I've tried so many times to tell you this, comes down to no other way. It was the strictest confidence you put in me and I broke it.
Remember when Marjorie was finally really sick and at Saint Claudius, remember when you sent me to the apartment for her papers and to feed Ronnie? When I went the doors to her studio were open. Oh God, I can hardly write it. I went in and listened to what she'd recorded, and it was so beautiful I cried. I thought, why doesn't she send it to a record company? I was so moved, and I just thought that, goddammit, if she only sent it in they'd give her a contract and none of this money shit would matter.
So I made copies, and I sent them to Elisha in New York, and when we all got back from Margie's service it was in the mailbox. I hid it, Charlie. Damn it, I'm so sorry. But how could I have known what Margie wanted? I guess I couldn't have, and I never should have done it. I'm just sorry, that's all.
Here's the copy of the songs I kept for myself–I can't bear to listen to them anymore. And here's the letter from New York, if it's not too late.