AT 29 (11 page)

“Do you love him?”

“It happened fast, I looked, he looked.” She dropped her eyes. “It's over.”

“Can you still work with him?”

“You mean if I had to?”

Miles knew the answer by her reply. His business sense told him an opportunity lurked. He knew the Atlantic City concert trashed the Button image. He also believed that any publicity, good or bad, could be used to positive effect. His idea was to take a chance on a new release, this time using some of Button's original unreleased recordings. With a thin staff he intended to put Cindy in charge of getting it done. Now, it appeared he'd need to find another approach.

“Where is he now?”

“I heard he left New York. His agent probably knows. I'm not keeping track.”

Miles consulted his notes again. “Ellis Dorman?”

His brain was already formulating an alternate plan. He needed someone to evaluate the other artists. He was intending to address them himself, but now he wondered if Cindy should handle them while he concentrated on Jimmy Button and the mysterious Australian. Of course, the real need was business development. Suppose none of the current stable panned out? What would happen to Blossom if better talent couldn't be found quickly? The funnel had to be filled. Somebody needed to be focused on that, too.

“Jimmy was his first client after he decided to leave the band and become an agent. He's loyal and conscientious.”

“Left the band?”

“He was a charter member of The Jimmy Button Band.”

A smile flashed crossed Miles face then disappeared. “Is that common, a band member evolving into an agent?”

“He's good with people and a shrewd judge of talent. He likes being his own boss. He always hated taking orders from Daisy. Whenever the band had a gig she tried to run things in her helter skelter way. When Ellis shifted to Jimmy's agent it got contentious so she compromised by putting me in charge. That way she could feel like she had control by issuing her directions through me while Ellis and everybody else knew I'd let them have more say.

“I intend to get in touch with him and have Jimmy come by for a talk.”

“Ellis would be amenable. Jimmy is another issue. He's not around. Ellis is on him to get straightened out.”

“How bad is the drinking?”

“Atlantic City should give you a clue. He dried out once, but relapsed as soon as he went back on the road.”

“Is he getting help?”

“If I know him he's trying to deal with it on his own.”

“All right, Cindy, what do you advise?”

She sucked in her breath, recognizing an opening. “I like your idea of using Jimmy's earlier work. You should talk to Ellis. I don't know if you can rehabilitate his career, but there's nothing to lose.”

“I assume you'd prefer not to be involved?”

She decided to speak plainly, “I don't think now is a good time.”

Miles weighed her reply then came to a decision. “Then I want you to go over to London and evaluate the two British groups. Help me understand my options.”

Perfect, Cindy thought. “When do you want me to leave?”

“I expect you to do your homework before you get on a plane. Study their music and find out what they've been doing for the last year or so. If there are any skeletons in the closet I want to know. After that, whenever you're ready.”

“Skeletons?”

“Booze, trouble with the law, paternity issues, drugs, anything we would need to know if we decide to keep them.”

“What will you do about Jimmy?”

“I'm going to let him stew. I've got plenty of other issues to settle. I'll call Mr. Dorman when I have these other matters under control. Then we'll see what his client has been up to.”

Miles stood, signaling the meeting was over. Cindy took the cue while stealing another glance at her boss, attracted by his executive manner. He was so much older than anyone she had worked with before, businesslike and decisive. She was beginning to feel good about Blossom's prospects.

***

While his former lover was meeting with her new boss, Jimmy remained alone and troubled two hundred and forty miles away. He came home to heal, but apart from the determination to purge his body from years of neglect, his mind remained unsettled, mired in a rut between memories of his youth and fears for his future. His thoughts lacked focus.

The old man with a growth of white stubble, barely looked up from the Liston Observer spread out on the counter. Jimmy approached, perhaps interrupting a long-standing routine as he requested the key to his locker. The desk attendant represented the Liston Jimmy remembered; old, tired, disinterested, and oblivious to the devolution on all sides. Uncertain reasons compelled him to wallow in this decaying city away from the comforts his modest success as a singer could easily afford. Fix the spirit as well as the body his intuition told him, but no answers emerged to the obscure questions that had yet to find clarity.

He started slowly with alternating strokes, doing lap upon lap. Running and his other routines worked various muscles, but swimming challenged them all. The first few visits to the Liston YMCA pool had left him aching and exhausted. Now, after a month, he was accustomed to the workouts as he picked up speed and glided smoothly through the water. As he switched to backstroke, he opened his eyes. The ceiling was twenty feet above with skylights that let the sun shine over the pool. It must have been magnificent in its day, Jimmy thought. Now, many of the yellowed tiles were water-stained and cracked. A few were missing, leaving dark squares that spoiled the symmetry. He let his mind wander to the days ahead when he would confront the issues and the people he'd left behind before his music took him away. He stroked harder, looking for a way to escape the mistakes he'd made and the people he'd hurt. Part of him wanted to hide. The other part compelled him to face the truth.

Outside on the sidewalk, showered and shaved, he stopped to look up at the gray sky. It was just after noon and he still needed to do some free-weights. The weeks had passed quickly since he left New York, mostly because the workouts had exhausted his abused body and all he could do was exercise, eat and sleep. Lately, however, he needed less time to complete his routines and less rest. Reading and throwing shots at the old hoop filled the time just so much and then the restlessness took hold. He crossed the street, electing to postpone the weights as he headed down the block.

Sometimes he could remember his recurring dream. The fleeting visions seemed so real that he was sure it was true, a ship bobbing on the ocean then listing and sinking as a woman and child slipped away, leaving him heartbroken and ridden with guilt. It was more vivid since he'd stopped drinking, harder to ignore. He didn't fear sleep. It wasn't a nightmare that left him shivering in horror, just an emotional puzzle. He thirsted for scotch to make him immune.

A storefront came into view with a several men forming a line at its entrance. As he drew closer he saw that it was a soup kitchen. He stopped and peered through the doorway as the last broken man went inside, holding the door, assuming Jimmy wanted to follow. For some unknown reason he did.

March is a drab month in New England. The mornings often dawn gray with a coldness that belies the promise of the lengthening days. Saint Patrick's Day was one of these, except it brought a dusting of wet snow that added a depressing dampness to the ever-present wind. Jimmy arose from his sleep, looked out at the snow and debated going through his routine.

Ellis still called from time to time. A new boss had taken charge at Blossom. He was acting fast, dropping many of the artists Daisy signed, sending Cindy to London for a look at two groups and putting the staff through a rigorous review of everything. Ellis had yet to meet him, but before Cindy boarded the plane to London, she said to expect a call. Jimmy didn't know what that meant, but he didn't give it much thought. That Ellis could find no work, continued to depress.

He had finally taken the Gibson from its perch against the wall. After wiping off the dust and tuning its old strings, he found that it felt good in his hands. Just like those days in high school when he taught himself to play, holding it upside down and backwards because he was left handed and didn't know any better. Now, in the evenings, he picked his way through his old songs. He ran his fingertips along the frets with ease, remembering how hard it had been to get it right in those early days.

He used the Liston YMCA for everything now, riding ninety minutes on an exercise bike, running seven miles on the indoor track, and lifting weights. It was much easier to do it in one place, especially since the rest of his day was taken up with the soup kitchen. He didn't know why he signed on to serve stews from huge pots over gas burners, but it took his mind off himself for a few hours. He was cautioned to come in early on this Saint Patrick's Day so he sped up his routine and cut short on the weights.

The line already spiraled down the sidewalk as he approached an hour before the doors would open. Those waiting chatted among themselves, paying little attention to the young man who threaded his way to the front. He was given a key when it became apparent that he would stay for a while. He put it in the lock and turned the knob. After donning an apron, he took his place among the kettles, wafting a huge ladle through the mixtures and making sure the gas flames were set at the right height, not too hot lest the steaming mixture rise up and spill over the sides. Other volunteers began to remove trays of freshly baked biscuits from the ovens. Their magnificent odor made his mouth water.

When the doors opened Jimmy positioned himself behind the serving table. One by one, the men and women shuffled past, some smiling and talking, others silent, concentrated solely on their plates, too shy or embarrassed to look up at the man serving them. Jimmy was used to this. He did not try to engage them. He was sure everyone had a story, but he would not pry. Where a smile was given he gave one back. Otherwise, he stuck to his serving routine. He did not notice the small man who waited in line a few feet away.

“Is that a Kendall boy?”

It may have been twelve years since he'd heard that voice, but it was unmistakable.

“George!” he almost shouted, looking up with surprise and delight.

It was late afternoon before the two men could talk. The homeless who had come for the annual St. Patrick's Day dinner more than doubled the number who came on other
days. George looked much the same, older than he remembered, but that was to be expected. His hair had gone white and the bald spot encircling the back of his skull was larger. He stooped a bit, but the jocular disposition remained.

“Don't see many Kendall boys in a place like this. I was standin' in the line when you first went in the door. I thought it was you, but I wasn't sure ‘til I got inside.” They talked for hours about the one thing they had in common, Kendall Academy.

“I stopped by a month ago to look around,” Jimmy said, “I wondered about your old digs behind the locker room. Do you still live there?”

George shook his head. “Naw, it was turned into an apartment like the rest of the place. I couldn't afford to stay there. Besides, once the Brothers left I was out of a job.”

Jimmy looked closely at his friend. The fact that he was taking a meal at the shelter could not be a good sign. George probably had little to fall back upon when the school shut down. He decided not to ask where he was living now.

“Liston looks about the same. Maybe a bit grimier than when I was here last.”

George gave a look of disappointment. “Don't go knockin' this town. A lotta good people livin' here and a few famous ones got their start here.”

The conversation settled into a comfortable give and take. When it was time to close they agreed to get together again the next time George came in for meal. As it happened, that was twice a week for the next two months. Their conversations centered upon Kendall. Although they both knew Jimmy had few close friends at the school, George still went through what he knew about some of his classmates.

“Tucker never got over that car accident. I mean mentally. He couldn't figure out why he was the only one to survive. They was all drunk that night, remember?”

Jimmy remembered. Six kids piled into a convertible early one Sunday morning after a Kendall dance. Everybody had gone out to Shaker Park where beer was pulled from the trunks of a dozen cars. The driver was a Kendall senior, Artie Malloy. Jimmy wasn't there, but he knew the story. In the throes of drunkenness, Artie decided to make a run downtown for pot. Five others, including Tucker, the only underclassman, jumped into the car as Artie roared off, top down, into the warm May night.

The Liston Observer speculated that Tucker survived only because he was seated in the middle of the backseat. The Boston & Maine freighter had already tripped the signal as it rumbled close to the intersection, but Artie either didn't see the flashing lights or chose to ignore them too late. With no chance to even apply the brakes, the engineer watched in horror as his engine split the convertible in two, carrying the front section far down the rails. The boys on either side of Tucker and two in the front, but not Artie, were ejected on impact and found dead many yards away. Artie was crushed inside the front half of the hulk. Tucker was barely alive, still seated, even though the back half of the car had been deposited in a ditch.

“What's he doing now?” Jimmy asked.

“Never finished college. Worked for his father for a while, but that didn't pan out, either. Last I heard he's livin' at home not doin' much.” A quick smile crossed George's face. “You remember that play against Central when he came off a block and took the ball right out of the opposin' quarterback's hand? You came over from defensive end, hit the fullback.”

“I was still playing then.”