Boy Band
Maxwell Keeler sat in the Goal Post sports bar nursing a glass of Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks, remembering the sight of his adolescent daughter's empty bedroom. Most of Morgan's clothes had been removed. Her CDs, books, video games, stuffed animals and soccer trophies were gone, too. The bed, the dresser and a few posters on the wall were all that remained. The rest of her belongings had been moved to her mother's condominium shortly after the divorce. Now Maxwell's contact with his daughter would be limited to one weekend each month and two weeks during summer vacation. He was not happy with the arrangement; Morgan was the only good thing to come out of his sixteen-year marriage, and now he was losing her.
"Leave it to my wife to get a job in Connecticut," Maxwell complained to the bartender who kept one eye on the Red Sox-Yankees game being shown on the television.
While they were still married, Roberta Keeler, Maxwell's ex-wife, had found fault with everything her husband did, especially with his dedication to his career. Most women would have been delighted to marry a lawyer but not Roberta. When Maxwell was an assistant prosecutor for the city of Boston, he received several death threats from a mobster he had put away for twenty-five years to life. This potential danger upset Roberta to the point where she threatened to leave him if he didn't resign from the district attorney's office.
To appease her, Maxwell opened his own law practice. Unfortunately, there was a surplus of defense attorneys in Boston, and his income dropped considerably. When it became difficult to meet the mortgage payments on their house, Roberta went back to work, and while Maxwell was struggling to save his law practice from foundering, his wife was having an affair with a coworker, a situation that eventually led to the dissolution of the marriage.
"I'll have another of the same," Keeler said as he pushed the empty glass toward the bartender.
"This one's on me," Addison Rowe offered.
A successful and highly skilled trial lawyer, Addison had been one of Maxwell's associates at the Boston D.A.'s office. The two attorneys often met for drinks after facing each other in court. While they were debating who would pick up the tab for the round, a young woman—barely old enough to drink—put a quarter in the jukebox, and a pop song broke the relative silence of the bar.
"Damn!" Addison swore. "I have to hear that garbage at home all the time. Can't I get away from it here?"
Maxwell instantly recognized the song as one his daughter particularly enjoyed. A poster of the band that recorded it was still hanging on Morgan's bedroom wall, waiting for her next visit at the end of the month.
"Boy bands!" Addison continued, shaking his head with disgust. "They sing an insipid song, do a little dance, show their pearly whites and they're set for life. Most of them don't even have any musical talent."
"They must have something going for them," Maxwell objected. "How else could they sell millions of CDs?"
"It's all a question of marketing. You get four or five somewhat good-looking kids who will appeal to the pre-teen girls. You put them in fashionable clothes and haircuts, and you're halfway there. A smart guy can make a real killing in that business. Of course, it's not the kind of thing one would want to do for a long-term profession since the manager usually gets the short end of the stick."
"How so?"
"He busts his ass to promote an unknown band, and when it's a success. the boys invariably want to go solo."
When Maxwell drove home that night after leaving the bar, he wondered just how easy it would be to create a boy band.
"I'll bet even I could do it," he said, brimming with self-confidence.
Then he gave the idea serious thought.
"Why shouldn't I? My wife divorced me and married another man, my daughter lives with her mother and stepfather in Connecticut most of the time and I'm stuck in a law practice that's barely operating in the black. Why shouldn't I take a chance? What have I got to lose?"
* * *
"What are you, some kind of pervert?" the arrogant young man sneered.
"No, Archie," Maxwell replied with a wry smile and a shake of his head. "I'm not interested in boys—not in that way, at least."
"So, you want me to join a band, huh? Why? I can't play guitar or drums. Hell, I can't even read music."
"It doesn't matter. You don't have to play an instrument. All you need to do is sing and learn a few simple dance steps."
"Sing? I can't carry a tune."
"No problem. You'll have three other guys singing along with you."
Archie Bowers stared at Maxwell Keeler, trying to figure out the older man's angle. That was the one lesson he learned at an early age: everyone had an angle.
"Why me?" Archie asked suspiciously.
"Because you've got a face that will melt the hearts of adolescent girls."
"And that qualifies me to be in a band? What a world!"
Several minutes of silence followed before Maxwell finally asked, "Are you in or not?"
Bowers gave a half smile that would later grace magazine covers around the globe.
"Sure, I'm in," the young man replied, showing no real enthusiasm at the prospect of becoming a teen idol. "I got nothing better to do right now."
Keeler smiled. With Archie, his search was complete; he'd found the perfect candidates for his band.
The following week. Maxwell gathered his chosen four together for the first time.
"Before we begin, there are a few ground rules I want to go over with you," the lawyer announced as he handed an unsigned contract to each of the boys. "There'll be absolutely no drugs, no public displays of drunkenness, no wild parties and no foul language. At all times, you will project an image of clean-cut, wholesome, American teenage boys—if there is such a thing. And when it comes to women ...."
The four future stars—Jackson Post, Diego Rodriguez, Dusty Vickers and Archie Bowers—stared insolently at Maxwell.
"Don't worry. I don't expect any of you to take a vow of chastity, but I do ask that you be discreet. And please, show a little taste—no hookers or porn stars, okay?"
"And what if we don't agree to your conditions?" Diego asked rebelliously.
"Then don't sign the contract. If you can't play by my rules, then I'll find someone who can. Make no mistake about it, gentleman: I'm the manager. I call the shots."
The four men formed an immediate bond. It was them against the man who held their contracts. They looked at one another and came to a silent agreement: they would go along with Keeler and his rules—for the time being, anyway.
As both a prosecutor and a defense attorney, Maxwell had come into contact with a motley assortment of individuals with various skills and talents. He would turn to some of these acquaintances for help in his new business venture. Charmaine Frank, for instance, was a dancer who had once performed with the Radio City Music Hall's famed Rockettes until a disastrous relationship with an off-Broadway actor left her strung out on heroin. Maxwell had successfully represented the young woman several months earlier on a possession charge and settled for only half his usual legal fee. Now, he counted on the dancer to return the favor.
Charmaine not only obliged by giving the four young men a few dancing lessons, but she also introduced Maxwell to an unknown songwriter who penned a number of original ballads for his new boy band. Thanks to the dancer's help, within a few months, Keeler had a product to sell. He then contacted several more former clients who owned nightspots in the city. His band had to be heard, even if only in second-rate nightclubs.
At first, the new music group had little success.
"Are they really that bad?" Maxwell asked Charmaine after his band was released from their fifth straight engagement.
"Not at all," she replied honestly. "I think they're just as good as any of the boy bands you hear on the radio."
"Then why haven't I been able to get them a long-term engagement?"
"Probably because you're booking them into the wrong places. This musical group of yours was created to appeal to young teenage girls. You won't find them in bars."
Maxwell saw the logic in Charmaine's argument. Once he began getting his band gigs at high school dances, proms, roller skating rinks and amusement parks, things changed rapidly. Within a year, the boys recorded their first CD and music video; and a year later, they had their first platinum record and went on a six-month-long world tour. By the time they returned to the United States, they were rated the number one band in the country.
* * *
When the group was at the pinnacle of its success, Maxwell Keeler walked into his office and was surprised to find all four band members waiting to see him.
"What's up?" he asked.
Jackson Post spoke first.
"I'm leaving the band," he announced.
"Me, too," Dusty Vickers added.
The other two men echoed his words.
"Need I remind you that all of you are under contract? You can't quit."
"Sue me," Archie Bowers said. "I've been offered a role in Spielberg's next film."
"And I'm going to get married and settle down," Diego Rodriguez told him. "I'm tired of living out of a suitcase."
"What about you two?" Maxwell asked.
"I'd like to start my own band," Jackson replied. "A real band where the members play instruments and write their own songs. I've been taking guitar lessons, and I'd like to give it a shot."
"And what about you?" Maxwell asked the fourth young man.
Dusty shrugged his shoulders and replied, "I don't have anything in particular that I'd like to do. I'm just tired of being a pop star. We've been at this boy band thing for five years now, and it's getting really boring."
"And just when were all of you thinking of quitting?"
"Right after the Grammy Award ceremonies," Dusty answered.
"That's only a few months away!" Maxwell exclaimed. "But you've got a European concert tour coming up, and you've still got two more CDs to record for Viking Records."
"You'll just have to cancel the tour and get us out of the recording contract," Diego said. "I'm sure you know how to do it."
"You guys are just going to walk out of our deal and leave me to clean up the mess?"
"Don't worry. We'll retain your services as our lawyer until all these legal issues are cleared up," Jackson suggested.
"And after that? It's goodbye, right?" Maxwell asked bitterly. "You guys just walk away, after all I've done for you."
"What are you complaining about? You got your twenty percent," Dusty reminded him. "You made a hell of a lot more managing us than you ever did chasing ambulances."
"I was stupid enough to believe you would show me a little loyalty. I took you out of the gutter, made you rich and famous, and now you want to walk away."
"Sorry," Diego said flippantly. "That's just the way it is."
Maxwell stood up and slowly walked across his office to a wall safe that was hidden behind a framed enlargement of the band's first CD cover. He entered the combination on the keypad, opened the door and removed several file folders.
"Are those our contracts?" Dusty asked.
"Not exactly," Maxwell replied with an enigmatic smile as he handed each young man a folder. "You all have in front of you a copy of your criminal record, fully documented with names, dates, addresses, phone numbers and photographs."
"Where did you get these?" Jackson asked indignantly.
"I was an assistant prosecutor at the district attorney's office. I had access to all your records. In fact, your criminal past was the reason I picked each of you. I could have found good-looking boys down at the local Burger King or hanging out at the mall. But I was afraid something like this might happen, so I wanted young men I could count on to see reason."
"You're talking about blackmail."
"It doesn't matter what you call it. Your rap sheets are insurance against the band breaking up."
"If you think this is going to stop me from leaving, you're crazy," Diego said.
"Oh, really? You want to marry Kiki Piper, a beautiful, successful fashion model who wants to get into acting. Do you think she'll go ahead with the wedding when she learns you were arrested for attempted rape of a minor?"
"I wasn't convicted."
"There are photographs of your victim in that file. I'm sure if Kiki were to see them, she'd think twice before saying 'I do' to you."
Maxwell paused, relishing his victory.
"And the same goes for the rest of you. Drug dealing, armed robbery, assault and battery, breaking and entering, accessory to murder and even suspected ties to organized crime. I gotta hand it to you. You boys certainly had colorful pasts. Just think how much the tabloids would pay me for the information in those files—more than my lousy twenty percent. You can be sure of that."
"How long do you expect us to be bound to you?" Diego asked.
"I don't want to be unreasonable. After all, you're not indentured servants. I just expect you to adhere to the terms of the contracts you signed. You all agreed to ten years."
"That's five more years," Jackson objected.
"When the contracts are up, we'll end our arrangement amicably, and we'll all walk away very wealthy men."
As long as Maxwell had those files, there was little any of the singers could do.
* * *
Following the Grammy Award ceremonies, the four members of the band met at Dusty's townhouse. The host handed each of his friends a drink.
"So, what are we going to do about our contracts with Keeler?" Diego asked.
"What choice do we have?" Dusty replied angrily. "That greedy bastard has us between a rock and a hard place."
"Then we all agree?" Jackson asked.
The three young men nodded their approval.
* * *
Maxwell took his daughter—now sixteen—home after she had spent the weekend with him. When he drove up to the two-story colonial, his ex-wife came to the door. Maxwell cringed at the sight of her. He knew she'd ask him for money; she always did. When Morgan opened the car door and got out, her father said a hasty goodbye and quickly backed out of the driveway, leaving his wife shouting curses at him as he drove away.
Later that same night, the band Keeler created performed at a live concert in Madison Square Garden. During the show, each of the four young performers was to sing a solo number. When the first of them, Jackson Post, went out on the stage, the lights dimmed. One colored spotlight shone on him.
None of the screaming young fans at that night's performance noticed that Jackson had his wool cap pulled low over his brow or that he kept the microphone in front of his face throughout the song. Nor could anyone except the other three members of the band tell that Diego was on stage lip-syncing over Jackson's voice track.
* * *
Ten miles away, in the town of Hawthorn Grove, Maxwell Wheeler pulled into the parking lot of the Goal Post sports bar as he did every time he drove back from dropping off his daughter. Seeing his ex-wife—no matter how briefly and distantly—literally drove him to drink. As the lawyer-turned-manager slammed the door of his Lotus and walked into the bar, he didn't notice the man dressed in black emerging from the shadows.
* * *
Dusty Vickers performed his solo number and took more time than usual bowing and basking in the applause of the fans. Backstage, Archie Bowers and Diego Rodriguez paced the floor, anxiously awaiting Jackson Post's return.
* * *
Since he hadn't actually spoken to his ex-wife that evening, Maxwell limited his alcohol consumption to only one beer. When he drained the bottle, he put a five on the bar and headed for the door. A middle-aged woman put a quarter in the jukebox, and Maxwell was surprised to hear his band's latest single. He supposed the boys no longer appealed only to adolescent girls.
As he crossed the parking lot, the unsuspecting manager congratulated himself on a job well done. He'd taken four social miscreants and turned them into pop idols. Simon Cowell couldn't have done any better. Of course, he could just as easily have let the boys out of their contracts and begun another band with four new faces—after all, there was a never-ending supply of young hoodlums in America—but it was a matter of principle to him. They had each signed a contract, and the lawyer in him intended to see that they all honored their commitment.
* * *
Diego heard a knock on the fire escape door and sighed with relief.
"He's back," he told Archie.
They opened the door, and Jackson slipped into the hallway adjacent to the dressing rooms.
"Quick," Archie said. "Get out of those black clothes. We've all done our solos and stalled as long as we could. We've gotta go on stage now."
* * *
Maxwell got into his Lotus, put the key into the ignition and turned it. The resulting explosion blew both the Lotus and the former attorney to pieces.
* * *
Fans around the globe were heartbroken when America's hottest boy band broke up and the members went their separate ways, but they understood the devastating effect the death of their manager had on their idols.
Roberta wasn't surprised when she learned of her ex-husband's demise. As she told both authorities and reporters, he'd received more than one death threat from dangerous men he prosecuted and sent to jail.
The police never solved Maxwell Keeler's murder. Given the nature of his death, the investigating detectives assumed he was the victim of a mafia hit. They did not suspect Jackson Post since they never learned of his criminal past or that of the other three men the former Boston prosecutor had once hoped to bind to him with blackmail.
Sorry, Salem, I just don't think anyone is going to pay money to see you sing and dance.
