A Song For Julia Part 30

"Security, Crank. Ever since last year," I answered. Had he been living under a rock since September 11? I'd dropped him off at home after dinner and told him I'd be back at four A.M. to pick him up.

When I got there, in not the best neighborhood in the world, he was still asleep. I pounded on the warehouse door, but they couldn't hear from all the way upstairs, so I started methodically calling him, then when he didn't answer, Serena.

She picked up on the first ring.

"What is it?"

"It's Julia. I'm supposed to be picking up Crank for a flight to LA. Where is he? Sorry to wake you."

Ten very long minutes later, Crank showed up at the door, dragging a backpack. "Sorry, babe," he said.

"Don't call me babe," I replied. "We're late. Get in."

He gave me a not very friendly look, and we were on our way.

At the airport, we checked in and headed for the security gates. Neither of us checked any bags, since it was a one-day trip. It was going to be a long one. In the security line, I took off my shoes, got my laptop out of my bag and put my coat in another box. Then had to stop and show Crank what to do.

"Haven't you flown before?" I asked.

"No," he said. "What's with the shoes?"

"Um ... shoe bomber? Pled guilty last month? It was in the news."

"Yeah, I heard about that. What the heck is up with that? Lighting your shoes on fire?"

We made it through security and finally got to the gate, with about twenty minutes to spare before boarding. "Watch our bags?" I asked and went to find coffee. A few minutes later, I was back with two large, steaming cups of Dunkin' Donuts coffee.

"Oh, G.o.d," he said. "You've answered my prayers. I've been sitting here checking out everybody's shoes."

He said that with a straight face. I sighed, sat down next to him, and said, "Sorry I was so ... cranky."

He snickered at my awkwardness and said, "It's all right. Sorry I didn't wake up. I slept right through the alarm. This is the time I normally go to bed."

A few minutes later, we boarded the flight. I didn't usually fly first cla.s.s, unless I was traveling with the whole family, so this was nice. Crank and I had big, comfortable seats right next to each other in the second row of the plane. Of course, we'd be paying through the nose for that, and if we didn't get a contract out of it, there would be a very real problem. I didn't want to think of what my father would say when he saw the bill for these tickets. But sometimes you have to take a chance. This was one of them.

Crank was like a kid who had just discovered candy for the first time. First, he played with the seat belts, then the lights and air conditioning nozzles. Next, he slid the plastic window shade up and pressed his face up against the window, looking out into the darkness at the other planes.

The seatbelt sign came on, and a few moments later, the plane started moving. The first cla.s.s attendant stood, just a couple of feet away since we were in the very front, and began giving the safety briefing. Crank dutifully opened the airline safety instructions and followed along. I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat.

A moment later, he poked me in the side. I opened one eye and looked at him. He had a concerned expression on his face.

"What?" I asked.

"It's the safety briefing. This is important."

"Leave me alone. I've sat through five hundred of these."

The expression on his face was almost comical. And it was also the mirror of concerned expressions his father occasionally gave both Sean and Crank. It was cute and endearing, and at five o'clock in the morning, d.a.m.n irritating. I closed my eyes again, but I could feel myself smile just a little.

Shortly after, we were in the air. Crank spent the whole time fidgeting and looking out the window. I spent the whole time yawning. Finally, we reached alt.i.tude, and they turned out the cabin lights, and I said, "I'm going to sleep."

He looked at me like I was crazy. But if you flew as often as I had, one flight pretty much looked like another. I shoved the arms in between our seats up, then lay down, leaning against him, and went to sleep.

Four hours later, we were in Los Angeles.

It's always a little disorienting going from one climate to another. For weeks in Boston, it had been dim, cold, and the light grey and attenuated. I'd never been in LA, but the moment we got off the plane, I knew I was going to love it. Late November, and the sun was s.h.i.+ning, and it was bright outside. Crank and I made a beeline for a coffee stand, then out the security gate.

As soon as we were through security, I saw our driver, a man holding up a sign with my name on it. We waved and headed over.

"Do you need to pick up luggage?" he asked.

"No," I replied, "we just had carry-ons."

Twenty minutes later, we were clear of LAX and headed into the city. In the car, I reached in my purse and took out my heels and swapped them for the flip-flops I'd been wearing on the flight.

"This is crazy," Crank said. "I can't believe we're doing this."

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "It's your music that earned it," I said.

"So what's the plan?"

"I want you to be charming and friendly. Don't say yes to anything. You're the good cop. You be nice and accommodating and make friends. I'll cut the deal. Does that work?"

He chuckled. "All right. You don't trust my negotiating ability?"

"It's not that at all. You hired me for this. Plus, this way you get to make friends with people you need to be friends with. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," he replied. He looked out the window, and then looked back and said, "Julia? Thanks."

Ten minutes later, the driver said, "Here we are. Seventh floor. Suite 720. We're a little early, so let the receptionist know you're here, and they'll take it from there. And good luck."

I smiled at the driver, and we got out.

Crank stopped outside the door of the building. Traffic rolled by in the street in front of us, and pedestrians were crowding by us.

"We're early. I need a smoke." He lit up and started pacing, his long legs taking him back and forth with nervous strides. After a minute, he turned around, and said, "What if this doesn't pan out? What about all the money you just spent?"

"I don't know," I said. "My dad will have a heart attack, that's for sure."

"You took that big of a risk for me?" he said.

I took a breath then shook my head. "No."

He took a drag off his cigarette. "I don't understand."

I bit my lip, looked at the ground, and said, "It's like this. Who do you think picked the piano for me when I was two?"

"Your mother?"

I nodded. "Yeah ... and I'm not ungrateful. They wanted to expose me to music, so they put me in Suzuki lessons. And I'm glad they did. Now ... every three years of my life, we moved. Not to a new neighborhood ... not to a new state. To a new country. Before I was eighteen, I'd lived in China, Belgium, Indonesia, j.a.pan and France. You know how much input I had in that?"

He shrugged. "None," he replied.

I nodded. "And ... how do you think I ended up at Harvard?"

He grimaced. "Your parents."

"Yeah. And you saw them last night." In a bitter tone, I mocked the words from my father. "'Julia, you've always wanted to go into the Foreign Service.' They don't even see me. They don't know what I want, or who I am, or what I want out of life."

He stopped pacing, checked his watch, and lit another cigarette. "What do you want?"

"I have no idea!" I said. "I've never had a chance to figure that out. So ... I took this risk for me. Because maybe I need to find out what I want to do. Maybe I want to do something completely different. But unless I try, I'll never know."

"I can understand that," he said. "I had to go my own way. My dad and granddad were both cops. I'm sure they wanted me to do that, too."

"So ... that's why I did it. Because maybe instead of going into the Foreign Service and living the rest of my life lonely, moving to a new country every three years, maybe I can ground myself in something that I enjoy. Something that matters to me."

"Like music," he said.

"Yeah. Like music. I'll never be a musician, but I bet I can be a h.e.l.l of a band manager."

He grinned. "You've already proved that."

I snorted. "Don't count your chickens before they hatch, Crank. We might leave LA with nothing at all."

He nodded. "Yeah. But we'll give it our best. Let's go."

I want you guys (Crank) So we walked to the elevators, me slightly behind her, so I could look at her b.u.t.t as she walked. I never said I wasn't a bit of a pig ... or maybe a lot. But some things you just have to appreciate. And Julia, even in a business-like skirt and jacket, is just too hot not to look at.

I winked at her as we stepped in the elevator. She looked puzzled, but that was fine. A little mystery never hurts. But the second the elevator door closed, I stepped close and looked her in the eyes.

"I need a kiss. From you. For luck. Now."

Her eyes widened, and she flushed a little. That was all the permission I needed. I pulled her close and leaned in, our lips touching, just lightly. Her tongue brushed against my teeth, and then our whole bodies were touching, and I felt alive, drunk with sensation.

The elevator bell rang, and I stepped back. Her eyes were dilated, her face flushed, and I desperately wanted her back in my arms. But the doors opened, and we stepped out of the elevator, and there were the gla.s.s doors with the logo for White Dog Records painted on the door.

I had to stop for a second and just breathe. My throat was tightening up. I was about to walk into the offices of one of the hottest record studios in the country. And meet with Allen Roark, who was one of my freaking heroes. Not to mention the head of the studio. My heart was thumping, and I had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. Most of the last five years I spent hanging out in the Pit, couch surfing, flipping burgers. And playing guitar until the tips of my fingers sometimes bled. I'd played in bars and clubs; I'd played in abandoned houses and warehouses. One time, we played in a freaking barn, and it was so cold my strings kept busting and going out of tune, and my fingers were too stiff to do any solos.

I could do this.

"Come on," Julia said. I think she realized what was going through my head right then, but she took my arm and pulled me forward. So we walked in the door, and she introduced herself to the receptionist, and we sat down and waited while I looked around.

The office was smaller than I would have expected. But on the walls around us were some of the bands I pretty much idolized. Alb.u.m covers, autographed photos, an entire wall covered in awards. It was taking everything I had to not be intimidated. We didn't have to wait long. About three minutes after we arrived, a guy came out of the back. He was obese, probably three hundred pounds, his suit sagging as if he'd once been quite a bit larger. His hair was thinning, face red, as if he drank too much. I'd seen that look on plenty of people over the years.

Julia leaned close to me and spoke, her voice a whisper. "That's Boris Dombrovski, he's the president of the label. Come on."

She stood, and I did too, my knees feeling weak.

Julia gave him a broad, professional looking smile. "Mr. Dombrovski? I'm Julia Thompson, and this is Crank Wilson. We're from Morbid Obesity."

Boris smiled, then held out a hand and took hers. "Miss Thompson, it's a pleasure to meet you. And ... Crank? Really? Call me Boris. It's a pleasure to meet you both. Come on to the back. I've been brainstorming with Allen, we didn't realize you had arrived."

I shook Boris's hand and felt my heart beating, too fast. He was in back, brainstorming with Allen. With Allen Roark. Only the most successful alt-rock singer songwriter I knew of. Holy s.h.i.+t. I was really doing this.

I kept my mouth shut and followed Boris and Julia into the back.

Boris had a large corner office. In the distance, I could see the Hollywood sign up in the hills. The office was cluttered, his desk piled high with papers. A couch faced two chairs across a low coffee table closer to the door, and industry mags were scattered across the coffee table.

Allen Roark was sitting on one of the chairs. He stood up and grinned. In person and off stage, he was shorter than I expected, his long hair tied into a ponytail. He wore a sleeveless black t-s.h.i.+rt, both arms completely covered in tattoos. He stepped out from the coffee table and approached me, hand out.

"You Crank Wilson? My son Mitch played your song for me yesterday. Pure genius, man, it's a pleasure to meet you."

I swallowed and shook his hand, and spoke, my voice cracking a little because my throat was so dry, "It's a real honor to meet you, Mr. Roark."

He laughed. "Holy Christ, it's Allen. Please don't call me Mr. Roark. Seriously. Don't."

I grinned. "Fair enough."

Boris said, "Have a seat. You guys want some coffee? You came right from the airport?"

"Yes, coffee would be great," Julia said. "Cream and sugar?"

Boris picked up his phone and spoke into it, then waved us to the coffee table. Julia and I sat next to each other on the couch, and Boris and Allen sat down opposite us.

"All right," Boris said. "I'll get right to it. Allen called me yesterday raving about this song you've written, Crank. He said we have to sign you immediately. I don't even take calls on holidays, but it was Allen, so I gave it a listen. And I liked it. A lot. We can do something with this."

Allen said, "I listened to the rest of your music last night, at least what you've got on the website. It's solid stuff."

I felt myself starting to grin.

"So, where do you stand, Crank?"

Julia gently placed a hand on my knee. I knew what she was trying to communicate. Shut up. She leaned forward, all business. "We have an offer for a recording contract from Division Records, but we haven't signed yet."

Boris tilted his head. "Tell me why."

She replied, "To be honest, I'm concerned about Division's financial stability. We're not looking for a one-song deal. The band is in this for the long haul, so we want a contract which will best serve that."

Boris nodded. "What kind of deal are you looking for?"

I felt my throat tighten up. I wanted to jump in. I'll take anything. Single? Recording deal? Whatever! When Julia spoke, it almost made my ears bleed, and I wanted to tell her to shut up now and accept whatever they offered.

"Ideally, I want a recording contract for a full alb.u.m, plus an immediate release on the single. Budget for the alb.u.m. Decent royalties, and an advance big enough to get the band off ramen noodles in the meantime. Some introductions to help us get signed as openers for a tour ..."

Allen jumped in, "You want an opener? We just fired our opening act for this summer's tour. I want you guys."

She grinned. "Excellent. That will be a big step up, I think."