The Devil of Echo Lake Read online

  Jake’s eyes must have widened at that.

  “Yeah, the Duke. You like his stuff?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Me too. In fact when I was about your age, I was the assistant on a record he tracked in the city.”

  “Cool.”

  “We’re going to put you up in one of the cottages we keep for clients here on the grounds. You’ll have a kitchen, bedroom and bathroom while you’re on this project and for a while after it’s done, until you have time to look for an apartment. But no housekeeping, so do your own dishes. If you’re even there long enough to eat. I doubt you’ll see much of the place.”

  “That’s fine. How will I get to work? I’m gonna buy a used car, but for now…?”

  “A runner will give you rides for now. Any other questions?”

  “Not until I look around.”

  “Okay, did Susan talk to you about pay?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Bloody Christ. Why can’t people do their jobs? It starts at seven an hour. We can talk about a raise if it works out.”

  Jake nodded. It was what he had expected, but when his father—who had paid for a good chunk of his education—asked about it, he was probably going to present it as an annual figure, pre-tax.

  “I know it’s low,” Eddie said, “but if this is what you want to do for a career, it’s about getting experience at this point.”

  “I know. That’s pretty much what my teachers said to expect.”

  “And you’ll find that the cost of living around here is lower than Orlando. Sure is a lot lower than Manhattan. You can get a two bedroom with a fireplace for six-fifty a month.” Eddie smiled and rose from his chair. “Well, I’ll let you get acquainted with the gear.”

  * * *

  Later, on the phone, Ally said, “That’s nice, Jake, a fireplace? That’ll be really useful if you don’t get paid enough to make the heating bill.”

  “The heat will never be on because I’ll never be home,” Jake said. “Look, if I started out as a runner, it would take me about a year to even get to this point. They’re kind of taking a chance on me.”

  “Who’s your first client?”

  “Tokin’ Negro. Just got out of prison.”

  “No shit.”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And how much are they paying for the studio time?”

  “Uh, Studio A is twenty-five hundred per day.”

  “Of which you get seven dollars an hour to basically run the room. You’re the cheapest tool they’re renting, sweetie. You deserve more than that.”

  “But think of all my classmates who didn’t get a placement, who racked up just as much debt, and now they have to schlep their resumes around L.A.—where I know you don’t want to live, and neither do I—just so they can get a chance to make six an hour brewing coffee and emptying the trash.”

  “How can studios get away with that? That’s not even minimum wage. Those guys could be making coffee at Starbucks for more than that and they’d be getting tips!”

  “Ally, it’s a competitive business. Very competitive.”

  “Well, I don’t like it. I’m sorry.”

  “Maybe you just don’t like me going away.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everybody who succeeds goes through this stage. It’s where you prove that you want it bad enough to pay your dues, and that you’re not going to freak out some rock star who’s in a vulnerable creative state by saying some fan-boy bullshit. It’s where I prove I know what I’m doing and I’m not going to erase the damned tape. Then they’ll pay me more.”

  “Okay. I am happy for you.”

  “I know.”

  There was a silence on the line. Jake looked out the back window of the cottage into the dark woods.

  “David Bowie’s here for a few days.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know if I’ll see him. He’s in Studio B, which is in a barn somewhere. How fucking cool is that?”

  “Pretty fucking cool.”

  “Will you come up and visit when this project is over? We can go apartment hunting together.”

  “Jake, I haven’t decided yet if I’m moving.”

  “I know, but I have to live somewhere. You might as well like the place.”

  “Okay, I’ll come. How much of the town have you seen?”

  “Not much, but I think you’d like it. It’s pretty artsy. I saw a coffee-table book lying around that tells how Echo Lake was an artists’ community going back to the turn of the century. And Woodstock is close enough that you can still see which houses Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan once rented. You can tell it’s New York City’s backyard. I think you’d feel right at home here.”

  Silence on the line again.

  “Allison?”

  “I’ll come and see you in a couple of weeks, when you have the time, okay? Just, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You should focus on your job right now. A lot is happening for you.”

  “I know. I’ve just been thinking about how you’ve already ruled out Florida for grad school, right? So why stay there while you’re figuring it out?”

  “Well, my parents are here, for one thing.”

  Outside the window something slid out of the trees and bounded across the grass about thirty yards from the cottage. Jake could barely make it out in the dusky light but it looked to be about the size of a deer, only white. The notion that it was a dog crossed his mind, but the way the light danced across its torso made it look like anything but fur. More like pale flesh stretched taut over a ribcage. It seemed to flicker in an odd way, like a projection. Jake squinted, but it had already disappeared into the tree line at the far end of the lawn. He peered into the shadows where it had vanished, then startled when a pair of violet lights flashed back at him, like cat’s eyes reflecting passing headlights. The back of his neck prickled, and his stomach churned. But then, of course, he would feel unsettled with the long trip, the job jitters, and the fear of losing her.

  “Jake, are you there?”

  “Yeah. I’m tired.”

  “You sound funny. Are you okay?”

  “Yup.”

  “Don’t start lying to me now. You never have before. Look, we can talk about it, but I just won’t know until I can see the place.”

  “No, it’s okay. I think I’m more tired than I realized. I’m gonna go to bed. I have to get up early to get a handle on the room.”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Jake hung up the phone, picked up his bottle of beer, and froze before it reached his lips. Something out there at the edge of the woods had caught his eye again, and he knew that it couldn't be, but it looked like a naked woman walking away.

  Three

  There was a wake, with no coffin, just an urn, at a small funeral home. It was held in Port Jefferson, just fifteen miles from Billy’s mother’s house. That’s what it is now, he realized, standing in the receiving line, shaking hands, and not hearing a word anyone said to him. It’s my mother’s house. Not my parents’ house. She lives there alone. It seemed fundamentally wrong that it should be this way, his mother living by herself, but he couldn’t think of anything to do about it.

  On Monday evening they drove out to Montauk Point. Evan had a connection, through work, to the captain of the fireboat, and he had arranged to have the immediate family taken out on the boat at sunset to scatter the ashes at sea. It was what the man had wanted.

  Billy read a poem by Yeats. Evan poured the ashes into the wind. William Malhoney Sr., hadn’t been much for poetry but something about Yeats had resonated with his Irish blood. The old man had even memorized a few fragments just from returning to them over the years. Billy read “Into the Twilight.”

  Afterward, they went back to Evan and Sandy’s house for coffee and pie.

  “None for me,” the widow said, waving the coffee pot away. “It’ll just keep me up.”

  “Mom, I’ve made up a bed for you in the baby
’s room,” Sandy said. “Evan and I would like you to stay here tonight. You’re not working tomorrow, right?”

  “No, my kids will have a substitute for the rest of the week. But Billy can drive me home. I fixed up his old room for him.”

  Evan stood and cleared the dirty pie plates. “Why don’t you both stay here tonight? Billy can sleep on the living room couch; it’s a convertible.”

  “It’s fine with me, Mom,” Billy said. “Then you can turn in as early as you like and I won’t have to wake you just to drive home.”

  “Alright then, I think I’ll go to bed now if we’re staying.” She rose and kissed her two boys goodnight. After kissing Billy’s cheek, she laid her cold fingers against it and said, “Thank you for coming all the way from Japan, Billy. It means a lot to me that you’re here.”

  He smiled faintly and said, “I didn’t, Mom.”

  Sandy led her mother-in-law to the baby’s room, leaving Billy and Evan alone at the table.

  Evan said, “What? What’s that look on your face mean?”

  Billy sighed. “I don’t know. She makes it sound like I’m a friend of the family. Like there was even a question of whether I’d come from California or Japan or Mars for that matter. She doesn’t have to thank me for it. Makes me feel like a creep.”

  “You’re upset because Mom thanked you?”

  “No. Just…. Shit, forget it. Forget I said anything.”

  “You must feel pretty guilty if it ruffles your feathers that Mom’s grateful to see you.”

  “Well, you know, Evan, only the Catholics can make you feel guilty by thanking you.”

  “Are you still on that soapbox?”

  “Come on, you know it’s true. We grew up in the same house. Hell, Mom used to bitch all the time about the guilt trips her mother laid on her.”

  “I thought you got all that bile out of your system on your first CD. You do know how to beat a dead horse. At Dad’s funeral, no less. Unbelievable.”

  “Evan, it’s just me and you in this kitchen, okay? It’s not Dad’s funeral. Forget I said anything. I didn’t come half way around the world to fight with you.”

  Evan snorted a short laugh, “So it is a big deal: half way around the world. You have to cancel any concerts?”

  “No. I didn’t mean… I just thought she meant… Let’s just drop it.”

  “Jeez, you’re really sensitive.”

  “Well, Dad just died. I’m supposed to be sensitive, right?”

  “You’re supposed to be paranoid like that? Somebody says ‘thanks for coming’ and you read accusation into it? How do you deal with the critics in the paper?”

  “I don’t read that stuff.”

  “Well that’s good, ‘cause I saw some pretty unkind words about your last disc in People magazine.”

  “People isn’t exactly speaking to my demographic.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You’re jealous.”

  “Yeah, Billy, I’m jealous that I don’t get to live my life on buses and in rehab clinics.”

  “It’s the money, right?” Billy said. “Like when I bought the car for Dad. You didn’t have one nice thing to say about it.”

  “Well since you brought it up, what the hell was that anyway? You don’t hardly talk to the guy for five years and then you buy him a car one day? It was like you were sticking it in his face how you were right all along about being able to make a living at music, and as soon as you could do it, you had to prove it to him in his own terms, right? It’s not like the car was a gift to thank him for years of support. It was about you having something to prove.”

  “It was not.”

  “Well, he knew it was.”

  “He said that?”

  “He knew. You were showing him you could afford the nice things he couldn’t afford for himself—because you were right about dropping out of school to get high and play in a band.”

  “Yeah, you’re a real psychoanalyst, Evan. Did Sandy come up with that one? Of all things, I can’t believe you’re busting my balls about the car. I just wanted to do something nice for him.”

  “Then you should have called him from the road once in a while.”

  Billy said nothing. He looked at the ceiling. The silence was punctuated only by the sputtering of the coffee maker. Then he said, “Yeah, I should have.”

  “Coming home to see them sometimes would have meant more to him than buying them things.”

  “You were always closer to him. You were so much more like him. You still are. I know I’m a fuck-up, okay? It doesn’t mean I like to hear it. I wanted to make him proud. He always told me I’d never make any money at music, and I just thought that when I did, maybe he wouldn’t be so damned disappointed. I couldn’t rebuild an engine with him like you did and have those hours you had with him, drinking beer in the garage... So I bought him a car. Big deal. Fuck, maybe I did have something to prove. I don’t know; it doesn’t matter now.”

  Billy stood up and said, “I’m gonna drive back to Mom’s house. I’ll pick her up in the morning and take her to breakfast. Tell her, okay?” He threw his jacket over his shoulder.

  “Billy. Don’t go. We have plenty of room for you. It’s actually a really comfortable pull-out.”

  “I want to sleep in my old room tonight. Tell Sandy I said thanks for the pie.” Billy opened the front door and felt in his jacket pocket for his mother’s car keys.

  “Hey, Billy. Are you gonna be around for at least a few days? For Mom.”

  “Yeah, I want to look up an old friend.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Johnny Russo.”

  “What trench coat Johnny? Johnny Black Magic? That Johnny?”

  “Yeah. He has a wife and kids now. Runs a restaurant.”

  “Okay. Remind me not to eat there.”

  Billy stepped out into the night and gently pulled the door closed behind him.

  * * *

  Jake was perched on a stool at the workbench in the shop, soldering dead cables and wondering if he was getting cancer from the lead fumes for seven dollars an hour, when the phone rang. It was Eddie, summoning him up to the office. On his way through the corridors and up the spiral stairs, Jake couldn’t help wondering if he was in trouble.

  Had the mix engineer at the Hit Factory in Manhattan called to complain that the track sheets didn’t match what was on the tapes? Would he have heard it in Eddie’s voice? The guy was a little hard to read, and a few words on the phone weren’t enough.

  Jake nodded at Eddie through the glass door of his office. The manager was sitting behind a cluttered desk in a forest of Post-it notes. He was on the phone, but he waved Jake in and pointed at a seat. Jake sat down and took in the framed album covers on the walls, the black and white photos on the desk.

  The pretty lady had to be Eddie’s wife. The fat, stately old man with the long, thinning white hair and Stetson must have been the late Charlie Hoffman, famed patriarch of Echo Lake Studios, and in his heyday, the power broker for at least three 1960’s rock icons. His widow Lucy now owned the property.

  “He’s selling the studio in Hawaii?” Eddie said to the phone. “Just the gear? Well what kind of console is it? No, I’m not in the market for an API, but I might be interested in some of his outboard gear. What’s he running for mic pre-amps? Uh-huh. Why’s he selling?”

  A long pause.

  Eddie laughed. “It’s not about the trends turning against him, it’s about song craft. He should turn off the computer and write some decent tunes again… Yeah…. Yeah… Nobody listens to dance music outside of clubs anyway. House music? Tell him if he wants to write house music he should write another song like ‘Horses in the Surf.’ You write a song like that, you buy a big fuckin’ house. Listen, Marty, I gotta go. Get back to me about those pre’s, okay? Right. Talk to you.”

  Eddie put the phone down, leaned back in his chair, and brushed some pretzel crumbs off his blue denim shirt. He gestured at the bag on his desk, “Pretzel?”
/>   “Thanks, I’m all set.” Jake said.

  “So how are you settling in? Susan tells me you moved out of the cottage. You find a nice apartment?”

  “Yeah. Found a place on Main Street, right at the edge of town, just a few miles from the studio. And my girlfriend is even going to move up and give it a try.”

  “Good, good. How’s the car search going?”

  “I should have a beater soon. Maybe sometime next week.”

  “Okay, well I’m sure you can keep getting rides with the other guys until then.”

  Jake nodded.

  “I have your next assignment. I want you to work on the Billy Moon record in Studio C. Starts on November second—that’s next Tuesday.” Eddie tossed a copy of the November schedule across the desk and brushed his hands together, sending salt grains onto the carpet.

  “Cool. Who’s the engineer?”

  “Kevin Brickhouse.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. It’ll be an education. Trevor Rail is the producer. He’s a little intense, but you’ll do fine. Today I want you to go down there and get familiarized with the Neve board. You have any questions, find Brian. The church is also a residential studio. Sleeps four. I don’t know if Moon is bringing a band with him, but we may put some of them up in the surrounding cottages if it’s a big entourage. The church hasn’t been used for housing in a while, so while you’re down there this afternoon, I need you to help out with moving some antique furniture that’s cluttering up the place. Call James LeBuff’s pager; it’s on the directory. Tell him to meet you there with his truck. Buff already knows which pieces have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “You also need to call Brickhouse before Friday to find out which mics he wants to reserve.”