Wild Cards V (37 page)

“Indeed I am not. Tom Wolfe, that is.” He didn't smile. “Do you mind if I come in and chat with you?”

“Did we have an appointment?” Cordelia said puzzledly. She glanced down at her calendar. “I'm afraid I don't—”

“I was in the neighborhood,” said the man. “We have an appointment. It's just I'm afraid you were not informed.” He extended one hand. “Forgive the lack of formal introduction. I'm St. John Latham, at your service. I represent Latham, Strauss. I expect you've heard of us.”

Cordelia caught a gleam of intensely manicured nails as she grasped his hand. His grip was dry and perfunctory. “The attorneys,” she said. “Uh, yes, please, do sit down.”

He took the guest chair. As a backdrop for Latham's suit, the Breuer looked a mite shabby. “Let me get to the point, Ms. Chaisson—or may I call you Cordelia?”

“If you wish.” Cordelia tried to gather her thoughts. For the senior partner of one of Manhattan's priciest and nastiest law firms to be sitting in her office just might not be a good omen.

“Now,” said Latham, his fingers steepled, the index fingers just brushing his thin chin, “I am informed you have been causing considerable commotion with a number of Latham, Strauss's client corporations. As you doubtless discovered, we are retained by the CariBank Group, and thus have an interest in their respective subsidiary holdings.”

“I'm not sure I see—”

“You have obviously been rather inventive with your computer and modem, Cordelia. You've not been terribly discreet with your calls to a variety of corporate officials.”

It was suddenly coming very clear. “Oh,” said Cordelia, “this is about Shrike Music and Buddy Holley, right?”

Latham's tone was even—and functioned at about the same temperature as a superconductor. “You seem to have an extreme interest in CariBank's corporate family.”

Cordelia smiled and held up her hands. “Hey, no problem, Mr. Latham. It's not my hassle any longer. Holley's got a whole collection of new music that Shrike can't touch.”

“Ms. Chaisson—Cordelia—Shrike Music Corporation is the least consequential of your enquiries. We at Latham, Strauss are concerned about your apparent need for information about the rest of CariBank's family. Such information could be … a bit troublesome—”

“No, really,” said Cordelia decisively. “This is a nonproblem. Honest, Mr. Latham. No problem.” She smiled at him. “Now, if you don't mind, I've got an incredible amount of work to catch—”

Latham stared at her. “You will desist, Ms. Chaisson. You will pay attention to your own business, or, I assure you, you shall be very, very sorry.”

“But—”

“
Very
sorry indeed.” Latham looked at her levelly until she finally blinked. “I hope you understand me.” He turned on his heel and exited with a whisper of expensive tailoring.

It hit her.
Hang me with
corde à boyau, she thought.
I've just been threatened by one of Manhattan's most powerful and predatory attorneys. So sue me.

Cordelia had plenty to do that helped take her mind away from Latham's visit. She called the tech people in charge of satellite transmissions and discovered the happy fact that ShowSat III was operational again. A healthy chunk of the other side of the world would have a shot at viewing the Funhouse benefit after all. “I guess the gremlins are on vacation,” said the consulting engineer.

Then GF&G's switchboard relayed a collect call from Tami in Pittsburgh.

“What on earth are you doing
there
?” Cordelia demanded. “I sent enough cash so all the Girls With Guns could fly into Newark today.”

“You're not gonna believe this,” said Tami.

“Probably not.”

“We bought a lot of feathers.”

“Not coke?”

“Of course not!” Tami sounded scandalized. “We ran into a girl who had an incredible selection. We need 'em for our costumes Saturday night.”

“Feathers don't cost six hundred bucks.”

“These do. They're rare.”

“Dose feathers gon' to help you fly?” Cordelia said dangerously.

“Well … no,” said Tami.

“I'll wire some more money. Just give me an address.” Cordelia sighed. “So. You ladies enjoy riding the bus?”

Friday

Jack and Buddy Holley headed back to the latter's dressing room after they'd both watched the Boss do his run-through. Holley's final rehearsal session was scheduled for ten o'clock, later that night. Little Steven, U2, and the Coward Brothers had gotten in their licks early in the afternoon. The Edge had winced a lot, but he'd played. Then came the Boss and the other guys from across the river.

“Not too shabby,” said Holley.

“The Boss?” said Jack. “Damn straight. So how did it feel, him treating you as though you were one of the faces on Mount Rushmore come to life?”

“Shoot.” Holley said nothing more.

“I thought it was pretty impressive when he asked if you'd play ‘Cindy Lou.'”

Holley chuckled. “Funny thing about that tune. You know it almost wasn't gonna be ‘Cindy Lou'?”

Jack looked at him quizzically.

They rounded the corner of the hallway behind the stage. The lighting was something less than adequate. “Watch out for the wire on the floor,” said Holley. “Good old ‘Cindy Lou.' Well, that was the original title all along, but about the time the Crickets and me were gonna record it, our drummer, Jerry Allison, asked if I'd change it.”

“Change the music?” said Jack.

“Change the title. Seems as if Jerry was marryin' a gal named Peggy Sue, and he thought she'd be just tickled to death havin' a song named after her.”

“But you didn't.”

Holley laughed. “She jilted him, broke the engagement before anything permanent could be done about the song. So ‘Cindy Lou' it's stayed.”

“I like it better,” said Jack.

They turned a final corner and came to the small room where Holley was keeping his guitar and the other things he'd brought over from the hotel. Holley went in first. When he flipped the light switch, nothing happened. “Blamed bulb must be out.”

“Not quite,” said a voice from inside.

Both Jack and Holley jumped. “Who's in dere?” said Jack. Holley started to back out of the doorway.

“Hold it,” said the voice. “Everything's fine as long as you two're Buddy Holley and Jack Robicheaux.”

“You got that right,” said Holley.

“The name's Croyd.”

Holley said, “I don't know any Croyd.”

“I do,” said Jack. “I mean, I know who you are.”

The voice chuckled. “I'm in a bit of a hurry, and I'm trying to be subtle, so why don't the two of you come on in and shut the door.”

The two men did so. Croyd snapped on a penlight and let the beam play briefly across their faces. “Okay, you're who you say.” He set the light down on the makeup table but didn't turn it off. “I've got some information for your niece,” he said to Jack, “but her office doesn't know where she is, and I don't have time to wait around on her.”

“Okay,” said Jack. “Tell me. I'll get it to her. She's jumping around like a frog in a tub of McIlhenny's, what with about ten thousand things to get done before tomorrow night.”

“She asked me to look into Shrike Music,” said Croyd.

“Oh, yeah?” Holley sounded interested.

“I thought it might be one of the Gambione fronts; you know, a Mafia laundering operation.”

“So?” said Jack. “Are Rosemary Muldoon's hands dirty there too?”

“No,” said Croyd. “I don't think so. Whatever Shrike is—and I think it's dirty as hell—I really don't think it's connected with the Gambiones or the other Families. Tell Cordelia Chaisson that.”

“Anything else?” said Jack.

“Yeah. As far as I could follow the trail back, I got some hints that the brain behind Shrike is Loophole. You know, the lawyer, St. John Latham. If I'm right, you better tell your niece to be real careful. With Loophole, I'm talking one dangerous son-of-a-bitch.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “I'll tell her.”

“If you find out more—” Holley said.

“I won't. I've got my own problems to deal with.” Croyd's chuckle was very dry.

“Oh,” said Holley. “Well, thanks anyhow. At least I know my songs aren't tied up in pasta.”

“Listen,” said Croyd, some animation coming into his voice. “‘Shake, Rattle and Roll' is one of the best rockers ever recorded. Don't let anyone ever tell you different. I just wanted to say that before I took off.”

“Well,” said Holley. “Thank you very much.” He strode forward in the darkness, toward the makeup table. “I'll shake the hand of any man who tells me that.”

“What can I say?” said Croyd. “I've liked your work for a long time now. Glad you're back.”

Jack had the impression of a pale albino face in the dark. Pink eyes flashed as the penlight snapped off.

“Good luck with the concert.” Then Croyd's indistinct form was out the door and gone.

“Okay,” said Jack, “let's see if we can round up a fresh light bulb.” He winced. The pain was coming back, the pain and something else. In the darkness he touched his own face. The skin felt scaly. The virus was eroding his control. It was getting harder to remain— He didn't like filling in the blank.
Human
was the word he was looking for.

Saturday

The audio ocean combers of U2 crashed over them. The Edge's picking fingers had healed just fine for tonight. Bono swung into “With or Without You” with his exuberant never-sing-the-song-the-same-way-twice voice in great form.

C.C. abruptly stared at Buddy Holley with concern. She reached out to steady him. Jack moved in from the other side. “What's wrong, babe?” She touched his forehead with the back of her right hand. “You're burning up.”

Bagabond looked concerned. “You need a doc?”

The four of them stepped back as a cameraman with a SteadiCam double-timed by, heading for the stage.

Holley straightened. “It's okay. I'm all right. Just a little flop-sweat.”

“You sure?” said C.C. skeptically.

“I guess,” said Holley, “maybe I was feeling some momentary melancholy.” His three companions registered uniform incomprehension. “Waitin' to go on out there, it's getting to me in a strange way. I'm looking at all this and I'm thinking about Ritchie and the Bopper and how they both went down with Bobby Fuller in that Beechcraft back in '68 when Bobby was tryin' his comeback tour. Lord, I do miss 'em.”

“You're alive,” said Bagabond. “They're not.”

Holley stared at her. Then he slowly smiled. “That's putting it straight.” He looked past the curtains toward the full house. “Yep, I'm alive.”

“You're gon' sit down for a bit,” said Jack. “Rest just a while.”

“Remind me,” said Holley. “When do I go on?”

“The Coward Brothers are on next. Then Little Steven and me,” said C.C. “I'll warm 'em up for you. You'll be up before Girls With Guns and the Boss.”

“Comfortable in the hammock, huh? Heavy-hitter company.” Holley shook his head. “You know how the world would change if somebody nuked this club tonight? Not a bit.” He staggered. “Well, maybe just a little bitty bit.”

“You're gonna sit down,” said C.C. firmly.

Jack looked toward the stage. This was probably the only rock concert he'd been to that wasn't choked with smoke. But in the confined space of the Funhouse, the management, the Health Department, and some of the performers had begged for abstinence. The tech crew was using a fog machine to get the right lighting. With the lights in his face Jack could see nothing. But he knew who was out there.

Cordelia was sitting next to the small, roped-off space where the floor director was sequestered with her video monitors. Everything looked good. The satellite feeds were webbing the globe satisfactorily, though god only knew if any eyes out there were actually watching.

Every seat was taken. People had paid two grand just for standing room. Cordelia had checked around her chair before U2 had been announced. The table immediately behind her was occupied by New Jersey's junior U.S. senator, the senator's wife—Hoboken's head of cultural development—a hot, teen heartthrob actor, and the actor's ICM agent. The next table to the left held Senator Hartmann and his party. Tachyon was back there too. A beaming Xavier Desmond was right up front.

Off to her right, Miranda and Ichiko had seen her looking and had waved and smiled. Cordelia had smiled back. Luz Alcala and Polly Rettig, GF&G's top management, also sat at Cordelia's table. Now and then they said appropriately laudatory things to her. Obviously they were enjoying how the benefit concert was progressing.
Boffo
, thought Cordelia.
That's how
Variety
will describe this. Dey better damn better.