CHAPTER FOUR
When Allison got home from work, her parents and brother told her the news.
“So, Bobby got his contract,” said Allison.
“I sure did,” her brother said proudly.
“With Cloaca, home of such classics as ‘The Be-Bop Limbo Twist’ and ‘Chewy Gooey Jelly, I’ve Got Love In My Belly.’ Yeah, Bobby, Cloaca’s the perfect showcase for your talents.”
“Dammit, Allie,” said Maria, “why you always gotta be so negative?”
“Look, if Bobby had gotten that contract through sheer talent, I’d be as happy as you are; but the only reason Cloaca signed him is because he’s so goddamned good-looking.”
“That’s a lie,” said Bobby. “You’re just jaelous because I’m not going to have to work in some stupid supermarket like you. Rock and roll’s going to be my career.”
“You career? Pull your head out of your ass, kiddo. Didn’t you hear what I said about Billy Starr last night? You’ll be a has-been before your graduate high school.”
Bobby turned to his parents. “Can’t make her stop? This is the happiest day of my life, and she’s ruining it.”
Vince, calmly for once, said to his daughter, “Come on, ha? Let Bobby enjoy his success.”
“Whatever.” Allie asked Maria, “Want me to take the baby upstairs?”
“Thanks, hon.”
Allie took Patrice, who giggled and threw her arms around her sister’s neck. They went upstairs and into the room that Allie called her record lair. She sat the baby on the couch and threw on Sly & The Family Stone’s There A Riot Goin’ On.
The next morning, Stronzo flew to Memphis and quickly found the address he needed. Answering the door was a stocky man of thirty-six. He stood at five feet eight and had shoulder-length black hair. He seemed to lean into Stronzo as he looked up at him through red-streaked brown eyes. Five o’clock shadow encrusted a nondescript face with a nose that looked as if it had been mashed into a brick wall and lips that seemed to curve into a perpetual frown. He wore faded blue jeans and a T-shirt that bore the logo of Gold Standard Records, a Memphis-based rhythm and blues label.
Stronzo said, “Skip Mitchell?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Come on in.” He spoke in a southern drawl.
Mitchell, walking slowly and with a crouch, led Stronzo down a hallway, past a bedroom in which a pre-teen girl talked on the phone, and into the den.
“So,” Mitchell said, “what can I do for you?”
“As I said on the phone, I’d like you to produce my client.”
“And as I said on the phone, I ain’t interested.”
Stronzo seemed not to hear him. “I have a tape with me. Nothing fancy. Just had the kid sing into my office tape deck. Mind if I play it?”
“Go ahead.”
Stronzo opened his briefcase and pulled out a portable reel-to-reel deck. Bobby Leonetti’s voice filled the den.
Mitchell burst out laughing. “You’ve got a sick sense of humor, pal! Come on, where’s the real tape?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Now why would I do that?”
“Christ almighty! You signed that kid? He’s got the worst voice I ever heard, bar none.”
At that moment, the pre-teen girl bounded into the room. “Daddy, who’s that singing?”
Stronzo said, “His name’s Bobby. I’m his manager.”
“Daddy, are you producing him?”
Mitchell gaped at his daughter. “You like this?”
“It’s dreamy!” To Stronzo, “What’s this Bobby guy look like? Is he real cute?”
Stronzo handed her a snapshot.
“Oh my god, he’s gorgeous! Daddy, you’d best be producing this dreamboat.” To Stronzo, “Can I keep the picture?”
“Certainly.”
She skipped away, cooing over Bobby’s picture.
Stronzo turned off the tape deck. “What did I tell you?”
“That’ll be the day I let a twelve-year-old decide which artists I produce. Tell me something — are you familiar with my work?”
“Of course. Why do you think I called you?”
“Man, I don’t think you get it. Back in ’65, when Atlantic signed Wilson Pickett, they flew me in to produce him. When they signed Aretha, guess who produced her? When Otis Redding died, Stax called me in to master his last session. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
Mitchell snorted. “My daughter thinks your boy is a dreamboat. You ought to change his name to, hell, Bobby Dreamland.”
Stronzo filed that away. “Skip, let’s be honest. I need a producer and you need money.”
“What do you mean, I need money?”
“I mean, Gold Standard is going under. Last year, you agreed to a salary cut. You figured with Mrs. Mitchell working, the mortgage wouldn’t be a problem. But then she got laid off. You’re scared to death of losing this house, aren’t you?”
“How the fuck do you know all that?”
Stronzo just smiled.
“Let’s get something straight — I don’t produce teen idols.”
“Skip, I don’t mean to offend, but that screaming, good-god-y’all brand of soul with which you’re so infatuated? It’s dead now. Stay with Gold Standard and you’ll lose your house. Work with Bobby and you’ll
make enough money to produce all the soul artists you want.”
Mitchell said nothing.
“Look at your daughter. There are millions of girls just like her that’ll flip for Bobby.”
Mitchell lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. “You’d best go back to New York and just forget all about me.”
Stronzo wrote on a business card and placed it on the table. “That’s my home number. Call me collect when you change your mind.”
“You ain’t going to hear from me.”
“I can see myself out. Good day, Skip.”