She had an affair with a married station manager who was real. He'd stop by her apartment Monday and Thursday evenings and tell her about the crises at work and his tragic situation at home, married to an alcoholic. Lynn thought she liked him pretty much; but after a few weeks of listening to his troubles as he got half smashed and then going through a speedy routine in bed, she decided that real didn't necessarily mean interesting. What the guy needed was a mother or a psychiatrist.
Was she happy as a record promoter?
Well, she had this suburban apartment and a telephone extension cord that reached from the second-bedroom office all the way out to the balcony overlooking the golf course. She had a lot of crushed velvet and chrome and a six-by-six-foot blowup of Waylon Jennings's outlaw face over the couch (he wasn't even a KMA artist, he was RCA). And Artie had raised her after six months to twenty grand a year.
She did wish she represented more black funk--and maybe a little country on the R and B side, not the heartache country or the green-hills-down-home country--instead of all the punk rock KMA was putting out.
She wished she didn't have to smile so much. Being nice in business when you didn't feel like it made your face ache, not to mention being a terrible pain in the ass.
And she could easily pass on all the waiting around when KMA artists came in to do concerts.
First, they very seldom arrived when they were supposed to--especially the rockers, who had absolutely no sense of time--and she'd spend hours at Detroit Metro waiting for flights.
Then more waiting in motel suites, lobbies, waiting backstage in a squeeze of groupies and roadies, tripping over power cables, being ignored by the managers and reps, waiting for a door to open and stoned musicians to come out---
Yes, but how many ex-baton twirlers with only high school, two seasons with a religious revival show, and a nine-year hitch in a rodeo trailer made twenty grand a year and expenses?
Maybe not any. But maybe because that's the way ex-baton twirlers were. They couldn't stand waiting around for something to happen.
Chapter 4
"EVERYBODY'S SO SERIOUS AND UPTIGHT," Lynn said, "like somebody in the next room's dying or having a baby and, Christ, all they're doing is representing a rock and roll band. I kept thinking, what am I doing here?"
"Making money," Bill Hill said. He stood by the sliding screen door to the balcony, looking out at the ninth fairway, empty, everybody probably in having their supper. "You know what my view is? The parking area out back of the building. How much you pay, about four hundred?"
"Three ninety." Lynn, on the couch, had her telephone on the glass coffee table next to the $4.99 bottle of Asti Spumante Bill Hill had brought. Lynn liked the $7.99 one better, but would probably be going back to Gallo white before too long.
"See, I could tell myself I was where I wanted to be. I could, you know, rationalize. But my stomach kept giving me signals. What're you doing here? Get out. Leave."
"Your stomach," Bill Hill said.
"My gut reaction, with all the hotshots, the agents, the road managers--they walk in a place, they take over. I'm the one set up the hospitality suite. I got the Heinekens, the vodka and mix, scotch, a nice cheese tray--"
"Where was this?"
"The Sheraton out by Pontiac. If they're playing at Pine Knob usually we get them in the Sheraton, if the group isn't on the hotel's shit list."
"What one was this? The group."
"The Cobras. Bunch of little shitheads, I think they were invented."
"I don't believe I ever heard of them," Bill Hill said.
"You have to be just into puberty," Lynn said. "They wear, you'd love them, they wear skintight sort of snakeskin jumpsuits open in front practically down to their pubic hair to show their white skinny bodies, I mean white, and platform shoes. Two brothers, Toby and Abbott, and four other creepy guys I think they got from an institution."
"Jesus," Bill Hill said.
"They're bad enough, but wait." Lynn took time to sip Spumante, light a cigarette, and ease back into the cranberry crushed velvet couch. "Artie's there, but I'm the one that arranged everything. I've got a few people I know from record stores. I've got the press--I think some kids from a school paper, but who knows. Several disc jockeys, not big names, but good guys. And my prize, I've got Ken Calvert, the ABX music director, I had to beg to come. 'Please, Kenny, tape an interview and make me look good in front of all the L.A. shitheads.' The first time I've ever begged anybody in my life. Kenny says--he can't stand the Cobras, he throws up you even mention their name--but he says okay, he'll do it as a favor."
"Jesus," Bill Hill said.
"Ken's there, a couple of DJs, the retail people, the press, all the reps and roadies standing around drinking, eating the cheese--and the band, the fucking Cobras, won't come out of their room, this suite adjoining the hospitality suite. Toby, or it was Abbott, I don't know, comes out once in his bikini Jockeys scratching his balls, picks up about half the cheese on a fork and goes back in the room. I go over and knock on the door and this guy I've never seen before goes, honest to God, he goes, 'They got all the head they need, doll, come back later.' I go, 'Wait a minute. Who're you? I didn't even invite you.' This guy's got the half-assed 'fro and the beads and all--you can't tell anybody apart. They all look like sword fighters. Their road manager goes, 'Oh, Lynn? This is Marty Hyphen'--or Hyman, something like that--'he's with William Morris.' Like hot shit, the guy's with William Morris. I tell them, 'Look, I've got all these people here. You see them? Those are all people who, believe it or not, came here to meet the Cobras. That's Ken Calvert from ABX; he's even gonna do an interview.' And the guy from William Morris goes, 'Fuck Ken Calvert, the guys don't want to talk to anybody.' Not their manager, their agent. The road manager, all he says is, 'Strokes and pokes, uh? It's the business.' The band, they're in there picking their toes and getting stoned, and you know why they won't talk to anybody? Because last night in Toledo their back-up band blew them off the stage."
Bill Hill said, "Really?" He followed only part of what Lynn was saying, but he paid attention, seated comfortably now in crushed velvet and chrome with a vodka and bitter lemon, letting Lynn get it all out before he eased into the reason he was here.
"They're pissed and arrogant," Lynn was saying, "because the band that opened the show played louder than they did. I said to the road manager, 'So cut the back-up band's power. I assumed you'd do that anyway.' See, the Cobras have to overpower, put the amps way up, since they have absolutely no talent at all. The William Morris guy goes, 'Don't worry about it. All you have to do, see about the grass and some candy.' What? I go, 'Candy?' He goes, 'Nose candy, dummy. They like to have a little gig after, you understand?' A little gig. 'Few grams of candy and some presentable-looking chickies, okay?' I can't believe it. Artie's nodding, 'Right, don't worry about it.' I go, 'Wait a minute. What about all these people here?' The William Morris guy goes, 'Did I invite them? Check with us first, doll, before you make any plans.' The road manager, Artie, neither of them say a word. Grown men worried about these spoiled kids in the next room. I look at Artie. He goes, 'Well, they do have a sound check they got to make. Explain it to them, okay?' All these people waiting around, some of them hearing everything we're saying."
"Terrible," Bill Hill said.
"They don't care. For some reason, in this business," Lynn said, "they all get egoed out. The band, especially punk rockers, the least thing happens they get little bugs up their ass and then they're pouty and arrogant. Either that or they're so wired you can't even communicate with them. I'm saying to myself all this time, what am I doing here?"
"I'd quit," Bill Hill said.
"I did."
"Come on." Bill Hill straightened, then relaxed, not wanting to look eager.
"Not in so many words. I said to the William Morris guy, 'You want some dope for a little gig after and presentable-looking chickies? You want interviews and appearances you can cancel and limos every place they go and somebody to tal
k to pissed-off hotel managers when they bust up the furniture and explain to people when the freaks aren't gonna show? Well, you handle it, asshole,' and I walked out. Artie followed me out to the car--'Where you going? Come on, I need you. You can't leave now.' I go, 'Artie, you're all set. You got William Morris,' and drove away. If he fires me, I'll tell him I already quit. If he doesn't, I don't know, I'm gonna rest before I think about it."
Bill Hill came over and poured Lynn more Spumante, waiting on the tired girl beneath the giant face of Waylon Jennings. She looked small, helpless. She had on cutoffs to show her slender legs and a blousy, scooped-neck T-shirt that said Bob Marley and the Wailers across the front.
He said, "Money isn't everything, is it? If your job irritates you."
"If you let it," Lynn said. "I read you don't have to worry or feel guilty or irritated if you don't want to."
"You can hide in the closet and not talk to anybody," Bill Hill said.
"No, it means some people aren't happy unless they're unhappy. If you know that, it's like it isn't the job that irritates you, it's fighting the job. I mean I shouldn't blame the job. As that road manager says, strokes and pokes. If I can't cope then I should get out. Unless I like being unhappy and irritable."
"You know who's a happy girl?" Bill Hill said, going out to the kitchen with his empty glass. "Virginia Worrel."
"I know. She called me."
"She did?" Bill Hill stood at the see-through counter with the vodka in his hand, looking out at Lynn, tiny in that crushed velvet, no more than a bite for big Waylon behind her. "I didn't know you two were close."
"I think she called everybody she knows. Getting your sight restored, that's pretty heavy."
"She tell you about the guy, Juvenal?"
"When she wasn't asking me about makeup. She thinks I'm an expert. I told her all I use is a little gloss--"
"What'd she say about him?"
"--Show Stopper pink lipstick if I'm wearing light colors, I told her to try a little mascara. I remember Virginia had nice eyelashes. Then I tried to tell her how to apply it without mentioning, I don't know why, her eyes. Like if I said, 'Your eyes,' she'd be blind again. It was weird."
"What'd she say about Juvenal?"
"She said he was cute, very clean-cut looking. That'd be a switch, after all the freaks with the hair and the beads."
"You want to meet him?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Virginia tell you she went to see him?"
"Yeah, they had coffee."
"I tried to see him four times," Bill Hill said. "But it was like they were keeping him hidden. Then right after I called you? I thought hell, I bet Virginia's seen him. So I called her. Sure enough, she went to see him and they had quite a talk about one thing and another. But you know what's funny? See, Virginia believes he healed her--"
"Why not?" Lynn said. "That's more exciting than thinking it was your husband beating on you. That's one thing Doug never tried; he knew better."
"What I'm saying," Bill Hill said, still patient, "Virginia believes it, but this Juvenal never claimed he did or he didn't. She said he avoided it, but without being obvious. He was sort of funny and never got too serious."
Lynn was nodding. "She said he was cute and she said he made her feel good."
"She mentioned that. Made her feel good--"
"Like he was very warm and sensitive and cared about her," Lynn said, "how she was. Not from the words he used especially, I mean what he said, but it was the feeling she got. She felt like, alive."
"That's interesting, isn't it?" Bill Hill said. "She said she had the feeling he knew things about her she hadn't told him."
"She mentioned that," Lynn said.
"She tell you he spent some time in a monastery?"
"I don't think so."
"He was a Franciscan monk for about ten years. She tell you he was a missionary down on the Amazon River in Brazil?"
"Never mentioned it."
"Came back after about four years," Bill Hill said, "spent some time in a seminary here and then quit the order."
"He did?"
"Quits the Franciscans and goes to work at an alcohol rehabilitation center. He wasn't a priest, he was a brother, so I guess it was easier for him to quit. But if he's into this brotherhood work, being a missionary and all, why would he quit the order?"
"I don't know," Lynn said. "Maybe something about it irritated him, you know? Maybe they were real strict and didn't let him do what he liked doing. Say, he wanted to work in the hospital and they put him in an office or something. Like Audrey Hepburn in The Nun's Story finally got pissed off at the mother superior or somebody and left."
"I was thinking along those lines," Bill Hill said. "Like what if down in Brazil he was healing people and they didn't want him to, so they sent him home."
"Why wouldn't they want him to?"
"If the head Franciscan was jealous of him, or they thought it would cause too much of a commotion. People coming from all over to get cured, it could interfere with the work they're doing converting natives. Pretty soon they're setting up stands to sell Juvie religious items--"
Lynn started to grin.
"What's the matter?" Bill Hill said.
"Now we're getting to it, aren't we?"
"I'm saying they could've been afraid of commercializing religion or a cult developing, the ignorant natives holding him up as a saint, even worshipping him. You see what I mean?"
"I ought to. I worked for you long enough."
"I'm talking about something different."
"I know," Lynn said, "you're talking about the real thing, not Reverend Bobby Forshay down out of the piny woods. God, Bobby used to make me nervous. He was always trying to get me in his motel room or off someplace. He was spooky, you know it?"
"You asked me-- All right," Bill Hill said, "maybe just maybe, this Juvenal is the real article. What would you think of that?"
"I don't know," Lynn said. "What if he is?"
"Do you believe he can actually heal people?"
"I guess. I don't know, funny things happen I don't understand. I believe, I don't know how, but I believe even Bobby Forshay actually healed a few people, once he got it in his head he could do it."
There, that's what he wanted to hear. Bill Hill sat back on the couch nodding thoughtfully, not so much agreeing with what Lynn said, but happy to see she still believed in basic stuff, even after spending nearly a year in the world of rock and roll. She was still little Lynn Marie Faulkner beneath the Bob Marly T-shirt and the jive talk, your basic Florida Orange Bowl pageant girl and onetime Fundamentalist.
He said, "You believe in miracles?"
She said, "Sure. I think they're a good idea."
"How'd you like to get to know this Juvenal?"
"For what reason?"
"See if he's real."
"And if he is?" Lynn paused. "He was in the religious life once and he quit."
"Don't get ahead of me," Bill Hill said. "Right now I'm just curious. Aren't you?"
"You want to get out of the r.v. business, wasting your talent selling motor homes."
"Are you curious or not?"
"Maybe a little. I haven't met him yet."
He liked that word yet. Bill Hill said, "You understand why I can't do a study on him. The priest there at the Center knows all about Uni-Faith from Virginia, so he's suspicious, without coming right out and saying it. You got the anonymous part of AA to contend with; so nobody there'll give you even his last name. They're cheerful, very friendly, and they sound like they're trying to help you. But you get the feeling you're not gonna learn a thing unless you're in the club."
"What club?" Lynn said.
"AA."
She didn't see it yet and he wasn't going to rush her.
"I was thinking, how'd you like to join for a few days?"
Lynn said, "You know what I drink? Maybe two of these a week," nudging the Spumante bottle with her toe.
Bill Hill had his answe
r ready. "Yeah, but you got to watch Doug Whaley get smashed for ten years almost. How was he in the morning, pretty bad?"
"He was a mess. Carried on like he was gonna die till he had that first one."
"You could fake it, couldn't you? Act hung over, shake a little bit?"
"I'd never be able to throw up as well as Doug could."
"I was thinking," Bill Hill said, "you might even pretend to have some kind of ailment you tell this Juvenal about. See what he does."
He took his time, letting Lynn fool with the idea. It was still early, still quite light outside at twenty to eight, a restful time of the day.
"I don't know," Lynn said, "it seems like it'd be a waste of time. I find out he's a faith healer, so what? You're not in the business anymore."
"Does he have the power?" Bill Hill said. "If he does, why's he hiding, keeping it a secret? That's what intrigues me about it. Like Virginia says, there's something there you feel when you're with him, and I want to know what it is."
Lynn was thoughtful, off somewhere. "Pretend I have some kind of ailment? Like what?"
"Well, if you're an alcoholic it could be gastritis, I suppose ulcers, a bad liver. Didn't Bobby Forshay cure you one time?"
"That was sugar diabetes. But I couldn't pull something like that, I mean that they could check on and see I don't have."
"We'll think of something." Bill Hill wasn't worried about a detail. He had thought it was going to take more persuading and convincing, but he was almost home.
"It might be kinda fun," Lynn said. "Different anyway, huh?"
"Say, intellectually interesting," Bill Hill said, "even if it doesn't make us a dime."
She was silent again.
"What's the place like, a rest home?"
"You could say that."
"How would I get in, just tell them I'm an alcoholic?"
"It takes a little more than that. Usually there's a wait--"
"How long?"
"--unless the person that comes is in really bad shape." Bill Hill smiled at Lynn. "Have another drink, honey. Finish the bottle and we'll get you another. Though I think it'd be quicker if you switched to vodka, and you won't be so thirsty in the morning."