Chapter Eight
Melchior phoned his personal assistant, Stanton Bridger, who lived on premises in what had once been servants’ quarters, and told him about St. James. Melchior showered in the oversized stall, dressed in sharp creased khakis, a Badger T-shirt, and Sketchers sandals. In Tinsel Town, the more successful you were the more casually you dressed.
He went online in his second floor office and checked out St. James’ claim. A band called the Banshees had played the Phoenix Club in Prague last night. Melchior didn’t read Czech, but judging from the exclamation marks, the crowd had loved it. There was one grainy photo of the band taken from the rear of the crowd. A Popsicle slid down Melchior’s spine. His stomach churned and produced a nugget of fear instantly erased by the righteous flame of anger.
I found the Banshees. I made the Banshees.
Melchior googled Kaspar Sinaiko. Bupkus.
Bridger waited in the foyer when Melchior descended the broad, curving stair. Bridger was a thin, intense man of about fifty with a Dick Powell mustache, eager as a terrier. Bridger appeared to have no life of his own. He was on call 24/7. He handed Melchior a clipboard with the day’s appointments and notes.
“Stanton, I want you to pick up my dry cleaning at Fung’s and call your friend with the Hollywood PD. I can’t have Melissa driving around without a license. Do you follow?”
“I follow, boss.”
“Get hold of Freddie. Have him meet me at my office at three, and get hold of Stan Schaefer. Set up an appointment for tomorrow if you can.” Freddie Guttierez was an ex-Mex gangbanger who did odd jobs for Melchior. Schaefer was one of his lawyers.
“I’m on it, boss.”
“Okay. You know where to find me. Meet me at the office.”
Carrying a leather backpack containing his laptop, Melchior walked to his free-standing four port garage. He chose the Boxster with the top down. He was not a flaunter, except for the house, of course. And that had been fate. The house had belonged to Melchior’s mentor, teen producing sensation Chad Goodrich, who’d brought the Scottish manor house over from England in the sixties, stone by stone. Goodrich had installed a bowling alley and built a state of the art recording studio in the basement and once went eight years without leaving, sending out for meals, women, drugs, and talent.
Years ago they had walked these grounds, Goody’s arm around the bigger man’s shoulder. “Someday this will all be yours, Burke,” Goody had joked.
And now it was. Tragedy, of course, that Goodrich had killed himself, but everything happens for a purpose. As Goodrich’s heir apparent, it was only right and proper that Melchior purchase the estate from Goodrich’s dry-eyed parents who had long ago washed their hands of their famous son. Melchior even bought the urn containing Goodie’s ashes. Kept it in his bedroom. Long-standing rumors that Melchior had had an affair with his mentor faded as Melchior’s career waxed. Anyone suggesting Melchior might be a poofter could expect a visit from Freddie.
A handful of guests had even claimed to see Goodie’s ghost wandering the grounds at the height of one of Melchior’s bacchanals. A fifth of vodka and an eight ball of coke will do that for you.
Melchior slipped into the gray Boxster’s seat, put on his Gracie sunglasses and a Dodgers cap, pushed the starter button and slipped into gear. His long, curving driveway ended at Siddhartha Boulevard, which he took to Selden Canyon where he turned west toward the freeway. He left the Bluetooth headset in the glove compartment. He had to think about this.
It could be as simple as St. James losing his tenuous grip on reality. That would be a tragedy, especially after what father and son had meant to Melchior. Part of him wished it were so. It would make things so much simpler.
Second most likely scenario: it was some kind of half-assed tribute band, and if that were the case, Melchior’s lawyers would land on them like SEAL Team 6. Hence the meeting with Schaefer.
Beyond that Melchior had no idea. He did not believe in reincarnation. He considered more outré possibilities. Could it be some new reality show, an upscale version of Punk’d? No one in their right mind would build a reality show around a loser like St. James, nor did they have the guts to jerk Melchior’s chain. Reality show—out.
That left some awful practical joke. Those with the ’nads to attempt such a thing could be counted on one hand. Richard Serafin, Editor and Publisher of In Crowd, was among them. Maybe that’s why Serafin had called the meet—to stick the needle in. But where was the joke? What did Serafin expect, that Melchior would react like a jilted teenager and key the Banshees’ car? Melchior couldn’t see it. There was no humor angle. He didn’t grok “Gotcha!” Melchior’s critics had often accused him of being humorless, but that wasn’t the case. Melchior saw humor, he just didn’t think it was funny.
Traffic was glacial on the Pacific Coast Highway. Melchior pulled out the Bluetooth and reached out in 360: actors, agents, lawyers, producers, caterers. He had two ex-wives and six children, five of whom hated him. The sixth was an aspiring actor and couldn’t afford to hate him. Melchior hadn’t asked for parenthood. Those damn bitches had tricked him into it. He thought about phoning Jason, the actor. His private line beeped. It was Stanton.
“St. James called and gave me a number.”
“Text me. I’m driving. Did you get a hold of Freddie?”
“Three-thirty, your office.”
Several cars ahead two low-riders were banging into each other and exchanging shots. “Gotta go,” Melchior said.
The Trai San was located on Montana just off Ocean, one of those trendy nouveau Oriental sushi con chili con carne joints with a striped awning and chauffeured parking.
“Good to see you, Mr. Melchior,” said the Viet maître d’ as the lot attendant chirped out the Porsche. “Mr. Serafin is on the private veranda.”
Melchior bopped fists with the maître d’ and wended his way back through the industrial décor—the turned aluminum walls, the open ductwork, the stainless steel sconces—up a short stair, and out a sliding glass door to a raised patio with a peek of the beach. Serafin sat at the lone table in black silk T-shirt, black blazer, and Gargoyle sunglasses reading something off his iPad, probably dummies for the new In Crowd.
Serafin put the iPad down, smiled, and stood as Melchior approached. They embraced like long-lost buddies, pounding each other on the back. “What up, dawg?” the sixty-four-year-old Serafin growled. He’d begun publishing In Crowd out of his Studio City garage in 1967. It had a circulation of 3.2 million and annual advertising revenues in excess of 130 million. The ostensible reason for the meet was a cover story on Charon, now a legacy act, Heavy Metal, Satanic Division. This would be the 4th time in 21 years that In Crowd featured Charon on the cover.
Charon was playing the Berlin Hippodrome that evening. The Rolling Stones were opening.
Melchior unslung his backpack, plopped himself into the cushioned teak chair and turned to the expectant dewy young Vietnamese waiter of indeterminate sex. “Tonic water with a slice of lime, please, and a glass of ice on the side. Do you follow?”
The waiter bowed and withdrew.
“The sea bass special looks good,” Serafin said.
“Rich, Ian St. James just phoned me.”
“Ian! He’s not in trouble, is he?”
“No more than usual. He told me the damnedest thing. He said he saw the Banshees last night, and that they’re playing Berlin tomorrow night.”
Serafin perused the papyrus menu. “That sounds pretty serious. I’d like to help him, but really. I’ve done enough.”
“No, Rich, you don’t understand. He saw a band last night he’s convinced is the Banshees. I went online. A band called the Banshees played the Phoenix Club in Prague. There’s a graphic.”
Melchior pulled out his laptop. Within seconds he reached the Phoenix Club’s website. For several seconds he stared in consternation. “They took it down. Probably got a letter from a lawyer.”
“Who? I’m the injured party here, and I haven’t done anything.”
“What about St. James? He might be pissed that someone’s making hay off the family name.”
Melchior considered it. St. James wasn’t stupid. But if he’d threatened legal action, wouldn’t he have told Melchior? It seemed to Melchior that St. James intended for him to take action. He logged on and sent the Phoenix Club an e-mail:
Why did you remove the graphic of the Banshees from your website?
Sincerely,
Burke Melchior
Century City, California, USA
There. That ought to put the fear of God in ’em. The removal of the graphic took some of the teeth out of St. James’ account and Melchior felt relieved. It was some shitty tribute band, and they would never play again.
Then he remembered he was to call St. James to confirm the Berlin deal.
“This isn’t Ian’s style,” Melchior said. “He’s not confrontational, and where is he gonna find a Czech lawyer to take his case? You know, he says he’s getting ready to record a new album.”
“So’s Sly Stone,” Serafin said as the waiter returned with Melchior’s tonic water.
“I’m supposed to call him. He’s in Berlin. Suppose he’s right. Suppose the Banshees—or whoever these fucks are—are really playing tomorrow night? That’s a story, Rich. Banshees back from the dead, no matter how you cut it.”
“You ready to order or would you like a little more time?” the waiter said.
“I’ll have the sea bass,” Serafin said.
“Perfect,” the waiter said.
“I’d like a tossed salad,” Melchior said, “red lettuce, no lettuce spines, cherry tomatoes, sliced leek and gorgonzola cheese with the house dressing on the side, and bring me an order of crab cakes, please, do you follow?”
“Perfect.”
The waiter withdrew.
Serafin crunched down on a stalk of celery from his Virgin Mary. “If these guys really are playing tomorrow night, I’m surprised you’re not trying to shut them down.”
“Give ’em a little rope,” Melchior said. “I’m curious. But seriously. Do you have anyone over there who could make the scene?”
Serafin shrugged. “Connie Cosgrove. She’s with Charon right now. You know that.”
“How ’bout Connie hooks up with St. James, and they give their perspective on this thing? No matter who these guys think they are, that would make an interesting story, don’t you think? ‘Son of Banshees Drummer Confronts Fake Banshees Band’?”
Serafin smiled. “I like ‘Satanic Rock Band Returns from the Dead’ even better.”