Page 2 of Final Serenade

“Did you see the email?” Levi yelled, his voice on the line sounding like he’d had a visit from a ghost. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Frankie Bladewasa ghost. No one had seen or heard from the front man of Hall Affinity in over seven years. Rumor was, the injuries caused by his motorcycle accident were too severe and he’d been tied to a bed ever since.

“Yes, I just sent in the application.” I hit the enter button enthusiastically and my keyboard squeaked in response.

“This is a big one, Cass. I think it’s time you utilize your connections.” Levi casually threw it out there, but I knew exactly where he was going with it. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to push me into seeking out Dante Martinez for a favor.

Unlike the mysterious Mr. Blade, Hall Affinity’s lead guitarist had always been easy to access. He was a child of the public, a lover of press, and a hopeless womanizer. Six months after Frankie’s accident, Dante had announced a solo album and a possible tour. The fans were skeptic. Some got upset over the fact that Dante was moving on. Many didn’t believe the guitarist had it in him. Frankie Blade and Dante Martinez were the Toxic Twins 2.0. One didn’t work without the other.

In spite of that, the solo album and the tour were a success. Levi and I, still green back then, had pimped the hell out of Dante’s venture after the three of us hit it off during the interview my friend Linda Schwab, an administrative assistant who was soon to become Jay Brodie PR’s VP, arranged forRewired. At that time, Levi was still running all magazine operations from his family’s garage in Santa Monica. He hadn’t met our go-to guys, Stewie and Carlos, yet. And hard rock’s bad boy Dante Martinez, who’d finally stepped out from the shadow of Frankie’s good looks and charisma, was fame-hungry and took every opportunity tossed his way, even an interview with an overly ambitious three-person operation calledRewired. The situation had turned out to be a win-win for all of us.

My interview with Dante had reigned the YouTube charts for months. TheRewiredFacebook page blew up overnight. Hall Affinity’s axman and his side project were on a hot streak, breaking hearts and making cash.

It had felt a lot like we were rewriting rock ’n’ roll history. I loved the thrill of the challenge. I loved the people I’d met. Occasionally, I loved the attention. One of those impulsive moments had landed me an invite to a private and very impromptu dinner Linda’s friend, who was the guest of honor, was throwing after a charity event Levi and I covered in Studio City. Dante was part of the group when I arrived.

He’d remembered my name. I was smitten. To me, everyone who’d appeared in a music video was a god. Dante, however, wasn’t. He was the devil’s son, who knew how to make two things melt in his presence—guitars and women. Or a girl, in my case. I was a twenty-one-year-old tomboy with too much drive, a big mouth, minimum makeup, a cute pixie cut, and fresh music-theme tats on my right arm. I fit in. I had the look, and I was smart and professional beyond my years. I smiled, played nice, shook hands, andneverflirted. My goal was to write memories, real accounts about real people, not some manufactured bullshit.

I knew how to balance the questions—when to ask the right ones and when to back away. Everyone liked me. In some ways, the ability to predict whether the person interviewed would want to open up was my gift and my curse. During the dinner, conversations happened and numbers were exchanged. But nothing ever came of it, because Dante was way past the drinking point of no return when he punched his digits into my phone while complimenting my thoughtful interview questions. Sometime during the evening, he’d even called me a kid. I hadn’t argued. He was in his early thirties. He’d lived and seen it all. I was just at the beginning of my career. We were worlds apart.

We’d bumped into each other later that year at a couple of charity events Levi and I were covering. He’d recognized me, despite the fact I’d filled out and dyed my hair. We’d had a short chat, which prompted Levi to think I could simply pick up the phone anytime and call Dante like I would an old friend.

Levi was obviously mistaken. I wouldn’t gamble with my professional reputation and my integrity just to see if I could secure an exclusive with Frankie via my private channels.

“You need to drop it, Levi,” I said, returning to Google and typing Frankie’s name into the search bar. I was itching to see if there’d been any recent photos of him released.

“You know this is fucking big, Cass,” he pressed, sounding anxious. “You know we need this interview. You also know there’s a good chanceRewiredwon’t make the cut.”

“We will. We cover the Douglas & Krueger Benefit every year, for God’s sake.” I tried to calm him down, but I wasn’t confident myself.

Chart topping, award-winning bands like Hall Affinity always came with stuck-up management who had no idea how to determine what a respectable publication was.Rewiredwas a small magazine with three contributors and two photographers, but it’d been going strong for over eight years. It was Levi’s brainchild. He’d launched it a year before I met him and big things started happening right after we found each other. Helping him runRewiredwas similar to raising a child. It gave us direction and pushed us to do better and think smarter. Levi’s dream was to beatRolling Stone’s ratings. It was somewhat unrealistic, but he loved to entertain the idea from time to time.

I played along.

“This is the reunion of the century, the second most wanted reunion after Guns N’ Roses!” Levi cried out. He was pacing around, the low thuds of his feet against the carpet reverberating against my eardrums like an intricate bass line.

“I’m not going to call, text, or email Dante Martinez. We’ve never communicated outside official channels.” A groan of disappointment met my ear and I drew my phone away, just in case, as my finger hit the refresh button to reload the browser. The photos that littered my screen—blue-eyed, sandy-haired, dressed-to-kill rock star Frankie Blade with a body like sin and the smile of a saint—were all from before the accident.

“Besides, get your facts straight. It’s not a reunion. Technically, the band never broke up. They were taking time off.” This was my inner fangirl speaking. Frankie Blade was still my idol. Regardless of the fact that he hadn’t given me a new song in over seven years.

“Why aren’t you like other women, Cass?” Levi asked. His voice was a blend of plea and disappointment. “Why aren’t you using what your mother gave you for the greater good of our magazine?”

“Mighty sexist of you, buddy,” I retorted, slightly offended but mostly just amused. When I’d decided to stick to music journalism, I’d promised myself not to build my connections with my feminine charms. Of course, my looks were far from those of a Playboy model, but the mere fact that I was a pretty, young girl trying to make a career in a male-dominated industry had its perks.

“You know me. I’m honest to a fault.” Levi chuckled.

I could feel his grin over the line. It was impossible to be mad at him for longer than a minute.

“Are you sure you’re not adopted?” I laughed.

“My father’s convinced I was switched at birth. He’s not too fond of my undying love for rock ’n’ roll.”

“Does your father not know about Kiss?”

“You’ve met my father. His love of music doesn’t extend past singing ‘Hava Nagila’ at bar mitzvahs.”

We laughed at this notion together. How Levi had turned out to be so rock ’n’ roll while growing up in such a strict Jewish household had always been a mystery to both him and me. His father had wanted him to take on the family real estate business.

“You need to relax. Linda will make it happen.” I actually wasn’t so convinced myself. She still had to run all the press requests by the band’s management, and those guys were hard to predict.

“She better. All those margarita’s I bought her at the Kipling album release party…” Levi never missed an opportunity to complain about the bill he raked up once while trying to make friends with Linda. It was probably the only stereotypically Jewish thing about him.

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