec. Now that it’s platinum for MGA/America, they’re looking for a long-term contract. But with this kind of shit, I don’t know. I mean, MGA’s the deep pockets here. They can live without a lawsuit.”

“They’ll shrug it off,” I said. “You’re making money for them, Dee.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “I’m not willing to take the chance. I don’t want them to hear about it. I waited for a big label for ten years, playing bars between catcalls, hauling ass around the country, and earning enough to eat. I want something to show for it besides a scrapbook.

“There are fifty kids waiting out there for my slot with MGA and any one of them could be a major star with the right backing. Record company execs eat their young, I swear to God. Used to be, I never tried for a name. Kind of songs I do aren’t exactly top-ten material. I was born poor, I’m gonna die poor, I told myself. Used to be, I just wanted to make enough money to do what I’m doing, play the music. But now I like my suite at the Four Winds just fine. I like riding in limousines. And I keep thinking about those old black guys, the bluesmen who taught me, the ones who wound up in pine boxes with nothing.”

“They were black,” I said. “That had something to do with it.”

“Yeah,” Dee said. “And I’m a woman in a business where not many women front bands, write songs, choose their own arrangements, and play their own guitar.”

“You gave me a whole song and dance about Dunrobie being a bum. Any of that true?”

“All of it.”

“You talked to the lawyer?”

“I talked to him,” Dee muttered. “He said to me, Davey wants three hundred thousand bucks.”

I gave a low whistle.

“You need a lawyer,” I said. “Lawyers like to duke it out with other lawyers. MGA’s got lawyers earn more in an hour than I do in a month.”

“Yeah, well, I hate lawyers,” Dee said. “And MGA’s lawyers aren’t going to give a good goddamn about me. I want you. These new people, the ones who suck up to me and call me ‘Miss Willis,’ I don’t trust any of them. They read my damn mail.”

“Do they?”

“The National Enquirer hasn’t printed anything about Dee Willis, song thief. Not yet.”

“If you know what Dunrobie wants, and you know how to get in touch with his lawyer, what do you want from me? Why do you want me to find Davey?”

“Because the damn lawyer won’t let me talk to him, says it would be—what did he say?—tantamount to harassing his client.”

“Well, I’m not up on the fine points, but legally he may be right. Once suit is filed—”

She tapped the letter with a stubby fingernail. “You see anything in here about a suit being filed? I need to see Dunrobie before this goes any further.”

“And you think if you talk to him, Davey will change his mind about the three hundred thousand, just like that?”

Dee nodded earnestly. She thinks if she talks to a stone, she’ll wear it down.

She may be right. She talked me into another day’s work.