“Is that what this is about to you, the money? That’s all you care about? What about Tommy? What about what he stood for?”
I laughed.
“Tommy stood for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. That was the world to him.”
“His music was the soundtrack for my life, Steve. It means something.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “It means he liked his women horny, his drugs psychotropic, and his music loud. That was all Tommy Grind ever wanted. Now, all he wants is food. We’re good the way I see it.”
“We should let him out. Let him get some sunshine.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “Isaac, the paparazzi hide in the bushes across the street just praying for a chance to shoot Tommy Grind while he’s smoking a joint on the lawn. You have any idea how bad that would be to take him out for a stroll? No, if we’re gonna bring him out into the world, we need to do it under controlled circumstances.”
He nodded, then leaned his forehead against the barrier and watched the love of his life pop a finger into his mouth. Smaller parts like that he could eat whole.
“Listen,” I said, “you want a drink?”
“No, thank you. You go ahead. I’m just gonna sit here for a while and watch him.”
I shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll be out in the hot tub.”
I made myself a whiskey over shaved ice and dropped in an orange slice for garnish. Then I stripped and climbed into the hot tub and let the jets massage my back. The hot tub was outside, but the little courtyard where it was located was covered with ivy to prevent helicopters from peaking in on Tommy’s private parties, which were the stuff of legend. One of last year’s parties had included half a dozen A-list porn stars and a pile of cocaine the size of an old lady’s hat.
I took a couple of phone calls and arranged for a cover of Eddie Money’s “I Think I’m In Love” that Tommy had done in his studio a month before he died to appear on That’s What I Call Music, Volume 153.
As was I finishing, I heard screams coming from the front lawn. I told the guy from Capitol I had to go, hung up, and jumped out of the hot tub.
Fucking Isaac, I thought. You better not have . . .
But he had. The little idiot had gone and let Tommy out of his bedroom and taken him for a walk down on the front lawn.
When I got there, clothes soaked through and my feet squishing in my shoes, Tommy was staggering around in the middle of the street, a team of terrified paparazzi gathered around him, snapping pictures. The flashes were making Tommy disoriented and he was swiping the air in a futile attempt to grab the photographers.
I waded into the crowd and grabbed Tommy by the back of his black t-shirt and guided him toward the lawn. I looked around and saw Isaac standing on the curb, a drooping question mark in a cheap blue suit.
“You get him inside,” I growled at Tommy.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to—”
“Go!” I said. “Now.”
He led a reluctant Tommy back to the house. I watched him get most of the way to the front door, my mind scrambling for a way to explain all this, then I turned to the crowd and said, “Okay, people, listen up. Come on, gather around.”
Thirty photographers just looked at me.
“What the hell, people? You don’t recognize a press conference when you see one? Gather around.”
That did it. Soon I was standing in the middle of a tight ring of bodies, cameras rolling.
“All right,” I said, “we were hoping to save this announcement for the Grammy’s, but clearly Tommy Grind wanted to give you guys a sneak peak. Tommy has just completed his first screenplay. It’s called The Zombie King and I’ve just got word from our people in Hollywood that it’s a go for next fall. We’ll be shooting here in Austin starting around the end of next September.”
“A horror film?” one of the paparazzi said.
“That’s right. And it’s gonna be Tommy’s directorial debut, too.”
“So, that was . . . what? A costume?”
“Look,” I said, and sighed for effect, “what do you think is gonna happen when you give a rock star access to a stable full of professional makeup artists? I mean, we’ve all seen Lady Gaga, am I right?”
That got a few laughs. I passed out business cards to everybody and told them to send me an email so I’d have their addresses for future press releases.
They scattered after that to email their photos to their contacts and I went inside to kick Isaac’s ass.
A few weeks later, in early February, I was back in the hot tub, helping another untraceable young lady out of her bikini for a little warm up before she went in to see Tommy. I was sitting on the edge of the tub, and the girl came over and positioned herself between my legs and put her cheek down on my thigh. The drugs in her drink were already starting to take effect, and I had to nudge her a little to get her to pay attention to what she was supposed to be doing.
She had just gotten to it when Isaac Glassman walked through the sliding glass door.
“Jesus, Isaac,” I said, covering up my junk. “What the hell, man?”
“Sorry,” he said. “But we have to talk.”
The girl had pulled away from me and sunk down to her chin in the water. She wouldn’t look at either one of us, even though it was a day late and a dollar short for any pretense at modesty at that point.
“Do you mind?” Isaac said, and pointed at the girl with his chin.
“Just wait for it,” I said.
The girl’s eyelids were drooping shut. I jumped in, caught her just as her face slid under the water, and pulled her out.
“Help me get her out of here,” I said to Isaac.
He reached in and took one arm and I took the other. We pulled her onto her back on the side of the tub. She had great tits, I thought absently. A pity.
I climbed out and slid into my trunks.
“This better be good,” I said.
“What are you gonna do with her?”
“What do you think? You’re gonna help me drag her into Tommy’s room. Then he’s gonna eat her.”
“But you were gonna have her first?”
“I think Tommy’s past the point of jealousy,” I said.
He was uncomfortable, stared at his shoelaces, then at the ivy-covered walls behind me. Then, finally, at me. “That’s what I want to talk to you about,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I don’t . . . I don’t like the direction you’re taking Tommy’s career. The Eddie Money cover— ”
“Has been number one on the Billboard charts for two weeks in a row. What are you trying to say?”
“That’s not the point,” he said.
Not the point? Not the point! I couldn’t believe it. The little geek had the gall to stand there and tell me he didn’t like my decisions. Christ, what did he know? The song was doing great. The critics were calling its stripped down acoustic arrangement and gravelly-voiced lyrics a masterstroke from one of rock’s greatest performers. Industry experts were already anticipating Tommy Grind’s fourteenth Grammy, which I would accept on his behalf in just a few weeks.
“Tell me, Isaac. What is the point? I gotta hear this.”
“It’s a cover song, Steve.”
“Yeah, a fucking successful one, too.”
“But it’s a cover song. Tommy Grind never did cover songs. It was always his music, his vision. That’s what made him so special. That’s why people loved him.”