Blood on the Canvas, Gold on the Screen

Chapter 30: Neve Console

The beauty of a Tuesday morning in Trousdale Estates was the absolute, pristine isolation.

Down in the Los Angeles basin, millions of people were currently trapped in gridlock traffic on the 405 freeway, gripping their steering wheels, drinking terrible diner coffee, and mentally preparing to surrender another eight hours of their lives to a corporate hierarchy.

Up in the hills, hovering above the smog line, Alex Turner was currently engaged in a high-stakes staring contest with a particularly bold blue jay that had landed on the edge of his zero-edge pool.

Alex took a slow sip of his perfectly extracted Ethiopian espresso. The blue jay chirped aggressively, then flew away.

"I win," Alex murmured, setting the ceramic espresso cup down on the granite kitchen island.

He felt physically invincible. After four consecutive nights sleeping on the Cloud-Rest mattress, enveloped by the [Sanctuary Regeneration] trait, his stamina reserves were completely overflowing. The dull, residual aches he hadn’t even realized he was carrying from his past life’s chronic exhaustion were entirely gone. His muscular density, optimized by his Boxing trait, felt dense and springy.

It was time to get to work.

Or rather, it was time to aggressively delegate the work so he could continue not working.

Alex picked up the heavy Motorola brick phone from the counter, extended the black antenna, and dialed the private direct line for his corporate counsel.

The phone rang exactly twice.

"Richard Vance Jr.," the lawyer answered. His tone was sharp, professional, and tightly wound, undoubtedly expecting another legal grenade from Sony Music’s New York offices.

"Morning, Richard," Alex said smoothly, walking over to the Eames lounge chair and collapsing into the buttery leather. "How is the weather in the financial district?"

Richard let out a sharp, audible exhale of relief. "Mr. Turner. Good morning. The weather is fine, sir. I have been monitoring the wire channels. Sony Music’s accounting department deposited the first scheduled tranche of the physical mechanical royalties an hour ago. The Tyrant Group offshore accounts are currently processing an additional four hundred thousand dollars, entirely unencumbered."

"Tommy Mottola is a man who respects a legally binding threat," Alex smiled lazily. "Excellent. But I’m not calling about Sony today, Richard. I’m calling because I need to repurpose your skill set."

There was a brief, cautious pause on the line.

"Repurpose, sir? I am a senior corporate structuring attorney."

"You’re the Chief Logistics Officer for Tyrant Group LLC, Richard. You wear many hats," Alex corrected, resting his feet on the leather ottoman. "I need you to acquire a piece of heavy machinery for the Beverly Hills property."

"Heavy machinery? Are you undertaking landscaping renovations, Mr. Turner?"

"I’m building a world-class analog recording facility in my guest bedroom," Alex explained casually. "I need a Neve 8068 mixing console. I also need a Studer A827 two-inch, twenty-four-track analog tape machine. And I need a matched pair of vintage Neumann U47 tube microphones."

Silence stretched over the analog cellular connection. Richard Vance Jr., a man who held degrees from Harvard Law and specialized in multi-million-dollar corporate mergers, was frantically trying to process the request.

"Mr. Turner," Richard began, his voice laced with profound confusion. "I do not know what any of those things are. I do not have contacts in the audio engineering manufacturing sector. I am a lawyer."

"Richard, my [Business Management] protocols assure me that your firm bills out at five hundred dollars an hour," Alex said, his voice dropping into that rich, magnetically authoritative cadence. "At that rate, if I ask you to find me a unicorn, I expect you to bring me a white horse with a carrot taped to its head. But this is much easier. You don’t need to know what they are. You just need to know how to buy them quietly."

Alex sat forward slightly, his mind running through the architectural blueprints and supply chain logistics he had effortlessly formulated the night before.

"In 1996, large commercial recording studios are beginning to upgrade to early digital interfaces," Alex lectured smoothly. "They are liquidating their massive, beautiful analog desks to make room for cheaper computers. I want you to hire a discrete acquisitions broker. Have them canvas the bankruptcy auctions and liquidation sales of mid-tier studios in Nashville, London, and New York. When they locate a Neve 8068 in pristine condition, buy it under a secondary blind trust. Pay cash. Pay double the asking price if they agree to crate it and ship it on a private freight plane to Los Angeles within forty-eight hours."

Richard furiously scribbled notes on the other end of the line. The sheer scope and aggressive timeline of the logistics were staggering, but Alex’s absolute certainty made it sound like ordering a pizza.

"A Neve 8068. A Studer tape machine. Neumann microphones," Richard repeated, his professional gears locking into place. "I will establish a shell acquisitions company this morning, Mr. Turner. But installing heavy, commercial-grade electrical equipment... you will need permits, architects, and specialized acoustic contractors. The city of Beverly Hills is notoriously strict regarding residential construction noise."

"I don’t pull permits, Richard. That puts my name in a public city database," Alex countered effortlessly. "Call Evelyn Cross at the Polo Lounge. Tell her Tyrant Group requires a highly specialized, discrete interior contractor who understands non-disclosure agreements and doesn’t ask questions about building codes. She caters to Hollywood royalty; she has a Rolodex full of guys who build secret panic rooms for billionaires. Get one of them to my house by noon."

"Consider it done, Mr. Turner. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. Have your assistant buy a fax machine and courier it to the Trousdale gates," Alex added. "I drew up the acoustic blueprints for the floating floors and bass traps last night, but I have absolutely no desire to drive downtown to hand them to you."

"A fax machine will be delivered within the hour, sir."

Alex hung up the phone and tossed it onto the Noguchi coffee table.

He leaned his head back against the Eames chair, gazing up at the flat, drywall ceiling.

Building a studio of this caliber would normally take a commercial entity six months of planning, zoning board meetings, and agonizing budget approvals. Alex was bypassing the entire bureaucratic nightmare through the sheer, brute-force application of liquid capital and high-end proxies.

He was essentially weaponizing his laziness. By refusing to do the legwork himself, he was forcing the highest-paid professionals in the city to execute his vision with terrifying efficiency.

Trousdale Estates. 1:00 PM.

At exactly one o’clock in the afternoon, the frosted glass entry gate chimed.

Alex, who had spent the last two hours napping in the sun on the pool terrace, lazily threw a fresh white t-shirt over his torso, slipped on his Converse, and pressed the intercom release.

A moment later, a man walked across the floating concrete path over the koi pond.

He was a thick-shouldered, barrel-chested man in his late forties, wearing faded Carhartt work pants, steel-toed boots, and a plain grey t-shirt. He carried a battered leather clipboard and exuded the distinct, no-nonsense aura of a veteran tradesman who had seen every flavor of Hollywood excess.

Alex opened the heavy walnut door.

"Alex Turner?" the contractor asked, his voice a gravelly rumble.

"That’s me. You must be Evelyn’s guy," Alex said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Mike," the contractor offered a calloused hand. Alex shook it, his own grip perfectly calibrated to match the man’s strength without showing off. "Ms. Cross said you needed a rush job on a soundproofed room, strictly off the books, cash up front. I build screening rooms for studio heads. What exactly are we doing here, kid?"

Mike’s tone carried a hint of skepticism. He was used to dealing with eccentric clients, but the kid in the t-shirt didn’t look old enough to own a car, let alone a two-million-dollar mid-century estate.

Alex didn’t take offense. He simply turned and gestured for Mike to follow him down the terrazzo hallway toward the guest wing.

"We aren’t building a screening room, Mike. We’re building a tracking room," Alex explained, his voice taking on the rich, authoritative cadence of a master architect. He opened the door to the twenty-by-twenty guest room.

Mike stepped inside, looking at the bare drywall and the standard nine-foot ceiling.

"A recording studio? In here?" Mike scratched his jaw. "Kid, I can double-drywall the room and pump it full of Green Glue acoustic sealant. That’ll stop your neighbors from hearing you play the drums. But a real commercial studio needs floated floors, independent HVAC baffles, and non-parallel walls. You can’t just slap egg-crate foam on the drywall and call it a day."

It was a test. Mike was checking to see if he was dealing with an amateur who thought they knew about acoustics because they read a magazine article.

Alex’s dark eyes locked onto the contractor. His [Music Composition: Level 5] and [Business Management: Level 5] synergized perfectly, unleashing a torrent of hyper-specific structural engineering data.

"I don’t want Green Glue, Mike," Alex said, his tone entirely devoid of arrogance, simply radiating absolute, unshakeable expertise. "I want the existing subfloor ripped out down to the concrete slab. We are going to float a secondary hardwood floor on U-boat polyurethane isolators, leaving a two-inch air gap to decouple the low-frequency mechanical vibrations from the foundation."

Mike blinked, his thick eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.

"For the walls," Alex continued casually, walking into the center of the room and pointing at the corners. "We aren’t double-drywalling. We are framing a room within a room. Decoupled staggered studs, filled with rigid mineral wool insulation. But the interior walls cannot be parallel to the exterior framing. I want a five-degree splay inward toward the front of the room to kill the flutter echo. The ceiling needs hanging cloud diffusers suspended by heavy-duty aircraft cable."

Mike stood entirely frozen in the doorway.

The skepticism completely evaporated, instantly replaced by the profound, respectful silence of a master craftsman recognizing another master. The kid wasn’t an amateur. He was quoting acoustic physics and structural isolation techniques that rivaled the top engineers at Record Plant.

"And the electrical?" Mike asked, his voice dropping into a professional, collaborative register. The [Crew Loyalty] trait, which naturally caused blue-collar and below-the-line workers to favor Alex, latched onto Mike’s newfound respect, cementing absolute loyalty.

"We need a dedicated, isolated ground circuit pulled directly from the main breaker," Alex instructed. "No daisy-chaining. The Neve console and the outboard gear are highly sensitive to dirty power. If the refrigerator compressor kicks on in the kitchen, I don’t want to hear a sixty-hertz hum in my studio monitors."

"A Neve console?" Mike let out a low whistle. "You’re putting a heavy iron desk in here? Kid... Mr. Turner. That desk weighs eight hundred pounds. Getting it through these hallways is going to be a nightmare."

"That sounds like a logistical problem for the logistics team," Alex smiled lazily. "Your job is to make sure the floor doesn’t collapse when they set it down. Can you build it, Mike? In under two weeks?"

Mike looked around the room, his mind racing through the labor requirements, the material sourcing, and the sheer physical effort required to build a decoupled room in fourteen days.

"It’ll take a six-man crew working twelve-hour shifts," Mike said, doing the math on his clipboard. "We’ll have to bring the lumber and mineral wool in through the side courtyard to avoid scratching your terrazzo floors. And because it’s off the books... it’s going to cost a premium."

"Richard Vance Jr. will wire a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer to your company account by three o’clock today," Alex said without hesitation. "And if you finish it in ten days without me having to listen to a single power saw before 11:00 AM, there is a twenty-thousand-dollar cash bonus in it for you and the crew."

Mike stared at him. The budget was astronomical, and the conditions were bizarre, but the money was undeniable.

"You got a deal, Mr. Turner," Mike said, clicking his pen and extending his hand again.

"Just Alex," he replied, shaking the contractor’s hand. "I’ll have my lawyer fax you the exact acoustic blueprints this afternoon. I drafted them last night."

Mike nodded slowly, leaving the room with a sense of urgent, highly motivated purpose.

Alex stood alone in the center of the empty guest room.

The Phantom’s lair was officially under construction. In less than two weeks, he would possess an analog fortress capable of recording the most dominant pop vocalists on the planet, entirely insulated from the corporate machine.

He didn’t have to deal with A&R executives. He didn’t have to deal with booking times.

He could literally wake up, walk down the hallway in his sweatpants, press record, and generate millions of dollars in intellectual property before noon.

"I love the music business," Alex whispered to the empty room.

He turned the lights off, shut the door, and walked back to the living room. The Eames chair was calling his name, and he had a very important afternoon nap to attend to.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!