Jonathan Kellerman - A Cold Heart

I shook my head.

“Big-time manager. Big-time clients.” He rattled off a list of bands, some of which I recognized. “He was hot to represent China Whiteboy. If he’d have gotten behind us, things would’ve popped.”

“You said ‘he was.’ “

“Dead,” said Brancusi. “Last year, lung cancer. Idiot smoked too much.” He flicked ashes and cackled.

“What happened with Gittleson?”

“China broke the first appointment- pulled an absolute fit, said Gittleson represented everything evil about the music biz and she wasn’t going to sell out. Which was funny because during the showcase it was she who’d freaked out when she saw Gittleson sitting there, told us backstage that the guy was Mr. It. During the next act, she went over to his table, chatted him up, just about gave him a lap dance. Couldn’t have hurt. The guy was a horny old goat, liked to fuck the talent.”

“China flirting,” I said, trying to picture that.

Brancusi laughed. “China was incapable of anything as light and airy as femme flirtation. But she could put on the sexy act when she wanted.”

“Method acting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it real, or was she faking it? How sexually active was she?”

“She was plenty active,” said Brancusi. “All with girls, she was into girls.”

He stared at Cahuenga traffic, seemed to be losing interest.

I said, “So she was the one who got Gittleson involved but then she changed her mind.”

“Typical China.”

“Moody,” I said.

He flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk. It lay there smoldering.

I said, “You said the first appointment. Gittleson didn’t cut you off after the first cancellation?”

“He was cool about it, we were a hot prospect, so he rescheduled. But a month later, he was traveling to Europe, arranged to meet us after he got back. Suggested we lay down some fresh tracks. That’s the reason we were in the studio. Trying to burn a CD sampler that would really knock Gittleson’s argyles off. And we were doing it. Hauling. China had changed her mind- now Gittleson was cool. She was on, she was motivated. That’s the thing about her. Even when she was high, she was able to focus.”

“Big-time high?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“So what happened?”

“The session’s going great, China starts freaking out over something- maybe something someone said, the sound system- when she was like that it could’ve been the way the drapes were hanging. She pulls a fit, walks out on us, disappears.”

“Not a word where she was going?”

“Nope. Just fuck-you’s all around. We figured she’d be back, the way she always was. Tantrums were a way of life for her.” He pulled out another cigarette and ignited it with a Donald Duck lighter.

“The opposition,” he said, brandishing the lighter before snapping it shut.

I said, “What happened to the sides you cut that night?”

“They’re worthless. I tried to peddle them, but without China to tour, no one- not Gittleson or any of the others- wanted to know us. A few months later, we were ancient history.” Another cackle. “Serious pathos, huh? I coulda been a contender? Like that Swedish ship, the Wasa , ever hear of it?”

I shook my head.

“I was in Sweden last year, doing some business, they’re maybe going to franchise The Lumpkins over there. So this Swedish animator is taking me around Stockholm. Weird city, all these big blond zombies lurching around looking like they haven’t slept in years. Cause of the light thing they’ve got. Summertime, it never gets dark. Winter, it’s dark all the time. This was summer, we get out of a club at midnight, and it’s still broad daylight. Anyway, the next day this guy takes me to this ship, the Wasa . Big old wooden Viking warrior ship, built hundreds of years ago, huge, the Swedes loaded it with cannons for this war they were fighting with the Danes. Problem is, they over loaded it with cannons so when they launched it, the sucker sank right in the North Sea. They salvaged it forty years ago, pulled it up intact and built a museum around it. You can climb in and pretend you’re Leif Ericson, get drunk and eat herring, whatever. Anyway, this guy who’s taking me around, after we leave the museum, he turns to me with tears in his eyes, this incredible wistfulness, and says, ‘Paul, my friend, if the Wasa hadn’t sunk, Sweden would be a world power.’ “

Three rapid drags on the fresh smoke. He held his breath, closed his eyes, broke out into a ragged coughing fit. Seemed comforted by the spasm. “We’re the musical Wasa . If China hadn’t been murdered, we would’ve been Aerosmith, ha-ha-ha.”

“What else can you tell me about China?”

“She could’ve used you . Mentally unstable. We all were. I’m on lithium and antidepressants for bipolar. Four screwed-up personalities, and then we augmented it with endless dope.”

Rib-tickling situations.

I said, “Christian Bangsley, too?”

“Mr. Corporate? Especially Chris. He was more thrashed than the rest of us. Had a very rich family and no moral fiber. As opposed to us, who merely had weak moral fiber.”

“He sold out?”

“He didn’t sell out,” said Brancusi. “That’s an asinine concept. What’s the difference how you make your way through life- playing music or being a CPA or building warehouses or whatever? It’s all one gray death march. Chris shifted gears, that’s all.”

“Where’s Squirt?”

“Dead,” he said, as if that made perfect sense. “Went over to Europe and OD’d on heroin. Some park in Switzerland. Living like a bum, it took weeks before they identified him.”

“You’re not surprised.”

“Squirt was riding the needle pretty hard before China got killed. Afterward, he just started shoveling the stuff in.”

“Traumatized by China’s death.”

“Probably. He was the most intense. Not counting China.”

“Apart from China’s general abrasiveness, was there anyone she had a run-in with during the week or so before her murder?”

“Not that I know about, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She was just instinctually unpleasant , would get into this Greta Garbo mode-’I vant to be alone and fuck you for trying to relate to me.’ “

“What about a stalker?”

He threw up his hands. “I don’t think you get it. We weren’t stars , no one cared . That’s what really got to China. For all her talk about alienation, all that hermit posturing, she was a Palos Verdes princess who’d gotten tons of attention as a kid and still craved it. That’s why it was monumentally stupid for her to blow off Gittleson. Ms. Schizo. One minute, she’d be seething because the band wasn’t getting the respect it deserved, the next she’d be cussing out anyone who actually wanted to focus on the band- like journalists. She went out of her way to alienate them, called them butthole lickers, imposed a strict no-interview policy.”

Out came the pack of Rothmans. Another chain light. “I’ll give you an example: There was this zine, dinky little rag that wanted to do a story on us. China told him to fuck himself. They did the piece anyway, without talking to us. So what does China do? She phones the editor and gives it to him.”

He shook his head. “I was there, listening to her end. ‘Your mother fucks scabrous Nazi dicks and drinks Hitler’s cum.’ Granted she’d told them no, but what was the logic behind that?”

“Remember the name of the zine?” I said.

“You think some journalist type murdered China because she talked mean to him? Give me a break.”