Connor used his mug to point toward Ian’s phone. “Scared of calling Miami?”
“Terrified.”
“I take it you know the individual on the other end of that conversation you’re not having?”
“Kiki Kerkorian’s staff calls her the genteel assassin. She runs the festival and is also head of MISO, the Miami Symphony Orchestra,” Ian replied. “When all this broke, she didn’t call. She didn’t try to find out what had happened. She ordered her lawyers into attack mode. That is basically all the introduction you need to Kiki Kerkorian.”
Connor gave that a moment, then said, “But that’s not really what’s kept you frozen to the spot, now, is it?”
Ian swung around.
Now it was Connor’s turn to stare at the sunlit vista. He sipped from his mug. Waiting.
“Excuse me?” Ian said finally.
Connor pointed behind them. “Why don’t we move this inside, find you a nice quiet spot where you can enter meltdown in private?”
Ian hesitated, then followed him down the path. “That’s not funny.”
“Weird. I thought it was.”
Arthur glanced up from his mixing board when they entered. At a motion from Connor, the old man slipped his headphones down around his neck.
Connor asked, “Can we use the studio?”
“For what, exactly?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“In that case, be my guest.”
“Arthur, be a gent and turn off all the feeds.”
The old man slapped a pair of switches. “As if I have any interest whatsoever in your private affairs. Inside what was formerly my private space.”
Connor motioned Ian inside the recording studio and closed the door. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Ian selected a chair by the side wall. “Why are you doing this?”
Connor settled onto the piano stool. “I’ll tell you. But mind if I ask a question first?”
“I suppose.”
“Yesterday you said you’d lost the passion that fueled your music and your rise. When did that happen?”
“I can’t say for certain. I claim it was fourteen months back. But really that’s just when I couldn’t ignore the change any longer. It was so gradual, I didn’t actually notice at first. Then one night, after a concert in Montreal, I got back to my dressing room, looked in the mirror, and there was this cadaver staring back. Lifeless.”
“Scary.”
“Awful.”
Connor studied his empty mug. “So maybe what you’re really frightened of now is going back into that same desperate moment. Isolated and empty. Nothing but dust and ashes. A blanket so thick, it cuts off your air.”
Ian pressed a fist to his gut. Swallowed against the rising gorge. Wanted to ask again how the man knew. But the words did not come.
Connor went on. “As far back as I can remember, all I ever wanted was to be a singer. Play the soft jazz, the swing, bring all those old hits to life in a new age. So I moved to LA, made the circuits, played the gigs. Then one night I performed at a wedding reception for a big Hollywood producer. You know the line. I hoped this might be my big break. Only the hope wasn’t really there. I was telling myself the same old lie I’d repeated a hundred nights before.”
Connor swung the stool around so that he stared at the piano keys. “Midway through the second set, a lady started this drunken jag, screaming so loud she shut us down. Then she flipped over her table, sent glass and plates and cutlery flying everywhere. Everybody started scrambling and shouting. I looked at my band, ready to suggest we take another break. And I really saw them. Maybe for the first time. All three were so stoned, they barely noticed. Helpless and lost. Just like me.”
