Be Cool Page 6

  Talk to Dale first. She had the feeling he'd much rather play live than work in a studio. Guess what? We have a manager. And Dale would say, "Cool." If it didn't work out Dale would say, "See you," and go on back to Austin. Nothing bothered Dale Arden. He'd been playing since he was ten.

  Speedy was something else. Chicano. James "Speedy" Gonzales. Guess what? We have a manager. Talk fast, tell who it is and give him the details. And Speedy goes, "Yeah? A big film producer, uh? What's he know about the record business? Who's he listen to?" A good question. If he asks she'd make something up. Oh, the Chili Peppers, Motley Crue, ZZ Top. Speedy might think she was still tripping. She did some blotter when she started with the Chicks and made the mistake of telling him one time, on the phone. She started freaking, so she quit and wasn't doing anything now—not counting once in a while sharing a jay with Vita. "What's the deal, Linda, you going to bed with this big producer?" That would be typical of Speedy. And if it didn't work out he'd say, "Thanks a lot, Linda. We quit our fucking jobs, man, for what?" She believed he looked for things that would piss him off so he could pick a fight. Like being called a "beaner" when they were in high school. Speedy went to Odessa High and hung with Chicano kids from across the tracks. Every year without fail Permian, the eastside school where she and Dale went, would beat up on Odessa, the westside school in football, and nothing pissed Speedy off more than that. Linda would see him in a pickup truck on the "drag" Saturday nights, bumper to bumper from Wendy's down to Anthony's, where kids from both schools would hang out in the shopping center parking lot. She met Speedy the night he put a Bon Jovi tape in his boom box and she went over to listen; Linda, that year, being in love with Richie Sambora. Another time she went to Speedy's home, a farmhouse way out 302 on an oil lease, to listen to Bon Jovi records and learn some of Richie Sambora's tiffs. Speedy showed her his half-assed drum kit, played with a lot of drive and Linda got her guitar out of the car. She brought Dale and Speedy together, they practiced, Linda wrote a few songs, played their first gig at Dos Amigos on All Ages Night. They didn't have a name until the M.C. asked what they were called. Linda said, "Odessa," off the top of her head. The crowd cheered and the name stuck.

  So she called Dale.

  Dale said, "A manager, cool. I always felt we could use one."

  But did he want to leave studio work and get the band back together?

  "I've already left. I'm playing with a band called Squid the Incredible Suckers and can't wait to quit. The only thing right about this band is the name, it sucks."

  She asked Dale if he'd seen Speedy lately, wanting to know what kind of mood he was in since she'd have to call him.

  "Speedy went home," Dale said. "He didn't tell you? He'd signed on with a country band, bunch of bluegrass pickers, they didn't want nothing behind 'em but that polite swishy beat with the brushes, so he quit. Yeah, he's back home working on a lease over by Goldsmith, doing hard labor ten at night till six a.m. Comes home as filthy dirty as a person can get. But you'd never know it to hear him. He called Saturday all excited, I mean happy, if you can imagine that."

  Linda said she couldn't and asked was he drunk.

  "He was feeling good, yeah. You must not've heard. Odessa High beat Permian last Friday night, honest to God, twenty to seventeen, the first time they've won since Larry Gatlin was their quarterback and that was thirty-three years ago. Your timing," Dale said, "couldn't be better. You know how Speedy thinks. Tell him we're back together and he'll see Odessa winning as a sign it's the right move." Dale said he'd call him if Linda was nervous about it. "But don't worry, I know he'll come."

  Like that it was done, after wasting the morning worrying about what to say.

  And like that, not a minute later, with the sound of a car horn, the sight of a black Lincoln creeping along the drive, the good feeling was gone. Linda waited as Raji got out and came up the wooden stairs built against the slope, Raji in cranberry designer warmups today with his cowboy boots, always the boots, Raji smiling at her like nothing had changed.

  * * *

  "TELL ME HOW you dumped that impostor, since he don't know shit about music, while we have a nice cup of coffee."

  "I don't drink coffee," Linda said, not moving from where she stood.

  What Raji did then was act hurt and confused.

  "Why you treating me like this?"

  "So you'll leave. I don't want to talk to you."

  "You walk out on me—what'm I suppose to do?"

  "Raj, I can't do that Spice Girl shit anymore, and that's all I can tell you."

  "Is that right?" Raji said, back to sounding like his cool self. "You know how much those girls've made in their young lives? Over thirty million, pounds, dollars, I don't know which and that's not even counting their movie. You know how much Linda, Vita, little Minh Linh and two more lucky chicks gonna make the first year alone, from the time we release the album? It's gonna break big, I know it and the label knows it. A conservative estimate, you each will put away a couple mil."

  "What'd we make last night," Linda said, "a hundred and a half? You take your cut off the top, the dumb band works for nothing and the chicks split a hundred and twelve fifty?"

  "I have to pay Elliot out of it too."

  "Elliot's your problem. I want thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents, right now."

  "That's good, Linda, you can do figures in your head. You be able to get a job as a cashier, supermarket check-out lady, since you no longer finding dates for people, 'cause you know this Hollywood producer ain't gonna do shit for you. I keep trying to think what the man put in your head. See, I know what's in his head, 'cause I know how movie dudes operate. The only thing you are to him is pussy when he feels like it. He took you home last night—he give you a jump?"

  Raji waited, his Kangol cap on Samuel Jackson style, backwards—expecting her to answer that? What she felt like doing, give him a kick in the crotch, hard, but remembered in time she was barefoot and let the urge pass. What she did was hold out her hand.

  "Gimme my money and get out of here."

  Raji touched his pockets. "I don't have it on me, gonna have to stop back. I leave here I'm going to see the man writing the new material, see how he's coming. I was thinking if you want to write some that's cool. Or look at songs you already have, see if any fit the Chicks' style."

  The man wore you out. "Raj, listen to me. I'm not a Chick anymore. I flew the coop, and that's all I'm saying."

  "Not gonna talk to me . . . Girl, you signed a paper saying you want to be in my care the next five years. At the end of which I can have you sign on for another five, I say I wish it to be. Understand? It's spelled out, girl." His voice softened as he said, "I don't want it to sound like I got you in my power and I'm forcing you to stay. We been close these months, baby, sharing the intimacy of working with each other as artists." He put his arms out. "Come on, let's hug and make up."

  Linda said, "You want me to throw up on your boots?" and Raji let his arms drop.

  "Keep to business, huh? The way it seems to me, instead of how you're acting you'd want to show some appreciation you look at all I'm doing, working for y'all to become superstars. What do I expect in return? My name on the CD so small you can't hardly read it. Where is it? On the back, down at the bottom. 'Produced by Raji.' That's all, in little tiny letters. Once it's out I keep an eye on the charts and check with the label every day, see they don't cheat us."

  "Raji, you're so full of shit."

  It was all she could think to say. She imagined her dad in his old sweaty Stetson . . . He used to say to people, "You ought to hear my little girl sing." She imagined him looking at Raji and not showing a bit of emotion, her dad with a wad of scrap in his jaw, sucking on it before spitting a stream close to Raji's cream-colored boots, her dad saying then, "Get off this property and never come back," her dad never having been to Los Angeles or used to colored guys in the music business. When she thought of Chili Palmer now she imagined him speaking to Raji the way he did last night, no
t threatening or acting tough: Raji saying he had a contract and Chili telling him he'd just cancelled it. Her new manager. She wished he was here.

  Raji was giving her his stare now, changing his look from cool to ice cold, saying, "Lemme tell you how it is, Linda. You saw my man Elliot needed a talking-to for last night, forgetting his job, letting the man fuck with his mind like he did. I told him no Samoan faggot going by the name Elliot Wilhelm is gonna make it to the screen raising his one eyebrow. I told him the man confused you with talk so he could walk away. So now Elliot is depressed—you know how that kind is, how they get—but he'll come out of it. I told Elliot I happened to catch that flick Chili Palmer made, that Get Lost. And I liked it, I like a good amnesia flick. Man gets hit on the head and don't understand why all this shit's happening to him. I told my man Elliot it could be the same with Chili Palmer. He can step aside before it's too late, or like the man in the movie he can all of a sudden have all kinds of shit coming down on him."

  Linda said, "Now you're threatening my manager."

  "What I'm telling you," Raji said, "is how it is. There people like on the fringe of this business you don't know nothing about, but now I see I may have to use. You understand if I wanted to I could sue Chili Palmer's ass in court, but that takes time and you have to hire a lawyer and put up with him acting like they do. These fringe people I'm talking about, they get it done now."

  "What about your partner," Linda said, "have you told him?"

  "Nick's cool. I'm giving you a chance to change your mind before we become serious here."

  "These fringe people—do they know who Chili is?"

  "They could know him or not, it don't matter. They do what they paid to do."

  "But you know him. He called you a pimp and you didn't do a thing about it."

  "He turned Elliot's head around is what happened."

  "But you didn't do anything. Why not?"

  "You expect me to get in a tussle on the street? It's what I have my man Elliot for."

  "I think you're afraid of him," Linda said. "And you know what? You should be."

  "Yeah, and why is that?"

  "You think I'm going with him," Linda said. " 'cause he's a nice guy? Ask your buddy Nick about Chili Palmer. He knows him."

  7

  * * *

  THE FIRST THING Chili noticed about Edie Athens, her hair was wet—wet but still wiry, with a lot of body, a thicket of curly red hair low on her brow but trimmed short around her neck. Edie said, "Chil, I'm so glad you came," hugging him, pressing against the dark suit he wore to visit a woman only yesterday widowed, and found out she was wet all over, the short robe soaked, pasted to her arms and shoulders. She stepped back to close the door and he saw she had on a tiny pair of panties under the robe hanging open and that's all, white ones, wet, transparent. It was the next thing to seeing her bare naked and it surprised him her small body was kind of plump, but in a good way, ripe coming to Chili's mind. Tommy had found Edie in Vegas and Chili could see her in a skimpy costume serving cocktails. She said, "Derek's here. He spent the night, but don't get the wrong idea, okay? He came to offer his condolences and got a little ripped so I made him stay. This morning he gets frisky and throws me in the pool. You know Derek Stones, don't you?"

  "I know who he is," Chili said.

  "He has a ring in his nose." Edie wrinkled hers in a cute way making a face. "Derek's the last artist poor Tommy signed before he was taken from us." Making it sound like Tommy had been abducted instead of shot in the head.

  Chili had told her on the phone this morning he was sorry about Tommy. He was, having seen the guy so earnest, sure of himself, and then sitting at the same table dead. He told her again, "I'm sorry, Edie. If there's anything I can do . . ."

  "Well," Edie said, "life goes on, doesn't it?"

  She seemed tired and her eyes were a little red, but it could be from the dip in the pool, the morning frolic. She said, "Hon, I got to get into some dry clothes. Come on." Edie moving away now, Chili following. "Derek's like a kid. He is a kid, drinks all night and gets sick, has a few pops in the morning to bring him back to life. One thing I never do is throw up." She stopped in the living room and turned to Chili. "You were right there, weren't you, when it happened?"

  "I'd gone to the men's."

  "But you were with him in his last hour. Tommy thought the world of you, Chil."

  They continued through the living room Chili believed could use some furniture; it had that bare, modern look, no place to sit down if you wanted to read; one side all glass, open to the terrace and swimming pool. Now they were in a bedroom, all white, with more sliding glass doors facing the terrace, Edie peeling off the robe as she went into the bathroom and stepped out of her panties, the widow in her bereavement forgetting to shut the door. Chili saw the kingsize bed had been used, covers pulled down, pillows scattered, a pair of jeans on the clean white love seat, a T-shirt on the handlebars of the exercise bike. Edie's voice from the bathroom: "I'm having Tommy cremated. Maybe do something with his ashes he'd like. You have any ideas?"

  Chili could see her in there drying herself with an oversized towel a shade of peach that matched the bathroom. He raised his voice to tell her, "Not anything that would make sense."

  "You have any idea who shot Tommy?"

  "No, I don't," Chili said. "Do you?"

  "My opinion, based on knowing the man better than anyone? Tommy got caught with his pants down once too often."

  "A jealous husband?"

  "Or serious boyfriend."

  Edie came to the bathroom door holding a blow dryer, the towel draped around her waist, showing her breasts but not using them to turn him on—which they were doing—no, they were just there, part of her. It made Chili think of Vegas, the way he used to go there to spend dough and always had a good time with the women he met.

  Edie was looking past him at the room, the bed. She said, "Yes, those are Derek's pants and I know what you're thinking, that I fool around too because Tommy did; but you're wrong. I hardly ever. And nothing happened here, either. Derek did try to jump me. I hit him with a book Tommy was reading—it's there on the table, the Tom Clancy? It almost knocked him cold. This morning Derek couldn't figure out how he got the knot on his head. See him out there? He's in the pool."

  Sprawled on a yellow float, head cushioned, hands trailing in the water. Chili looked at him and turned to Edie again.

  "You talk to the police?"

  "A couple of homicide detectives. I told them Tommy fooled around, because I know he did and it might give them a lead. One of the detectives looks me over, he goes 'I find it hard to believe Tommy would stray when he's got you waiting at home.' The guy reports the death of my husband and the next minute he's coming on to me."

  "Maybe," Chili said, "you offer them a drink, you don't seem too bereaved."

  "I'm not Italian, Chil. I'm not gonna dress in black and wail and fall apart. Life's too fucking short. I called one of Tommy's sisters and told her and that's my report to the family. He's being cremated, so there's no reason to come out. 'Oh, you're not gonna have a service, a funeral mass?' They love that, it gives them a chance to all get together and overreact. I met the family once, when Tommy and I got married? It was the longest day of my life. Yesterday, Chil, I wanted a drink, and that's the only reason I offered the cops one." She moved to a wall of mirrors with the blow dryer. "They asked you about me, didn't they? The cops. What'd you tell them, I like to party? How would you know?" She looked at herself in the mirror and turned on the blower.

  Chili stepped over to the bathroom door and watched her, the towel around her waist, Edie staring at herself in the mirror as she waved the blower over her hair.

  "Edie?"

  She turned off the blower.

  "What?"

  "I told them we'd met a few times, out, when you were with Tommy."

  She nodded, staring at the mirror.

  "That's all I said." He waited a few moments, watching her. "Edie, what happens to
the record company?"

  She looked over. "I'll probably sell it."

  "Is that what you want to do? I mean if you're a partner and you own it now."

  "I can see me running a business."

  "What if I got a guy to run it for you, knows what he's doing? You stay on as president, get involved more in the social end of the business; you know, entertaining, talking to people, or going to clubs to see new artists. You own a record company, you must like music."