Jerry Leventhal sat behind a large oak desk, every inch of which was covered in papers and CD cases. He perched on the edge of an enormous leather chair that made me think of a throne, upon which the gatekeeper to fame sat. His skin had an unnaturally tanned look, as if he seldom saw the real sun but was a devotee of the spray-on variety. Dark hair covered his head—well, most of it. A large thinning patch sat on top, though I could tell by the obvious plugs that he was doing his best to fight nature. A Bluetooth was implanted in his ear, and he spoke seemingly to the air as we entered.

“Baby, you’re great. You’re a fucking John Lennon, a Bob Dylan, a Kurt Cobain. You speak to the generation. No one can touch you, baby. You’re king, got me? King. Call me when the tour gets to Baltimore. Keep rockin’, baby.”

He touched a button on his ear, then turned his attention our way.

“Prima donnas. Fragile artist egos, need all the help they can get. Poor kid, probably won’t make it past Philly. So, what can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward onto his desk, hands clasped in front of him.

“Uh, hi. I’m Lisa, and this is my colleague Oliver.”

He nodded, motioning me to go on. Unless our names were Brad and Angelina, it was obvious he could care less.

“We’re…freelancers for Rolling Stone,” I lied. “We’re doing a piece on Blain’s brave battle with addiction.”

Leventhal shook his head. “I’m sorry, Blain’s not up for interviews at the moment.”

“Oh, I completely understand. His treatment has to be paramount. We actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Me?” He raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

“You recently visited Blain in rehab, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he hedged slowly. This was a man who’d dealt with the fickle media before and was not going to let some juicy quote slip out unnoticed.

“What did you discuss?”

“I’m sorry, but that conversation was private.”

“Did you talk about his treatment?”

“Some.”

“His plans when he gets out?”

“A bit.”

“How does he feel about what the media’s been saying? I hear that Tina Bender at the Informer has been roasting him?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Exactly what are you getting at?”

“Where were you last night?”

Leventhal stood, planting both hands on his massive desk. “Okay, that’s it. This conversation is over. I want you both out, or I’m calling security.”

Shit. Too far.

But Cal stood up, matching Leventhal’s height and then some. “I don’t think you want to do that,” he said.

“Oh really?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And why not?”