CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, Stronzo made a phone call.
A mature-sounding female voice said, “Cloaca Records.”
“Good morning. May I speak with Lloyd Rancor, please?”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“Dominic Stronzo.”
“One moment, please.” She dialed Rancor’s extension.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Rancor, Dominic Stronzo is on line two.”
“Oh, no… All right, I’ll take it.” Rancor picked up the receiver. “Let me guess, Dominic. You’ve signed a new client.”
“Very good.”
“I am so sorry that I agreed to that goddamned stipulation.”
“Hey, you wanted the Forrester Brothers. I got them for you.”
“Yeah, right, on your terms. Who knew they’d stiff after a lousy two songs in the top thirty? Christ, I lost a fortune on those kids.”
“So did I, Lloyd. So did I.”
The stipulation to which they referred was that in exchange for getting the Forrester Brothers signed to Cloaca, Stronzo required the label to guarantee that it would record his next two clients. They agreed on two albums per act with aggressive marketing campaigns.
“And who did you bring me next? Cindy fucking Wayne.”
“She was a sore spot for us both.” Pausing, Stronzo said, “Goddammit if that kid wasn’t on her way…”
“Yeah, ‘til her fucking boyfriend knocked her up. And who was left holding the bag?”
“We both were, Lloyd. We both were. Remember, I put money into those acts, too.”
“So, what good-looking no-talent do you have for me this time?”
“I do wish people would stop referring to my clients that way.”
“Bring me someone who can sing on key, and I won’t. Come on, out with it. Who’s your latest ‘goldime?’”
“Bobby Leonetti.”
“That name’s gotta go.”
“Well, of course it does.”
“Age?”
“Fourteen?”
“That’s older than I’d like…”
“We’ll get a couple of good years out of him. So, what do you think? I’ll bring him over after school, say, on Thursday?”
“Let me check my calendar.” Rancor did so. “All right. Bring the little shit over at four o’clock Thursday.”
“Will do.”
“And Dominic?”
“Yes?”
“I hope I don’t get fucked again.”
“That makes two of us, Lloyd.”
That afternoon, Bobby, in his best suit, arrived at Stronzo’s office with his parents and baby sister. Stronzo, wearing a pasted-on smile, greeted them with fake cheer.
“Glad you could all make it.” He looked at the baby. “And who’s this little lady?”
“This here’s Patrice,” Maria said. “You didn’t see her last night ‘cause she was sleeping.”
“Hello, Patrice.”
The baby took one look at Stronzo and burst out crying.
Vince said, “She can be kinda cranky.”
“Oh, babies do cry. Had two of them myself. That is, my wife did.”
The Leonettis laughed at Stronzo’s wit and were shown into his main office. The walls were lined with gold albums and singles. Some were genuine, but most were fakes that Stronzo had had made at a local metal shop.
“Please,” he said, “have a seat.”
They did. Stronzo produced a ream of legal documents and spread them out on his desk. Once the papers were all signed, Stronzo shook hands with the Leonettis.
“Let me assure you both, you’ve placed your son in very capable hands.” He motioned to the walls. “See those gold records? You don’t get them by not knowing the music business.” He took a bottle of champagne from his wet bar and poured glasses for Vince, Maria, and himself.
“What about me?” said Bobby.
“No drinking for you, young man. If you’re going to make Teen Beat, you’ve got to be someone a thirteen-year-old girl’s not afraid to take home. Do you smoke, Bobby?”
“No.”
“Good! Don’t start. Now, I want you here right after school tomorrow. We’ll need to work on your appearance, your wardrobe, and especially on your voice.”
“Sounds like hard work.”
“It’s very hard work, but if you do it well, the rewards are endless. Imagine yourself on stage, microphone in hand, singing to an audience of ten thousand girls, every one of them madly in love with you. You haven’t even started singing yet, and already they’re screaming their hearts out for you.”
“Wow,” said Bobby. “That sounds totally groovy.”
“I’ve done it for others, my boy, and I can do it for you. Just do as I say and you’ll be bigger than the Jackson Five and the Osmonds put together.” Stronzo raised his glass. “To success.”
The adults drank.
On Thursday afternoon, Bobby and his parents were back in Stronzo’s office. They climbed into his Lincoln Continental and went to Cloaca.
Bobby said, “You sure do work fast. I can’t believe you already got me an appointment with a record label.”
“I had to work fast, Bobby. You’re hot, hot, hot! I want to get you into the studio as soon as possible. In fact, I’m so confident that you’ll impress Mr. Rancor, I’ve already arranged to fly to Memphis to see about a producer for your album.”
Maria squealed, which almost made Stronzo sideswipe the bus next to them. “Bobby’s album! My little boy’s gonna make a record.” She nudged her son. “Didn’t I tell you to keep singing?”
“You sure did, ma.” Bobby leaned over and kissed Maria’s cheek. She beamed.
In Lloyd Rancor’s office, he and Stronzo pretended the deal had not yet gone through. Once Stronzo had made the proper introductions, Rancor asked Bobby to sing something for him. Bobby cleared his throat, loosened his tie, and sang. When he was finished, Rancor, trying to remain calm, asked the Leonettis, “Would you folks mind stepping outside? I need to talk business with Mr. Stronzo.”
When they were alone, Rancor exploded. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“What?”
“’What?’ You have the big, hairy fucking balls to stand there and ask me, ‘What?’ Do you honestly expect me to sign that kid? He makes Bobby Sherman sounds like Billy Eckstine.”
“Since when do you let no talent keep you from signing an artist?”
“Are you completely tone deaf? At least the Forrester Brothers and Cindy Wayne had something a voice coach could work with. This fucking kid couldn’t hold a note in a headlock.”
“OK, so he doesn’t have the best set of pipes. Who cares when he’s got that face? Lloyd, that kid’s so goddamned good-looking, I’d fuck him and I’m not even queer. Imagine, publicity photos with no retouches.”
Rancor rubbed his thoughtfully. “We do have the most up-to-date voice modulator…”
“Now you’re talking.”
“All right, I’ll sign him. But I’m warning you — two goddamned albums, and if that kid’s not pulling his weight, he’s gone.”
“He’ll pull his weight, all right. You can trust me on that, Lloyd.”
Rancor sighed. “Last time you said that, I got stuck with Cindy Wayne.”