Be Cool

  He was giving Raji his full attention now.

  Raji with Miss Saigon, approaching the Town Car. Raji aiming a remote switch on his key ring to unlock the car, and now Elliot opened the door for Miss Saigon as Raji did his slouch strut around to the other side. Looking this way now, watching them coming along the sidewalk. He would have to be curious, want to know who this guy was in the business suit. He'd have to say something.

  He did, when they were about a half-dozen steps from the car, Raji said, "Hey, Linda? I believe you was off the beat tonight, girl. A little bit out of sync. You know what I'm saying? Like you been out shagging too much, using up all your energy with your puss. That what you been doing, scoring tourists?"

  Chili stopped her before she could say anything, touching her arm. "That was for me. Stay right here, okay? Be cool."

  Feeling her heart beating now, but more fascinated than afraid, she watched Chili approach the Town Car, Elliot a few feet away and the band with their spiked heads and instrument cases off behind him, all watching Chili; Raji, too, waiting until Chili was almost to the car.

  He said, "The man in the suit. Lemme guess. You're in town for a convention."

  Chili shook his head. "No, but if I was, you'd be the man to see. Am I right?"

  Raji frowned just a little, putting it on. "Now why would you say that?"

  "You're either a pimp or a limo driver," Chili said. "The way you're dressed, you must be a pimp."

  Raji stared for a moment, then started to grin as he looked over at Linda. "Who's your friend, Don Rickles? Does standup in the fuckin street?"

  Chili said, "Hey, Raj? Look at me."

  Raji turned to him saying, "Yeah, okay, what?" Like he was going along with a gag, being patient.

  "You wear your shades at night," Chili said, "so I'll think you're cool, but I can't tell if you're looking at me."

  Raji put his glasses down on his nose, down and up. "See? I'm looking the fuck right at you, man. You have something to say to me fuckin say it so we be done here." He glanced down pulling his door open.

  As Chili said, "Raj?"

  "What?"

  "Linda doesn't work for you anymore."

  Raji waited. Finally he said, "This part of the routine? What's the punch line?"

  "That's it," Chili said, "she's quit the Chicks."

  Raji took his time now to look around, first at Elliot. "You believe this man?" Then at Linda. "You tell him you have a five-year contract with me?"

  Linda kept quiet.

  Chili said, "I just cancelled it."

  Linda's eyes held on Raji, his head and shoulders over there on the other side of the car, Raji staring at Chili, lowering his shades then to squint at him.

  "Man, you come walking out of the fuckin dark—I don't even know who you suppose to be."

  "The one setting you straight," Chili said, "Linda's new manager."

  HE HAD AN IDEA what was coming and got ready, turned his back on Raji and motioned to Linda to come on. As she reached him he heard Raji.

  "My man Elliot."

  Now he'd be motioning to Elliot to stop them and the Samoan would step up—yeah, Linda all eyes now looking past him. Chili turned and there was Elliot the human door blocking their way: six-five or so up close and maybe two-sixty. Not bad-looking, hair clean and shining, the do-rag a blue bandana—the guy maybe only part Samoan, Chili seeing African in his features, his skin a pale tan shade, his eyes holding but not looking especially mean, a little sleepy if anything, like some kind of downer having its mellow effect. Chili heard Raji again, behind him:

  "Elliot, my man, what I like you to do . . ."

  But now Chili, looking up at Elliot, started to grin. He said, "You're in pictures, aren't you? I'm pretty sure I saw you in something. The trouble is I see so many of the new releases, almost every day in the screening room . . . I'm sorry, I'm Chili Palmer, I did Get Leo? Out at Tower Studios. And you're Elliot, uh?" Chili cocked his head to one side to study the man, staring into his deepset eyes, smelling his cologne, Chili nodding then, getting a thoughtful tone in his voice as he said, "It's amazing how you never know where you might run into a particular look you want. I drive casting directors crazy, go through a thousand photographs, no luck, and then see a guy on the street who fits the part down to his toes." He watched Elliot lower his gaze and look down. "I say to myself, 'There he is. But can he act?' " Elliot's face came up and he raised his right eyebrow. Chili nodded, still thoughtful. He said, "Listen, why don't you give me a call at Tower, okay? Anytime."

  He heard Raji's voice again as he walked off with Linda, Raji putting a little more into it:

  "Elliot, goddamn it!"

  But there was no rush of steps coming after them. Elliot would be talking to Raji now, explaining, telling him that was the guy did Get Leo. They didn't look back, but did hear Raji again, calling:

  "Linda, you better talk to me, girl, you think you can walk out on me."

  But it was what they did, walked down the block toward Paramount and around the corner.

  THEY WERE in Chili's Mercedes, seated in the dark, before she said, "When did you become my manager?"

  He had his hand on the key to start the car, but then sat back. "It wasn't like I planned it. Raji goes—he didn't ask who I am. He said he didn't know who I was suppose to be. You hear him? It was like at that moment the idea came to me and I thought, Why not."

  "I have anything to say about it?"

  "You can fire me anytime you want. But you need somebody to take care of business, don't you?"

  "I need somebody who knows the business."

  "I have a hunch," Chili said, "there aren't any rules to speak of. You go for whatever you can get away with, threaten a couple of times to walk out and see if they'll throw in some perks. Am I close?"

  "I'm tired and I'd like to go home," Linda said. "It's on Queens Road above Sunset."

  "You know who you sound like? Doris Day giving Rock Hudson a hard time."

  "Thanks a lot."

  "Doris always got her way, didn't she? I could never understand that."

  "Why?"

  "I don't think she ever put out."

  "She did," Linda said, "but they couldn't show it back in those days. Doris had a certain cute look that meant she was gonna get laid."

  "You think so?"

  "I'm positive."

  Chili started the car thinking about it, trying to recall a certain cute look Doris used. As they were driving away he said, "You see Elliot raise his eyebrow? Now if he can make that muscle twitch in his jaw . . ."

  "Vita says he's from Compton. She told me he's part Samoan and part colored—I mean African-American. She doesn't use the word colored. And he's gay."

  "A gay bodyguard?"

  "Vita says he did time in prison, in Hawaii, and found out he likes guys."

  "I think you'd know," Chili said, "before you get sent up. What was he convicted of?"

  "She didn't say."

  "You know his full name?"

  "Elliot Wilhelm."

  "Come on—that's Samoan?"

  "Vita said he made it up, so he'd sound like a movie star."

  It gave Chili something else to wonder about driving up La Cienega, hardly any traffic this late. He didn't reach any conclusions, so he said to Linda, "You write your own music?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Is it any good?"

  "What do you think I'm gonna say, it sucks? It's better than good, it's real, it's pure."

  He wasn't sure if he liked the sound of pure, but left it alone. "Then what happened to your band?"

  "They went to Austin."

  "You were playing in L.A.?"

  "All over—this was up till last year—we even had a record deal. This A&R guy with a bad ponytail heard us and we signed with his label, Artistry, to do an album. You have to understand," Linda said, "record company execs don't know shit about music. They tell you they rely on their instinct. Or they say the song has to grab 'em by the ass. They can list
en to a demo and tell right away if they can break it. I thought, well, if they think they can sell my style . . . I was optimistic, why not? But then we get to the recording session, we find out Artistry's given us a producer and the guy wants to lay in samples, more drums, brass, even strings on a couple of songs. I don't mean live music, it's from a computer, but it's like we have an orchestra behind us."

  Chili said, "What's wrong with that?"

  He glanced over to see her giving him a cold look.

  She said, "My band is called Odessa," in a quiet tone of voice. "There're three of us, that's all, we're not an orchestra. I play a metal guitar and sing. Dale plays bass, and I think he's right up there with Flea of the Chili Peppers, only Dale keeps his clothes on. Speedy's on drums, two of 'em and two cymbals, a crash and a high hat, all he needs, and he uses marching sticks. Our style is bare-bones, straight-ahead American rock 'n' roll, three chords but no scream or anything pretentious, like hair. It's metal with a twang, and if you can't imagine that think of AC/DC meets Patsy Cline. A critic said that about us one time."

  Chili said, "Oh," nodding.

  "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

  "I got some of it. But you didn't finish the story. You signed with Artistry Records . . ."

  "And when they tried to mess with our style we gave 'em back the advance and walked out."

  "What was the advance?"

  "A hundred and fifty thousand."

  "You gave it back? You couldn't work something out with the label?"

  "If you knew the business you wouldn't ask a question like that."

  "I know money," Chili said, "and that's what we're talking about."

  Both were quiet until they were driving east on Sunset and Linda said she lived with a friend.

  Oh?

  Carla, from back home. She was on location the next couple of months in Puerto Rico; they were shooting a picture set in Cuba a hundred years ago and Carla was doing continuity. Linda mentioned some of the pictures Carla had worked on and Chili listened, the mood in the car telling him he was still Linda Moon's manager.

  They turned off Sunset onto Queens Road, came to a driveway in the 1500 block and Linda said, "I can get out here's cool." He stopped just past the drive that was like a narrow street, Linda saying there were three houses in there. "I live in the last one, up a hill. You can see L.A. from the yard, almost all of it, Los Angeles, California."

  Linda sounding in that moment happy to be here.

  He wasn't going to argue with her. If she wanted to get out and walk, fine. But she didn't get out. They sat there in the dark, Chili patient, letting her get what she was going to say straight in her mind. He imagined reaching over to brush her hair back and touch her face.

  When she turned to look at him she said, "I don't have time to wait around."

  Chili nodded, "I understand that."

  "I don't think you do. You're using me to look for a movie idea, but what you're doing, you're messing around with my life, who I am and what I do. You say you're my manager, yeah, why not? You do it on a whim, nothing to lose."

  He started to smile.

  And she said, "You think it's funny?"

  "Nothing To Lose," Chili said, "NTL Records," and waited to see if she'd catch on. Yeah, she knew, looking at him now.

  "The guy who was shot today at Swingers," Linda said. "It was on the news, Tommy Athens, NTL Records, with his picture. What about it?"

  "I was there," Chili said, watching to get her reaction, "having lunch with him."

  What she did, she stared at him and said, "Wow," barely moving her mouth, and then paused, but only for a moment. "You want to use it, don't you?"

  Chili said, "You know what I did after?"

  "I imagine the police came . . ."

  "After that. I went home and listened to the tape of our phone conversation. I told you I taped it?"

  "No, you didn't."

  "I wanted to hear your voice again, the part where you're talking about music, your attitude coming through. You know why? I wondered, what if the girl from the dating service was sitting there with Tommy, talking about a record deal? Open the picture with it. A record exec gets whacked while he's eating his grilled pesto chicken. It's believable because it happened. It's real life."

  He watched her thinking about it, nodding her head. Then surprised him saying, "What if the girl from the dating service is the waitress?"

  "She quit her job?"

  "She was fired," Linda said, "for taking personal calls. She did leave a group she was with because of a guy she just met, and now she has to wait tables. I mean if you want real life. Or how about this, if you want to get real about the record business. She's the one who shoots Tommy Athens. She signed with him and he screws her out of every dollar she makes. Revenge of the Artist. That's the title."

  Now Chili was nodding.

  "That's not bad, but I think it's more an idea for TV."

  AS SOON AS he got home he looked up Hy Gordon's number and called him. Hy said, "You know what time it is? I'm in bed, asleep."

  "I just want to ask you something. In a contract with a record company there's a clause, I think it says if a member of a group is fired or leaves for any reason, the label can cancel the contract."

  "Yeah? What about it?"

  "What's the clause?"

  "That's it, what you said. It's the 'leaving member' provision. It protects the label if the headliner of a group walks out. Mick leaves the Stones. Are they still the Stones? That's not a good example, any one of those guys can make it on his own, but you know what I mean. The label covers its ass by having the provision apply to any member of the group. Also, listen to this, the label has the option, after they cancel the contract, of signing the one that left."

  "You've seen it happen?"

  "Thirty-eight years in the business," Hy said, "with three different labels before I worked with you on those pictures, I've seen everything. I also signed some of the major artists you've heard over the years."

  "Yeah? Who're some of 'em?"

  "Groups, solo artists . . . in pop, R&B, disco in the late seventies. I was never into country much."

  "Yeah?"

  "What else you want to know?"

  "That's it. But I got a group I want you to hear, get your reaction. They're called Odessa, straight-ahead rock with a twang. I'm their new manager."

  "Get outta here."

  "Remember Linda with the International Chicks? The white one you liked? She's the singer. A very cool girl, Hy, smart, knows what she wants."

  "You manage a broad, you know what happens? You get her a gig she calls you at four in the morning: 'I don't know whether to go with the ankle straps or the platforms.' You heard the group play?"

  "Not yet."

  "Like you love the script you're gonna shoot and one of these days you'll read it." Hy said, "Stick to movies, kid," and hung up.

  Chili thought about the "leaving member" clause as he took off the suit he'd been wearing all day and hung it in the closet. Okay, Linda gets her band together and they cut a demo, if they don't have one already, and he picks up the tab. Pays to get her two guys back here, if he has to. Like pre-production expenses on a picture, except he'd be using his own money. It gave him pause, thinking about it again, but he'd told Linda he would and he'd stick to his word. Okay, he'd take the demo to Artistry, where he had a foot in the door on account of the option: they can sign Linda, no hassle, if they want. All he'd have to do is sell her. Call Hy in the morning and find out how record deals work. Also who to see at Artistry. They were big. Or maybe try a small label. That was Linda's idea. He thought of NTL and wondered what would happen to it now, without Tommy. One more thing to do before going to bed, check his messages.

  He pressed the button on the recorder and a woman's voice came on: quiet, solemn, in the dark room full of furniture.

  "Hi, Chil, it's Edie Athens. Bummer, huh, what happened to poor Tommy? Were you there? I know he was meeting you but you we
ren't mentioned on the news. I guess you'd either left or hadn't gotten there yet. Boy, what a day, the police were here. Then I had to identify the body. God . . . Anyway, hon, call me tomorrow when you get a chance, okay? I don't see why, you know, with a few changes we can't still do the movie."

  6

  * * *

  LINDA HAD RYE TOAST and a Coke for breakfast but didn't finish either one. The last thing he said to her in the car was, "Get your band together and let's do it." He said, "I won't let you down, I promise." His confidence must've been catching because it gave her a good feeling, sitting there in the dark, and she said all right she would, she'd call them first thing in the morning.

  But now, getting Dale and Speedy back looked a lot different than it did last night. Maybe she was thinking about it too much instead of just making the call.

  Guess what? We have a manager. Yeah? He's a film producer. Oh? A big film producer, he did Get Leo. Is that right? Or they might say, So what? Not Dale, but Speedy might.

  She took the phone with her outside to think about it and look at the view, what she liked best about living here. The house itself was kind of a dump, a wood-shingled bungalow snuggled into the hillside among old trees she couldn't name, having come from the oil fields of West Texas. Same with the shrubs growing wild, big leafy bushes she knew for a fact wasn't mesquite, but couldn't put a name to them if she tried. Walk out to the front of the yard, where it dropped off in a steep slope, and there was Los Angeles California as far as the eye could see, what seemed all of it, a panorama laid out before a house that needed paint, a new roof and a man with a machete to thin out the growth. At night the view was even more amazing in its expanse, its million pinpoints of light down there forming lines and patterns. Back home you looked out at flat scrubland to the horizon, pumpjacks instead of trees, and sky, more sky out there than anything. What she thought of as night in Odessa was the memory of gas flares in the dark when she was a little girl, fire shooting into the sky burning off natural gas. Oil was everybody's reason for being there, until the Arabs dropped their prices and the Odessa boom went to hell. Her dad, J. D. Lingeman, had sold equipment during the boom years—downhole drilling tools and reamers, drill collars, that kind of thing—and always had a few horses on the lot. The one he rode was a dun mare named Moon. Her dad still had the business, but spent more time with his horses now, buying and selling. Her mom, Luwayne, was an assistant manager at Texas Bank. Her two older sisters were married and lived in Midland, fifteen miles away. There was a saying that people went to Midland to raise a family and to Odessa to raise hell: the Odessa during oil booms when it was home to wildcatters and roughnecks, smoky bars and gunfire in the night. The Christmas she was home a few years ago and told everybody she'd changed her name from Linda Lingeman to Linda Moon, they thought she'd wigged, naming herself after a horse; but that wasn't how she came to pick the name. She said to her sisters, "You changed your names, didn't you?" Her sisters were still Baptist and had families. Her dad said, "Sis, I should never've bought you your first guitar." She told him, "You didn't, Daddy, you bought me my second guitar, the good one." Dale had given her a beatup Yamaha as her first one and taught her to play, their second year at Permian High.