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Whirlwind
MAXWELL
36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJH7RXsBcqY
Maxwell Stoddard and Oliver Weeks, a talented musician and his loyal friend, arrived at Ogilvie Records shortly before eight o'clock the following morning. They were still waiting in Maynard Ogilvie's outer office two and a half hours later. Ollie grew impatient rapidly while Maxwell, a man of few words, sank further into a depression. He felt sure Claire had sent them on a fool's errand. Before the morning ended, he knew he would be back on the streets and sleeping in that nasty subway.
"Never fear, lad," Ollie stated, patting his leg encouragingly. "I'll set them straight. They won't leave you waiting for much longer."
Standing, Oliver approached the formidable secretary. The plump older woman glared up at him from the document she scanned. Her sharp eyes seemed to penetrate through the café owner, and her mouth pursed into a small oval.
"Look, Mrs., my boy has waited long enough," Ollie stated, placing his palms flat on the desk. He leaned over his taunt arms menacingly and set his face close to the secretary's. "Your people told us to appear here at eight o'clock sharp, and we came early. Are we in, or are we out?"
"You'll find yourself out soon enough with that attitude," the office assistant remarked coolly. "When I want you, I'll rattle your chain."
"I demand…" Oliver began, nonplussed.
"Perhaps we should go," Maxwell interrupted, rising and slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. "We should have known better, Ollie. It was too easy."
"Perhaps you're right, my boy," his new manager conceded reluctantly. He stepped toward Maxwell but suddenly swiveled to face the secretary. "If I could find a way to sue this place, I would. I'd take you for all you're worth."
"Ollie!" Maxwell yelled abruptly. "C'mon. Let's go." He headed toward the door, Oliver following close on his heels.
Claire Ogilvie emerged from the inner office as they reached the door. Framed in the doorway, she watched Maxwell's retreating back.
For the past two and a half hours, Claire tried to convince her uncle to give Maxwell Stoddard a chance. She felt confident in her discovery. Maxwell's face penetrated her overnight dreams. His sweet, sexy voice reverberated in her ears, stirring emotions she hadn't felt in years. After the short interview in the rundown café, Maxwell had become a definite part of her life.
Claire pushed aside her past. Gerald was out of her life. She didn't care if she never saw him again. Her husband didn't exist as far as she was concerned. Her life now revolved around Maxwell. She was determined to do everything in her power to promote and keep him in her life.
"Give him a chance, Uncle Maynard," Claire begged, tears welling in her eyes. She'd already described his soft, penetrating eyes and his smooth voice. "I promise you he's the best."
"Every young man and woman who walks through that door is the best, Claire dear," Uncle Maynard replied, leaning back in his swivel chair. "I've heard them all." He waved dismissively. "I'm looking for talent, real talent."
"Maxwell Stoddard has real talent, Uncle Maynard," Claire defended her find. "He will set the world on fire. Give him a chance. Please." Throwing herself onto her knees, she clasped her hands and begged. "I promise you'll love him."
Claire stated her case in the office for two and a half hours. When she thought she failed, her uncle relented.
"All right," Maynard sighed heavily. "Let's hear what you got."
Claire's tears rapidly disappeared, and she raced toward the door. Grinning, she expected to find Maxwell waiting in the outer office. However, she appeared in time to see his retreat. Racing across the office, she grabbed his arm.
"Uncle Maynard will see you now," she exclaimed, pulling him with her. She pushed him into her relative's inner sanctum and slammed the door in Oliver's face. "May I present Maxwell Stoddard?" Backing against the wall, she motioned for her protegee to begin playing.
"Stoddard," Maynard Ogilvie chortled heartily. "That will have to go for a start."
"What's wrong with Stoddard?" Maxwell complained.
"No pizzazz," the record exec stated flatly. Before Maxwell could complain, he waved the boy toward the front of his desk. "Play."
Maxwell hesitated momentarily, and then he unslung his guitar. After tightening the strings, he strummed and crooned the ballad he had played for Claire the previous day. Standing behind her uncle's desk, she smiled softly and nodded to his rhythm. When he finished, he looked expectantly toward the record exec.
"Not bad," Uncle Maynard conceded. "Try something with more of a beat and swivel your hips."
Maxwell complied instantly. Beating out a lively tune, he sashayed around the desk, swiveling his hips. The record exec rose and held out his hand. Maxwell shook it heartily.
"You need a name," Uncle Maynard stated, retaking his large leather seat.
"I have a name," Maxwell countered swiftly.
"No, you haven't," Claire's Uncle remarked solidly. "Pizzazz, boy, think pizzazz. Stoddard is dull and doesn't ring in the ears. You need something innovative—something recognizable."
"Max!" Claire stated, drawing the attention of both her uncle and her new discovery.
"Max!" Uncle Maynard echoed, inclining his chair and staring at the ceiling. "Exactly! A one-named star—another Elvis. You've got something there, my girl."
"Not Max," the young man interrupted sharply. No one called him 'Max,' and if they did, he would stop it immediately. He did not like the name.
"You want Maxwell?" Uncle Maynard asked, sitting up straight. "You got it, boy. Maxwell—I'll get the promotion team on it straight away." His final decision carried the weight of his authority, sealing Maxwell's fate.
The whirlwind began that afternoon. Leaving him no chance to breathe, Maxwell found himself surrounded by lawyers, a promotion team, and a recording crew. They hustled him from office to office in a mad rush. Exhausted, he returned to Oliver Week's café and took his usual stool.
"What happened to you?" he asked when the proprietor placed a coffee mug before him.
"They didn't want me," Ollie responded dully. "That much was apparent. What happened to you?"
"I got a recording contract." Maxwell stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles confidently.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"In that case, I'll write up your tab," Oliver Weeks exclaimed, drawing a pad and pencil toward him.
"I'll pay it gladly when I'm rich and famous," Maxwell agreed, grinning from ear to ear.
"Deal!" Ollie stretched out his hand.
"Deal!" Maxwell grasped it. "Can I stay here tonight?"
"Certainly."
Following the evening meal, Oliver appeared with a Scotch bottle he'd saved for a special occasion. He poured and made a toast to Maxwell's success. Maxwell made a toast to Ollie's friendship. They continued to salute each other until the bottle ran dry.
"Ooooh, my head," Maxwell complained when he awoke. He appeared in the café with his eyes half-closed and his hair disheveled. As he raised his coffee mug, a long silver car pulled up at the door.
Claire stood in the entranceway with her hands on her hips. She could not believe her eyes when she saw Maxwell leaning against the counter. Storming inside, she grabbed his arm and pulled him with her.
"Hang on there, Missy," Oliver Weeks called out, rushing around the counter. "Where do you think you're going in a hurry?"
"Wardrobe," Claire curtly remarked. "From the looks of things, this one requires an entire makeover. What were you up to last night?"
"Celebrating," Maxwell slurred, leaning precariously toward his left.
"Figures," Claire muttered disdainfully. "Come along; we have a lot of work to do. Wardrobe this morning, recording this afternoon. Uncle Maynard is fast-tracking you, Maxwell."
"Fast-tracking?"
"You're in the whirlwind now, whether you like it or not."
Claire pulled Maxwell outside into the cold, biting winter wind. His bare feet hit the sidewalk, chasing away his hangover. Ordering James to drive, his new benefactress pushed him into the backseat and plunked down beside him. As they pulled away from the café, Maxwell looked down at himself. He discovered he was wearing Oliver's pajamas.
"I can't go out looking like this!" he exclaimed, flushing with embarrassment.
"Unfortunately, you are already out," Claire remarked sharply. "Wherever did you find such ugly jammies? Fluorescent green and pink paisley? I thought you had taste."
"They belong to Ollie," Maxwell muttered.
"Can't wait to see what Stanley's look like."
Maxwell stared at his companion questionably. He did not understand who Stanley was. Then, it suddenly occurred to him. Claire referenced the old comedic team of Laurel and Hardy. He laughed for the first time in ages.
It felt good to let himself go. Yesterday, he was homeless. His life contained neither joy nor hope for too long to find much mirth in life. Day after day, he trudged the streets looking for handouts. Lost and alone, he had no one to share his thoughts or provide friendship. Although he treasured Oliver's acquaintance, he lacked a companion his age. Claire smiled at him understandingly and grasped his hand.
The whirlwind began the moment they entered the Ogilvie's office. Maxwell underwent a complete makeover. He didn't recognize himself when he finally looked in the mirror. His shaggy, unkempt hair transformed into a dark brown mop with frosted tips. A long swoop fell provocatively across his forehead.
A makeup artist worked on his face, smoothing his complexion and creating a pout on his full lips. Dark eyeliner accentuated his eyes, and his brows were neatly trimmed. He wore tight leather trousers that hugged his male form. At first, Maxwell felt uncomfortable about the bulge. Then Claire appeared in the dressing room, her eyes assessing him coolly. She nodded her approval, and he grinned his new sexy smile.
"You look as good as you sound," Claire stated, handing him a black leather jacket.
When he donned it, she encircled his waist with her arms and pressed her body against his firm form. He reacted to her nearness immediately. Instead of shrinking away, she moved in closer.
"All right, all right, break it up," Uncle Maynard announced, entering behind his niece.
Maxwell and Claire stepped away from each other immediately. The record exec clapped his arm around his new star's shoulders and drew him away. Claire pouted, then noticed a black fedora sitting on a wardrobe shelf. Grabbing it quickly, she trotted behind Maxwell and her uncle.
"Here," she stated, extending the hat toward Maxwell. "Put this on."
Maxwell took the hat and studied it. When he placed it on his head, Claire reached up and turned it at a jaunty angle. She stepped back and grinned.
"Turn your head, narrow your eyes, and pout," Claire commanded, surveying the effect. "Perfect!"
"Perfect!" Uncle Maynard echoed, suddenly feeling aroused. He congratulated himself for knowing a good thing when he saw one. "You're on your way, my boy."
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