‘Final Jeopardy, Officer,’ said Howard Mitla. ‘How much do you wish to wager?’
O’Bannion thought about it for a moment . . . then grasped the toilet seat and wagered it all.
Sneakers
John Tell had been working at Tabori Studios just over a month when he first noticed the sneakers. Tabori was in a building which had once been called Music City and had been, in the early days of rock and roll and top-forty rhythm and blues, a very big deal. Back then you never would have seen a pair of sneakers (unless they were on the feet of a delivery boy) above lobby-level. Those days were gone, though, and so were the big-money producers with their reet pleats and pointy-toed snakeskin shoes. Sneakers were now just another part of the Music City uniform, and when Tell first glimpsed these, he made no negative assumptions about their owner. Well, maybe one: the guy really could have used a new pair. These had been white when they were new, but from the look of them new had been a long time ago.
That was all he noticed when he first saw the sneakers in the little room where you so often ended up judging your neighbor by his footwear because that was all you ever saw of him. Tell spied this pair under the door of the first toilet-stall in the third-floor men’s room. He passed them on his way to the third and last stall. He came out a few minutes later, washed and dried his hands, combed his hair, and then went back to Studio F, where he was helping to mix an album by a heavy-metal group called The Dead Beats. To say Tell had already forgotten the sneakers would be an overstatement, because they had hardly registered on his mental radar screen to begin with.
Paul Jannings was producing The Dead Beats’ sessions. He wasn’t famous in the way the old be-bop kings of Music City had been famous — Tell thought rock-and-roll music was no longer strong enough to breed such mythic royalty — but he was fairly well-known, and Tell himself thought he was the best producer of rock-and-roll records currently active in the field; only Jimmy Iovine could come close.
Tell had first seen him at a party following the premiere of a concert film; had, in fact, recognized him from across the room. The hair was graying now, and the sharp features of Jannings’s handsome face had become almost gaunt, but there was no mistaking the man who had recorded the legendary Tokyo Sessions with Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, John Lennon, and Al Kooper some fifteen years earlier. Other than Phil Spector, Jannings was the only record producer Tell could have recognized by sight as well as by the distinctive sound of his recordings
— crystal-clear top ends underscored by percussion so heavy it shook your clavicle. It was that Don McLean clarity you heard first on the Tokyo Sessions recordings, but if you wiped the treble, what you heard pulsing along through the underbrush was pure Sandy Nelson.
Tell’s natural reticence was overcome by admiration and he had crossed the room to where Jannings was standing, temporarily unengaged. He introduced himself, expecting a quick handshake and a few perfunctory words at most. Instead, the two of them had fallen into a long and interesting conversation. They worked in the same field and knew some of the same people, but even then Tell had known there was more to the magic of that initial meeting than those things; Paul Jannings was just one of those rare men to whom he found he could talk, and for John Tell, talking really was akin to magic.
Toward the end of the conversation, Jannings had asked him if he was looking for work.
‘Did you ever know anyone in this business who wasn’t?’ Tell asked.
Jannings laughed and asked for his phone number. Tell had given it to him, not attaching much importance to the request — it was most likely a gesture of politeness on the other man’s part, he’d thought. But Jannings had called him three days later to ask if Tell would like to be part of the three-man team mixing The Dead Beats’ first album. ‘I don’t know if it’s really possible to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ Jannings had said, ‘but since Atlantic Records is footing the bills, why not have a good time trying?’ John Tell saw no reason at all why not, and signed on for the cruise immediately.
A week or so after he first saw the sneakers, Tell saw them again. He only registered the fact that it was the same guy because the sneakers were in the same place — under the door of stall number one in the third-floor men’s. There was no question that they were the same ones; white (once, anyway) high tops with dirt in the deep creases. He noticed an empty eyelet and thought, Must not have had your own eyes all the way open when you laced that one up, friend. Then he went on down to the third stall (which he thought of, in some vague way, as ‘his’). This time he glanced at the sneakers on his way out, as well, and saw something odd when he did: there was a dead fly on one of them. It lay on the rounded toe of the left sneaker, the one with the empty eyelet, with its little legs sticking up.
When he got back to Studio F, Jannings was sitting at the board with his head clutched in his hands.
‘You okay, Paul?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Me. I was wrong. I am wrong. My career is finished. I’m washed up. Eighty-sixed. Over-done-with-gone.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Tell looked around for Georgie Ronkler and didn’t see him anywhere. It didn’t surprise him. Jannings had periodic fugues and Georgie always left when he saw one coming on. He claimed his karma didn’t allow him to deal with strong emotion. ‘I cry at supermarket openings,’ Georgie said.
‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ Jannings said. He pointed with his fist at the glass between the mixing room and the performance studio. He looked like a man giving the old Nazi Heil Hitler salute. ‘At least not out of pigs like those.’
‘Lighten up,’ Tell said, although he knew Jannings was perfectly right. The Dead Beats, composed of four dull bastards and one dull bitch, were personally repulsive and professionally incompetent.
‘Lighten this up,’ Jannings said, and flipped him the bird.
‘God, I hate temperament,’ Tell said.
Jannings looked up at him and giggled. A second later they were both laughing. Five minutes after that they were back to work.
The mix — such as it was — ended a week later. Tell asked Jannings for a recommendation and a tape.
‘Okay, but you know you’re not supposed to play the tape for anyone until the album comes out,’ Jannings said.
‘I know.’
‘And why you’d ever want to, for anyone, is beyond me. These guys make The Butthole Surfers sound like The Beatles.’
‘Come on, Paul, it wasn’t that bad. And even if it was, it’s over.’
He smiled. ‘Yeah. There’s that. And if I ever work in this business again, I’ll give you a call.’
‘That would be great.’
They shook hands. Tell left the building which had once been known as Music City, and the thought of the sneakers under the door of stall number one in the third-floor men’s John never crossed his mind.
Jannings, who had been in the business twenty-five years, had once told him that when it came to mixing bop (he never called it rock and roll, only bop), you were either shit or Superman. For the two months following the Beats’ mixing session, John Tell was shit. He didn’t work. He began to get nervous about the rent. Twice he almost called Jannings, but something in him thought that would be a mistake.
Then the music mixer on a film called Karate Masters of Massacre died of a massive coronary and Tell got six weeks’ work at the Brill Building (which had been known as Tin Pan Alley back in the heyday of Broadway and the Big Band sound), finishing the mix. It was library stuff in the public domain — and a few plinking sitars — for the most part, but it paid the rent. And following his last day on the show, Tell had no more than walked into his apartment before the phone rang. It was Paul Jannings, asking him if he had checked the Billboard pop chart lately.
Tell said he hadn’t.
‘It came on at number seventy-nine.’ Jannings managed to sound simultaneously disgusted, amused, and amazed. ‘With a bullet.’
‘What did?’ But he knew as soon as the question was out of his mouth.
‘ ”Diving in the Dirt.” ‘