The Broken Promise Land Read online

  MARCIA MULLER

  THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND

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  For Marilyn Wallace

  with thanks for a wonderful piece of advice

  Thanks also to:

  Joe Bradley, Bertelsmann Music Group, for his insights into the recording industry

  Mary DeYoe, Winterland Productions, for merchandising lore and South Beach companionship

  Jan Grape, for use of Jenny Gordon’s name and her own persona

  Lindia Toole, for use of her name, and for her friendship for Sharon McCone

  And to Bill, for many reasons, including

  for giving me one of the best lines in the book

  In the broken promise land

  They tell you you’re in big demand

  But come the brutal light of day

  The dreams you have just slip away

  They lure you with their talk of fame

  They swear you’re sure to make a name

  The lies you’re living take their toll

  And in the end they own your soul

  In the broken promise land

  They make you jump at their command

  They use you up, throw you away

  And soon your hopes are yesterday

  From “The Broken Pomise Land” by Ricky Savage

  PART ONE

  July 21–23, 1995

  Billboard, June 3, 1995:

  Los Angeles—Country recording artist Ricky Savage, attorney Ethan Amory, manager Kurt Girdwood, and former Arista VP of sales and marketing Wil Willis announced this week that they are forming a new label, Zenith Records, with headquarters in Los Angeles and recording facilities at Little Savages Studio in Saguaro Junction, Arizona.

  Zenith has received financial backing from Time Warner and will be distributed by WEA.

  At a press conference, Savage, whose contract with Transamerica Records was fulfilled upon delivery of his forthcoming Midnight Train to Nowhere album, stated that signings with other artists will commence momentarily. He declined to name which acts are being considered.

  Savage also stated that Zenith will join in Transamerica’s promotional efforts for the new album by organizing a 25-city nationwide tour three weeks in advance of its August 16 debut. Transamerica will release a single of the title song to radio to coincide with the tour kickoff.

  “StarWatch,” Los Angeles Times, June 5, 1995:

  Record industry reaction to the news that country star Ricky Savage is forming his own label in partnership with his manager, Kurt Girdwood, his music attorney, Ethan Amory, and former Arista VP Wil Willis is mixed at best. Several acts, including Blue Arkansas, who will open for Savage on this summer’s Midnight Train to Nowhere tour, have indicated a willingness to enter into negotiations with Zenith.

  Freelance publicist Andrea Fallaci, whom Savage fired early this year, commented, “I wish I had a dollar for every artist who’s become enamored of his press, gone off to form his own label, and completely disappeared.” Rival country star Crompton Culver was less restrained: “Ricky must have his head up his butt.”

  When asked his reaction to losing one of his foremost artists, Transamerica CEO Sy Ziff responded, “Ricky Savage, a loss? Give me a break! I’ve seen dozens like him come and go. If there was any way to deliver product without them, I’d eliminate them all.” John Geller, VP of marketing at the label, told this column that the news was “not necessarily negative. Frankly, Savage’s career has peaked to the point where he’d be more good to us dead than alive. A dead superstar is a hell of a lot more marketable than a live one on the way down.”

  Why such vehement response to a not-unheard-of business decision? Transamerica has poured millions into Savage’s career and was hoping to enrich an anemic cash flow with the proceeds from his future releases. The label’s financial position is so poor, in fact, that it was unable to finance the singer’s summer promotional tour, and his defection could very well sound the death knell for this weakest of industry independents. Also, Savage has never ingratiated himself with the establishment in L.A., New York, or Nashville. He’s not a game player, guards his family’s privacy, and listens to a drummer that few artists are able to hear—which may explain the innovative quality and wide appeal of his music, which often crosses from the Country to the Pop charts…

  June 12, 1995:

  Whatever happened to my song?

  June 19, 1995:

  Whatever happened to my song?

  June 26, 1995:

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MY SONG???

  July 5, 1995:

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MY SONG?

  July 10, 1995:

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MY SONG?

  July 17, 1995:

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MY SONG!!!

  One

  The six notes that were spread out on my desk next to last month’s Billboard article and the gossip-column item radiated a strange and threatening quality. I studied them longer than was necessary, trying not to betray my alarm. But even if I managed a calm, professional appearance, I wouldn’t fool my client: He was my sister Charlene’s husband, Ricky Savage, and had been able to see through my pretenses since he first laid eyes on me some eighteen years before.

  Besides, the notes were good cause for alarm. They’d been sent to Ricky at his unlisted home address, one a week since the Billboard piece appeared. The first was neatly written and centered on a sheet of plain bond paper, but with each subsequent mailing the quality of the penmanship and coherence of presentation deteriorated, as though the writer’s personality were disintegrating. Scanning them was like watching a normal person ask a simple question and, after receiving no reply, repeat it over and over while descending into madness.

  “Which is probably what’s going on here,” I said.

  “What?”

  With difficulty I took my eyes off the notes and looked up at my brother-in-law’s handsome face. Frown lines had gathered between his thick dark eyebrows.

  “Just thinking aloud.”

  “Worrying aloud is more like it.”

  “Look, I’m not all that concerned. They’re probably the work of a harmless crank, but they should be checked out.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re doing that thing with the corners of your mouth.”

  “What thing?”

  “The thing you always do when you’re worried or upset—or scared.”

  “I am not scared.”

  He smiled—the crooked, almost pained smile that was a Ricky Savage trademark and only one of his many endearing traits. “Okay, maybe I’m projecting my own feelings onto you. Because I am scared. More scared than I’ve been in a long time. Not so much for me as for your sister and the kids. What if this weirdo goes after one of them?” He spread his hands, smile fragmenting into anxiety and frustration.

  At thirty-six Ricky radiated that indefinable star quality and looked as prosperous as anyone I knew. But his admission that he was scared brought vividly to mind the terrified, scruffy eighteen year old who had come calling to tell my parents that he’d knocked up my little sister Charlene on their first da
te and wanted to marry her.

  To ease our mutual tension, I indulged in a long-standing private joke. “You’ve cleaned up nice, Brother Ricky.”

  At first he looked startled, then said, “So’ve you, Sister Sharon,” and motioned around my new office at the end of Pier 24½.

  “Thanks.” McCone Investigations and Altman & Zahn, Attorneys-at-law, had occupied the upstairs suite on the north side of the pier for only three weeks; in spite of some obvious flaws, I was entranced by the new location.

  “Okay,” I said, calm enough now to turn a hard eye on the matter at hand, “you say these notes started arriving at the house the week after the Billboard and ‘StarWatch’ items appeared?”

  “A little more than a week, in the case of Billboard. And every week after that, except for July third, when it was two days late because of the holiday.”

  “Then it’s probably no coincidence. Did you save the envelopes?”

  “No. They were postmarked L.A., though.”

  “Zip code?”

  He thought. “Can’t remember. Sorry.”

  “Obviously you’ve handled the notes a lot.”

  “Well, yeah. Why?”

  “Makes it more difficult for a lab to pick up on anything useful, like fingerprints. I’ll go ahead and have them examined anyway. Why didn’t you bring them to me sooner?”

  “I wasn’t all that concerned at first. In my position you get a lot of strange mail.”

  “But not at your house; nobody’s supposed to know your address.”

  “Right. I guess my mental alarm should’ve gone off sooner, but… The first one—I shrugged it off, tossed it in a drawer in my office where I keep stuff I plan to look at later. The next I showed to your sister, and she said she didn’t think it was anything to worry about. The others… I kept hoping the whole thing would go away. But it didn’t, and it sounds like whoever’s sending them wants a response from me and is more and more upset because they’re not getting one. Trouble is, I can’t figure out what the question means.”

  “‘Whatever happened to my song?’ That doesn’t signify?”

  “Seems I recall a song with similar lyrics, but I haven’t been able to place it.”

  “Well, it’s worth checking into.” I made a note on a legal pad. “Now, what about possible senders? You must’ve given some thought to this. Could it be somebody at Transamerica who’s seriously angry with you for leaving?”

  “Doesn’t fit their corporate image.”

  “What about another artist or songwriter who’s unhappy with the way you’ve interpreted his or her work?”

  “No. I never cover other people’s material; all my songs’re my own.”

  “Perhaps somebody’s accusing you of plagiarism?”

  “Doubtful. The first thing anybody does when they suspect plagiarism is contact their attorney, and nobody’s attorney has contacted mine. Besides, people’re up-front about things like that; they badmouth you to the media or they file suit. These notes, they’re sly and devious—and strange.” He glanced at where they lay on my desk and shook his head.

  My eyes were drawn to them, too. I gripped the arms of my chair, picturing the five Savage children who still lived at home. I thought of the isolated location of the new house the family had just moved into in the San Diego County hills; the surrounding twenty wooded acres would provide ample cover for someone intent on harming them.

  When I looked up, Ricky was watching me closely. Fear had sharpened his features and put a curious sheen on his hazel eyes. Quickly I said, “I’ll get right on this, but in the meantime we’ve got to take steps to insure your safety, as well as Charlene’s and the kids’. I don’t like the fact that the writer knows where you live.”

  “We’ve got security gates, we’ve got motion sensors, the whole property is wired with a state-of-the-art system. Plus we’ve got what sometimes seems like half the population working for us. How’s anybody going to get past that many people?”

  “Did it ever occur to you that the notes might be from one of them?”

  “The gardeners? The housekeeper? Come on!” But I could tell I’d given him something else to worry about.

  I compounded it. “Besides, what about when you and Charlene are away from home? Or when the kids’re on the way to school or at the mall? And then there’s the recording studio over in Arizona; it’s way out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Well, Jesus, what’re we all supposed to do! Travel with bodyguards?”

  “Actually, I’m surprised you don’t employ one for when you’re out on the road.”

  He looked down at the floor. “I tried that for a while, but… it didn’t work out very well.”

  “Why not?”

  A shrug, still not looking at me. “Cramped my style, I guess.”

  “How so?”

  His lips twitched in annoyance. “I’m a private man, Shar—just read ‘StarWatch,’ if you don’t believe me.”

  Something there about the bodyguard, and I thought I knew what. Ricky, like many musicians, had been known to play around while out on the road; an indiscreet guard could carry tales that he wouldn’t want my sister or the gossip columns to hear. “Well, I wasn’t thinking of anything so drastic as round-the-clock armed guards,” I said. “Some basic precautions should suffice. What I’d like to do is bring RKI in on this.” Renshaw and Kessell International was a corporate security firm in which my lover and best friend, Hy Ripinsky, owned a one-third interest. “I’ll ask Hy to handle it personally, if you like.”

  “God, you must think the situation’s pretty dire.” He bit his lip and looked toward the window, gaze moving along the silvery span of the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge to where it disappeared among the trees on Treasure Island.

  I pushed away from the desk and swiveled slightly. Through the tall arching window I could see a sizeable stretch of water; in the distance the East Bay hills shimmered under July heat haze. Around me tan walls rose to the pier’s sloping roofline, broken at the top by multipaned windows that admitted soft northerly light. The furniture I’d brought from my old office at the now-defunct All Souls Legal Cooperative went well with the wall-to-wall Berber carpet. About the only discordant note was a ratty old arm-chair I’d rescued from the converted closet under the stairs that had been my first working space at the co-op. It sat beneath a potted schefflera by the window—my thinking chair, I called it. Sentimentality had not prevented me from covering its ugly chintz and bleeding stuffing with a hand-woven beige-and-brown throw.

  Had it not been for two drawbacks, the eight-room suite at a prime location on the Embarcadero would have been obscenely and prohibitively expensive. But Pier 24½ was right next to the SFFD fireboat station; when the sirens went off they were loud enough to wake the dead. And the span of the bridge hung directly overhead; a cacophony of traffic sounds played continuously above us. In the past three weeks, however, I’d learned that you can get used to anything if the price is right.

  I glanced back at Ricky; he was slumped in my visitor’s chair, his gaze still on Treasure Island, his thoughts possibly light years away. He barely resembled the down-at-the-heels man I’d known in the early days, when he’d been a backup musician for a seemingly endless series of dreadful bands. During the past few years he’d lost a fair amount of weight, although his shoulders still bulked powerfully under his tan suit jacket. I suspected he’d begun dyeing his thick chestnut hair, but it looked so natural that I couldn’t tell for sure. Dye job or not, Ricky Savage was both the image of success and the genuine article, with a minimum performance fee of two hundred thousand dollars, two Grammys, numerous other awards, and four platinum albums to his credit.

  But more than Ricky’s appearance and tax bracket had changed: At dinner the previous evening, his son Mick, Hy, and I had all noticed an uncharacteristic lack of animation on his part. When he spoke of his industry, his words were larded with cynicism and bitterness; his reactions were detached, as if there were a glass wall be
tween him and the world; and, if anything, he seemed more than a little sad.

  After a moment I said, “Do I have your go-ahead to sub-contract with RKI?”

  “Do what you think is best.”

  “Okay, Hy’s unavailable this afternoon, but we’ll talk when we see him tonight. As far as my investigation goes, I’ll start by gathering background on your business associates, friends, employees—or anybody else who’s recently touched your life. You’ll need to pull together a list of them, plus clear some time over the weekend to discuss them with me.” As I spoke I realized the enormity of the task ahead. “What about these people who were quoted in ‘StarWatch’? They sound like sharks.”

  “Goes with the territory.” Unless you knew country music, you’d have thought his accent didn’t go with the territory; instead of a nasal southern twang, it was pure California. But it was pure country as well; Ricky hailed from Bakersfield, the West Coat’s equivalent of Nashville.

  “Isn’t this libelous?” I jabbed my finger at the quote from the CEO of his former label.

  “I’m a public figure; it’d be damned hard to prove libel—if I cared to, which I don’t. Name-calling doesn’t get to me and, besides, Sy Ziff and John Geller apologized a couple of days later. We all made nice, and things’re copacetic.”

  “Sure they are.”

  “Sure.” He winked.

  “Okay, while we’re on the subject, let’s talk about your partners in the new label. Kurt Girdwood’s been your manager for years; you’ve spoken highly of Ethan Amory; and you tell me that Wil Willis is nothing short of brilliant. Do you trust them?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re going into business with them.”

  “Lying down with dogs is more or less an industry tradition.” He hesitated, grimacing. “You know, there’s another side to this, one that doesn’t concern me nearly as much as what might happen to Charly or the kids, but it’s got to be taken into consideration.”