LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA | 1971
Felix Rune spun up the reel of half-inch Ampex tape and winked at Rosenda who had made herself comfortable in front of the massive Neve mixing desk. She and Rune were old friends and he knew her well enough to have a cold pitcher of Armillita Chicos ready on an adjacent table when she arrived from the airport.
“Where’s Bear?” Rune inquired as he readied to hit the playback. “Busting heads or chasing tail?”
“Neither; both; I don’t know,” Rosenda took a long pull of the refreshing tequila-based drink. “Hertz stuck him with a Catalina and he’s probably somewhere setting it on fire.”
“Yikes,” Rune sucked the funky studio air between his teeth with a sharp hiss. “A Pontiac? I wouldn’t have the nerve to slide those keys over the desk.”
“You know, he took it better than I expected. Maybe he’s mellowing in his old age. It wasn’t until we got on the 405 that the veneer began to crack.”
“Here’s to him finding a Continental before someone gets hurt,” Rune poured himself a drink and clinked Rosenda’s glass while maintaining eye contact.
“To Lucious Cole,” Rosenda added. “Wherever the hell he may be.”
“No offense, but can you imagine being a shark and getting a bite of that polluted trash bag? You’d be high for days!”
“Come on, Felix, show some respect for the dead.”
“Too soon? I apologize,” Rune recanted for a beat. “Hey, man, you ever really look at your fins?”
“Felix!”
Rune settled back and with the appropriate flourish hit the playback button on the console. Cole’s famous baritone jumped out of the studio speakers, filling the air with unfamiliar admonishments.
Once more in to the stifling heat
Until it melts away your ghost
Once more into the acid bath
Until your memory turns to smoke
Once more under the crushing load
Until we find ourselves some shade
Once more onto the bloody road
Until we fix the mess you made
Rune stopped the tape and shot Rosenda a perplexed look only to see her jaw hanging wide open.
“What the fuck is this?” She asked, placing her half-empty Armillita Chico on the floor and scooting her chair closer to the deck. “Play that again, Felix.”
Rune rewound the song, the words and music getting sucked back out of the air at double speed. Starting the tape again, both he and Rosenda listened carefully for a clue about the music’s provenance. The guitar was clearly Cole’s doing, his quirky choice of chord inversions and the off-kilter melody of his solo called back to nearly a decade of mining his particular musical lode. The song sat solidly within his cannon, yet somehow yearned for what could be next.
“That, my dear, is a hit,” Rune refilled their glasses for another toast. “Even if there is no other new stuff on this reel, slap that on a Best Of collection, and we will all be farting through silk.”
Román Leão 
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