AT 29 (62 page)

Miles listened, fascinated. If even half of what Winfield said was true, it was testament to the DJ's power. He still couldn't fathom paying a nickel to get airtime for his groups, but he knew he was getting a much-needed lesson in how the game was played.

“I still won't pay for play.”

“No? What do you think you're doing when you buy an ad in the trades?”

“That's different and you know it.”

Winfield picked up the three cassettes. “Okay, I'll put these on the pile.”

“What does that mean?' McCabe was getting angry.

“I receive twenty-five new releases every week. Let's do the numbers. Worldwide there are approximately one thousand new albums produced each week. Of that number roughly one third are here in the U.S. Now most of them are all over the map from big companies to tiny independents like Blossom. Screening for genre, there are, maybe, a
twenty-five that fit the format we play on WAGZ. The smart ones make sure I get them. The smarter ones make sure I also get something to play them.”

“I'm willing to buy commercial time.”

“I want to emphasize the word ‘Me' because that's how it works. In another year, commercials might be what I'm looking for. By then, I might own this station. Right now, it's not what I want from you.”

“So what exactly do you want?” It was rhetorical. McCabe had no intention of paying Winfield to plug any of Blossom's songs.

“Buckman will make a lot of money for you.
Back and Blue
has hit written all over it, gold, for sure, maybe more. His other releases will take off, too. You should be preparing to re-release them now. Those other groups, the Brits, won't be as big, but they'll get their share coming out of the gate. Get them some better songs and their next releases will make them stars. I can make sure that happens. I can also be the difference between gold and platinum for Buckman. Want to know how?”

“What do you want?” Miles stayed on subject.

“Starting today, I can give
Back and Blue
a huge boost by announcing an exclusive pre-release extravaganza. I'll play one cut every hour and the whole album, without commercial break, during the eight p.m. slot. I'll do it everyday for as long as it takes. Mixed in, will be your interview, plus others with some famous names in the business who all owe me a favor. I'll get them to swoon over every song. By next Monday, the pent-up demand will be so strong that you'll sellout everything within a few hours. Now, that's just here in New York. I also have friends on the air in every big city in the country. Give me another hundred copies of each album and I'll have them playing everywhere. Gold in three weeks.”

“They'll get played with or without you,” Miles protested.

“Maybe, maybe not. Let's assume they do. Who knows, maybe
Back and Blue
takes off like it did in Australia. That's a hundred thousand records. Not bad, but that's the maybe. The maybe not is me going the other way. I don't play it at all. I tell my friends that it stinks and nobody else plays it, either. Oh, someone will, but then I bring in the so-called experts to critique each song. I dredge up Atlantic City. Not the story of Jimmy's booze, but the actual concert. I play that on the air in all its glory with the songs out of tune, off timing. I'll let the critics rip him to shreds on the air. Your concerts on the east coast will be a bust.”

“You'd go to all that trouble just to make me pay?”

“It's no trouble. Either way I win. I come off as the expert who digs deeper.”

“It's not the truth.”

“Sure it is. Everything really happened in Atlantic City, didn't it? But I'm telling you it doesn't have to be that way. I'll double your sales for you. By the time
Back and Blue
goes on sale in Europe, he'll be king of the hill. You'll have more gold over there.”

“What do you want?”

Winfield had more to say. “You know who owns this building?”

“The one we're in now?”

“Yes.”

“Who.”

“That conglomerate, Whisper Ridge Industries of Texas, the same outfit that owns Rush Creek Records, the same outfit that manufactured Toby Maine and VooDoo9.”

“So?”

“I've raised WAGZ's ratings by twenty points in a little over five months. I now own ten percent of the station. I can get it to twenty percent in a year. All I need is a better broadcast tower on top of this building. One that can put out fifty thousand watts in every direction so people can hear me all over the northeast. I've got the FCC clearance, but Whisper Ridge won't sign off. They want me to pay. Of course, I'll foot the bill for the tower, but I have no intention of greasing the hand of some two-bit Executive VP who happens to have a nephew named Toby Maine.”

Miles was beginning to get the picture. “You ruined that kid to get even with his uncle?”

“To show him Texas isn't the only place where the game is played.”

“You'll be looking for a new place to broadcast from pretty soon.”

“Iron-clad contract. Besides, I'm pretty sure he'll be out of a job once the reporters start digging into his relationship with the kid.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“You pay for my new tower.”

“How much is that?”

“One million.” Winfield was straight-faced as Miles burst out laughing.

“I don't have that kind of money.” He got up from his chair and prepared to leave.

“Sit down. I know Blossom doesn't have the money, but it will soon enough if you let me help you. What I want is a piece of the action.”

“What action?” Miles remained standing.

“Twenty percent of everything the three albums and tours make.”

“Nothing doing. We're done here.” Miles reached down to pickup the three cassettes, but Winfield quickly snatched them up.

“I'll keep these. Maybe you'll change your mind.”

“Not a chance.”

“Call me when you release the albums next week.”

McCabe fumed in the car all the way back to Millburn. Winfield was a snake. He berated himself for not anticipating a quid pro quo. Payola was never a thing of the past as so many believed. It was alive and well, unchanged and perhaps even more rife in an industry packed with quick buck artists. He was a fool to think Mike Winfield was any different. A broadcast tower! Blossom didn't have anywhere near that much just to promote a few albums. Even if it did, there was no guarantee that it could generate enough in sales to recoup the investment. Besides, he wouldn't dream of sharing revenue with some two-bit shyster. He was more maddened by the crooked DJ's veiled threat. That he would do to Jimmy what he had just done to Toby Maine. After seeing the youth storm out of the broadcast booth, he had no doubt Winfield could do real harm. What did this mean for Blossom's future? How could one man wield so much power?

He pulled into the parking lot, spotting Cindy's car parked outside the recording studio. Did she hear the show? Did she know what Winfield had just done to Toby Maine? Did she know all along that he was walking into a trap? Back in his office, he began to calm down. He thought about
Back and Blue
, the best chance to get some top line revenue for Blossom. Jim Buckman was doing everything Miles had asked him to do. How could he let it all fall apart? The Brits were working just as hard. Enthusiasm permeated the studios. Everyone wanted to succeed, most of all Miles McCabe. There had to be a way.

He lifted the report Felix Massengill's son had sent from New York. Inside, it contained only a few pages. Legal documents outlining the suspended sentence Mike Winfield had received from a reluctant judge. Third time cocaine possession usually meant jail time. Winfield, backed by the best legal representation he could afford, garnered a slap on the wrist, a month in cushy rehab, one-year on probation and a suspended sentence. Still, the terms were harsh. One more offense of any kind, even a traffic violation, and the well-known DJ would be liable for every day of his six-month sentence. ‘One more offense of any kind.' Miles re-read the words. Extortion was an offense. He picked up the phone and dialed Felix Massengill at home.

“You two were alone when he put it to you?”

“Yes, in his office.”

“Too bad, his word against yours. I should have told you to bring one of those tiny tape recorders. Then we'd have something.”

“What if I went to the District Attorney?”

“Like I said, your word against his. It won't stand up.”

“There's nothing I can do?”

“Probably not, but I'll talk to my son. Maybe he has some ideas.”

Cindy met Miles in his office, toting cartons of Chinese food. She read the look on his face and knew the interview had not gone well. She missed it because the Canadian singer had a breakthrough. She spent the morning in the studio mixing tracks. Normally, she looked forward to these dinners with her boss. It gave them time to catch-up on the day. Business talk always broke the ice, but soon their conversations moved to other subjects, some personal, some philosophical. He was unlike other men she had known. McCabe was deeper and more organized, with the kind of drive she admired. She
finally decided he was handsome, too, in that mature way some men grow into as they age. She wondered what it might be like to kiss him.

“You look distracted.”

“I've got a lot on my mind.”

“The interview?”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid I missed it.”

She opened the boxes of fried noodles, rice and mandarin chicken and began to dish portions onto two paper plates. Steam rose into the air above the hot food. Miles watched her hands. They were lovely with slender fingers, nails manicured exquisitely in a pale shade of pink. He caught himself thinking how it might feel to hold them.

“We never went on-air. That Winfield fellow had his own agenda all along.”

“I told you to be prepared.”

Miles kept his eyes on her hands as she slid his plate in front of him. “There's no preparation for what he had in mind.”

“Tell me.” She raised some chicken to her mouth.

“It was a shakedown.” Miles took a bite then told her the story. He shook his head in frustration as he described the sinking feeling in his stomach. Cindy listened without interruption, more interested in the man who was talking than the corrupt DJ. When he finished they both continued to eat in silence, Miles deep in thought, Cindy contemplating what she could do to lift his spirits. Eventually, she cleared the plates and boxes and threw them into a wastebasket. Then she sat forward in her chair, reached across the desk, and took his hands in hers, forcing him to look up from his thoughts.

“In seven short months, with absolutely no experience in this business, you single handedly brought this company back to life. You brought the debt under control, separated the talent from the never were, resurrected the career of our money-maker and breathed energy into the studio.”

“Looks like it's all just a flash in the pan.”

“Winfield can hurt us for while, but he can't stop you.”

“He can do real damage to Jimmy.”

“I'll call Loren”

“He's the one with the power. That was plenty clear this morning. I don't think she knew what he was planning to do.”

“Of course not. She'd never send you into a trap like that.”

“I have an iron in the fire. If it pans out we might be okay. It's a long shot though.” He released her hands, fearful of letting on that he wanted to hold them longer.

Later that night, Miles Michael McCabe sat alone in his house, bourbon in hand, staring at a picture of his wife. He often studied her picture, one taken when she still glowed with beauty before the cancer stripped it away. His loneliness had diminished in the past few months. The long hours at Blossom, combined with his increasing time with Cindy, finally broke the sadness. But, Anne was his confidante. He still talked to his wife whenever he had a problem. He took a long sip of bourbon and let it slide down his throat, building a satisfying fire in his chest. His emotions were on fire, too. Winfield did that. He spoke aloud to his wife and to himself, going over an idea that had come to him on the ride home from work after dinner with Cindy. Felix put him on to it when he
mentioned a tape. Of course, there was no tape, no record of the shakedown that morning. He shook his head, staring hard at his beautiful Anne.

“I can't let him bury me,” he spoke aloud. “I have to do something. He'll ruin everything.” Her face stared back at him, smiling in that fixed pose that remained since the day the picture was taken. “Maybe Felix won't go for it. Even if he does, there's no certainty that his son, the detective, will buy into it, either. And, it probably won't work. But, don't you see? I've got to try.”

He drained the glass and went to the bar to pour another. Cindy's face came into his mind. He had to reconcile his feelings for her, too. He turned back to the picture.

“I miss you so. Why did you have to leave me? Why must I feel so guilty about the way she makes me feel?” The torch still burned in his heart, but another was beginning to light. The conflict ripped at his heartstrings. He looked away from Anne's picture, playing with the glass in his hand. Then in a burst of fury he reared back and hurled the half full crystal against the wall. It exploded into a shower of shards and liquid. He watched the whiskey spread across the wall then seep slowly down to the floor. He fought the urge to shout at the top of his lungs. He knew it was no use. His frustration could not be eased by an outburst. He wanted only to be whole like he was when he shared his life with her.

When his rage cooled he went into the kitchen and returned with a sponge, broom and dustpan. Methodically, he set about cleaning up the mess. He took his time, carefully searching through the carpet for every last piece of glass then passing the sponge back and forth over the wall and through the wool carpet until the bourbon was mopped away. Tears blurred his vision as he carried the implements back to the kitchen, emptied the shards of glass into the wastebasket and returned everything to its proper place. His cheeks were wet when he came back to the living room and once again stared at his wife's picture. He picked it up and ran his fingers over her face and across her cheeks and lips, longing to feel them once more as they felt when he made love to her so long ago. He allowed himself to weep, cradling the frame to his chest as he sat down in the wingback chair nearby. It was a good cry, one that drew out all of the pain he thought was gone. In time, it passed and he leaned back in the chair, wiping his eyes and bringing her picture up so he could look lovingly at her one last time. He had to let her go.