Chapter Twenty-two
The In Crowd building on Sunset Strip had once belonged to Miramax. Serafin’s office looked down on the Strip from the third floor. A mock-up of the next issue was tacked to the wall. Connie’s interview with Charon was featured.
Beneath it was a smaller mock-up: “ARE THE BANSHEES BACK?”
Melchior entered through the open door and stared in horror. “You can’t run this!”
“I most certainly can. Why do you suppose I’ve got those two gallivanting around Europe?”
“I control the trademark and copyright! Those aren’t the Banshees!”
“That remains to be seen.”
Melchior stared at his old friend. “Come on, Richard!”
Serafin plopped onto a designer sofa: black leather, chrome legs. “I’m in the business of selling magazines. You’re in the business of selling seats. This is rain from heaven. You should be happy.”
“Happy? That lot are making fools of me! Everybody knows the Banshees were my first group. At the very least, this is an outrageous breach of intellectual property rights.”
“The fans won’t see it that way old chap. My advice to you is to get on the train or get out of the way.”
“Have you seen the website?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“I intend to shut it down.”
“Rotsa ruck,” Serafin said. “I asked my IT guys. It’s virtually impossible to track down the actual place where a website was created. The only way to shut it down is to hack it.”
There was a knock at the door. A cute Asian girl wheeled in a tray laden with stacked sandwiches and cans of Ogden’s Cream Soda.
“From the Stratford Deli,” Serafin explained scooping up a sandwich. “Thank you, Arlene.”
The girl blew him a kiss and exited, shutting the door behind her. Outside, on the Strip, tourists ogled superheroes. Batman and Superman nearly came to blows.
Melchior sat in an Eames chair and surveyed the sandwiches. He wore a purple velvet jumpsuit with gold stripes. “Are you coming to New York with me?”
“Can’t make it, Burke. Thursday we put the paper to bed, and I definitely want to be here. Besides. That’s what Connie’s for. Her and St. James.”
“Has Ian been at all helpful?”
Serafin chewed and swallowed. He took several slugs of cream soda. “Not so’s you would notice, but sooner or later they’re going to catch up with the band, and that’s why I want him there. Son confronts bogus father. You can’t invent that shit.”
“Where are they now, Connie and Ian?”
“England, I expect. They’re heading up to Scotland tomorrow, take a peek in Paddy MacGowan’s grave.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. They got a tip. Wouldn’t that be something, they open the coffin and it’s empty?”
“They can’t do that. Aren’t their legalities? Don’t they have to get a court order?”
“How the hell would I know? It’s Scotland. I will tell you this, Connie is an unusually resourceful young lady.”
Melchior gazed again at the mock-up about the band. “When’s that going up? I don’t suppose you could hold it until I have a chance to talk to them.”
Serafin looked at the laptop on the coffee table in front of him. “Too late.”