The Devil of Echo Lake Read Online Free PDF

a car one day? It was like you were sticking it in his face how you were right all along about being able to make a living at music, and as soon as you could do it, you had to prove it to him in his own terms, right? It’s not like the car was a gift to thank him for years of support. It was about you having something to prove.”
    “It was not.”
    “Well, he knew it was.”
    “He said that?”
    “He knew. You were showing him you could afford the nice things he couldn’t afford for himself—because you were right about dropping out of school to get high and play in a band.”
    “Yeah, you’re a real psychoanalyst, Evan. Did Sandy come up with that one? Of all things, I can’t believe you’re busting my balls about the car. I just wanted to do something nice for him.”
    “Then you should have called him from the road once in a while.”
    Billy said nothing. He looked at the ceiling. The silence was punctuated only by the sputtering of the coffee maker. Then he said, “Yeah, I should have.”
    “Coming home to see them sometimes would have meant more to him than buying them things.”
    “You were always closer to him. You were so much more like him. You still are. I know I’m a fuck-up, okay? It doesn’t mean I like to hear it. I wanted to make him proud. He always told me I’d never make any money at music, and I just thought that when I did, maybe he wouldn’t be so damned disappointed. I couldn’t rebuild an engine with him like you did and have those hours you had with him, drinking beer in the garage... So I bought him a car. Big deal. Fuck, maybe I did have something to prove. I don’t know; it doesn’t matter now.”
    Billy stood up and said, “I’m gonna drive back to Mom’s house. I’ll pick her up in the morning and take her to breakfast. Tell her, okay?” He threw his jacket over his shoulder.
    “Billy. Don’t go. We have plenty of room for you. It’s actually a really comfortable pull-out.”
    “I want to sleep in my old room tonight. Tell Sandy I said thanks for the pie.” Billy opened the front door and felt in his jacket pocket for his mother’s car keys.
    “Hey, Billy. Are you gonna be around for at least a few days? For Mom.”
    “Yeah, I want to look up an old friend.”
    “Who’s that?”
    “Johnny Russo.”
    “What trench coat Johnny? Johnny Black Magic? That Johnny?”
    “Yeah. He has a wife and kids now. Runs a restaurant.”
    “Okay. Remind me not to eat there.”
    Billy stepped out into the night and gently pulled the door closed behind him.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Jake was perched on a stool at the workbench in the shop, soldering dead cables and wondering if he was getting cancer from the lead fumes for seven dollars an hour, when the phone rang. It was Eddie, summoning him up to the office. On his way through the corridors and up the spiral stairs, Jake couldn’t help wondering if he was in trouble.
    Had the mix engineer at the Hit Factory in Manhattan called to complain that the track sheets didn’t match what was on the tapes? Would he have heard it in Eddie’s voice? The guy was a little hard to read, and a few words on the phone weren’t enough.
    Jake nodded at Eddie through the glass door of his office. The manager was sitting behind a cluttered desk in a forest of Post-it notes. He was on the phone, but he waved Jake in and pointed at a seat. Jake sat down and took in the framed album covers on the walls, the black and white photos on the desk.
    The pretty lady had to be Eddie’s wife. The fat, stately old man with the long, thinning white hair and Stetson must have been the late Charlie Hoffman, famed patriarch of Echo Lake Studios, and in his heyday, the power broker for at least three 1960’s rock icons. His widow Lucy now owned the property.
    “He’s selling the studio in Hawaii?” Eddie said to the phone. “Just the gear? Well what kind of console is it? No, I’m not in the market for an API, but I might be interested in some of his outboard