Free Ear to the Ground by David L. Ulin Page B

Seized with presidential confidence, he had grabbed her by the waist and spent the following week with her.
    As the president’s limousine moved down Highland and he sat listening to “China Cat Sunflower,” he decided to cancel his dinner with the mayor and stop by the candlelight vigil in Griffith Park.
    The president had lunch at the Center for Earthquake Studies with Charlie Richter, but their seismological discussion lasted only three minutes. Preoccupied, the president asked quietly if Charlie had ever seen the Grateful Dead. Charlie perked up. “I took a leave of absence my junior year of college to follow them.”
    â€œNo kidding?” The president put down his fork.
    â€œHow ‘bout you?”
    â€œAbout thirty shows,” the president said. “I have like a hundred tapes. Most aren’t soundboards. Twentieth generation or something. But I like the crackle.”
    â€œI can’t believe it’s over.”
    â€œWhen was your first show?” the president asked.
    â€œTelluride, ′78.”
    â€œFriday night or Saturday?”
    â€œSaturday, I think.”
    â€œSaturday.” The president leaned back and concentrated. “‘Franklin’s Tower,’ ‘Tennessee Jed,’ ‘Scarlet/Fire’ …?”
    â€œThat’s the one …”
    Ian Marcus was a millionaire. Just after the prediction, with every studio in town bidding on Ear to the Ground, pressuremounted for Grace to track Ian down. Ethan jumped down her throat the minute she arrived at the office. “It’s your fucking boy friend’s script,” he’d told her. “Why haven’t I seen it?”
    You can’t buy luck in this town, she thought. Like William Goldman says: “Nobody knows anything …”
    The deal had closed a few minutes before midnight, in a booth at Jones. What a nightmare. Michael Lipman, one of the world’s great assholes, was having the time of his life. And, Grace knew, there’s nothing worse than an ecstatic asshole. Ian didn’t say a single word, just sipped champagne and performed calculations on a legal pad. Once, he leaned over and French-kissed her. How could she refuse?
    Grace made one last call to business affairs, asking if they’d go as high as seven figures. She was told the president of the studio was reading the script, or skimming it anyway, and it was almost an hour before he consented to spend a million dollars to buy Ear to the Ground for Ethan Carson.
    By midday on August 9, several FM stations were playing nothing but Grateful Dead, but the AM talk shows continued to feature earthquake commentary. At CES, the mayor and the president made a joint statement, separated by a beaming Caruthers. Then the president disappeared into the Prediction Lab, where he sat telling Charlie funny stories about the Europe ′72 tour. Soon they were nearly friends, and Charlie was invited to accompany him to Griffith Park.
    As the president’s motorcade cut through traffic and turned left into the park, Deadheads gawked at the sleek black limos, wondering what industry bigwigs had decided to make the scene. Around the carousel, thousands of people had gathered: gauze-draped girls whirring among bare-chested boy-men who wailed and beat bongo drums.
    The president watched quietly for a few minutes, and signaled to his driver that it was time to move on. Charlie laid a hand on his arm.
    â€œI think I’m going to stay,” he said.
    The president smiled and shook his hand. “Of course.”
    Charlie watched the motorcade pull away. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie, and hiked over the rise of grass toward the carousel. Halfway down the slope, a girl about twenty looked up. She wore a tie-dyed dress and had a long braid down her back.
    â€œHey,” she said.
    Charlie stopped.
    â€œI know who you are. But you don’t have to talk about it.”
    He smiled.
    â€œYou