Pinball by Jerzy Kosinski Read Free Book Online

baggy tweed suit, and polyester wash-and-wear shirt that made him sweat.
    He stood up and greeted Domostroy affectionately, like a prize student seeing his favorite old professor after a number of years. Remembering that Domostroy liked to drink Cuba Libres, he ordered one and another beer for himself. He also rolled a joint, which he held under the table when he wasn’t pulling on it.
    After they had inquired about each other’s health and well-being, Domostroy went straight to the point.
    “I need a favor,” he said. “I’m working on a project with someone in the record business, and she wants me to find out whatever I can about Goddard. The truth is, I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about it.” He sounded apologetic and embarrassed.
    Nash gave him a forgiving smile. “What does she want to know?” he asked.
    “Anything I can find out,” Domostroy blurted out awkwardly. “As long as it’s more than what’s known generally.”
    “What’s known generally,” Nash said, spreading his arms, “is his music—and nothing else. Doesn’t your friend know that when it comes to Goddard, more is less? Hasn’t she heard that he’s the man who isn’t there?”
    “Of course she has,” said Domostroy. “She just thought that with my contacts … you know … people like you …” His voice trailed off.
    “I see,” said Nash. “Well, all I can give you are the facts,” he added with a sigh. “As you must know, from the day WNEW first began to play him, Goddard has sold more records than any other pop star. In six years he has produced six LPs, each of which has stayed at the top of the charts for many months. Four of them became platinum, selling over a million albums each. In addition, he’s probably had at least a dozen single hits, including six gold ones that grossed over a million dollars each.” He sipped his beer. “What can I say? The guy wants to be a mystery.”
    “You’ve never met him?” Domostroy asked meekly.
    “Not likely,” Nash said with an amused smile. “He’s a very well-guarded secret. The largest entertainment conglomeratein the country, American Music Limited, created Nokturn Records not only to manufacture and distribute Goddard’s records but expressly to guard his secret, to protect his invisibility—not to mention the shareholders’ investment in him and his music.” He paused. “Keep in mind, we’re not just talking cheap hype. We’re talking big money. Record sales in this country equal the combined grosses from films, television, and all professional sports, and Goddard is the biggest grosser in the business! Ever! Now—did you know all that?”
    “I did,” said Domostroy. “I read it in your article in the
Times.”
    “Good for you. Then you also know that in rock, nothing succeeds like excess. That’s why as long as Goddard’s records are selling that way, nobody is about to crack through Nokturn’s hype and invite Goddard to dinner. That is,” he corrected himself, “they can invite him—by writing care of Nokturn Records—but I have a hunch he won’t show up!” He signaled the waitress and ordered more beer and another Cuba Libre for Domostroy.
    “What do you think of his music?” Domostroy asked.
    “It’s good—maybe the best. Bigness has always eaten up greatness—but not his. He just keeps getting better. Granted, you can hear influences in his work, but he’s coherent, always plugged into the best. He knows what he’s after, and out of all the shreds and borrowing from elemental Latin and domestic folklore he’s come up with the finest pop sound we’ve ever had. Don’t tell me you don’t like him!”
    “Not much,” said Domostroy.
    “Generation gap,” Nash replied, teasing him. “Or jealousy, perhaps? How many really coherent works of art are there?”
    “What about his lyrics?” Domostroy asked defensively.
    Nash began to roll another joint. “As for as I’m concerned, his taste in lyrics equals his taste in