AT 29 (66 page)

Alice recognized the significance of this night immediately. She'd seen and written about enough rock concerts to know the difference between good and great. She also knew Jimmy from Skip's to Passim to his mid-level stardom as Jimmy Button. Through the years she had watched and waited for the soul of her favorite performer to emerge. To her, he was always good, but after Atlantic City she'd lost faith that he'd ever reach the pinnacle of his talent. She was first and foremost his greatest fan; born from a gift he unknowingly gave her on those summer nights in Vermont. He was the one who stoked the passion for music that ignited her desire to write. Tonight, in North Carolina, before a packed gymnasium of stunned listeners, he'd broken through, at last. She thought about Benson's invitation to party after the show. Most times, she jumped at the chance, but not tonight. As applause shook the rafters, demanding encore after encore,
she closed her notebook and hurried back to her hotel. She wrote through the night, finishing the longest and most insightful piece she'd ever produced just after dawn.

Backbeat appeared on newsstands across the country one week later. On the cover was a picture of Jim Buckman onstage in Chapel Hill. Inside, interspersed among the paragraphs of a lengthy portrayal of The Concert, were more pictures of all three bands. A quick read of the opening paragraph dispelled any need for clarification of the article's two-word title. Its glowing depiction of what happened on the previous Saturday night, followed by two thousand words, describing every second of the monumental performance, captivated readers like no other piece the popular magazine had carried before. Circulation climbed even as other publications picked up her prose, either in part or in full. Time and Newsweek carried quotes in their entertainment sections, making sure to emphasize Alice's prediction that a Grammy Award might loom on the horizon. The New York Times published the full text of The Concert in its Sunday Magazine. Other newspapers in dozens of major cities also made space for what looked to be a prize-winning package of masterful words.

Mike Winfield had Alice back on his show, reading long passages from her article as he played songs from all three albums. Ideas captured his imagination as he tried to come up with a plan to profit from all that was happening. McCabe needed him now more than ever, especially with Grammy nominations due out in a few weeks. There had to be a way to influence the decisions.

Also in New York, the directors of Myra's venture capital firm met in a posh boardroom forty stories above the streets of Manhattan. They pored over Blossom's financials. Miles McCabe had succeeded better than anyone expected. The top line revenue was growing and, with expenses under control, a first time profit was beginning to emerge. Copies of Backbeat were passed around so all could read Alice Limoges' article. A partner with ties to the entertainment industry was dispatched to a side room where he called sources to validate potential Grammy nominations. He had a satisfied look when he returned. Myra was powerless to stop the decision. She didn't know how to tell Miles that Blossom Records was going on the block.

A throng of fans met the buses at Clemson University. The bands had to fight their way through despite the cadre of campus security that was hastily dispatched to make the way clear. Kate was suddenly a star, having received particular praise in Alice's article. She was shocked and not a little frightened by the outstretched arms that jostled her and blocked her path. She clung to Benson and Chase as they bulled their way to the arena entrance.

Ellis lined up interviews for everyone. Jimmy was most in demand, first at the campus radio station, then at a commercial station in town. The others were all booked until dinnertime, either doing print interviews with newspaper reporters or exclusives with local DJs. Miles called with the sales figures, which surged after Alice's article hit the streets. Thanksgiving was a few days away then only three more weeks of nightly performances. The Beacon Theatre stopped stalling when the specter of Grammy nominations buzzed in the press. One triumphant performance, December 23, was being hyped in all the trades. Tickets went on sale in a week. After that, a pleasant break for the holidays, followed by a national tour to be organized for the coming year.

Jimmy and Sonny linked with Eugene, Ted and Melinda. They ate most of their meals together, talking non-stop about the performances and throwing out ideas to make
them better. All hesitancy was gone when they played. Each had found a groove, reaching emotional highs with each performance. Sonny was also in love. Marsha unexpectedly flew in for two of the gigs and was present in the pit when the Chapel Hill breakthrough occurred. She glowed as Sonny made eye contact whenever he moved forward on the stage. Jimmy was surprised. He thought he he'd seen every side of his lead guitarist, but this was something new. The bond looked permanent. He also sensed something between Ted and Melinda.

Alone, late at night, his deeper thoughts turned to Les. In spite of all that was happening, she remained in his mind. He replayed their last moments together, grasping for something that hinted all was not lost. The finality that left him despondent on the long flight home still hurt. The attention he was receiving in the press made him a magnet for women at every stop, but he wasn't interested. Only Les' face, her last words, the feel of her fingers imploring his lips to silence festered in his mind. He talked with Peggy, hoping she could offer some insightful promise of hope, but she couldn't see an opening anymore than he could.

“She's right, Jimmy. You belong to different worlds. She has her life in Australia and you have your career a million miles away. Unless one of you gives something up, it can never work. She understands the situation better than you do. You have to let her go.” His heart pounded no. His mind knew she was right.

***

In Melbourne, Les hung up the phone satisfied that the arrangements for her flight home were finalized. Her parents would be thrilled. The last two years she'd opted for Easter, leaving them alone on Christmas Eve. This year, however, she made sure the budget was finished ahead of time. She was free to spend the holidays with her family. It was December 15. In six days she'd be on a plane. The only thing left was to pray for snow.

She turned her attention to the four-week old issue of Backbeat on her desk. She frowned when she noticed that the glossy cover was dulled where she had run her fingers over Jimmy's face. She'd read Alice's article so many times that she could recite many of its paragraphs by heart. Ever since Jimmy returned to America she hoped for some word from him; a letter, a phone call, even, as she let her imagination run wild, a surprise return to Melbourne where he would appear to carry her away in his arms. She'd go with him. She knew she could never withstand his attentions again. That he was so far away was best, she sighed. The distance protected her from having to choose between her love for him and her love for the boys of Saint Malachy's.

***

Myra broke the news to Miles in person. She had argued against the decision to sell the record company, but her bosses were too focused on year-end results to see what was on the horizon. To them it was all about the one-year plan. In January, the firm set its financial goals. Each quarter, it reviewed the results. In December, it crunched the numbers and made hard decisions. This year, the only thing standing in the way of achieving the annual financial target was five million dollars. Blossom Records went on the block.

Miles was angry, then crushed. Myra saw the hurt on his face. His shoulders slumped as she laid out the scenario. Two suitors had already come forward, one the leading entertainment corporation in the country and the other, a small investment firm
from Atlanta. Both offered four million. Bidding was likely to get the offers to four and a half at which point, the sale would go to the first offer to hit five. This was small potatoes to the deep-pocketed partners at the venture capital firm. It had little to do with the dollars involved, except for making the year-end numbers. Men like these had no tolerance for failure of any kind.

“They understand that we're on the verge of making a pile of money?”

“Yes, Miles. I told them.”

“Jim Buckman might be nominated for a Grammy Award.”

“They're aware.”

“When will it go through?”

“Before the end of the year.”

“What happens to me?”

“That's up to the new owners.”

“I like being my own boss.” Miles thought of Cindy.

“The board has other problem companies that could benefit from your skills.”

***

Isaac Goldschmidt was a very busy man. As Senior VP of Commercial Lending at the U.S. division of Geneva Worldwide Bank, his days were fraught with pressure. He was forty years old, two years into this job and on the fast track to Executive VP. He had financial contacts around the world and his greatest assets, apart from those developed by his relentless pursuit of business, were his classmates at Harvard. He lived with his wife in Manhattan. Theirs was a powerful alliance, childless by choice and more often than not, separated by late nights at the office and long business trips. But there was no lack of love between him and Myra.

She rarely called him at the office, so when his secretary handed him the message he stopped what he was doing and quickly picked up the phone. It took Myra only a few minutes to explain what was happening at the tiny recording company across the river in New Jersey. Yes, he answered, he remembered Miles McCabe. He met him several times, the last being the sad occasion of his wife's funeral. No, Geneva Worldwide did not deal in small loans, those under twenty million. Yes, he knew a few people who might be interested. Yes, my love. If it means that much to you I'll make a few calls.

Darry Mulroney rarely talked business with his one-time Harvard frat brother, Izzy. Usually, they met once a month over drinks at the club, reminiscing about college. Darry was old money. He slid into the family business immediately after graduation. The small savings bank had been in the family since 1892. He was the fifth Mulroney to run the enterprise. He was also the first one to expand the bank's offices to nine branches in three boroughs. Business was good. He had his eye on several more locations, including a nice corner in Westchester, closer to home. Still, he was surprised by Izzy's request. Their bond was not financial. It was all about the drinking, carousing and tail chasing they'd done for four years in Harvard Square.

He prepared a small dossier on Blossom Records. He knew the company was rebounding from a long period of failure. Miles McCabe, the new man in charge, was apparently a friend of Izzy's wife and needed cash. The sum wasn't so much, certainly beneath the radar of Izzy's big bank, but not the kind of thing Darry was usually interested in, either. Real Estate was his preference. At least the Millburn parcel was a good bet. He set the terms and interest rates as close to market as possible, but he knew
they were high and, of course, virtually risk free to his bank. The guy coming in that morning would have to take it or leave it. And, if it meant he had an IOU from his powerful frat brother, all the better.

Miles was prepped by Myra, but he was nervous. He'd already thought about making a bid for Blossom on his own. After that first conversation he went home and reviewed his assets. If he liquidated everything he owned he could scrape together three million. That left him two million short of what she said it would take to buy the label. Of course, he'd need another mil to keep the cash flow positive.

“Two short term loans.” The bank president and sole owner dispensed with small talk. “It's the best I can to do given the short notice and,” he paused for emphasis, “the risk. I'm willing to float you one million for sixty days, the two million for six months. I'm reasonably satisfied that you can service the six month piece. Can you pay back a million in sixty days?”

“That depends on how the record sales hold up.”

“Is there some question?”

“No. My projections, the ones you required, are sound.”

“You understand the bank takes everything if you default?”

“I do, yes.”

“It's up to you.” Darry sat back to let McCabe consider.

Miles understood he wasn't getting the best deal. He was in a tough spot. He needed money fast. The banker knew this. He drew a deep breath and signed the papers.

Myra presented his offer at three that afternoon. In a stroke of luck the house sold four days later. He liquidated his investments, reluctantly sold his Lincoln and girded his emotions for a tense six-month period where Blossom's cash flow would be severely restricted. On Saturday night, December 19, after the moving van delivered his furniture and personal possessions to storage, he threw six suits and two suitcases full of other clothes into a cab and used some of his dwindling personal cash to pay the fare to Millburn. He moved into one of the bungalows far from the others. If all went well he'd be in an apartment somewhere soon. If not, all would be lost. In the meantime, he was keen not to be noticed.

He was overwhelmed with fear. For the first time since he graduated from college, with no job and a ten thousand dollar tuition loan to pay, he was nearly broke and frighteningly insecure. And, this time it was different, worse. It wasn't just himself that might suffer if he failed. People were depending on him. Maybe he couldn't do it. Maybe he should have let someone else buy Blossom Records. Where did he get the idea that he could do it all himself? If it fell apart he'd have nothing to show for a life's work. He studied the cash flow projections again. Even if
Back and Blue
went platinum it would be close, too close. Every penny was already earmarked to pay back the loans. How was he going to pay for a big tour? There was nothing in reserve. His ego had forced him to take a risk. What was he doing? Was this a glory grab just to stay close to Cindy? Here he sat, fifty-eight years old and still as desperate as a lovesick teenager. He slammed his fists on the desk.