The High Notes: A Novel(26)

“You write your own songs?” Clay asked her.

“I do, when they let me. Glen didn’t like me doing that. I write the lyrics and compose the music all the time. I have hundreds of songs I’ve written,” she said in a burst of courage.

“Bring your friend, and anything you want me to hear.” She didn’t know it, but he never turned down an opportunity. It was how he had found some of his biggest stars and best artists. He already had an idea of how good she was since he’d seen her himself. He didn’t think she was available. And if she had matured even more, all he had to do was free her from one of Hendrix’s rotten contracts. He’d done it before, and Hendrix had folded like a letter in an envelope. He hadn’t put up a fight for the others, but he might for her. She was very good, better than Hendrix deserved on his miserable tours. “See you at six,” he said in a warm voice. “Do you know where to come?” He gave her the address. He had offices at Rockefeller Center, three floors of them, and a recording studio. Iris jotted it down with a shaking hand, thanked him again, and hung up.

She went straight to the next room and pounded on the door. Boy came to open it in boxers and a T-shirt, looking sleepy. She had seen him that way before on the trip.

“We have an appointment with Clay Maddox today at six!” she shouted at him, danced into the room and did a cartwheel, landed on the floor and looked up at him. He was bewildered and seemed confused.

“Who has an appointment with Clay Maddox? You do?” He broke into a smile then, happy for her.

“No, we do. I told him we do duets of my material. He wants to see you too.”

“Oh my God, Iris. Are you crazy? I’m not in his league. He’ll laugh me out of his studio, or his office, or wherever he’s seeing you. You have to go alone. I’m not good enough for Clay Maddox. I’m just a run-of-the-mill singer from Nashville.”

“You’re coming with me, and shut up, by the way. I’m your agent now, and you have an interview with Clay Maddox.”

“Holy shit, you’re insane.” But she also had a heart of gold, and he knew it. She was taking him with her, into her big break to meet Clay. “Did you tell him about your contract?” he asked her. They both sat down on the couch in his room. His legs were shaking, and so were hers. They were like two terrified, excited children who’d just been told they were going to the circus and could hardly wait.

“I did. He said he’s broken Glen’s contracts before, and they’re terrible, and not always legal. I’m taking it with me, so his lawyers can look at it.”

“How did you ever get to him?” Boy still couldn’t believe it.

“One of the guys in my friend Pattie’s band gave it to me. It turns out the number I have is his private line or something. He answered it himself. I didn’t even know it was him at first. I thought it was an assistant.”

“What do we wear?” Boy looked panicked. “All I have are T-shirts and jeans with me. Do I need to buy a suit?”

“No, silly. He represents people like us. He’s used to the kind of stuff we wear.” She had her clothes from the tour, and was going to wear black jeans and a black sweater the way she did onstage. She had already decided.



* * *



—

They were both in a panic all day. Iris thought to bring a folder with her contract, and some of her music in it. She brought half a dozen songs just in case. They decided to splurge on a cab so they didn’t get lost on the way, and they arrived at Rockefeller Center five minutes early. Clay Maddox had told her what floor his office was on. Boy looked as nervous as she did, as they rode the elevator and got out on a reception floor that was teeming with activity and security. They walked up to the desk where two receptionists were directing people, and one of them took Boy’s and Iris’s photographs and fingerprints, and made badges for them to wear on a nylon rope around their necks, while one of the security men directed them to another elevator and they rode upstairs to the floor where Maddox’s office was. Another receptionist at a desk there took their names and told them to take a seat. Boy looked so pale, Iris thought he was going to faint, which distracted her from her own nervousness.

“Breathe,” she reminded him, and he nodded, and smiled wanly at her.

“Thank you for bringing me.” She nodded. A pretty girl in jeans and a red sweater and high heels came to escort them to Clay Maddox’s office. Boy stood up on shaking legs, and felt better as he walked down the hall behind Iris and the girl in the red sweater, and they were led into an enormous office, with a large seating area with comfortable chairs and couches. Clay came out from behind a large antique desk and walked toward them, smiling. The walls were covered with photographs of all the artists he represented, and they recognized all of them, going back more than twenty years. Some of them were no longer alive, but most of them were. Iris didn’t know where to look. There was so much to see. He greeted them like old friends. She introduced Boy to him, and the three of them shook hands. Clay invited them to sit down, and his assistant took their drink orders. They both asked for water and nothing else.

“I can’t believe you’re sitting here in my office,” he said, smiling first at Iris.

“Neither can I,” she said, still stunned herself.

“Sooner or later, all the best talent winds up here,” Clay said confidently, but it was true. He represented all the biggest stars in the music business, and had discovered many of them himself and started their careers.