He checked his e-mail, the usual notes from friends and several of the effusive, occasionally lunatic, letters from Maroni fans that made up the bulk of his correspondence. There was also a brief message from Marty Berenstein, a.k.a. Mony Maroni.
Dear Tony,
Just wanted to let you know that our latest effort to extricate the catalog from EMI went down in flames, again. Sorry.
Otherwise things here are fine. Jocelyn's doing her junior year abroad in Madrid, so Helen and I are having a second honeymoon, of sorts. Actually, make that a *first* honeymoon. All the best to you and yours for the holiday season—
Marty
"Ho ho ho," said Tony. "Another day, another lawsuit. Now—"
He started clicking around, looking at the New York Times headlines, checking Amazon for the standing of the first three Maronis albums. Even twenty-odd years later, these sold well enough to generate modest but reliable royalties—if, of course, any of the surviving band members could have collected them. He was just starting to compare the sales figures for various musical rivals, when a shadow drifted across the keyboard.
"You know, I always figured there'd be a Tony Maroni Web page."
Tony looked up to see Brendan, holding a glass of water. He still wore his sweatpants and rumpled T-shirt, his face stubbled and eyes bleary as though he'd been on a three-day toot, rather than the losing end of a minor skirmish with three quarters of a bottle of expensive sémillon. "You guys were so big in Japan," Brendan went on, pulling up a chair. "I would've thought you'd at least have a Web site."
"Well, yeah, sure. I mean, actually, there's a lot of them. A lot for me, I mean. I don't know about the others."
Brendan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, a lot? Like how many?"
Tony bounced out of the Amazon page, nibbling thoughtfully at a long strand of hair. "I dunno. Like fifty, maybe? I forget."
"Fifty? Fifty Tony Maroni Web pages?"
Tony looked embarrassed. "Well, yeah. But, I mean, none of 'em's authorized."
Brendan laughed. "How come none of 'em's ever helped you get the rights back to your stuff?"
"I dunno. Sometimes they offer to, you know? Like some big LA lawyer writes me about it. But—I guess I just don't care so much anymore, with all the other guys being gone." Tony sighed. "We wrote all that stuff together. It just wouldn't feel right."
Brendan nodded. "Yeah. Well, I guess I can see that."
He leaned forward, and Tony caught the faint reek of wine and sweat and unwashed clothes, that sad tired smell he associated with church meeting rooms and the long tearful exegeses of weekend binges—conventions where sales reps got locked out of their hotel room after closing time, college students missing the crucial exam after a beer bash, mothers forgetting to feed their kids. Brendan sipped his water and Tony waited, hoping there wasn't going to be an apology.
There wasn't. Instead, Brendan ran a finger across the computer screen, raising a little trail of electrified dust. "Okay." He cocked his finger at Tony and smiled. "So, like, where's Chip Crockett's Web page?"
Tony's head bobbed up and down. "Aw right," he said, relieved. "Check this out, man, you're gonna love this—"
Tony hunched over the keyboard, fingers tapping eagerly. Brendan sank back into his chair and watched him. He rubbed his forehead, hoping he looked better than he felt—although what he felt wasn't even hung-over so much as some pure distillation of humiliation, depression, and exhaustion, with a healthy dollop of anxiety about just how Teri was going to react when she heard about him falling off the wagon. It hadn't happened once in the years since he'd joined AA, and somehow he suspected it wouldn't happen again. Brendan didn't drink because he was depressed, or lonely, or even just out of habit. He used to drink when he was happy, in that long joyous sunny rush of years between high school and the failure of his marriage. Back then he'd drink with his friends, in bars and at the beach, at ballgames and concerts. He drank because he liked it, and everyone else he knew liked it. He drank because it was fun.
Even now Brendan wasn't sure what had gone wrong. He suspected there was some sort of malign convergence between his body chemistry and the way the world had suddenly changed, round about the time he saw Lou Reed shilling for Honda motorbikes. After that, when he drank he saw the world differently. It was as though all his worst fears were confirmed, and after a while, he was drinking just so they would be confirmed. Marriages were doomed. Mothers drowned their children. Your father developed Alzheimer's disease and died without remembering your name. That guy you used to play softball with wasted away with AIDS, and you never even knew. Your favorite TV show was canceled, your dog had to be put to sleep. The music you loved seeped away from the radio, and all of a sudden when you walked down a street where you'd lived for twenty years, there were strangers everywhere. One day you had a toddler who'd always been a little colicky, but who smiled when he saw you and crawled into your lap at night. The next day you had a changeling, a child carved of wood who screamed if you touched him and whose eyes were always fixed on some bright horizon his parents could never see. The terrible secret Brendan kept was that he hadn't quit drinking to save his marriage, or himself, or even his child. He'd quit because he now knew, irrefutably, that the world had become the wasteland. And he no longer needed any confirmation of that.
"Okay, Brenda Starr." Tony pecked at one last key, grinning. "Technical difficulties, please stand by. I control the horizontal, I control the vertigo …"
"Vertical," said Brendan.
"Whatever. I control it." With a flourish Tony straightened. "Do not adjust your screen! We have liftoff!"
Brendan blinked. On the monitor in front of him, that morning's New York Times headlines glowed, flickered and disappeared. For an instant the screen was black. Then, very slowly, a scrim of sky blue and white scrolled down. The white became clouds, the sky shimmered and melted like summer afternoon. In the center of the screen a small rectangle appeared, holding the black-and-white image of a man leaning on a stage-set Dutch door. He had neatly combed blond hair, side-parted, and a boyish, smiling face. He wore the kind of suit Brendan associated with the second Beatles album, a light-colored Glen plaid, and beneath that a white shirt and skinny dark tie. Above his head, small letters floated in a streaming red banner:
WELCOME TO CHIP CROCKETT'S WEBPAGE!
"Well," said Tony. He sucked at his lower lip and looked sideways at Brendan. "There he is."
Brendan didn't say anything. He stared at the screen, then reached out and traced the outline of Chip Crockett's picture. The monitor crackled a little at his touch, and he shook his head, still silent.
Because there he was. He hadn't seen him for—what? thirty years, at least—but now it was like looking at a picture of his father when he was young. The same haircut; the same skinny tie. The same magically complicit smile, which he'd only seen on his father at the Fourth of July or Thanksgiving or Christmas, but which Brendan had seen twice a day, every day, on The Chip Crockett Show.
"Wow," whispered Brendan. "Chip Crockett."
It was like dreams he had, that his dog was alive again. He pulled his chair up closer, inadvertently nudging Tony aside. "Sorry—but hey, this is great." His voice was husky; he coughed, took another swig of water and cleared his throat. "This is really, really great."
Tony laughed. "That's just a picture. Actually, it's the same picture from the obituary in the News. But here—"