Brancusi fished out a cigarette and chain-lit. His cheeks hollowed as he devoured the smoke. “What do you want to know?”
“First of all, do you have any theories about who killed China?”
“Sure,” he said. “Someone she pissed off. Which is about ten million people.”
“Challenged in the charm department.”
“China was a four-plus bitch. And guess what, you’re the first cop-type to ever ask me about her personality. What’s with those guys—retarded?”
“What did they ask?”
“Joe Dragnet stuff. The facts, just the facts. What time did she leave the studio, what did she do the last few days before, who was she doping with, who was she fucking. No attempt to really get into who she was.”
Smoke exited his nostrils and dissipated quickly in the smoggy air. “It was obvious they despised us and her, were blaming the whole lifestyle thing.”
“Do you think the lifestyle had anything to do with China’s death?”
“Who knows? Listen, I really don’t see the point of this.”
“Bear with me,” I said. “I need to get some context.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, from what I can tell things were looking up for the band. There was talk of a deal with a major label. That true?”
Brancusi sat up straighter, energized by nostalgia. “More than talk. We had a decent shot. Had just done a showcase at Madame Boo, where some of the better A & R guys were in the audience. We were great that night—really rocked. Next day, we were called for an interview with Mickey Gittleson—any idea who he was?”
I shook my head.
“Big-time manager. Big-time clients.” He rattled off a list of bands, some of which I recognized. “He was hot to represent China Whiteboy. If he’d have gotten behind us, things would’ve popped.”
“You said ‘he was.’ “
“Dead,” said Brancusi. “Last year, lung cancer. Idiot smoked too much.” He flicked ashes and cackled.
“What happened with Gittleson?”
“China broke the first appointment—pulled an absolute fit, said Gittleson represented everything evil about the music biz and she wasn’t going to sell out. Which was funny because during the showcase it was she who’d freaked out when she saw Gittleson sitting there, told us backstage that the guy was Mr. It. During the next act, she went over to his table, chatted him up, just about gave him a lap dance. Couldn’t have hurt. The guy was a horny old goat, liked to fuck the talent.”
“China flirting,” I said, trying to picture that.
Brancusi laughed. “China was incapable of anything as light and airy as femme flirtation. But she could put on the sexy act when she wanted.”
“Method acting?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it real, or was she faking it? How sexually active was she?”
“She was plenty active,” said Brancusi. “All with girls, she was into girls.”
He stared at Cahuenga traffic, seemed to be losing interest.
I said, “So she was the one who got Gittleson involved but then she changed her mind.”
“Typical China.”
“Moody,” I said.
He flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk. It lay there smoldering.
I said, “You said the first appointment. Gittleson didn’t cut you off after the first cancellation?”
“He was cool about it, we were a hot prospect, so he rescheduled. But a month later, he was traveling to Europe, arranged to meet us after he got back. Suggested we lay down some fresh tracks. That’s the reason we were in the studio. Trying to burn a CD sampler that would really knock Gittleson’s argyles off. And we were doing it. Hauling. China had changed her mind—now Gittleson was cool. She was on, she was motivated. That’s the thing about her. Even when she was high, she was able to focus.”
“Big-time high?”
“Is there any other kind?”
“So what happened?”
“The session’s going great, China starts freaking out over something—maybe something someone said, the sound system—when she was like that it could’ve been the way the drapes were hanging. She pulls a fit, walks out on us, disappears.”
“Not a word where she was going?”
“Nope. Just fuck-you’s all around. We figured she’d be back, the way she always was. Tantrums were a way of life for her.” He pulled out another cigarette and ignited it with a Donald Duck lighter.