by Kal Smagh
"What kind of deal?"
"You two ready to order?" It was Ping.
There was a shuffling and an opening of menus and then Brian said, "I’m eating light today, maybe just an egg roll and a bit of white rice."
Ping said, "You don’t eat very much. No wonder you’re skinny." In my booth I clenched my fists at her brazen attitude.
The banker thought longer, lingering, then seemed to remember he was trying to do a business deal. Ping’s comments may have affected him. He folded his menu closed and said, "I’ll do the same."
"Very well." Ping departed and their conversation continued.
Mr. Henry picked back up in his sales presentation, "Merchandising. We come up with a line of Beatles clothing. It’ll dress up this young crowd the way you’ve dressed up that group for stage."
Brian said, "How would that work exactly?"
"We come up with Beatles suits and ties. And we link that into their performances. Maybe a few costume changes. We could always sell the jackets in the lobby."
I heard Brian shift in his seat as the food arrived, possibly because he was uncomfortable with how to break the news to the banker. They ate, chomping their food, and the banker continued pressing his case while Brian listened.
"If we dress up this crowd then it might even get the parents to understand that there is hope for this generation. And then maybe even the fathers and mothers would buy the clothing that we commission."
"I’m not sure that this would be such a good idea for the boys. Is the bank proposing this?"
"No. I would provide the resources as investment. It’s my money. You would get a cut, of course, for dressing them in the clothes that I have being made right now. It would be a positive cash flow situation."
"I already have them dressed in suits. And boots."
"Yes, but you’re not making any money off of it. I’m offering you that opportunity."
I heard Brian sigh, "I’m sorry, Mr. Henry. It’s just not something that they'll want to do. My job is to help them to get a recording. And grow their fan base. These are mostly teenagers. They don’t have the money for suits. Plus, I don’t think they would be that interested in it."
"Perhaps if you just think about it."
A waiter brought food and I heard the clank of plates being set down.
Mr. Henry said, "I've never gotten the hang of chopsticks. Have you?"
"I rather fancy it."
"Really? For rice even?"
"Scooping a clump is what I do."
Mr. Henry feigned like he’d just learned a magic trick. "I’ll give that a go."
Only a few minutes later, and more non-business small talk, Brian said, "I can certainly take it under advisement. However, I don’t want to mislead you. I don’t think it’s an idea that will work for the Beatles."
"Why not?"
"It was hard enough to get them to wear what they’re wearing now. And I can’t get one of them, John Lennon, to even pull his tie all the way up. Adding more clothes onto it will just be a distraction."
I heard Mr. Henry’s exasperated sigh.
Brian excused himself, starting to leave money on the table for his portion of the bill.
"I have the bill."
"Thank you, Earl. Make it up to you." Brian walked by my table and I quickly put the menu back up to my face. A little too hard, it whapped me in the eye. I blinked, feeling the burn, and a few tears forming.
Brian departed and Mr. Henry stayed at the table. I wondered if I could just walk out. He’d never seen me before. Better to wait a few minutes for Brian to clear the outside area.
Mr. Henry then labored himself up and asked to use the telephone at Ping’s check-in stand. I watched as he dialed numbers and spoke for a minute and then came back and sat down. With him I didn’t bother shielding my face.
A few minutes later coming in the front door was none other than Melanie Bumpus in her same pink blouse. Her arrival gave me a start and I swung the menu back up, this time closing my eyes. She walked past Ping’s station and went straight to the table and sat down with Mr. Henry, her husband. People were probably wondering who was this self-loathing girl was who kept whapping herself.
What a morning! I lowered the menu just a smidge to see if anyone else was coming in. Maybe Mr. Prescott? Wouldn’t that be something. I watched the door and noticed Ping looking back at me from her station, doubtlessly wondering if a boy would show up for me. Or if I needed an icepack for my face.
CHAPTER 17: MELANIE BUMPUS
I continued my eavesdropping in the Golden Phoenix.
Earl Henry said, "He wouldn’t go for it. We’re completely out."
Melanie said, "Did he say why?"
"Too hard to get them to wear suits in the first place. Plus teenagers aren’t going to buy suits." He let out an audible sigh. "Calls for drastic action."
Ping came to their table, "Do you know what you want to eat, ma’am?"
"Oh, I’ll have the same as what he had."
"Eggroll and white rice. That’s all you want?"
"—and I’ll have your chicken with peanuts. And some kind of lo mein noodles. And two more eggrolls," Mr. Henry added, impatient to eat.
Ping said, "Good you’re having more. We are a business. We don’t make money off of selling white rice. Good boyfriend." I heard her step away.
Melanie said quietly, "Rude."
Ping then came back and put down a glass of water in front of me and one eggroll. She smiled at me without saying anything and then went back up to her check-in stand.
I picked up the egg roll, it was hot and mouthwatering, I developed a rapid crush on its aroma, especially since I hadn’t eaten in hours.
Melanie said, "Well listen to this. We have the lyrics to one of their songs. One that they’re going to record. We’re trying to find someone to record it first."
I almost choked.
Mr. Henry exclaimed, "You’re kidding. How did you do that?"
"It just happened. Out on the street of all places."
"The street?"
"Wayne had the idea that we had to stop the girl because she had the lyrics in her purse. We made up a ploy and had him with blood on his head."
"How did you do that?"
"It was really tomato sauce from his kitchen…"
I knew it! It took a lot of my willpower not to turn around and spit eggroll on them. But, gosh, so crunchy good...
"...but then after the girl's purse was taken and we had the envelope the police showed up. So, then Wayne had to act like he hadn’t been hurt too bad and didn’t need to go to hospital. It was a whole thing."
"So, who are you going to get to record it?"
"Looking for a singer now. And we need to have speed. They’ll be recording any time again, especially since they have a song out on the radio already."
"Right. Love Me School."
"I don’t think that’s it."
"Eppie said so. Something like that at least. Maybe it was 'drool'?"
"I don’t think so."
"How did you know she had lyrics in her purse?"
I leaned my head backward a few inches to get a better listen.
"Tamara saw the Beatles go into the office with an envelope the other day. They haven’t even been singing this song on the stage very much. It’s called Please Please Me. The lyrics are pretty risqué—"
"—It sounds like...my goodness...are they talking about sex?"
"—and with wanting to play the song on the radio Epstein needs the censor at EMI to sign off on it before they would accept investing in the recording."
Mr. Henry understood, "Because it won’t get played on the radio with their current lyrics?"
"That Lennon character resisted Tamara’s advances on him. But she did learn about the censor. And the great news is now we have the written lyrics so we can record this first."
"I wouldn’t mind not resisting her advances."
"No woman is going to make advances on you, Earl. I don�
�t worry about that at all."
He paused a moment, then refocused on business, "Well if you find a singer, then I can tie in the suits with their song. And we can make some of our money back."
"How is that?"
"You know... we’ve invested so much into these suits being made. Even the prototypes cost a fortune with how they’re cut all modern. I’m losing money every day that we don’t get this clothing line out there and tied to a performer who can then help us to get sales. Without an endorsement I’m broke."
"That’s because you’ve done it backwards. First you get the singer, then do the suits."
"Too late now.
"I know. You’ve told me a thousand times. I don’t think Wayne is going for it."
"Then why are we even doing this thing? The affair and all?"
"The bar. " She scoffed. "I can do better with that bar. It’s a seedy place and it’s ripe for taking over. I wish you hadn’t sunk so much money into those suits. With the way business is there we could’ve bought it from him outright and I wouldn’t have to whore myself out like this to get in his favor."
They were quiet for a moment, thinking. Mr. Henry stated flatly, "We’re in a pickle."
Melanie said, "We’ll get sued."
There was silence at the table while their food was served. Plates clanked onto the table's top. Silverware was touching ceramics.
Melanie said, "Unless there is a way we can pin this on Wayne. And then he gets sued. And then we can buy the bar out from underneath him."
"How’s that?"
"We offer to buy it because he won't be able to afford a lawyer. He’s got less money than you. But he’s got the asset; the bar."
More silence at their table as they weighed the possibilities. Each time it got quiet I felt my mind racing. It was wearing me out.
Mr. Henry said, "Go back to him and find a singer. We want him to get sued. That’s the plan."
"That’s the plan," Melanie repeated.
Soon they got up, paid their bill and left.
Once I was sure they were out of sight I put my menu down and Ping came over with my bill for the order I didn’t place. She walked away and I unfolded the green paper. It didn’t have any numbers written on it, just a scrawl of scribbled ink.
She had written, ‘If you had a boyfriend I would charge you for lunch and you could make him pay.’ I looked past the bill to Ping and she winked at me again.
I smiled all mealy-mouthed back at her and went out the front door to the street, needing to get my news to Brian so this disaster could be averted, rubbing my sore eye.
CHAPTER 18: A FAVOR
"What kind of favor?"
I paced back-and-forth in front of Freda and Brian explaining with my hands, "The banker and his wife are going to try to steal the bar from Wayne Prescott. They want Wayne Prescott to record Please Please Me and he’s looking for a singer. They’re counting on you suing Mr. Prescott because he has the lyrics to the song."
Brian asked, "And how do you know all of this?"
"I heard them today discussing it in a restaurant."
"I had lunch today with Earl Henry. The subject of stolen lyrics didn’t come up."
"I know," instantly realizing I’d given myself away and thought to cover it. " I overheard Mr. Henry and Melanie Bumpus talking."
Letting it go, Brian said, "Again. What kind of favor is it?"
"I need the Beatles to rewrite the lyrics. And then I need those lyrics to be stolen again."
Their eyes widened at the same time.
Brian said, "Stolen again? No. Absolutely not. It’s no problem for the boys to rewrite the lyrics as they stand. I have them doing it right now. They’re supposed to drop it off later today. But I need to get them to EMI for censor clearance. We are to record next week. No more delays."
"They’ll be here today? Perfect. That’s what we want."
Brian shook his head, "It’s what I want. But you're misunderstanding me, we don’t want anybody coming around trying to steal their lyrics again. Let me be clear: it makes things too complicated if you do things other than try to get them new fans."
"I know. I agree. And I’m sorry." I felt awful for asking. But I needed this. They needed this, but didn't know it or feel it the same as I did.
"Then we need to get out of this business of being involved in things that don’t support the band getting a record done and out and distributed." He rubbed his forehead and shook his head like a headache was coming on.
Freda looked at me, her eyes pleading for me to just shut up.
I said, "I don’t want Wayne Prescott trying to record that song. It’s my fault, and I want to fix it."
Brian shot back, "You can fix it by answering mail and not being involved in things that make it harder for me to do my work." His eyes were firm, and his jaw was set.
He left our little office, closing the door curtly behind him. Freda and I looked at each other and then she said, "Rule one, rule two, rule four."
Again, she was absolutely right. I was not being helpful or discreet. Or efficient. Or answering mail. My only saving grace, if you could call it that, was at least I hadn’t been out on the street with the Beatles.
CHAPTER 19: ON THE STREET WITH THE BEATLES
Freda smiled, "Paul needs a greeting card and he can’t go to the store. Can you go please pick one up for him?"
"What’s it for? A birth or death or a wedding… do we know?"
"Thank-you card. He said just something simple."
"For a man, or a woman, or a business?"
"It’s for a woman. Don’t say anything to anyone about that."
"Got it."
I didn’t have my purse to carry with me but I had borrowed a pocketbook and a beaten old black purse from my mother and held that in my hands. I felt twenty years older with this clunky thing in my grasp.
Freda said, "Afterwards, come back here. Straight here. We’re expecting more mail, of course."
I went out the door and down the street to a gift shop that smelled of flowers. It had small cards, like what you use when you’re sending an arrangement, but the choice of greeting cards was practically nil. I exited that building and went further up the street and around the corner and found another gift shop with shiny baubles in the windows. Inside there were scads of greeting cards and I looked through them finding the appropriate colors and reading the contents for the right words. Thank you... for a woman. I wonder what Paul was thanking her for?
Rather than let my mind wander I decided to be practical. A simple card. I narrowed it down to a top three and then comparing the colors of pinks and yellows and reds I decided to buy all three and give him a choice. Yellow of course was for friendship, pink would be fondness, and red would mean love. It was hard to know without more context.
Coming out of the store I turned to go back up the street and a car pulled alongside me, slowed down, and then sped away. I didn’t see who was inside. Just being looked at, especially since there was so much chicanery afoot, gave me a sinking feeling.
"Hey!" I heard a voice from across the street. "Hey!"
I zeroed in on who was calling...none other than Paul McCartney. He was waving his hand. I checked traffic both ways and crossed the street to him.
"You’re the girl who works with Freda, yes?"
I felt instantly flattered as my face grew warm. He remembered me. I stammered out a response, "Yes."
We stood for a second and then I remembered I had cards for him. "Freda told me that you wanted greeting cards. I have them here." I held up the ivory paper bag.
"That’s perfect."
As I was handing them to him, I heard a scream and we both jerked our heads, startled. I turned to look down the street.
A girl younger than me had spotted him and pointing she shouted, "It’s Paul!"
A flashbulb burst from somewhere.
Paul grabbed my hand and said, "Run for it!" It was exhilarating to be chased while fleeing with him. He was adept at thi
s evading, the followers pursuing, and he kept on.
Pulling me along we sprinted up the street, down an alleyway, and then up another street. He was faster than I was but held onto my hand tightly and pulled me with him.
Reaching another street, we went through a gate into a backyard and then through another gate into another backyard and along the fence line onto an adjacent road. Paul stopped and looked up and down the street. It looked quiet, all I could hear were birds and see parked cars and saw no people walking on the sidewalk.
He said, "You're faster than you look."
"I know." I'd always been able to run fast. It was my big legs. Not long, but meaty.
Both still huffing and puffing, Paul led me up to the front walk of a row house, and around the side, saying, "Don’t tell anybody this address." Taking out a key he opened up the side door and we went inside. There seated at a kitchen table were John, George, and Ringo.
Paul exclaimed, "Look what I found."
"A dead cat?" It was John.
Paul turned to me asking loud enough for others to hear, "Are you a dead cat?"
George asked, " I recognize her. She’s always breathing heavy it seems. What is the cat's name?"
Silence. Then I realized the question was addressed to me. I stammered out, "Helen."
John quipped, "Melon? Is that because of the size of your head?"
Paul scoffed, "Her head is normal sized. As far as I can see."
Squinting, Ringo offered, "Put on your glasses, John."
We stood there for a second and then Paul said, "We had to run for it. I was spotted on the street."
Smirking, George raised his eyebrows, "You must’ve wanted to be spotted. It’s getting crazy to be out in the daylight."
Ringo said, shaking his head, "If I knew it was this madness every day I would’ve thought twice about joining."
John opened the door to the white metal refrigerator and pulled out a beer, popping the top off of it. The refrigerator was full of brown bottles bottom to top.
John said over his shoulder, "Paul told you not to talk about this place, right? Our flophouse."