Revenant Rising Read online

  “I expect he’ll rebrand quite well,” the publicist concludes.

  “Without knowing precisely why, I get the distinct feeling you’re attempting to reintroduce a brand of soup after a salmonella scare.” Laurel Chandler targets the publicist.

  “It was botulism.” Nate targets Laurel Chandler.

  “Immaterial. Mr. Elliot has been objectified and further insulted by suggesting that he is tainted in some way and can only be made marketable again by repackaging with a new and flashier label,” Laurel Chandler shoots back.

  Amanda Hobbs bobs her head in agreement, and David looks on approvingly, even though his actions might say otherwise.

  “Thank you, Laurel,” David says and confiscates the pen she was drumming on the table for emphasis.

  “Yes, thank you, Ms. Chandler,” Nate says. “Your objection is duly noted, but what you haven’t taken into consideration is the limitation imposed by—”

  “By ‘limitation’ you’d bloody well better be referring to my current status as a one-man band.” Colin comes half out of his chair.

  “I’m sure he is, Colin.” David makes a placating gesture with the hand holding Laurel Chandler’s pen. “I’m sure Nate means that you’re now classified as a solo act . . . I wouldn’t call that a limitation, however. Certainly not in your instance.”

  David’s cordial reproof sets off a buzz that increases when Colin comes all the way out of his chair and moves to the head of the table where he positions himself behind Nate. His first inclination is to speak as fast as possible, as though his remarks have a time limit and he’ll be played offstage if he exceeds that limit. He swallows a grin and excuses the momentary flashback brought on by the need to confront yet another set of organizers with no apparent faith in his ability to perform.

  He waits for the pin-drop silence he would have enjoyed at the Icon gig; he leans lightly against the high back of Nate’s chair till he has it. Then it’s gasping he gets when he confounds expectations—as Nate did yesterday—by stating his intention to go along with the recommendations that were topic one on today’s agenda. He agrees to go along—on his terms—with addressing issues he didn’t consider important enough to bother with till now.

  “Most of you know that a cottage industry of conjecture and speculation sprang up in the wake of the November 1984 occurrence that left me a widower,” he says for benefit of any who don’t. “Many of you are aware of gossip to the effect that I was left as something of a mechanized vegetable result of injuries suffered in the same motoring accident that took my wife’s life,” he says without looking directly at the one person he’ll wager is unaware. “The related subject of my youngest son, Simon, and how he survived this ordeal is also the subject of endless speculation. Some say he’s been whispered about almost as much as I have.

  “Because it’s long been my policy not to grant interviews, I’ve never enjoyed a good relationship with the press. That relationship was made worse when those acting in my best interest issued only the most general of statements following my wife’s death, my incapacitation, and the reclaiming of my newborn son.

  “My manager, Nate Isaacs, whose efforts saved my life at the time of the accident, also preserved the privacy so necessary to my lengthy and complete recovery and to my family’s needs when dealing with a challenged infant. I shall forever be in Nate’s debt for holding everything together—in every respect. Nothing will ever change that, but what will change—what must be changed—is the overprotective nursemaid mentality that developed during the bad patch.

  “Unfortunately that mentality is still with us today and Nate is not the only one maintaining it. Many of you are infected with it to the extent you’re unable to see me as a viable full-functioning entity. And you’ve additionally been hampered by my continued refusal to grant interviews or issue detailed statements regarding my condition, so that will change as well. With a certain amount of help and cooperation, I will get out of my own way.”

  Another buzz accompanies this announcement followed by more pin-drop silence when he begins stating the conditions under which he’ll grant his first-ever interview.

  “. . . and I’ll want questions submitted in advance and vetted by a representative who will, in effect, become my interviewer. This representative will be supplied adequate background to enable objective comment on the advisability of any given answer. Upon my final approval, the results will be submitted to an appropriate vehicle for publication.”

  Of those whose faces he can see, David Sebastian is the most attentive, followed closely by Amanda Hobbs. Laurel Chandler is a distant third; her attention is divided between him and whatever she’s writing on a legal pad with the pen recovered from David.

  Nate, for being seated in front of him, cannot be assessed other than by his unbowed head. The others—the seat-fillers—don’t appear to be holding their collective breaths; they may already realize there won’t be a new team. Not this one, at any rate.

  Without knowing for dead certain how many birds he’s killing with the one stone, Colin delivers the clincher: “I’m requesting that Laurel Chandler represent me in this matter. It’s my distinct impression she’ll bring fresh perspective and as little bias as possible to the undertaking. I believe a potential publisher would see that as a plus, actually. Another plus—Ms. Chandler also appears quite capable of authoring the interview herself. I see by her CV she’s been published three times over.”

  He steps back to show he’s finished and Nate comes to his feet proclaiming that he himself could not have come up with a better idea.

  “You know,” David chimes in, “that could work out very nicely. You might even want to expand on it, go for an authorized biography.”

  “We’re on the same page, no pun intended.” Nate jumps fully onto the bandwagon. “That’s what I was thinking—guaranteed best-seller, especially as coming from an impartial point of view.”

  They all turn to Laurel Chandler, who has yet to deny that she didn’t know who he was before yesterday, and has not yet said yes or no to the request. She has eyes only for David Sebastian at the moment, and whatever passes between the two of them is impossible for others to read.

  Colin literally holds his breath till she turns his way and asks when he would like to get started.

  THIRTEEN

  Noon, April 1, 1987

  Laurel watches the conference gradually disintegrate in the wake of Colin Elliot’s request. The scorned repackagers are among the first to leave followed by the unclassified personnel who don’t look that sure of themselves either. David disappears with the client’s manager and his retinue, and the client drifts away after thanking Laurel for her compliance and asking for a three o’clock meeting today, a request she also grants. For again having given in too easily, the need to unload on David becomes acute.

  By running up a flight of fire stairs and ignoring the protests of his watchdog assistant, she’s able to be waiting in the muted elegance of David’s private office when he arrives.

  “What was that, an April Fool’s joke?” she demands the minute he walks in.

  “I assure you that was no joke.” He settles into a tufted-leather chair behind a broad expanse of rosewood desktop and indicates that she can take one of the guest chairs. “You have ten minutes,” he warns.

  She remains standing. “You don’t see what’s prankish and downright laughable about my being compelled by the senior partner to impersonate Barbara Walters—no, make that Kitty Kelly—and kowtow to a demanding client? You don’t think that’s funny? Sick-funny? No, I suppose you wouldn’t, not after all the planning that must have gone into it.” She paces the width of his desk and back while David mulls that over. She waggles a finger at him as she labels the maneuver a setup and charges the client with being scripted. “No one speaks that well off the cuff,” she continues, “especially not a member of the music industry. And don’t try telling me you weren’t complicit in the—”

  “That will do, Laurel. You’re
being ridiculous. There was no setup per se. You saw my surprise, you saw Nate Isaacs’s surprise, and you should have been willing to see that not all rock stars are incoherent.”

  “Very well, that may be, but did you see the way he looked me over?”

  “Who? Elliot? Who doesn’t look you over? If it bothers you so much, put a bag over your head, resort to something even baggier than that suit you’re wearing.”

  “Believe me, I will if I have to. If this client thinks I’ll ever be more than his official biographer, he’s sadly mistaken. And I’ll bet you right now that when he finds out I play by the rules, this book proposal will be in the toilet.”

  “You’re on. Lunch at Les Panisse if he doesn’t see the project through despite your ironclad rules.”

  “Are you suggesting the rules shouldn’t apply?”

  “Nothing of the sort. If I’m suggesting anything it’s that you might be quicker to end the arrangement than he.”

  “I see.”

  “I sincerely hope you do. Now, if you’re finished venting, I recommend you have your able assistant supply some background material on Elliot. Have her set up something with his record label—I’m given to understand she’ll know who to contact—and provide you with a frame of reference . . . a basis on which to build.”

  “No, that’s precisely what I don’t want. One of the few things about this proposal I do agree with is my ability to remain objective.”

  “Don’t make me laugh. Viewing rock stars as interested in only one thing and incapable of extemporaneous speech makes you objective, does it?” David does laugh—a humorless, dismissive laugh. “If you continue in that vein I doubt Amanda’s input would make much of a dent in your perceptions. I might even begin to wonder if Colin’s input would have any effect, if I didn’t know what he is capable of.”

  Laurel extends the path of her pacing to a set of windows with a view St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Did David just imply that the client has the ability to convert her bias? Is that what this is about? If this is in fact a setup, is it designed to bring her on board as an enthusiastic addition to David’s new endeavor?

  She moves back into his sphere, dissembles to the effect that she’ll make every effort to set aside preconceived notions for the duration and accept Amanda’s input if deemed necessary. “But I’m hoping that won’t be the case. This subject is alive, after all, so I don’t see myself having to conduct endless interviews and weigh judgments and impressions as I’ve had to do in the past.”

  “That only stands to reason . . . within reason,” David says.

  “I am a little curious about the manager, though. What’s his name? Nate Isaacs? I was watching him when you beat him to the punch about expanding an interview into a biography and he definitely flinched.”

  “You don’t say? That’s not like Nate. Interesting . . . Goes along with what I said yesterday about him not being on top of his game lately.”

  “Oh, right. I remember now. He’s the one you were bashing for—”

  “I was merely faulting him for allowing the insult to his client by the Institute Awards organizers and for so jealously guarding his client’s privacy when it seems counterproductive.”

  “Wait a minute. Didn’t I just hear the client hold himself responsible for the prolonged news blackout? Maybe you ought to lighten up on Isaacs if he’s only following orders.”

  “Maybe I would if I weren’t in total agreement with Elliot that Isaacs’s present management technique is smothering, to say the least.”

  David taps the face of his watch, his standard way of terminating an unscheduled exchange. “Give this a chance, Laurel. Give him a chance. If you do, I think you’ll find Elliot conversant on a wide range of subjects. You may even find you have interests in common.”

  “That is way beyond the realm of possibility, David. I’ve accepted an assignment, not an assignation.”

  Laurel returns by elevator to the lower floor and her own office suite. The accommodations are not as grandiose as David’s new layout, but they are a little over the top for a provisional partner—her own designation.

  She goes easier on Amanda than she did David. She waits until an hour’s worth of routine matters have been addressed before drilling her assistant for whatever else might be learned about the sudden turn of events.

  Amanda professes no foreknowledge when called into the inner office. “I didn’t have a clue,” she swears from the generously proportioned client chair that dwarfs her small frame. “All I knew about ahead of time is that I was slated to meet Colin Elliot in the flesh and sit in on the conference as your associate, that’s all, so if there was a hidden agenda I sure didn’t hear about it, and even if I had I’m not sure I’d have known what to make of it. Who are you accusing of a setup, anyway? David Sebastian or the Colin Elliot camp? And why are you asking me?”

  “Because yesterday David proclaimed you the go-to about anything music industry-related.”

  “He what?”

  “Quoting David, word has it that you’re the resident expert on anything that’s happening on the music scene. This naturally came as news to me because I’ve only known you for five years—or is it six?—without having any idea you had this . . . this unheralded expertise.”

  “Knowing the way you feel about the music industry, I never said anything about my interest in the pop music scene for obvious reasons. I didn’t want to be—what’s the word I want?”

  “Tainted?”

  “No, diminished. That’s it. I didn’t want to be diminished by this interest. And that’s all it is, and just so you know, it doesn’t depend on any particular expertise, heralded or otherwise.”

  “Does this mean you’re a groupie?”

  “Heavens no, I’m definitely not in that category, but I did almost pee my pants when I first met Colin Elliot this morning and he turned out to be the super-hunkiest thing ever and the nicest thing ever when he bothered to talk to me and walk with me and everything.” Amanda’s hazel eyes take on extra shine and her naturally rosy cheeks take on extra color.

  “Like hell you’re not a groupie. Just look at you blush,” Laurel teases.

  “Well . . . maybe a little bit,” Amanda concedes with a grin that tables the topic for the time being.

  A topic with fewer potential thorns is how to handle the moderate workload that will need channeling elsewhere if Laurel expects to devote full time to the chronicling of a rock star’s life.

  “Shift whatever you can to the junior associates,” she instructs Amanda. “It’s not as though I’m surrendering my own clients, they were all assigned, and the shift won’t be for that long. I should be finished with the special assignment by Easter.”

  “Are you crazy?” Amanda looks up from her steno pad and rolls her eyes in alarm. “Easter’s less than three weeks from now and they want an entire book, you know. They’re talking about a whole biography, not just some slapdash interview. You can’t put something like that together in three weeks—no way—not even if I help with the writing as well as the transcribing and organizing.”

  “For lord’s sake, Amanda, do try to remember that the subject is not Jefferson or Lincoln or some multifaceted world figure like Gandhi or Churchill. The subject is a musician who’s suffered some bad luck. Other than for the bad luck, how much can there be to write about? He can’t be more than thirty-five, he hasn’t lived even half his life yet.”

  “He’s thirty-seven,” Amanda huffs, “and if you’d get off your high horse for a minute you’d find out—”

  “Save it, David’s already preached that sermon.”

  “Okay. Fine. Just give him a chance, okay?”

  “That’s already been agreed to. And while we’re at it, I’ll take all the help I can get with the transcribing and organizing of notes, but I’ll do the writing myself. That clear?”

  “Perfectly. And I’ll try not butt in again unless you decide to expand on the pamphlet format you have in mind.”

  If overhear
d their exchange would sound more biting than it really was, with Amanda taking the lion’s share of criticism for challenging her employer. But ever thus it has been and shall remain as far as Laurel is concerned. Amanda wouldn’t have been recruited to make the move uptown if she didn’t function as a lot more than a remarkably astute paralegal.

  “Quick question,” Laurel says when the sting has left the air.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “How did you happen to be designated resident expert on the music scene?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “I’m not, David is, and I’m naturally curious about how he arrived at that determination.”

  “A week or two ago . . . It was in the break room, with everyone yammering away, that I tuned in on some really mean-spirited criticism of Rayce Vaughn—he’s the rock superstar that just signed on as David Sebastian’s first—”

  “I know who he is. Recently out of rehab, I believe.”

  “Yes and that was the issue this critic was attacking, predicting how soon Vaughn would revert to his so-called depraved ways and how stupid Mr. Sebastian would look for having placed faith in him and I couldn’t sit still for that, I had to speak up.”

  “I see . . . and?”

  “In defending Vaughn I cited the many rock legends who have survived themselves—survived drug and alcohol abuse—and gone on to greater glory.” Amanda rattles off a few of these survivor names, some recognizable, some not. “But I didn’t stop there, I named lesser-knowns and entire bands that got clean and sober, and really put this negative old biddy in her place—not unlike you did the idiot publicists this morning.”

  “Beside the point. Go on, please. I’m still waiting to hear how David got wind of this.”

  “Because, as it turned out, the negative old biddy was his executive assistant and she saw to it the new kid on the block got called on the carpet for knowing too much about the wrong thing.”