Sutliff pried one of the lozenges off the pile and slid it across the table to Peter. The metal felt oily to touch.
“That’s samarium-cobalt. It’s a rare-earth magnet.”
“For arthritis?” Peter had patients who swore by the palliative power of magnets. That blood contained iron served as the shaky linchpin of their argument.
“I make pickups with them.”
“What do you pick up?”
“Sound, man.” Sutliff replaced his tools in the caddy.
Peter said he was unaware that people made their own pickups. It’s possible that Sutliff thought he said, “I’ve always wanted to know everything about pickups.” The guitarist explained electronic interference, magnetic resonance, and eddy currents. He outlined the intricacies of single, double, and stacked coils, shielding, and humbuckers. Peter felt certain that Bluto had set him up.
A waitress — her uniform read as sexy football referee — came over to take their orders, interrupting Sutliff’s dissertation. When she’d finished, Peter took the opportunity to ask Sutliff how he’d wound up in the band.
“Jimmy heard a two-minute track I did, called me up, and offered me a job.”
“Just like that.”
“Well, before I became an overnight success I spent twenty years as a session musician in basement studios.” Sutliff raised his long face. “What about you? Someone told me you’re Tony Ogata’s protégé.”
“I’ve talked to him on the phone once.”
“You must have connections somewhere.”
“Cross used to be friends with my mother.”
Sutliff shook his head.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I don’t believe the Big Man has friends.”
39
Each day offers a choice: either you ride out to meet your destiny or wait for it to overtake you.29 After checking out of the hotel, I fit the 600mm lens to the body of my camera — JCC readers know I call the lens my “Pringles can” and that it was a gift from Aunt Liddy on my fiftieth — before heading back to the Jo-Ann Fabrics parking lot.
At a little after two, a pair of passenger vans turn onto the airport access road. I stop the Corolla just outside the fence, get out, and stabilize the camera on the roof of my car.
I’m still playing with the focus when Cyril spots me and flips me off. Though our relationship can appear adversarial, I don’t take the gesture personally. And I can’t help but think he has to be a little relieved that it’s me out here and not some stranger.
Next I spot the hospitalist from Rochester, Peter Silver, M.D. — he looks collegial and out of place, in khakis and a Windbreaker. I snap a dozen pictures before the group disappears into an open hangar.
When they’re out of sight, I review the shots on my camera’s tiny screen. Something catches my eye. A paunchy guy with a Rasputin beard hides behind Dom in the second photograph I took. It’s hard to be sure — he’s wearing huge sunglasses like some Miami socialite — but I’m fairly certain it’s Alistair Cross. I scroll through the other images looking for something. And there it is: in my last picture (!) the mystery man reaches up to pull his hair away from his eyes. A distinct shadow appears on the inside of his wrist — it’s Alistair’s ace of spades tattoo. No wonder Cyril gave me the bird.
I listen as the engines scroll up. The noise builds into a ferocious scream as Cross’s plane lifts off above the golden trees at the end of the runway.
I spend a few minutes composing a note for JCC. Then I post it:
The Prodigal Son returns! Alistair Doyle Cross was seen boarding a jet whisking you-know-who out of Buffalo. ADC hasn’t been on tour since 2002, when he had a very public struggle with substance abuse. Will Cross finally give the audience what it asks for and dust off “Acrobat Daredevil Circus”? It’s been eight years since he’s played it, but seeing Alistair has to be a hopeful sign.30 Pittsburgh is shaping up to be a can’t-miss show.
The fans may not always trust me, but they need me.
IN THIRTY MINUTES, Cross will arrive in Pittsburgh. I still have a four-hour drive. I pray it’s boring. If something exciting happens on the road, it’s almost always bad excitement, a dog darts into the road, the “check engine” light blinks on, a tire pops, a wrench falls off the back of a flatbed and comes helicoptering at you. Spare me the heat lightning and sunsets that glow like Tiffany glass — the first lesson of driving is you’ll wind up where you look.
40
The hotel shuttled them to the airport. Peter rode with Jimmy, Alistair, Bluto, and Cyril, while Dom, Albert, Sutliff, and Wayne Shiga shared the second van. Except for Bluto, everyone wore those oversized headphones that Peter associated with club DJs and helicopter pilots. Bluto spent the whole drive on the phone with Wayne, which made Peter wonder why they hadn’t arranged to ride in the same vehicle.
At the airport, the vans drove past a chain-link security fence and across the runway before stopping beside a large aluminum hangar.
Inside, a twin-jet airplane, as glossy and immaculate as a drop of Wite-Out, waited for them. A pair of pilots, handsome and cocksure, with regulation military haircuts and amber Ray-Bans, greeted the group and welcomed them aboard.
•••
PETER HAD NEVER ridden in a chartered plane. Ten plush leather chairs were spaced about the cabin. If the burl-wood veneer had been a few shades darker, the plane’s interior might have recalled the library of a Tudor mansion.
A pretty hostess with shellacked blond hair took drink orders and stowed jackets. She showed Peter how to open the tray table recessed in the arm of his chair.
After closing the hatch, the captain paused in front of the cockpit door to address the men. “I just spoke with Pittsburgh. They’ve got a twenty-thousand-foot ceiling, five miles of visibility, winds light and variable. As soon as your baggage is stowed, we’ll crank this bird up. Flight time will be about thirty-seven minutes. So, kick back and relax. Jessica will do your bidding, within FAA-mandated guidelines. I promise it won’t be a long, strange trip.” Though his eyes remained hidden behind his sunglasses, he managed to convey a wink.
Alistair said, “‘Long, Strange Trip’ is the Dead, man.”
His smile stretching thinner, the captain ducked into the cockpit.
Jessica went through the cabin dealing out a stack of pillows.
The plane shuddered as the engines cranked up. Soon they bumped along a taxiway.
“Prepare for takeoff,” the pilot’s voice announced over the intercom. “It won’t be ‘Long Gone’ before we’re in Pittsburgh.”
Sitting across the aisle from Alistair, Wayne Shiga said, “I prefer a pilot who can’t properly attribute Dead songs.”
“At least he’s not quoting Cat Stevens,” said Bluto.
“You mean because he’s Muslim?” asked Dom.
“It’s a joke,” said Bluto.
“My beef with Cat Stevens,” said Alistair, “is his songs are interminable.”
Wayne said, “Instead of ‘beef,’ shouldn’t we say ‘pork’? Lots of groups have a beef with pork.”
Sutliff said, “You know who has a beef with beef? Al Gore.” When no one responded, he added, “Cows produce millions of tons of methane each year.”
At the front of the cabin, Cross appeared to be sleeping. A throw blanket covered the singer’s legs; the hood of his sweatshirt shrouded his eyes. In the seat next to him, Cyril cleaned his cuticles with a bone-handled penknife.
The plane pivoted at the end of the taxiway. “We’re clear,” the captain announced. The engines roared, and they shot down the runway. Before Peter thought it possible, the aircraft punched into the sky.