Lenny…Da…left the reception with speed, forcing Vinya to a near-run to keep up.

Once they were well down a long, red-carpeted corridor, Da finally shouted back at Vinya. “Our suite is on the opposite side of the club level. You know, in case any of the real stans get backstage passes. I kid you not, one time someone chased us down the hallway yelling ‘marry me Penny!’”

“That sound intense.” Vinya responded, trying to keep pace.

“She was,” Da shouted back, “but you get used to it.”

After what seemed like forever, they finally came to a door festooned with an almost comically large pink-glitter star – adorned with “LENNY” in huge block print.

 “This would be me,” Da said, pushing open the door.

Inside was a full luxury suite, although Vinya thought it was quite spartanly furnished. There was a coffee table with a vase of white lilies and five bottles of high-end mineral water – not exactly what one would expect on a Brilltone’s rider. However, the first thing Vinya noticed was the strains girl group songs wafting from a Bose radio in the back. Not modern Brill, but girl groups from early-1960s “Brill Building sound.” The music that had given a name to the ‘Tones (and the movement they spawned.)

Da briefly disappeared into the next room, returning with a steaming mug of something citrusy and a soda bottle. Thums Up cola – Vinya’s favorite Indian import, and not an easy thing to find unless you knew where to look.

 Da set the bottle on the table with a thud, gestured for Vinya to take it, then plopped herself on the white leather couch in the center of the room.

“So,” she checked her watch, “You’re Vinya Jain – WWN Lifestyle. Can’t say I knew they were industry leaders in music journalism.”

Vinya shifted on her heels, “We’re…ramping up.”

 “Clearly.” Da said between sips of her hot citrus concoction. “And do they always have an eye for sneaky talent. Or did they just get lucky with you?” She motioned to a plush recliner. “You can sit, you know.”

Vinya walked across the room and planted herself gingerly on the edge of the very plush chair, turning on the voice recorder on her phone as she did so. “I’m just covering the tour.”

“Really?” Da fired back. “Because, last I checked, you’re the first person I’ve ever heard of who asked to interview with me without bothering to even request Jen or Erin – outside of the Asian-interest mags. Nobody asks for the just the third Brilltone, and you know it.”

Vinya straightened her back and opened the soda, trying to wrangle her nerves. “I think you’re a wonderful interview subject, and as you said, we’re a newer outlet. I aimed for the interview I thought I was most likely to get.”

“And you filed interview requests for our manager, the drummer, and our freaking make-up girl. They’re all flattered, by the way.”

“My angle is the gritty details of the tour.” Vinya lied.

“Right,” Da took another long drink, “and you hate everything Brill.”

Vinya froze, soda bottle halfway to her lips. “I – I don’t – I love your music. You can look at my reviews.”

“I didn’t say you hate us.” Da said. “I said you hate the Brill scene. I mean, you’re clearly plugged in to modern trends, but your entire personal aesthetic is a holdover from pre-Brill style. Your reviews of every Brill group other than us and Deranged Poodle have been skeptical at best, and the few bands you drool over are underground Glow Scene. This,” Da gestured around her, “is not your turf.”

Vinya forced herself to pick up the soda bottle and take a sip. The bubbles running over her tongue calmed her just enough to muster something coherent.

“Music is my turf,” Vinya said, realizing that this interview had quickly become a sparring match. “I do cover the Glow Scene, but I also go to a Brill bar every Saturday, own five poodle skirts, and spent last summer using antique hair rollers to perfect my victory roll.”

Da gave her a dismissive wave. “None of that means you like the scene, and you have history. So, tell me - Cadigan V -why are you here?”

Vinya stopped cold. Nobody knew her old stage name, not unless they’d been in L.A.’s underground scene a long time.

“Let me help you,” Da interjected. “You’re here because you’re a solid enough reporter to have gotten wind that the band isn’t getting along, and that the higher-ups at our label are starting to talk to us about the Brill scene’s inevitable collapse.” Another sip of tea. “My sister doesn’t even know half of that, so you have some great sources.”

Vinya took a deep breath, “Ms. Len, I think you might have–”

Scrambling back to her feet, Nina looked up at a towering, silver-haired man wearing in a pale blue short-sleeve shirt and a priest's collar. He looked concerned and extended his hand down to help her up.

"I am so sorry. Are you all right? I was in such a hurry."

English, Nina noted, with what sounded like an Australian accent, but not quite.

"No worries, I'm fine." Nina took his hand and got to her feet. "I've taken harder knocks."

Once standing, she realized why he hadn't seen her. He was at least two feet taller than her, and her head didn't even reach his shoulder. He bent down to retrieve her guidebook, which had fallen open and sat face-down on the pavement.

"Here, let me get that for you."

Nina realized too late and lunged for the book. “I got it.”

But the priest already retrieved it with his long, spindly arm.

“Oh no, I insist, after all I was the one who-”

He stopped as he saw the pages inside the guide, and his face turned pale, "Wait, what's this?”

“It's nothing.” Nina reached to grab the book from him. “Give it back!”

The priest held the book above his head to prevent her from reaching. “What are you doing here? Are you a reporter? Who told you?”

"I…um…”

Nina searched for an answer, realizing that she’d started shaking. “Just…just a tipoff.”

The man's face seemed to lighten a bit, and he flashed a defeated smile.

"I'm not going to hurt you. We closed down the Inquisition years ago." He handed the book back. “I'd probably be doing the same thing if I were you.”

"Thanks, Father." Nina allowed herself to calm down a little.

"You know,” he said. “If you knew what goes on in those meetings, you'd be far less interested. I don't enjoy them at all, really. Lots of prattle about stability and deferring to the wisdom of the Vatican Curia – don't print that."

"No worries, Father,” Nina responded. “I didn't ask for an interview. Off the record.”

The priest sighed with relief. “Thanks. It means a lot coming from media. And don't call me Father. Name's Fletcher. Fletcher Adams." He extended his hand.

Nina returned the handshake. "Nina Constantinos, WWN News."

"Well, Nina Constantinos, WWN News, it’s nice to know that we have some honest people on the telly.” He pointed at the guidebook. “Most of your mob would have been badgering me about how I'm going to vote by now."

The flash bulb went off in Nina's head. "Vote? What do you mean vote?"

The priest chuckled and pulled pen out of his shirt pocket, “Hand me that book for a second.” Wide-eyed, Nina held out the book. He opened it, flipped few pages, and drew several swooping circles. Then he turned it back toward her. "I'm that one, and I’ve circled the ringleaders of the dinner for you.”

Nina squinted her eyes. Sure enough, there was a picture labeled, "Cardinal Fletcher Adams.  Archbishop of Wellington, New Zealand."

She gasped. "Your Eminence! I'm so sorry, I didn't know."

Adams rolled his eyes. "If I won't let you call me Father, I'm sure as hell not letting you call me Eminence. I've had about enough of Eminences this week. I honestly wish I could tell you some of the bilge I’ve heard from these Vatican types.”

"Me too," Nina deadpanned.  

Adams exhaled loudly. "Look, I don't need my name on telly, especially not with the lot at this dinner. I’m here as a courtesy to people I don’t particularly like, which I think I can say without breaking any oaths."

Nina should have thought before responding, but he seemed so vulnerable. Not the type of guy she was interested in outing – and he had flat-out given up several people inside.

She paused for a second, trying to work out the right thing to do. It seemed obvious, if not particularly journalistic.

“It was really clumsy of me to slip on those cobblestones,” she said with a wink. “That’s what I get for being alone in dark alleys.”

"Thanks," Adams wiped a gathering pool of sweat from his forehead. "I…you really aren’t reporting me?"

He thought for a second, then said something odd.

"Have you been at WWN long? I don't recall seeing you."

"A month ago, I was on local TV in Wisconsin."

"That explains the altruism," he said, staring off into the night. "Do you think it would help you get a leg up if you got an exclusive interview with a low-ranking cardinal, maybe after the conclave? I can wear a silly red hat and gush about how I love the new pope."

Nina's eyes almost bugged out of her head. "Seriously? That would be awesome.”

Fletcher nodded and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, “Well then, where can I write down my cell number?”

SUGGESTED MOOD MUSIC: "Human" by Krewella (Coloumbia Records, 2013)

"Basic Cable" text copyright © 2020 Adam Brickley. All rights reserved.