"Okay," he said.
"Mon Dieu," said Cordelia, looking around Jack's home. "What happened here?"
Jack's restoration efforts had not been totally successful. Some of the smashed antique furniture was stacked to one side of the room. He hadn't the heart to take it topside to a Dumpster. There was still the chance of careful repair and restoration.
"When I was coming in last night," he said. " I slipped."
"Shot while trying to escape," said Cordelia ironically. "Whatever happened, Uncle Jack, I'm really sorry. This was such a beautiful place."
"It still ain't shabby," said C.C., plopping down in a claw-footed love seat. She spread her arms as she sank into the overstuffed upholstery. "This is great." She smiled up at Jack. "Got some coffee?"
"Sure," he said. "It's all made."
"Bagabond was going to come along-" C.C. started to say.
"She had some errands uptown," said Cordelia. "I think she'd want me to say hello," said C.C.
"Sure." Right, he thought. Cordelia offered to help with the coffee, but he shooed her back to the living room. When everyone was settled with a steaming mug and a plate of scones with strawberry preserves, Jack said, "So?"
"So," said C.C., "your niece is very persuasive. But so's my own ego. I'm gonna come out of seclusion for the benefit, Jack. Back to public performance. Cold turkey. Nothing half-assed. A couple billion potential viewers. There I'll be, in front of God and everybody." She chuckled. "Nothing like hitting acute agoraphobia head on."
"Pretty gutsy," said Jack. "I'm glad you're doing it. New stuff?"
"Some old, some new," she said. "Some borrowed, some blues. It all depends on what the boss here,"-C. C. gestured at Cordelia-"gives me for time."
"Twenty minutes," said Cordelia. "That's what everybody gets. The Boss, Girls With Guns, you."
"Equality's a great thing." C.C. looked back at Jack. "So you're gonna help me get ready for the big night?"
"Uh," said Jack.
"CF and G can persuade the Transit people to give you time off," said Cordelia quickly. " I talked to one of their guys in community relations. They think it'd be terrific to have one of their own involved in something like this."
"Uh huh," said jack.
"With pay," Cordelia said. "And GF and G'll give you a fee too."
"I've got savings," Jack said quietly. "Uncle Jack, I need you."
"I've heard that before." Gently, this time.
"So I say it to you again." It seemed to him Cordelia's voice, her expression, her eyes, were all one coordinated appeal.
"It would be good to work with you," said C.C. She winked one emerald eye. "Free backstage pass. Rub shoulders with the stars."
Jack looked from one woman to the other. "Okay," he finally said. "It's a deal."
"Great," said Cordelia. "I'll start feeding you the details. But there's one more thing I want to mention now."
"Why do I have the feeling," said jack, "that I ought to be a 'gator at this very moment, lookin' up at the gaff?"
"You have plans for tomorrow night?" Cordelia said.
Jack spread his hands. " I thought I'd maybe refinish some chairs."
"You're coming with us to New Brunswick."
"New Jersey?"
Cordelia nodded. "We're going to the Holidome. We're going to see Buddy Holley."
Jack said, "The Buddy Holley? I thought he was dead."
"He's been on the lounge circuit for years. I saw a note about his appearance in the Voice."
"She wants him for the benefit," said C.C. again.
"A nostalgia act?" said Jack.
Cordelia was actually blushing. "I grew up with his music. I worship the man. I mean, nothing's set with the benefit and him. I just want us to go see him and find out if he's anything like he used to be."
"You may be in for a rude shock," said C.C. "Guitar of clay and all that."
"I'll risk it."
"'Not Fade Away, s one my favorite songs ever," said Jack. "Count me in."
"Tell him," C.C. said to Cordelia. "Bagabond's going too," she said reluctantly.
"I don' know bout this," said Jack. He thought about his first encounter with Bludgeon, when the black cat had saved him from having to tangle with the psychopathic gay-basher. Had the cat been acting on his own, or at Bagabond's suggestion? He'd never asked the woman. Maybe he would tomorrow night.
"Uncle Jack?" said Cordelia. He smiled at her. "Let's rock."
Saturday
"Oh, my god," C.C. said, sufficiently low that only Jack heard. "He's covering Prince, goddamned Prince!"
"And not very well," said Jack.
Cordelia had worried because of glacial traffic in the Holland Tunnel that the four of them would be late for Buddy Holley's first set. She also fretted that Jersey youth would make off with the Mercedes she'd borrowed from Luz Alcala.
"It's a Holiday Inn," said Jack as they pulled into the entrance.
"So?"
"The parking lot's illuminated," said Jack.
"There's an empty space close to the lobby," said Cordelia with relief.
"You want me to slip ten to the clerk to keep an eye on the car?"
"Would you?" said Cordelia seriously.
So they'd parked and secured the Mercedes and entered the New Brunswick Holidome.
The trip over from the city had been tense enough. Jack had ridden shotgun in front with Cordelia driving. Bagabond sat in back on the opposite side, as far from Jack as she could get. Both C.C. and Cordelia had done their best to keep a conversation going. Jack decided it was an inappropriate time to quiz Bagabond about whether his erstwhile rescuer, the black cat, had been acting autonomously or on his mistress's orders.
"Dis is god be great," said Cordelia. She had slotted a cassette of Buddy Holley and the Crickets' greatest hits into the Blaupunkt player. The speaker system was far, far better than adequate.
"Cordelia," said Bagabond, "I like Buddy a lot, but maybe so he doesn't hurt my ears?"
"Oh, sorry," said Cordelia. She turned the volume knob down to barely endurable.
Then Saturday-evening traffic slowed to a stop-and-go creep within the tunnel, the stench of auto exhaust rose up in visible clouds, and the four in the Mercedes listened to all of Cordelia's Buddy Holley tapes before they reached New Jersey.
Cordelia had become more nervous the later it got. "Maybe there'll be a warm-up group," she'd muttered. There hadn't been, but it turned out not to matter. When the four walked through the door of the Holidome lounge, they saw there was no need to worry about seats. Perhaps half the booths and tables were vacant. Clearly Saturdaynight bacchanalia in New Brunswick didn't center here. They took a table about ten feet from the low stage, Jack and Bagabond on opposite sides, buffered by C.C. and Cordelia. And Buddy Holley covered Prince.
Jack recognized Holley from the album portraits. He knew the musician was forty-nine, close enough to Jack's own age. Holley looked older. His face carried too much flesh; his belly wasn't completely camouflaged by the silver-lame jacket. He no longer wore the familiar old black horn-rims; his eyes were masked by stylish aviator shades that couldn't quite hide the dark bags. But he still played the Fender Telecaster like an angel.
The same couldn't be said for his sidemen. The rhythm guitarist and the bass player both looked about seventeen. Their playing was not inspired. The muddy sound mix didn't help. The drummer flailed at his snares, the volume coming through at about the right level to completely mask Holley's vocal delivery.
In rapid order Buddy Holley segued from Prince into a bad Billy idol and then a so-so Bon Jovi.
"I don't believe it," said C. C., drinking a healthy dollop of her Campari and tonic. "All he's doing is covering top-forty shit."
Cordelia watched silently, her expression of initial enthusiasm visibly fading.
Bagabond shook her head disapprovingly. "We shouldn't have come."
Maybe, Jack thought, he's biding his time. "Give him a little while."