Dan Wakefield - Home Free

“She’s good,” said Barnes.

“I’m sure,” said Gene. “I’d like to see—”

“Someday I’ll show you “my studio,” she said, “but the immediate problem is you.”

“I often am,” Gene said.

“No, no, we’ll have none of that self-pity business, we can’t have any of that . This is just a logistical problem.”

“OK.”

“Do you know anything about the horrid swindle called ‘rock music’?”

“Well, I listen to it, kind of keep up, if that’s what you mean.”

“That sounds about right. You see it’s in my opinion the easiest way of making money without knowing much, the whole ‘rock music’ business. I use the term ‘music’ loosely, it’s really just noise for children, but it is a business , I’ll grant you that, and shrewd men make piles of money in it by taking advantage of innocent children who have no taste. Well, when I was naive and impressionable I got to know a lot of those people, in the Groups and the record companies and all the rest of it, but eventually I couldn’t stand to hear the ‘music’ anymore, it was absolutely upsetting my equilibrium. But I’m still friends with a lot of those people unless they’ve done something horrible, because basically I’m a loyal person. Some of them might be able to hire you for something, and I can start calling tomorrow.”

“Hey, Belle, that’s terrific, but I’m just a fan, I don’t really know anything about—”

She waved the objection away like a pesky mosquito.

“That’s the beauty of it, you see, you don’t have to know anything. You’re slim and kind of cute, even though at present a little anemic-looking, but you have a nice way about you. I think you might fit in. It’s sort of an instinct. You look very much like someone I know in Black Oak Arkansas.”

“I’ve never been there,” Gene said.

“Not the place, the Group.”

“See, I’m just a hick,” Gene said.

“They’ll think that’s refreshing,” Belle said. “Take my word. I always know about these things.”

“She does,” Barnes affirmed.

Belle seemed relieved about having settled Gene’s future, and went to put a record on her battered old portable phonograph. When she turned it on, static came out. Then she put the record on, and if you strained you could hear the thin sound of the music over the static. It was the old Broadway musical Finian’s Rainbow . That was the only record she played anymore.

“It’s pretty, I think, don’t you?”

No one dreamed of disagreeing.

The next morning Gene woke to the phone ringing. It was Belle. She had already set up an appointment for him.

“Have you ever heard of Muller, Behr and Starkie?” she asked him.

He hesitated.

“Is it a Group?”

Her giggle escaped.

“No, it’s a business.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. They’re not. They’re not even ashamed, for heaven sake. They are what is alleged to be a public relations firm, which means they take a lot of money from the rock stars and those who want to be stars who are taking money or trying to from the innocent youth who have no taste, in return for getting their names mentioned places and having people talk about them. Ray Behr is a friend of mine and he said he’d see you about doing something for them.”

“At least I could sweep the office.”

“I don’t think they do that.”

“Well, thanks. I’ll talk to this guy.”

“Don’t mind him, now. He’s very cynical. Of course you’d have to be, to make a living like that. But he’s very good-hearted, even though he doesn’t act like it. He’s very sleek-looking. Starkie is the fat one. Muller left the firm. After a year he couldn’t take it anymore. He’s a forest ranger in Oregon now. I can’t say as I blame him.”

She gave him an address on Sunset and said to go by after lunch.

Gene didn’t know what to wear to the interview, so Barnes looked through the stuff in his suitcase and picked out some faded jeans and an Iowa Hawkeye T-shirt. It had a picture of an enraged gold hawk on a bright blue background.

“Why that?” Gene asked.

“It looks crazy,” Barnes explained. “Besides, they won’t have seen one before. It’ll be something new.”

The office was on the fourteenth floor of a tall, anonymous-looking building on Sunset. Going up in the elevator with a man in a dark blue business suit and tie, and a woman wearing a medium-length dress, with stockings and standard heels, Gene wondered if Barnes had steered him right. Maybe it would be an ordinary business office.

His fears were unfounded.

The only furniture in the big main room was water beds. One yellow, one red, one blue. On one of them a young guy wearing a motorcycle jacket was tickling the bare tan tummy of a girl wearing a handkerchief halter top and tight denim shorts with assorted patches. On another one was a big fat guy in white pants and T-shirt sitting in a Buddha pose. That must be Starkie. Beside him on the floor was a pink princess telephone and a bottle of Wild Turkey.

There was a small room off of this where a woman with big shades was working an electric typewriter. Gene found the typewriter kind of reassuring.

“Do for ya?” Starkie said.

“Spose to see Behr,” Gene said.

Starkie nodded and patted the place beside him on the water bed. Gene guessed he meant for him to sit down there so he did. Starkie handed him a red balloon that hadn’t been inflated yet. Gene didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do with it.

“Blow it up?” he asked.

“Right.”

Gene took a deep breath and started to blow up the balloon.

Starkie tapped him on the shoulder.

“No, man,” he said. “That way.”

He pointed across the room to a big red tank that looked like a fire extinguisher. The leather jacket guy was standing by it filling a balloon from it. When it was filled, the guy put the end in his mouth and let go, so whatever was in the balloon shot into him. Then he started to giggle.

Gene felt like a real hick. Blowing up the goddam balloon himself. This was the latest high. Laughing gas. The kind dentists use.

Gene got his own balloon of laughing gas, took it in, all in one rush, blinked, and looked out the window. Los Angeles was gray and giggly. Towers tipped. The freeway crawlers looked funny.

“Huh?” asked Starkie, smiling.

“High,” said Gene. “I mean up. We’re high up. Here.”

It sounded hilarious. He laughed. Starkie nodded.

In another moment it was gone, the tipping buildings and the fun. It was a short high but it was new, it was all the rage just then. Gene saw a number of big red tanks in the weeks ahead. He was glad he’d learned right off they weren’t fire extinguishers.

Starkie patted the water bed again and when Gene sat down he gave him a glass of Wild Turkey. That was better. Steady, sure, down and in. He knew about that.

The phone rang, Starkie yelled, “Patty, turn that shit down.” The girl who’d been having her tummy tickled, and most recently, licked, jumped and turned the switch and the speakers went off. Starkie picked up the phone.

“Starkie,” he said.

He nodded, grunting.

“Sure ya can come. Oversight. Laurel Canyon, above the Deebs place. After five.

“Look for tents. Not pup, Arabian. Yeh. Hey—got a photographer? Bring em.”

He put the phone back and had a slug of Wild Turkey.

“Sound again?” Patty asked.

“Noise,” said Starkie. “Turn it on.”

She did.

Starkie grimaced.

“Stone Hinge,” he said.

“What’s that?” Gene asked, sipping faster.

“New client. Just took em on. Ball buster, gettin anyone to listen to em, much less talk to em.”