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About the Author

Durso is a native New Yorker, once owned a literary

bookstore in Los Angeles, ran English language programs in New York and Istanbul and once, in a city far, far away, was a scoutmaster, which means he’s pretty good at tying knots,

building campfires, and is also loyal, trustworthy, helpful, etc.

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Dedication

To all my friends who through the long, ofttimes hard, years have kept me honest. And though there are too many to name,

I especially want to raise my glass to Steve Cohen, Dave Capus, Gene Kimball, Ren Weschler, Chuck Thegze, Jimmy

Powell, Randy Signor, Maureen Foster, and, of course, Rita Wu, who will all find bits and pieces of our time spent together in this, and all the other pages, that I write.

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Copyright © Leonard Durso (2015)

The right of Leonard Durso to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 012 7 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78455 014 1 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

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Western wind, when will thou blow

The small rain down can rain? Christ, if my love were in my arms And I in my bed again!

Anonymous 16th Century

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

William Shakespeare

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ONE

Rizzo always walks his dog at eleven. It’s a habit his first dog got him into that this new dog has unwittingly insisted on continuing and he’s too old and too much a creature of habit

to resist. So this morning, like all the other mornings past and all the mornings, he supposes, that lie ahead of him, finds him

walking. And this new dog tags along. “You got a new dog,” Abdur says when Rizzo stops at his

favorite pizza parlor for lunch. “You really went ahead and

got one.” “Yeah,” he nods. “It looks that way.” “Does your wife know?” Abdur asks.

“Not yet,” Rizzo says, and doesn’t say she probably won’t even notice, and certainly won’t even care.

“She comes home soon, no?” “Today,” Rizzo says. “Today?” and Abdur grins that lopsided grin he has when

whatever is said seems like a cosmic joke to him. “I guess she will know soon enough.”

Rizzo nods again, not wanting to prolong this

conversation any longer than necessary and pays for the meatball hero with extra cheese he always gets on Monday and a meat pie for the dog and starts to go.

“What’s his name?” Abdur asks. “I don’t know yet,” Rizzo says.

“You are going to name him, are you not?” “Probably.” Abdur laughs, the dog looks up at him with his head tilted

to one side, Rizzo tugs on the leash gently, and they walk on. Once home, Rizzo washes down the meatball hero with a

glass of Pellegrino and lemon and the dog eats his meat pie to

keep it in the loop. They are both deliriously happy in the end and it’s only the clock on the wall that ruins everything by

reminding him of the time of day. It’s then he notices he has a

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message on his voicemail. He doesn’t know why it is that no one calls when he is home but as soon as he steps out, messages appear on voicemail. This is one of those unwritten

laws of the universe, and it’s comforting in a way. He speed dials voicemail and listens as his daughter’s voice says,

“Don’t forget to get Mom at the airport. And no, I’m not cutting classes, I’m already done for the day. Call me your tonight, my morning, and be nice to Mom. She’s been out on

tour.” Rizzo thinks he needs a drink right about now so he tries

to find a substitute but a Life Saver somehow doesn’t quite do

the trick, so he pours a quick shot of Bushmills to steady his nerves. He would like to have another but it’s raining out now

and he’s driving soon and he thinks he’s getting much too old to be doing things like that so he doesn’t. Instead he drinks his third cup of coffee this morning and eyes the clock. He

doesn’t want to leave too early because he hates waiting around airports but he also doesn’t want to be late. Burcu expects him to be late. He’d like to show her he’s changed in

the last six months she hasn’t seen him but knows she wouldn’t believe in the permanency of the change even if he

did. Punctuality, though, would be a nice trait to possess, even at this late stage of his life, which is why he eyes the clock and does mental calculations of the Van Wyck Expressway.

And before he finishes his third cup of coffee, he has another shot of whiskey anyway. So much for changing.

Finally he allows 40 minutes for the drive to Kennedy

and, of course, there’s an accident on the LIE and delays on the Van Wyck because of construction he didn’t expect, though he doesn’t know why he didn’t expect it since there

always seems to be some highway under repair. Anyway Burcu’s flight is already disembarked and he heads for the

passenger pickup area knowing she’s probably already been through Customs which is where he sees her talking with a guy much too casually for him to be a stranger. He has that

kind of proprietary look that Rizzo’s seen before that he’s never really liked, especially when it’s directed at his wife. But then again, Burcu isn’t exactly his wife any longer,

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though she isn’t exactly his ex-wife yet, either, which is, more or less, exactly the problem. And though seeing the guy annoys him, the sight of Burcu standing there with one leg

bent at the knee, one hip slightly higher than the other, in her signature white suit with vest almost takes his breath away.

It’s then he remembers just how beautiful she is and how lucky he’s been to have spent nearly half his life with her. Suddenly he just wants to crawl inside her arms. Instead,

though, he stands next to her and says, “Sorry I’m late.” “Are you?” she asks, and gives that indulgent smile that

seems to be her favorite look where he is concerned. “I always

assume you’ll be 15 or 20 minutes behind the rest of the world so, for you, that’s on time.”

Rizzo nods, thinks it’s not the best way to start this visit but plays the stoic and lets it roll off his back.

Meanwhile Burcu turns to her companion and says, “Ted,

this is my husband, Rizzo.” “Ahhh,” and Ted’s eyes widen in what must be

admiration or else mockery. “It’s an honor.”

“Ted’s an impresario,” Burcu says. “Is he?” Rizzo says, his eyes returning the look of awe. “I

didn’t realize there were still some around.” “Promoter,” Ted says. “We’re called promoters now. But

surely you run across more than your share in your business.”

“Every day,” Rizzo says. “And three times on the weekend.”

“Rizzo sees everything in triplicate on the weekend,”

Burcu says. “Don’t you, Riz?” “Not everything,” he says. “I don’t see three of you.” “That’s because there’s only one of her,” Ted says.

“Which is how I see selling her.” “Selling her?” Rizzo asks, and can’t help it if an edge

creeps into his voice. “Is that what you’re doing?” “Trying to, anyway,” Ted says. “But she’s not an easy

sale here in the States.”

“Ah no,” Rizzo says, his stomach tightening. “No easy sale here.”

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And Burcu looks at him then, sensing the danger lurking beneath the tight smile, and says, “It’s just business, Riz. He wants to back my act for a tour.”

“A tour?” Rizzo asks. “Of several US cities, then later a sweep of all the major

European cities as well. A long tour, actually.” And then the details that he always has a hard time

listening to because they only spell separation, long periods

one after the numerous others. A litany of dates, and more babble he has difficulty understanding until the goodbyes.

And later, as both Burcu and he walk toward the parking

lot, he asks in spite of knowing he shouldn’t, “So who is that guy really?”

Burcu looks at him for a second, both quizzically and suspiciously, and says somewhat guardedly, “Just what we said he is: an impresario.”

“Really?” he asks. “Yes, really,” Burcu says. “Just what do you think he is?” “A new paramour, perhaps.”

Burcu laughs. “A paramour? Oh Riz, I do love your choice of words. So old-fashioned, but so you.”

He winces, involuntarily, at the reference, more or less veiled, to his age. Old-fashioned because he is, after all, old. Older than her by 15 years, older than their daughter Cansu by

40. An old-fashioned, older old man. “But it’s a charming trait, Riz,” Burcu says, softening the

blow a bit. “And one of the reasons we all love you so.”

“Love me?” he says, and regrets immediately the tone. Why, he thinks, do you always ask a question when simply keeping your mouth shut would not only be so much more

appropriate but effective, too. He knows what he should do, but always manages, somehow, to not take his own advice.

“Yes, Riz, love you,” Burcu says, her voice not able to mask her weariness of having the same conversation yet again, and so soon after her arrival. “But not in the way you

wish anymore.” And on that note, of regret mixed with resignation with a

pinch of savoir-faire tossed in for seasoning, they endure the

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ride back to the house they sometimes share in silence. And once there, Burcu notices the dog.

“And what’s this?” she asks as the dog follows her from

suitcase to closet as she unpacks her bags in what is now her room while Rizzo stares at the ceiling and tries rather

unsuccessfully not to drink what remains in the bottle of whiskey from this afternoon. “You got another dog?”

“Well,” and he shrugs, “I thought maybe it was about time

to replace the old one.” “He’s been dead twenty years, Riz,” she says. “I’m a little slow sometimes,” he says.

“In some departments anyway,” and she laughs. She bends down and strokes the dog’s head. “Did you name this

one?” “Not yet.” She smiles and shakes her head. “Slow in that department,

too, aren’t you?” And as night falls, Burcu talks first to their daughter

Cansu in Istanbul, the conversation switching back and forth

between Turkish and English, and then in somewhat hushed tones in Turkish only to someone else. And Rizzo, in another

room in what seems like years away, finds himself wishing for the millionth time in their twenty odd year relationship that he had learned Turkish, then drifting off to what could only

loosely, in a better world, be called sleep. The next morning Burcu is up and out early. Rizzo, on the

other hand and in another room down the hall, lies awake wishing he were still asleep. The phone ringing, however, finally rouses him and though he just stares in its direction

without answering it, the phone ringing does serve its purpose and before his voicemail takes over, he gets up, lets the dog

out for a quick pee in the backyard, and makes a pot of coffee. After his second cup, he stands under the shower for what seems like hours but is only maybe twenty minutes trying to

wash away the sadness he feels settling in. Afterwards, with a real drink in his hand, he looks out the window to the street

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beyond hoping to see something to inspire him. Nothing goes by.

The dog, meanwhile, nudges his arm and he knows,

without needing any more encouragement, what his duty is: to go for their walk. But first he tends to the water bowl, his dry

cereal, a Milk Bone treat. Then, to the dog’s relief, he picks up the leash and they’re off.

Lunch again, a sausage and peppers hero for him, the

usual meat pie for the dog, and Gatorade to help replenish deficient vitamins and minerals from all that drinking. Life the way he knows it now. He walks past Burcu’s room and

wonders why she keeps the door closed, what secrets she’s hiding from him, what it is she thinks he shouldn’t know. It

pains him, this closed door, a symbol of what they’ve become, what they are no longer, what does not exist anymore.

The phone rings again and he stands listening to it. He

counts the four rings until voicemail kicks in, a recorded message somewhere out there in the electronic world, substituting for him and waiting for him to retrieve it

sometime later. And with that knowledge, of another message safely tucked away, he pockets his keys and is off for the day.

Jake’s at noon. The usual cluster of people on the make,

on the mend, trading information about jobs, gossip,

musicians, singers, actors mixing with A&R men, would be producers, agents, wannabe players, and journalists, all hungry for the same thing: a score. And Rizzo, a regular, joins

the fray somewhat reluctantly but with a place of honor in the back: his own booth, where he finds his childhood friend and colleague Peter slumped at the table, his eyes devouring trade

papers propped up on his journal in front of him, absently stroking his head as if to make certain there is still hair there,

his eyes moving rapidly line by line behind tinted reading glasses. Rizzo sits, barely making a ripple in Peter’s consciousness, so he watches his old friend in bemused

silence until Peter looks up and sees him. “Ah,” Peter goes. “You’re here.” “And where else would I be at lunchtime on a work day?”

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“In front of your PC in the office doing your feverish one finger typing of a hot column while Harvey leans over your shoulder panting in your ears.”

“I think I’d rather be here drinking with you.” “Of course you would,” Peter says, removing his reading

glasses and folding them neatly into their carrying case. “But that’s not where you should be.”

“I didn’t say should,” Rizzo corrects him. “I said would.”

“Did you?” “I did.” “Ah,” Peter goes. “How did I miss that? And with these

remarkable ears of mine?” “I don’t know,” Rizzo says. “They must be slipping.”

“Hmmmm,” Peter goes. “Getting old does have its toll.” “Speak for yourself, partner. I refuse to acknowledge

age.”

“An ageless wonder, are you?” “In print anyway.” “And for a journalist, what better place to be ageless.”

Jake comes by then, that dark, Irish brooding, his mouth set in a perpetual frown, as if having just tasted something

most foul. He wipes his hands on the towel he keeps dangling from his belt and says, “The usual, I suppose.”

Rizzo looks at him the same way he’s been looking at him

for over 30 years of patronage and says, “Have I ever asked for anything else?”

“You had wine there for a while,” Jake says, “back in the

seventies. And there was that period of White Russians.” “Those were for a certain woman who once, in another

lifetime long, long ago, accompanied me, and who, for

reasons we need not delve into, shall remain nameless,” Rizzo says. “But I, personally, have never asked for anything other

than good old Irish whiskey.” “You had rum once,” Jake says. “Mount Gay with a twist

of lime,”

“It must have been summer,” Rizzo says, “and I was in love.”