Revenant Rising (7 page)
In an examination room done up to resemble a posh lounge, Colin Elliot is alone for the first time in forty-eight hours. He’s relaxed in a leather wing chair, uncaring of how long it might be before someone comes to collect him. He scans the room for reading material, spots only a few technical journals, so it’s twiddle his thumbs or rely on his own resources.
From an inside pocket of his suit coat he takes out a small photo wallet that’s a bit thicker than usual for containing an assortment of scribbled notes to himself. Some are on scrap paper, one is on a cocktail napkin, another is on a page torn from a flight magazine. The most significant of the lot is in the form of a newspaper cutting.
He unfolds the cutting to read for the tenth or twentieth time that he’s the only nominee who was not invited to perform his musical entry at the annual awards ceremony of the American Institute of Performing and Creative Artists scheduled to take place in Los Angeles on Monday, March 30, 1987. Today.
Retaining the cutting beyond today rather martyrs him to the insult, but he nevertheless folds it back inside the photo wallet along with the other notes and reminders. He’s pocketing the wallet when Nate Isaacs bursts into the room.
“Well?” Nate says, surveying a half-circle of chairs recently occupied by top-tier medical staff of Denver’s Fortescu Clinic, “How’d it go?
“We had a nice chat with them all pretending they weren’t scrutinizing me—weren’t fucking
evaluating
me. And that’s what I get for wantin’ to show a bit of direct gratitude to the blokes.”
“Jesus, Colin, can you blame them for wanting to look you over? You’re considered one of their most notable successes.”
“Must I remind you the credit’s not theirs alone—that the new wing I’m funding’s gonna be called the
Isaacs
Wing for the Study and Treatment of Noninvasive Brain Trauma?”
“Must I remind you that I’m accepting the honor under protest because, first of all, the credit’s not mine alone either, and second of all, as benefactor your name should—”
“Can you spare me the first and second-of-all shit I’ve already heard way more times than I deserve? I thought this argument was left in Portage St. Mary yesterday when we dedicated the trauma center there with your name on it.”
“Speaking of—I thought yesterday went well, didn’t you?”
“As well as it could, considering nothing there was faintly familiar to me and what happened there exists only in other people’s memories.”
“That did occur to me when you finally agreed to attend the dedications . . . It did, in fact, cross my mind that everyone you’d meet would be a stranger despite their knowing full well who you are.”
“As if
that
hasn’t been the case for most of my adult life.”
“I came to the same conclusion.”
“Bloody brilliant, you are. Now come to some conclusion about why we’re still sitting here nattering away.”
“They’re sending someone from administration to give us a grand tour of the facility before the noon luncheon with the senior staff.”
“That’s a treat I’ll have to miss.”
“But you can’t, it’s in your honor!”
“They won’t miss my luster when it’s found out the story they want to hear has to come from you.”
“And where do you intend to be?”
“I’ll be on my way to Las Vegas with Bemus, actually.”
“
What
? You can’t do that.”
“Yeh, I can. Denver’s not that far from Vegas, and when the time difference is factored in I can damn near arrive there before I leave here. And Bemus—you’re not gonna deny him a little break in the action after all the shit he puts up with day in and day out. And me.” Colin comes out of his chair to animate the argument. “What about me, then? You actually gonna tell me
I’m
out of line to fancy a taste of something that’s unrelated to the state of my health? Where is Bemus anyway?” Colin gets right in Nate’s face. “Summon him with that pager thing you’ve got set up and I’ll be on my way.”
“Be
reasonable
. Attend the luncheon, then we’ll
all
go to Vegas. I’ll call the pilot and have him file a new flight plan.”
“No, you won’t. They won’t have serviced the plane yet and you can’t get a fresh crew on such short notice. And I rather look forward to flying commercial. At least the attendants won’t hover quite so close as the bloody lot you handpicked to service me on the private jet. “I
say
.” Colin lifts a threatening eyebrow and waggles a warning finger. “Are you gonna get in touch with Bemus or do I have to take care of it myself?”
“Jesus, Jesus,
Jesus
.” Nate heaves a dramatic sigh and goes to a phone situated on a nearby console. After he locates Bemus and fills him in on the change in plans, he puts on an especially baleful expression and wants to know how long the rebellion’s been planned and how long it’s predicted to last.
“No planning’s gone into it. Just entered my mind a bit ago and I don’t see me being gone more than a day. I should be in New York in plenty of time for the big meet on Wednesday.”
“Should be? You’d
better
be.” Nate picks up the phone and places another call. A moment or two goes by before it’s apparent that he’s giving orders to someone in his New York office, directing someone there to reserve a suite at the Mariposa Hotel and Casino and book the next available first-class seats on a flight from Denver’s Stapleton Airport to McCarran Field in Las Vegas.
“Bollocks,” Colin says under his breath, but does nothing to interfere.
“There. You happy now that you’ve got your way and left me in the lurch?” Nate says after ringing off.
“Lurch my arse. You’re better at spreadin’ it on thick with dignitaries than anyone I know. And they’ll expect you to act in my stead. They’d expect you to even if I did show up. I’ve spoken my piece to the chief toffs and I’ve written the check, so don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Over more objections from Nate, Colin sets out alone for the exit to the car park, where Bemus should arrive any minute. He’s nearly there when he spots a sizable cluster of regular staff gathered outside the door. Strangers they are, but they all seem to know him, some probably quite intimately, and they all deserve the same deference shown earlier to their superiors.
As though on cue, Bemus drives up, alerts to the commotion, and immediately heads across the macadam separating them. But Colin waves him off and yields to the impromptu meet-and-greet session till all have had a word with him or an autograph.
They’re’ safe inside the hired Cadillac and driving away before Bemus shoots him a look.
“You didn’t hafta put yourself through that, y’know.”
“Yeh I did and I’ll be putting myself through a lot more things you and Nate don’t approve of before the day’s out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re not going to Vegas, we’re going to Los Angeles.”
“Say
what
?”
“You heard me. We’re gonna grab just overnight bags from the hotel here—Nate can bring the overflow when he returns to New York on the private plane—and we’re gonna catch the first flight to L.A. where I’m gonna put in an appearance at tonight’s awards ceremony.”
“But you told the Icon people you weren’t gonna show, didn’t you?”
“
Nate
told them I wouldn’t show. I don’t recall being consulted on the matter.”
“But I thought cold-shoulderin’ the affair was supposed to send the message that you’re pissed about not being asked to perform.”
“Yeh, that was probably the original thinking, but it was never
my
thinking. So are you gonna fight me on this or go along peacefully?”
“Jeez, I dunno. I’ll be canned for sure if I cooperate and I’ll—”
“You work for me, not Nate, for chrissake. And Nate works for me, not the other way round. You might want to keep that uppermost unless you’re actually looking forward to being binned,” Colin says between gritted teeth.
They ride on in a prickly silence that could make him regret sitting up front with the doughty bodyguard cum personal assistant. If this is a taste of things to come, Bemus may indeed have to be canned, as he put it. They’re nearing Denver’s storied hotel, the Brown Palace, before Bemus has anything more to say, and then it’s clear his job’s not in immediate jeopardy.
“You willing to fly economy and are you gonna be okay with a tourist hotel if I can’t get us into the Chateau or the Royal Poinciana?”
“Yeh. You gonna be all right with scrounging me last-minute credentials from the event organizers?”
“Crap, I didn’t think about that.” Bemus glides the Cadillac into a no-parking zone in front of the hotel. “Stay with the car and if someone says to move it, tell ’em you don’t know how to drive.”
The advice may or may not refer to the outcome the last time he drove in the States and the broad assumption that he never will again. But Bemus leaves the keys in the ignition, a good sign. That Bemus is gone longer than expected isn’t automatically a bad sign; name recognition doesn’t always guarantee quick results.
As the wait drags on, Colin dredges up any number of bolstering thoughts and the best one coming to mind is from a mini-lecture Nate delivered six or so months ago when complete reentry was a sure thing. The exact words won’t come, but the gist of it remains—something about only being a celebrity as long as you remain in the dialogue of popular culture. And that without your work—whether it be a book or a movie or an album—to keep you in that dialogue, you’re forced to rely on exposure. Yes, that’s it. Colin warms to the notion as it reveals that his desire to shake up a live television show will accomplish both dialogue and exposure.
Hoop Jakeway arrives in Los Angeles during rush hour on Monday morning. He’s both exhausted and exhilarated after three days and three nights on the road. He knows it’s Monday morning because the local radio stations keep telling him traffic conditions are normal for the start of the work week, and he knows he’s never seen this much traffic in his life, normal or otherwise. Hemmed in on all sides by vehicles of every make, model, and description, with none of them going anywhere, he can see why California is picked as the main gathering place for crazies—because you’d have to be crazy to go through this every day.
The car radio blats minutes-past-the-hour reports like it’s advertising how little forward progress he’s making. But that doesn’t matter much—not yet, anyway—because two hours will have to pass before it’s time to give Cliff Grant the call-ahead he asked for.
Hoop turns the radio down and casts about for a better way of wasting time than sitting in traffic sucking up exhaust fumes. He decides to get off whatever freeway this is at the next exit, no matter where it leads, and begins working his way across three lanes of cars the way the nearly nonstop drive from Michigan taught him to do. By fearlessly cutting off anyone that’s where he wants to be, he’s able to merge onto the exit ramp for Fairfax Avenue North.
The avenue is a lot more to his liking even though there’s no scarcity of traffic. For a while he just goes with the flow. Then a white clock tower with a little steeple on it catches his attention. The sign below the clock says “Farmers Market,” about the last thing he expects to find in the middle of the Los Angeles spread and as good a spot as any to pass time.
Finding a place to leave the Jimmy won’t be a problem because the market isn’t open yet and won’t be for another thirty minutes, according to the money-taker at the gate to a large near-empty parking lot. Waiting won’t be a problem either, because he can use the half hour to work some of the worst cricks out of his legs with a few trips around the lot.
By the time his legs start feeling better and the vendors start uncovering their wares and firing up their grills, he’s famished.
Nothing could have readied him for what’s inside the market. As far as the eye can see in any direction are produce stands, flower stalls, bakeries, butcher shops, fishmongers, seafood sellers, candy stores, and places to buy jewelry, fancy clothing, arty treasures, and souvenirs. And there are pizza makers, doughnut makers, sandwich counters, hamburger specialists, and foreign-type restaurants mixed in with the all-American kind that advertise things like BLTs, hot dogs, and pancakes. Even the ice cream stores have more flavors than he’s ever heard of.