Chapter Eighteen

Morning came with the shrilling of alarm clocks in the rooms on either side of them, which was good, because Roger and Mickey had forgotten to set an alarm of their own. They got dressed in fresh clothes and trundled down to the dining room, which was a bright and airy room holding one long table and fourteen ornately upholstered chairs.

“I feel like I’m on the set of some movie,” Mickey told the group as he sat down at one of the placemats.

“It’s quite a joint, isn’t it?” Rich agreed. “I couldn’t believe it the first time I was here. It was a real treat to be treated like one of the masters.”

“Yeah, especially considering your family came from the other side of the equation,” Kyle said, sitting beside him. “Rich’s mom traced their family tree, and he had an ancestor who was actually a slave on this very plantation.”

“Wow,” Roger said, not knowing how to react. “That must be… uncomfortable.”

“It’s sobering,” he agreed. “But I’d like to think that ancestor sees me now and knows how far we’ve come. I’d like to think that I’m doing him proud.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Daniel.” He sighed. “It’s a hell of a thing to have to trace your family tree through purchase receipts instead of birth records.”

“It must be horrible,” Roger sympathized.

“What about you? Do you know anything about your roots?”

He shook his head. “Not really. No interest, to be honest.”

Erik sat down at the table, looking tired. “I’m all Swedish, all the time. My immediate family is the first to ever leave Sweden.”

“That’s cool,” Roger said.

“No, that’s boring.” Erik chuckled. “How did everybody sleep?”

“Like the dead,” Kyle answered.

“Me, too,” Mickey agreed. “I was so tired by the time we got to bed.”

George strolled in, barefoot and half naked, and he sat down heavily. “Am I deluded, or was I hearing you people actually talking about family trees?”

“You’re not deluded,” Erik told him, “at least not about that.”

“Good God how boring. And how completely un-rock and roll. I’m ashamed of you all.” He ran a hand over his narrow face. “Anyway, we’re going to get into the studio and work hard for the next few days. We’ve got this place for a week. Hopefully that’ll be enough time for whatever shit storm got brewed up in New York… and which of you was responsible for that, by the way?”

Roger sheepishly held up his hand. “I think it was me, mostly…”

“Figures. It’s always the new guy.” George sat back and crossed his arms while Margo and a young lady brought in their breakfast. “Well, try to keep your nose clean for a while.”

“Will do, Chief.”

The breakfast was delicious. Roger couldn’t remember a home-cooked breakfast as tasty or as filling, and he could tell that Mickey was in the throes of a continual foodgasm. As a dancer, he didn’t get much chance to eat the really rich stuff, so this food was an unaccustomed treat. His usual food choices were so spare that he deeply enjoyed good tastes when he could find them. Roger thought he was adorable.

When the meal was over, they adjourned to the studio, which was just on the other side of a breezeway from the main house. The studio had been built in one of the renovated slave cabins, a fact that must have made some impact on Rich, although his carefree attitude seemed to belie it. Roger was uninspired by the outside of the building and hoped for better once he crossed the threshold.

He should not have doubted. Once he got inside, he was treated to the sight of one of the most sophisticated recording studios he had ever seen. The equipment was state of the art, and he had never seen a mixing board as complicated as the one that sat there. Already, two recording engineers were seated that controls, ready to work their magic on the music Valhalla made. His palms went slick, but his heart was pounding with excitement. He had recorded before, but only in derelict, past-their-prime holes in the wall in London. He had never seen a studio like this one.

Their instruments were already set up and waiting for them, and Erik passed around copies of the songs he and Roger had been writing for the last several weeks. The others leafed through them, occasionally noodling at certain musical phrases or making small sounds of approval. Kyle looked up when he was done reading through the pack of new songs.

“Dude,” he said. “This is the best stuff you’ve written, Erik. I think Roger brings out the best in you.”

“To be honest, the music is almost entirely his,” he said, picking up his guitar and checking to see if it was in tune. “I wrote the lyrics and the melody, but he did all the rest.”

“Hats off, maestro,” Kyle said. “I am duly impressed.”

Roger blushed in pleased embarrassment. “Thanks. I hope it sounds as good as you think it will.”

Mickey sat on one of the couches in the booth, George perched on a stool behind the mixing board and between the two engineers, and Valhalla went to work.

***

They worked for hours, first learning and practicing the new songs, then actually laying down a few tracks. All in all, Roger was very pleased with how the songs were sounding, and the band was hanging together extremely well. George looked pleased, Mickey had been grooving in his seat, and even the engineers looked happy with the sound.

They broke for lunch and trooped back into the house, where Margo was already putting food out on the sideboard. “Help yourselves,” she told them. “There is enough here for an army, so even you boys should get your fill.”

They were still putting their plates together when Howie strolled into the room, dressed in a track suit. “Hey, kid,” he said, tossing a phone to Mickey. “Call your boss.”

Uncertainly, he dialed. Roger looked on, trying not to look as worried and guilty as he felt, and listened. “Mr. Rienhold? This is Mikhail Samsonov. I….”

Mickey was obviously cut off, and he bit his lip as he listened. Roger sat beside him. He could hear the artistic director’s voice, but not well enough to make out what was being said.

“Yes, sir. I know Howard Silvestri.” He looked at Howie, who nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The artistic director said something else, and Mickey’s face flushed. Roger frowned and put a hand on his arm. His lover shook his head at him. “I… that’s very kind, sir. I appreciate it. Thank you.”

He hung up and looked at Howie, who said, “See? I told you I’d handle it.”

“What did you do?”

“What did he say?” Roger prompted, unable to bear it.

Mickey turned to him with a look of shock on his face. “He said that he would be happy to hold my position until I returned from my important family business.”

Erik raised an eyebrow at Howie. “Family business?”

“I didn’t say what family,” their roadie shrugged. “He just assumed I meant Scarlotti or maybe Genovadi.”

Mickey laughed. “You told him I’m involved with the mob?”

“I told him that my family and its associates were very interested in seeing your career advance, and that it would be sad if anything were to happen to compromise that.” He shrugged. “The usual pleasantries.”

Roger didn’t know if he was pleased, horrified or both. “Are you part of the mob?”

The big man made a dismissive gesture with one huge mitt. “Not anymore, but he doesn’t need to know about that.”

“I thought the only way out was to die,” Kyle said.

“Or to kill everybody who had a problem letting you leave.”

Nobody was quite certain how serious he was, so nobody made any comments. They just stared at one another in nervous blankness, and Howie roared with laughter.

“Youse guys kill me! No, I was so low-level, it never made no difference. I never killed anybody in the mob.”

“Good thing,” Josh Warsinski said quietly from the doorway. “I’d hate to have to rat on you.”

“Try it and die, gumshoe.”

Josh laughed and went to the sideboard to make up his lunch plate. “How did the session go?”

“It was good,” Erik answered. He sipped his lemonade, then said, “You should come out and listen when we go back.”

“Maybe I will.” He licked some mayonnaise off his thumb, then asked, “So the plane was you and Araceli, right, Howie?”

“Yeah.”

“Who was the helicopter?”

Everyone froze.

“Helicopter?” Howie asked.

“Yeah. Helicopter, landed on the private airfield about half an hour ago. Who was that?”

He looked shocked, and Roger’s stomach leaped into his mouth. “Should there be anyone else coming here?” he asked the room. “Are we the only ones who should be using that field?”

“It’s called private for a reason, kid,” Howie said. He stood and left the room, with Josh right behind him.

George stood up. “The studio has the strongest locks on the island. We’ve got to go in there.”

“Are we overreacting?” Roger asked, hoping against hope. “Might it just be nothing?”

“I don’t know, Rog,” Rich said harshly. “We were just being shot at last night, and now some unknown somebody lands on an airstrip that’s supposed to be for us only. Would you say that we’re not right to be a little careful?”

“Don’t argue and just get in the fucking studio,” George ordered.

They hurried to obey their manager’s command. The band and the engineers raced through the house with George leading the way, Erik and Roger bringing up the rear. Roger pushed Mickey ahead of him, trying to get him to safety first. Mickey had just run through the door to the studio when a barrage of bullets kicked up dirt and stone at Roger’s feet, driving him back from the door. He and Erik stumbled back toward the house while one of the engineers threw the door to the studio shut and locked it from inside.

They were on their own, and the gunshots were coming closer.