How to Kill a Rock Star

  “What did she say?” Loring asked quietly, still facing the window.

  “Huh?”

  “Eliza. When you asked her about Paul, the birthday. What exactly did she say?”

  “Same thing I just did. It's my party and I can invite whoever I want.”

  Feigning indifference was one of the easiest skills I ever acquired. There was the cheek-biting, which kept my lips from moving up or down, thus enabling me to maintain a neutral expression. The eyes were a bit trickier, but I found that if I looked directly at a person, they tended to believe what I was saying, even if it was a lie.

  These were the techniques I had to employ when Loring broached the subject of Paul's forthcoming attendance at Doug's birthday bash.

  “I couldn't care less if he's there or not,” I said, folding underwear on the bed, tasting blood in my mouth, yet keeping all traces of emotion from my face.

  I tried to assure Loring that Paul wasn't taking part out of spite, or because of some master plan to get me back. “He hates me, remember?”

  “Right.” Loring sounded like a man who'd just received a draft notice. “Then why did he agree to do it?”

  The answer to that question was obvious. “Paul would never turn down the chance to pay tribute to his hero, even if it means he has to be in our company.”

  Loring was sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. I watched him bend down to tie his shoe. He grappled with the laces, attacked them. “Eliza, I feel like things are good between us right now. I just don't want Paul to swoop down and mess them up again.”

  I was still biting my cheeks.

  “Let's go back to Vermont,” he said.

  The time we'd spent in Vermont had been something of a Shangri-La: a long weekend of swimming, playing chess, cooking. Loring had even taught me how to ride a horse without using a saddle. But the liberty I'd pretended to feel simply because Paul and I were in a different area code was short-lived, not all that emotionally satisfying, and was followed by a painful recrudescence upon returning to New York. The minute the car crossed the state line, it all came back to me. Paul was in the air. He was the air. He hovered above the city breathing on me, stifling me, and providing life at the same time. I was sure Loring felt it, too. That's why, as we were crossing the GW Bridge, he put up the windows for the first time in hours. He was trying to keep Paul out.

  Loring got off the chair, positioned himself behind me, and set his arms directly on top of mine, making it impossible for me to keep folding. “Vermont next weekend?”

  “Your dad's birthday is next weekend.”

  “I mean after the show. We'll go the next morning.”

  “I can't.” Michael and Vera were going to Cleveland to visit Vera's parents. I had agreed to stay at their house and dog sit. “Fender, remember? I promised.”

  The cheek biting was the key, but it only worked under normal conditions. Spur of the moment ambushes made nonchalance more difficult, which was the case two days before Doug's big bash, when Lucy Enfield interrupted a staff meeting to tell me that some guy who looked like a mobster was in the hall waiting for me.

  I almost ripped a hole through the side of my face when I saw Feldman pacing near the drinking fountain, his pudgy hands clasped together, resting above his belt as if propped up on a pillow.

  He held my hand flat like lunchmeat between two pieces of bread. “Eliza,” he said. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  Something was off the mark if he was calling me by my real name. Leading Feldman downstairs, I walked him outside and we stood in front of a newsstand.

  “It's good to see you,” Feldman said.

  His voice was polite, humble, and frighteningly out of character.

  “What's wrong?” I said, suddenly panicked. “Did something happen to Michael? Or—”

  I caught myself before I said the name.

  “He's fine. They're all fine,” Feldman said. “For the moment.”

  I picked up a newspaper so that Feldman would think I was uninterested in what he had to say, and a byline caught my eye. It was a story about a guy who'd recently survived a plane crash in Peru. The guy's name was Phillip Oxford, and he'd been flying on a small South American carrier. I couldn't fathom why anyone in their right mind would fly on an obscure Peruvian airline.

  Feldman said, “Let me start by saying I owe you an apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For not appreciating you as an ally when I had you on my side.”

  Phillip Oxford was from St. Cloud, Minnesota. To get to Peru, he'd had to book himself on five different flights. This was his first mistake. Since most mechanical mishaps occur during takeoff or landing, and he was racking up five takeoffs and five landings in a twenty-four-hour period, the odds were against him from the start.

  Feldman used his hand to push all the hair off his face. One chunk of bang rebelled, clinging to his forehead like a rat's tail on a glue trap. “Have you talked to your brother today?”

  “No.” Michael had left me a message earlier but I'd been in meetings all morning and hadn't had a chance to call him back. “Why?”

  “Paul's quitting.”

  I stared at Phillip Oxford and tried to act blasé. Hearing Feldman say Paul's name, even under these circumstances, felt like a gift. I hardly ever heard his name out loud, unless it was coming from Loring's mouth, and Loring said it with too much indignation to make it worth anything. “He's quitting the band?”

  Feldman was shaking his head. “The band's already kaput. I mean the whole shebang.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He's done,” Feldman said. “Claims he got more respect as a shirt folder. He wants out.”

  “What about the new record?” I was trying to keep the shock out of my voice but it wasn't working. “Michael said they spent all last month in the studio.”

  “They did. Winkle doesn't like any of it.” Feldman was still fighting with his hair. “And we're talking powerful fucking songs. Mind-blowing stuff. Not number-one singles, obviously. But bone-crushing shit that would break your heart. Think Sgt. Pepper's, the White Album. I know you don't believe the music means anything to me, but I've known Paul longer than you have. This is the best work he's done and I don't want to see it sit on a shelf.”

  In my head I translated Feldman's statement into: “If this record gets shelved, I can kiss my Epstein future goodbye.”

  “So, get him out of his contract,” I said. “Shop him to another label. You shouldn't need me to tell you this.”

  The weather had been storming outside of Lima when Phillip Oxford's plane went down. I deemed Phillip Oxford an idiot for not getting a weather report prior to departure.

  “Winkle has no intention of letting Paul out of his contract. Not without a fight, anyway. And he advanced Paul money for the new record—a third of which has already been spent on pre-production, band, and studio costs. If Paul tried to bail out now he'd get stuck having to reimburse that. And sure, he could sue, but a legal battle would go on for years, it would cost him hundreds of thousands of dollars, and essentially put a stop to his recording career until the case was settled. On top of all that, if Paul signs with another label, Winkle gets a fucking override on the sales of the next album. Assuming Paul could even get another contract. After this, he'll be considered a pain in the ass. Who's going to want him?”

  “Jack Stone.”

  Feldman pointed his little sausage finger at me. “Don't think that doesn't play into Winkle's decision to keep Paul under his thumb.”

  Finally a smart move on Phillip Oxford's part—he'd booked a seat in the exit row. Only it turned out Phillip Oxford was six foot three. Not so smart after all, just lucky he'd been blessed with long legs.

  “I don't get it,” I said. “If the label doesn't like the record, and they have no plans to release it, why not just let him go? What's in it for Winkle?”

  “Nothing. But he's not losing anything either. He just hit the jackpot with that ja
ilbait hooker from Indiana, so he's in a position to do whatever he wants. And look at it from his point of view—the guy knows Paul's a genius. Imagine if he did let Paul go, then Paul hooks up with Jack Stone and his next record sells five million copies. You think Winkle's going to chance that?”

  “All right, so where does this leave Paul?”

  “In limbo.” Feldman seemed on the verge of blowing a gasket. “It's a power trip. Winkle's fucking with Paul's head, and unless Paul compromises, he's screwed.”

  I almost made a joke about how much Paul liked getting screwed, but thinking about that felt like suffocation. I took a deep breath and focused on Phillip Oxford.

  This has nothing to do with me, I told myself.

  “Eliza, I don't know how much Michael has told you about what's been going on with Paul these past few months, but—”

  “Michael never tells me anything about what's going on with Paul. Michael won't mention Paul's name in my presence.”

  “Well, to put it mildly, Paul really got on Winkle's bad side, and now it seems the guy's mission in life is to make Paul miserable.”

  “You mean to tell me Winkle's going to sit on Bananafish just because Paul got pissy with him? Eventually he'll get tired of the game-playing.”

  “About two weeks ago, I called Winkle and basically said the same thing. Ten minutes later the asshole sent me a fax—the page of Paul's contract that says the deal is void in one instance only—in the event of the death or disability of the artist. Basically it was Winkle's way of saying that unless Paul goes in and makes the record Winkle wants him to make, and says and does the things Winkle tells him to do and say, Winkle owns Paul's ass until the day Paul dies.”

  Phillip Oxford claimed that before the plane went down there was so much smoke in the cabin he couldn't see the emergency floor lighting. When the plane hit the ground he said it bounced. But Phil was ready. Phil had the exit open before the plane came to a stop. He was the first one out.

  “Help me, Eliza. I'm running out of time.”

  “There's nothing I can do.”

  “You're the only one Paul ever listened to. At least try and talk some sense into him.”

  I bit my cheek and stared at the photo of Phillip Oxford. He had a goofy, unburdened smile, and didn't look like he could maneuver his way out of a sleeping bag, let alone a burning plane. “Believe me, I'm the last person Paul wants to talk to.”

  I put the newspaper back. I was looking for someplace to store all the things I was feeling—the friction, the contradictions, the unmerciful truth—but my heart, my soul, my eyes and ears and even my toes were locking their doors. They wouldn't let me in. For safety reasons. I had no choice but to throw the feelings away.

  Feldman held onto my sleeve and I glared at his hand until he let go.

  “I can't see many ways out of this,” he said. “Either someone talks Paul into making a few concessions, or something very bad is going to happen. I don't want it to come to that, and trust me, neither do you.”

  There was something sordid in Feldman's eyes—a silent warning I couldn't decode. “What do you mean very bad?”

  “Paul's not thinking straight. I'm afraid of what he might do. I don't want it to get ugly and I don't want anyone to get hurt.”

  The cheek biting counterbalanced all the emotions. It was another innovation, using physical pain to redirect the train of memory.

  “I wish I could help,” I said, my voice firm. “But like I already told you, I'm the last person Paul wants to talk to.”

  There's nothing worse than falling in love with a person over and over every time you lay eyes on them, especially when you hate their goddamn guts.

  It happened yesterday at rehearsal. We'd all been given designated slots for practice. Mine had been set for noon and Loring's wasn't until later so it never occurred to me that I might run into either of them.

  Actually, that's a lie. It did occur to me, which is why I'd gone to considerable lengths to avoid an encounter. I looked before I turned every corner, stayed in the hospitality room until the producer told me they were ready for me, kept my eyes to the ground anytime I had to venture down the hall, and all was well until a certain uppity British musician took longer than his allotted time, throwing the whole schedule off.

  It's bad enough when people I know fuck with my life, but when pretentious bass players interfere with my destiny, then I really get pissed.

  What I'm trying to say is if I'd left the theater when I was supposed to, I never would've seen her. But there I was, loitering around the catering with a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips in my hand, waiting for my turn, and here comes Eliza waltzing into the room with Loring hanging all over her. They didn't see me at first, they were too busy talking, and they looked so goddamn intimate I almost coughed a mouthful of food at their feet.

  Doug was behind them, along with some other guy who had a camera in his hands. Doug waved. He was trying to distract me, I'm sure of it, but I couldn't take my eyes off of Eliza. She had this black knitted shawl around her shoulders, and with her chin down and her eyes blinking toward the sky, she looked like a falcon about to spread its wings.

  It was all I could do not to fall on my knees and weep like the bastard she always said I was, and I was a breath away from begging her to run away with me. I can't believe I'm admitting this on tape—I was standing at that table, she hit me with that look of hers, and I swear to God all I wanted to do was grab her hand, press it into my heart and say, “Let's get the hell out of here.” I was even willing to ride the 6 all the way to Houston Street. No kidding, I was going to take the subway to prove my love. And if she said no, I was going to kidnap her until she agreed to stay.

  But then Loring slipped his arm around her waist, she took his hand, and I came to my senses.

  Note to self: The past is gone. Let it go.

  So there I was in the hospitality room, eating my potato chips, my heart breaking all over again, then Doug goes and throws his arm across my shoulder and for a fleeting second I made believe he was my dad. This felt good until I realized it would've made Loring my goddamn brother and Eliza practically my sister-in-law, which put a tragic, Shakespearean spin on the whole fantasy and I dropped it.

  Doug told me I looked well and I announced, more for Eliza's ears than Doug's, that I'd quit smoking. Three weeks without a cigarette. I told them how I've also been running. I could tell Eliza didn't believe a word I was saying.

  Doug wanted to know what song I was going to do. He was still trying to distract me. I answered his question as loud as I could, and the guy holding the camera, a photographer whose name I didn't catch, told me “The Day I Became a Ghost” was one of his all-time favorites.

  “What a coincidence,” I said. “Loring's girlfriend likes that song, too. Don't you, you lying bitch?”

  After that little outburst, Loring left the room, but not before he gave me a look of reigning superiority. Believe me, it was no skin off my back to see the guy go, but the way he was able to hold his head up and play Mr. Innocent really burned me up.

  Loring looked back at Eliza like he expected her to follow him, but she and I were too busy playing a game of war with our eyes.

  Doug cleared his throat and said, “Bonnie Raitt once told me coincidence is God's way of staying anonymous.”

  At that, Eliza let out a pshaw and told Doug she'd see him later. She scurried away. And I don't know what I was thinking but I actually cut my conversation with Doug short so I could follow her.

  Unfortunately, my journey ended in front of a door with Loring's name on it. I stood there for a long time, wanting to knock, but eventually I just walked away. It's too late. My plans have all been made and the last thing I need is Eliza and her dreamy falcon eyes fucking everything up again.

  Part of me feels like I owe it to her to say goodbye, but I also know I'm not strong enough to do it in person.

  Today, when I got back to the theater, I came straight to my designated area. Of cour
se they gave Loring a legitimate dressing room. This hole they've got me in is smaller than my bathroom and looks like a closet where props are stored. There are all these Western costumes hanging on a rack behind me, along with ten-gallon hats, chaps, and holsters with cap guns.

  I put one of the holsters on and tried to see how fast I could draw. Put it this way: I would've made a shitty cowboy.

  I still had the holster on when a stagehand named Rick came in and set me up with a fold-out chair, a bucket of ice, two beers, and a bottle of water.

  “Cool belt,” Rick said. He was being an asshole so I decided to leave it on.

  Did you hear that click? I just locked the door. And I'm not unlocking it until it's my turn to go on because Eliza's somewhere out there and I can't risk running into her again.

  In less than ten minutes, Rick is going to come back to get me, and once I get on stage I think I'll be okay, but right now I'm shaking so hard I can barely stand.

  It's weird—I'm about to perform in front of an audience for what will probably be the last time in my life and I have to say, it seems appropriate, not to mention grimly poetic, that the music that began my career is also the music that's going to end it.

  To take that idea a step further, how about the fact that the man who spawned the sounds that saved my life also spawned The Thief who took it away.

  Holy Hell, there's my knock.

  Over.

  The performers had all been billed according to their popularity. The earlier you went on, the less popular you were. Paul was second on the bill. The guy who went on before Paul was an unknown folk singer married to Lily Blackman's niece.

  Right before Paul took the stage, a guy with lamb-chop sideburns tested the standing mike and pulled a thick, quilted tarp off of a piano.

  I watched Paul as he walked out. He looked absurd, wearing a holster around his waist and a ridiculous orange wool hat, the kind they sell to hunters in the Army-Navy store. The hat was tight-fitting and covered his whole skull, as well as both of his ears. In the front, it was pulled down all the way to his eyebrows. In the back, it reached his neck, and not a speck of his hair was visible. His head looked like the number five billiard ball.