Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [11]
Soon, a kind of horror sets in. The empty blotter at the beginning of each day, when rent and meals hang in the balance, becomes a baffling scourge. Their illusions about who and what they are can’t possibly hold up out here, in our world, where we are anonymous, unprotected, and only as good as the last buck we made—or didn’t make. Day after day these guys sit frozen, incapable of forming a conjecture on how to proceed, how to prioritize; their old cronies stop taking their calls, and “cold calling” is anethema to them.
Had they looked more closely, they might have noticed that they were about to join a team where everyone, from the musicians, actors, soundmen, freelance photographers, visual artists, and graphic designers, to our little cabal of business managers, are all about twenty pounds underweight. We are great fun to hang out with, true, but we count our collective purses before going to a bar or out to eat. We hang out together because there’s nowhere else to go. We don’t leave our jobs at the office because we can’t afford to. Meals at the end of the month are thin, and skipped often. This is our life. These guys weren’t ready for that, and they just wouldn’t listen.
Of course, they failed—ruinously, to themselves—and devastated our little enterprise.
One, Gordo Sinclair, left a big-time editing job with network news to help get the band we manage a record deal. It was then we learned from executives in Nashville, Macon, and Atlanta that the music industry works in counterintuitive ways. The industry does demographic studies on what they think they can sell, then they put the acts together, or find something already up and running in New York or LA to fill the need. They certainly don’t just grab some act that’s damn good with a big following and promote them. If they did that, the cocaine addicts in New York and LA skyscrapers would be forced to get out on the hustings, research and develop, and put in some overtime following up, to justify their existence.
Gordo became addicted to coke himself, stole my girl, stole the band out from under us, failed at both, and wound up on what used to be called Skid Row. No one was sorry for him.
Chuck Herrington left a big-time radio station in a major market to help sell our radio plays. He fell in love with a succession of bimbos, proposed to one, took us for what cash we had, and never spoke to us again. Gordo rehabilitated as a nice guy, became a schoolteacher, and returned one day to say he was sorry. Chuck, we are sure, rehabilitated demonically, roaming his community looking for anything remotely bohemian, and then devoted himself to passing legislation to get it, and people like us, outlawed. We labeled them both MIA—Missing In Action.
William Zachary Harper, Willy, my housemate, has a foot in both worlds. He is my best friend from grade school. Between the band, the radio plays, and his day job, he won’t get a full night’s sleep in four years. He is the youngest vice president a local bank has ever had. Under the mentoring guidance of his boss, a banking visionary, he is helping to create an international division which means gathering the embassy accounts from their competitors under one executive services plan that is quite compelling. Once the accounts are signed up, it becomes Willy’s job to lend them money. The sky’s the limit! The bank encourages him, because they feel a loan guaranteed by a government empowered to print money can’t go bad. He tells of giving away the store to all who come asking. Meanwhile, the same bank demands collateral in excess of two hundred percent of what we are borrowing for our little business.
Consequently, it is left to Sam and I, with Willy’s help on the side, to pull the load. It is really only a matter of time before the load pulls us down. A window of opportunity is open, but the resources to take advantage of it are running out. This we know. We play the game against time, against ourselves. The canyon floor seems so very far below and the breeze on the way down is lovely.
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