Wild Cards V (34 page)

“And since?” said Cordelia.

“I keep lookin'. I search everywhere. When I played a string of bars in the Dakotas and the Midwest I learned about Rolling Thunder and the generations of Black Elk. The more I learned, the more I wanted to know.” His voice took on a dreamy quality. “When I was with the Lakota, I cried for a vision. The shaman took me through the
inipi
ceremony and sent me up the hill to receive the
wakan
, the holy beings.” Holley smiled ruefully. “The Thunder Beings came, but that was about all. I got wet and cold.” He shrugged. “So it goes.”

“You keep searching,” said Cordelia.

“I do that,” said Holley. “I learn. I been off booze since South Africa. No more drugs either. As for what I'm learnin', it ain't easy to work with a hardshell Baptist growin' up, but that's what I've tried to do.”

It occurred to Cordelia that, for all he'd been saying, Buddy Holley still seemed very anchored in the physical universe. She didn't have the same sense of ethereal dissociation that she'd gotten from spiritually transformed rock stars such as Cat Stevens or Richie Furay. She nibbled a bite from her neglected English muffin. “Most of what I know about this, I learned from my aboriginal friend, but I've thought about it. Sometimes, in my job, I wonder whether rock stars, pop singers, entertainers in the public eye in America, are sort of the contemporary equivalent of shamans.”

Holley nodded seriously. “Men and women of power. Absolutely.”

“They have the magic.”

Buddy Holley laughed. “Fortunately the ones who believe they do, usually have nothing. And the ones who truly possess the power, don't consciously know it.”

Cordelia finished her muffin. “The performers at the benefit concert next Saturday all have the power.” Holley looked wary. “I'm changing the subject,” Cordelia said lightly.

“I don't think things have changed since last night. You want me to play all my old standards. I just can't do that.”

“Is this—” Cordelia hunted for words. “Is this a crisis of confidence?”

“That's probably part of it.”

“Same thing happened with C.C. Ryder,” said Cordelia. “But she changed her mind. She's gonna appear.”

“Good for her.” Holley hesitated. “The truth is, I
can't
play the songs you want me to do.”

“Why not?”

“I don't own them anymore. 'Long about the time things went to hell, a New York outfit called Shrike Music bought up my entire catalog. They're real sweethearts. Ever see their logo? A quarter-note stuck on a spike. They been keeping my songs on ice. I hate it, but I can't do spit to get them back.” Holley spread his hands helplessly.

“We'll see,” said Cordelia without hesitation. “GF&G's got some pull. Is that the only other catch?”

“You think you can do anything, don't you?” Holley smiled as he shook his head. This time it was a genuine smile. His teeth were even and white. “Okay, look. You spring some of my music loose and maybe we've got a deal. Just for old times' sake.”

“I don't understand,” said Cordelia.

“Well, let me tell you something,” said Buddy Holley. Animation filled his features and his voice. “Back in high school in Lubbock? Back when Bob Montgomery and I were first putting together a band and doin' some crazy recordings, there was a girl. I thought she was just—well—” He took a deep breath and smiled shyly. “You know the story line. She never noticed me a-tall. Couple years later, she was still in my head when I recorded ‘Girl on My Mind' in Nashville. That was about the time Decca wanted me to sound like everyone else with a rock 'n' roll hit in 1956. I sort of got out of the formula with ‘Girl.'” He shook his head. “So anyway, you remind me of her. She knew her own way too.” He leaned back in his seat and regarded her.

“That's a great story,” said Cordelia. “It's just like—”

“Rock 'n' roll,” Holley finished.

They both laughed. Things, thought Cordelia, were back on track.

Monday

First thing Monday morning, Cordelia sat at her desk and contemplated her sins while she waited on hold with the rights and permissions department at Shrike Music. The background tape for Shrike's hold circuit was classical, somber and dirgelike. Cordelia suspected it was a deliberate psych-out tactic.

It occurred to her as she examined her nails that she had not yet tried to contact Mick Jagger. Luz Alcala would not be happy. At least she had gotten the Mercedes back to Luz without a scratch or dent. Well, there were priorities. It seemed very important to secure Buddy Holley for the Funhouse benefit.

She riffled through the phone messages that had been stacked on her desk. U2's manager wanted her to know that The Edge had got his fingers caught in a car door over the weekend. U2 just might be without the services of their guitarist. Maybe, she thought, she could convince Bono to do an acoustic set?

The tech people had left a note alerting her that ShowSat III was acting up over the Indian Ocean. They were working on it. They were somewhat confident that malfunctioning relays could be cleared.
Somewhat?
she thought. Shit. “Somewhat” had better translate into “absolutely.” She knew damn well she didn't have the clout to get GF&G to commission a shuttle repair flight with five days notice. With
any
notice. Christ, what was she
thinking?
Cordelia gulped some coffee and glared down at the phone. How long was Shrike going to hang her up?

Another note was from Tami, the half-Eskimo lead guitarist of Girls With Guns. The world's greatest all-women neopunker band was stranded in Billings. And could Cordelia wire just enough cash so that
all
the members of the band could get to New York by Saturday? Probably. Cordelia jotted a note. Talk to Luz.

There was a double beep on the phone and a voice said, “Miss Delveccio, rights and permissions.”

Cordelia introduced herself, sounding as calm, self-assured, and in control as she could manage. She sounded good to
her.
“I want to talk about Buddy Holley's catalog,” Cordelia said. “I understand Shrike holds the rights. Here at Global Fun and Games we're very much looking forward to having Mr. Holley perform a selection of his past hits at this weekend's global benefit for medical victims.”

There was a brief silence. “What sort of medical victims?”

Cordelia didn't like the sound of her voice. South Bronx, probably. “Um, AIDS and the wild card virus. The live video feed will reach—”

Miss Delveccio interrupted her. “Oh, right,
that
benefit. I'm sorry, Ms. Chaisson, but it will be quite impossible to cooperate with Global on this project. I am sorry.” She didn't sound sorry.

“But surely there—”

“Shrike owns Mr. Holley's music under an exclusive license. We just won't be able to release the permissions you need.” The tone of her voice said,
and that's final.

“Perhaps if I could speak with your department head—”

“I'm afraid Mr. Lazarus isn't in today.”

“Well, maybe—”

“Thank you for thinking of us, Ms. Chaisson,” said Miss Delveccio. “Have a nice day.” And she hung up.

Cordelia stared at the phone for a minute or two. Damn it. She hoped Miss Delveccio would have an extremely difficult period. After another minute she switched on the desk terminal and pulled up the on-line
Variety.
She flipped through a few electronic pages at random and then turned on the modem and dialed up
Variety
's index base. While there were quite a few key-word entries for Shrike Music, but not many for Buddy Holley, there was one story that flagged both. It was dated nearly three months before, while she had been in Australia. It seemed that Shrike Music had inked a megabucks deal with America's second-largest advertising firm. The advertising company was a client of a major evangelical organization that was looking to market its theme amusement parks and other commercial subsidiaries through what the article, quoting Leo Barnett, termed “the innocent, but energetic, nostalgia” of Buddy Holley's music.

Oh, Cordelia thought. Oh, no. No wonder Shrike wasn't eager to have Holley's songs associated with the benefit. This was going to be a problem.

Luz Alcala stuck her head through the office door and said, “Good morning, Cordelia, did you have a good weekend?”

Cordelia looked up. “Definitely. You get your keys okay? Thanks again for the car.”

Luz nodded. “You all right? You look a bit distracted.”

“It's just Monday morning.”

Luz smiled sympathetically. “By the way, did you reach our lycanthropic friend?”

Cordelia shook her head. Thought fast. “Still can't find him.”

“Let me give you a suggestion. After you try their management, call the presidents of the companies they record for. When you can't get satisfaction, go upstairs. It almost always works.”

Aha!
thought Cordelia. “Thanks,” she said.

After Luz chatted a little more and then left, Cordelia dialed Shrike back and asked for the president's office. After two layers of secretaries, she finally reached one Anthony Michael Cardwell. Cardwell was more sympathetic than Miss Delveccio, but ultimately no more helpful. “True, Shrike Music has a responsibility to the community—and we participate in
many
projects toward that end—but ultimately we are responsible to our shareholders and our corporate owners,” he said. “I believe you can appreciate the difficulty of our position.”

Bullshit
, Cordelia thought, furious. What she said was much the same thing. Definitely too blunt. The president of Shrike Music cut the conversation short.

After setting the phone down, Cordelia drummed her fingers on the desktop. Go upstairs, Luz had said. Cordelia touched the terminal keyboard and called up GF&G's research list of entertainment industry databases. As she started to dig out the roots of Shrike's corporate family tree, she wondered how Jack was doing.

Naturally Jack had believed Cordelia when she had told him Sunday night that things looked good so far as obtaining permission for Holley to play his own music. More, GF&G would take care of Jack's leave of absence Monday morning. That would free Jack so he could help move Holley into Manhattan. Cordelia had arranged a room downtown at the Hotel California, Manhattan's premiere hostelry for visiting musicians. “The management,” Cordelia had said, “doesn't care what happens to a room so long as the damage gets paid for. Platinum Amex cards are welcome.”

By noon Monday, while Cordelia was playing silicon Nancy Drew, Jack had moved Buddy Holley into his eighth-floor room at the Hotel California. “You've got an open account,” the desk clerk had said, so they ordered up sumptuous lunches.

Jack watched as Holley unpacked a compact tape deck and a box of cassettes. There was an eclectic selection of new age music—lots of Windham Hill albums, along with starkly packaged relaxation tapes of wind, storm, sea, rain—and a varied lot of early rock, blues, and country. “Got some scarce stuff here,” said Holley, picking up a handful of what were obviously home-dubbed tapes. “Tiny Bradshaw, Lonnie Johnson, Bill Doggett, King Curtis. Got the better-known stuff too—Roy Orbison, Buddy Knox, Doug Sahm.” He chuckled. “A real Texas collection, those last boys. Also have some George Jones—got a soft spot in my heart for that boy too. Me and my first band played behind him back in '55 on the Hank Cochran show.”

“What's that?” Jack pointed at what seemed to be the only vinyl record in the box of tapes.

“I'm real proud of that.” Holley held up the 45. “‘Jole Blon.' Waylon Jennings's first record. I produced that for him back when he was playin' with the Crickets.”

Jack took the record and examined it gingerly, as though looking at a holy relic. “I guess maybe I heard this on WSN.”

“Yep,” said Holley. “Just about everybody I respect from that era learned about music first from listenin' to the Grand Ole Opry.”

Jack set down the 45 of “Jole Blon.” A tremendous lassitude swept across him. He looked at the remains of lunch. Nausea rocked back and forth in his belly. He sat back on the hotel couch and tried to keep his voice steady. “'Fore I came to New York, I listened to the Opry all the time. Once I was here, I found a station out of Virginia dat carried it.”

“You come from the same place as your niece?” Holley said interestedly.

Jack nodded.

“Alligator your totem too?”

Jack said nothing, trying to control the new pain in his gut.

“'Gator's a powerful guardian animal spirit,” said Holley. “I wouldn't mess with one.”

Jack doubled up and tried not to whimper.

Holley was at his side. “Somethin' wrong?” He ran his hands down Jack's chest and stomach. His fingers fluttered lightly over the man's belly. He whistled. “Oh, man, I think you've got some trouble here.”