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directed his attorney to do whatever was necessary to free her from the cocksucker, breaking the manager’s so-called three-year exclusive agreement.
    He stormed up to the third floor, slamming open the stairwell door, and double-clicked on his car’s key controller. Lights flashed in the corner of the garage, red against the gray cement walls.
    Peeling out of his spot, his mechanic would cringe at how he handled his latest acquisition, a Bugatti Veyron monster, with twelve-hundred horsepower and sixteen cylinders. The car handled as though it could drive itself; shifting gears smoothly, he was surprised to find himself cruising along Broadway doing over a hundred and suddenly needing to turn. He made it back to Music Row without incident, to the renovated Victorian he’d purchased, and which housed the administrative part of Lansing Records.
    The place hopped at all hours and he parked around back so he could enter through the basement studio door. With the help of Baxter, his best mate and partner in their music industry venture, Lansing Records had three assistants working around the clock. They’d grown from an office on the East Side, to this building, to having offices in New York and L.A. as well, and a half-dozen studios in Nashville. Typical corporation with regular board meetings and headaches.
    A group of techs and marketing managers stood outside smoking, talking, and drinking coffee. Jon ambled over, taking in from their bleary expressions and wrinkled clothing that something was going down.
    “Another all-nighter?” he asked Ted, his senior marketing guru, who stood leaning against the brick wall closest to him.
    “How about third in a row? We nailed Trap Door. The record’s an epic success based on prelims.”
    “Who so far has given a listen? If your preliminaries are coming from our associates, discount them. I want to hear real numbers.”
    “I’m talking Chicago and New Jersey, L.A., and London. No slight of hand. These are the people who matter. You’ll be pleased, Jon. The stats are on the server.”
    “So fast. You’ve upped your game. What about the new client? Plans?”
    “Paulie is on it with her crew. Glitz has put in a bid for songwriting for Orion.”
    “The pop route? What about the indie scene? Tell Pauline she’s to report to me directly. I want a meeting with her crew by this afternoon. Is she around?”
    “She left ‘bout an hour ago. Better take a look at what’s being projected for St. James. Sure, you could go indie or even folk at this point, if someone in the band played a banjo. I’d say nothing short of a regular feeding frenzy is occurring on the wire to get in on the action.”
    “In twenty-four hours?”
    “Massive. Seems like the lead singer has been on someone’s radar for the last week…at least. Jon, she’s hot. Untouchable. You snagged St. James at an opportune time.”
    “Thanks. Good work on Trap. I’ll sign off.”
    “Music to our ears,” Ted said, and the rest of the staff laughed and high-fived each other.
    He walked up the back stairs and, once inside the dark hallway, Jon’s vision hazed and he walked toward the inner door pondering who was interested in Alana, unaware of his surroundings.
    “Look who’s finally arrived. Christ, I’ve been waiting for you.” His partner’s booming voice filled the hall.
    “Baxter, you tosser. What the hell is going on?” Jon asked.
    “I’ve jumped in, once I read your memo. Figures Tyler would try to get back into the swim of things. Legal is on full alert. Chuck is on his way to court to file an emergency injunction in a hearing on Orion’s contract.”
    “We didn’t have time to consult on this one. Any problems with my directives?”
    “You’re right on point.”
    “Chuck had some issues he thought might be hard to dismiss.”
    “No. I’ve discussed the contract with each member of Orion already.”
    “Anything come up?”
    “Chuck is seeking to shred the contract to bits on its merits