American Entertainment 1978: New York Night Fever

Chapter 104 Touchdown Score

On the morning of the 19th, in a small conference room at Can't Stop Productions in Midtown Manhattan.

When the door was pushed open, Jacques Morali still had his usual flamboyant smile on his face, his arms outstretched as if to welcome a distinguished guest.

"Zek! My little genius! I knew you'd come..." His words trailed off.

It wasn't just Zeke who came in. The man following behind him was like a moving mountain of flesh, his belly under his suit almost bursting the buttons, and the briefcase he was carrying looked more like a weapon to smash people than a document bag.

"Jacques Morali," the man began. "Alan Grubman. Sit down."

Zick, Tino, Herbert, and Larry Harris, whose expression was complicated, entered in single file with a Casablanca lawyer, taking their seats and instantly occupying most of the seats at the conference table, sandwiching Jacques in the middle.

Jacques blinked, a hint of hesitation creeping into his French-Moroccan-accented English: "Allen—Grubman? Never heard of him. But since he's Zeke's friend..."

"Don't fucking try to get close to me."

Allen slammed a piece of paper onto the gleaming conference table. The force of the impact caused a bottle of champagne on the corner of the table to wobble and nearly tip over.

"This is a lawyer's letter, and also an ultimatum." Allen's voice was devoid of emotion. "It's also a copy of Casablanca's notice that they are suspending all royalties and advance payments to you. Before you finish reading it, your company's cash flow will be completely cut off. Want to leave? Sure. Leave that chair you're sitting on first."

Jacques's expression changed instantly. He looked at the silent Larry Harris, then at Zeke, his eyes shifting from initial confusion to anger, and finally settling on a mixture of shock and rage at being betrayed.

"Zick? What does that mean? We're friends! That song 'YMCA'..."

"7

"You stole it."

Zeke finally spoke. He didn't sit down, but stood half a step behind Allen, his thumb in his jeans pocket, exuding confidence, a stark contrast to the bewildered newcomer who had been put on an arm around Allen's shoulder just a few months ago.

"Jacques, stop acting. I know you're lying to me. The chorus melody borrowed from one of your old songs?" Come on, the entire song, from lyrics and music to arrangement and choreography, was written by me. You only bought the exclusive recording rights, not all of this."

Jacques took a deep breath, quickly regaining his composure. He loosened his collar and sneered, "Where's the evidence? Kid, you think you can get away with just a few words..."

"The first witness, Vinnie, the manager of the King's Lounge."

Allen pulled a stack of documents from the briefcase that looked like a murder weapon and threw it on the table.

"The Spiders, then known as the Sirens, had their debut performance of 'YMCA' there, and afterwards received a ton of performance invitations from bars, clubs, and discos. The live recording from that day was played on thirteen radio stations in New York, and we have testimonies from every DJ and every nightclub staff member."

"Live recordings, venue posters and ticket stubs, venue owner's logs and reservation records, audience testimonies from those who have seen the show, and newspaper previews and reviews—these are enough to form a chain of evidence that you have infringed on Zeke's producer credits."

Jacques turned pale and reached for the document, but Allen slapped his hand, the crisp sound echoing in the conference room.

"Don't rush, there's more to come."

Allen threw another videotape, which slammed onto the table with a dull thud.

"This is the music video you sent to British television last week. The dance moves are exactly the same, the costume colors are exactly the same, and even the rhythm of their clapping and turning is exactly the same as what Zeke taught the Spiders. Oh, by the way, we also got the Spiders' rehearsal notes. It has a date on it, December 1977, a whole week before your deal with Zeke."

Jacques jumped up, the chair legs scraping loudly on the floor.

"You're spying on me?!"

“It’s for legal evidence collection.” Allen grinned. “Jacques, your little production company’s accounts are pretty messy. Thirty percent of the advance payment Casablanca gave you went into your personal account in Miami. What’s that called again? Oh right, embezzlement, suspected fraud.”

Jacques' face turned ashen as he turned to look at Larry Harris.

Larry coughed awkwardly and looked away: "They're following proper procedures to request an audit; it's none of our business."

Zik took a step forward, across the table, and looked Jacques in the eye.

"Do you know what disgusts me the most? It's not that you stole my choreography, nor that you cheated me out of my producer's share and credit. It's that you clearly promised me 20% of the artist's royalties, but you had to play tricks on me. Did you enjoy messing with me?"

He lowered his voice, each word like a nail, piercing Jacques's eardrums.

"Do you think I'm still that naive kid who needed your $20,000 and couldn't even afford legal fees? Jacques, your scam is certainly novel; it's fooled almost all of us—"

"But coincidentally, music videos are also a very new thing. You probably don't know that choreography was already a copyrightable subject in the United States in 1977. As long as it can be fixed, video recordings, written scores, or even detailed rehearsal notes are enough to serve as evidence—admit it, Jacques, I've already scored a point for you."

After uttering this football metaphor he'd learned from Erf Beagle, Zeke felt incredibly refreshed, all the pent-up frustration of the past few months vanished, and he felt absolutely exhilarated!

Jacques' lips trembled, then he suddenly laughed, his eyes flashing with a mad light.

"You think you've already won? Zeke, you're too naive."

He stood up straight, placed his hands on the table, and adopted a superior posture.

"I have half a board seat in Club 54. Steve Rubell and Ian Schlager owe me favors, so try touching me!"

He gave Allen a meaningful look, then looked at Zeke, his tone filled with undisguised contempt.

"You think I'm afraid of your accusations? Don't forget, I'm an openly gay man. If you dare to make a big deal out of this, I'll tell all the media that you, Zik Rossi, are a hypocrite who will frame gay artists for money! You can forget about ever working in the disco scene again!"

The air froze for a few seconds.

Larry Harris finally couldn't resist intervening to break the deadlock: "Jacques, tonight is the premiere of 'Friday Night Fever,' right here at Club 54. The company doesn't want to see any negative press in the media for the next two months."

"I've already spoken with Steve Rubel and Ian Schlager. If this isn't resolved today, you'll also be listed as an unwelcome guest. That's what Neil wanted too."

"Neil said: 'As long as Zeke doesn't make a scene at the premiere, Casablanca is willing to mediate.' Mediate means making you return what you've been given, with interest."

"Fuck you, Larry! I just renewed the contract with you for the Villagers' next three albums! And this is how you repay me?!" Jacques roared, slamming his fist heavily on the table.

"Sorry, Jacques." Larry shrugged, his expression businesslike. "Business is business. We now have PolyGram on our side, and if you don't deliver the Villagers' new album on time, the penalty won't be discounted."