receptionist to Scales’s office, he passed rows of desks and dozens of cubicles buzzing with the noise of electric typewriters, telexes, telephones, and photocopying machines. Hie sight of so many secretaries working with the newest electronic word processors surprised him, and he suddenly felt intimidated as well as embarrassed at the thought of why he was there.
Scales stood up behind his large rosewood desk, which was centered in front of a wall-sized window fifty floors above Madison Avenue. Deeply tanned, his silvery hair combed back, his forehead and cheeks smoothed out by plastic surgery, Scales looked like a middle-aged Beverly Hills playboy. He waved Domostroy in. “Well! I’m surprised to see you looking so fit,” he joked, “after all the terrible things I’ve been hearing about you.”
“What terrible things?” asked Domostroy, forcing a big smile.
“Gypsy living. Moonlighting in wild places. Mickey-Mousing.” He laughed and motioned for them to sit down. “True or false?”
“True,” said Domostroy, sitting. “They keep me fit.”
Scales pushed some papers aside and leaned forward on the desk. “What can I do for you, Domo?” he asked. “Got a new masterpiece? Another
Octaves,
by any chance?”
“Not quite. I am working on something—with another person,” said Domostroy, mustering courage.
“Be careful! I still recall those press hatchet jobs about your ‘secret’ collaborators and what their headlines did to your reputation. But this time is it really a musical collaboration?” Scales asked with interest.
“Only of sorts. And no more than were all those others. But this time I need advice. It won’t take long at all,” he said, recalling Scales’s extravagantly high fees in bygone days.
“I’m all ears,” said Scales.
“Well … my partner and I are wondering … what are the chances of our tracking down Goddard.”
Scales raised his eyebrows. “Goddard?
The
Goddard?”
“Yes “
“What for?”
“For a good reason, believe me,” said Domostroy.
“Like what? Murder? Can you prove Goddard killed someone?” asked Scales a bit impatiently.
“No, but—”
“Because if you can’t, I’d advise you not to waste your time.” He paused and reflected. “In fact, even if you could prove such a thing, finding him still wouldn’t be easy. I once handled a rather famous case involving a prisoner at Leavenworth.” He paused, then opened up to tell Domostroy yet another favorite story. “This man, starting when he was twelve, had spent some twenty-five years in the clink for various crimes, including killing a fellow prisoner and badly wounding another. While he was in prison, invisible to the world, he wrote country and western music and lyrics and he sent the stuff to some music luminaries on the outside. They were convinced that they’d discovered a genius, and they hired me to help them obtain the man’s parole. So at the age of thirty-seven he arrived in Nashville and was welcomed by the country and western establishment as if he were a Johnny Cash clone.
“Even though his music—at best, mediocre—was gentlehis lyrics were not. They expressed contempt for the faceless masses whom he saw as ignorant, cynical and basically evil. The fellow believed that to be a man, you must, to save face, kill anyone who threatens you with force. But once his arrival turned into a rags-to-riches publicity event, everyone hoped that the man to whom violence was music would now be just a music man, a noble savage, a gentle prisoner of the keyboard, with a musical talent that would free his soul. Needless to say, as if on command, in spite of his hateful lyrics, his music received some of the most laudatory front-page reviews country and western had ever seen and—visible as hell—our genius was launched, like no other, into a musical career. However …” Scales slumped back in his chair.
“However,” he went on, “barely two weeks later, he was in a coffee shop,
Scales stood up behind his large rosewood desk, which was centered in front of a wall-sized window fifty floors above Madison Avenue. Deeply tanned, his silvery hair combed back, his forehead and cheeks smoothed out by plastic surgery, Scales looked like a middle-aged Beverly Hills playboy. He waved Domostroy in. “Well! I’m surprised to see you looking so fit,” he joked, “after all the terrible things I’ve been hearing about you.”
“What terrible things?” asked Domostroy, forcing a big smile.
“Gypsy living. Moonlighting in wild places. Mickey-Mousing.” He laughed and motioned for them to sit down. “True or false?”
“True,” said Domostroy, sitting. “They keep me fit.”
Scales pushed some papers aside and leaned forward on the desk. “What can I do for you, Domo?” he asked. “Got a new masterpiece? Another
Octaves,
by any chance?”
“Not quite. I am working on something—with another person,” said Domostroy, mustering courage.
“Be careful! I still recall those press hatchet jobs about your ‘secret’ collaborators and what their headlines did to your reputation. But this time is it really a musical collaboration?” Scales asked with interest.
“Only of sorts. And no more than were all those others. But this time I need advice. It won’t take long at all,” he said, recalling Scales’s extravagantly high fees in bygone days.
“I’m all ears,” said Scales.
“Well … my partner and I are wondering … what are the chances of our tracking down Goddard.”
Scales raised his eyebrows. “Goddard?
The
Goddard?”
“Yes “
“What for?”
“For a good reason, believe me,” said Domostroy.
“Like what? Murder? Can you prove Goddard killed someone?” asked Scales a bit impatiently.
“No, but—”
“Because if you can’t, I’d advise you not to waste your time.” He paused and reflected. “In fact, even if you could prove such a thing, finding him still wouldn’t be easy. I once handled a rather famous case involving a prisoner at Leavenworth.” He paused, then opened up to tell Domostroy yet another favorite story. “This man, starting when he was twelve, had spent some twenty-five years in the clink for various crimes, including killing a fellow prisoner and badly wounding another. While he was in prison, invisible to the world, he wrote country and western music and lyrics and he sent the stuff to some music luminaries on the outside. They were convinced that they’d discovered a genius, and they hired me to help them obtain the man’s parole. So at the age of thirty-seven he arrived in Nashville and was welcomed by the country and western establishment as if he were a Johnny Cash clone.
“Even though his music—at best, mediocre—was gentlehis lyrics were not. They expressed contempt for the faceless masses whom he saw as ignorant, cynical and basically evil. The fellow believed that to be a man, you must, to save face, kill anyone who threatens you with force. But once his arrival turned into a rags-to-riches publicity event, everyone hoped that the man to whom violence was music would now be just a music man, a noble savage, a gentle prisoner of the keyboard, with a musical talent that would free his soul. Needless to say, as if on command, in spite of his hateful lyrics, his music received some of the most laudatory front-page reviews country and western had ever seen and—visible as hell—our genius was launched, like no other, into a musical career. However …” Scales slumped back in his chair.
“However,” he went on, “barely two weeks later, he was in a coffee shop,
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