“The negatives. O’ the photos. So they can’t use ’em.”
“Ah, well, what we said was, we’ll meet in No Man’s Land, they’ll show me the negs, and burn ’em in front of me.”
Something’s fishy. “Oh. Is that—”
“Diplomacy’s a delicate art, Dean. Both sides need to be happy with the outcome, or there is no outcome.”
“So…I’ll come along to No Man’s Land and see the job done.”
“No can do, I’m afraid. The Other Party don’t want yer meeting ’em. They’re very clear. No face to face.”
Something’s wrong. “Rod, how’m I s’posed to know that the negs’ve been destroyed? Or…” Dean feels a free-falling sensation, and arrives at the truth, a few seconds later.
This is all Rod Dempsey’s scam. The photographs don’t exist. Ditto “The Other Party.” Dean and Tiffany may have been seen at the Hyde Park Embassy, but that’s all. He’s reeled me in like a trout. Dean grasps at reasons why this can’t be true. How could he know ’bout the blindfolds ’n’ cuffs?
Dean recalls the night they went out to the Bag o’ Nails. Four guys, out on the lash, in a nightclub. I blurted it out myself. Just the sort of tidbit an extortionist would file away.
But why now?
Why d’yer think? Rod knows Dean helped Kenny and Floss get out of his clutches and out of London.
Rod’s voice turns gentle. “Or what, Dean?”
“In my shoes, wouldn’t yer want to see these pictures with yer own eyes before forking out three ’n’ a half grand?”
A pause. An exhalation. “Only if I thought yer’d fucked me over, Deano. So tell me. Is that what yer thinking? Or have I misunderstood?” Rod’s intimidating…
Which proves it. Why would a practiced blackmailer insist on negotiating with hard-knock ex-con Rod Dempsey and not helpless Dean Moss, the object of the blackmail? He must’ve been laughing his tits off. “Yer must’ve been laughing yer tits off.”
Rod Dempsey’s voice turns icy. “I’ve saved yer arse, Rock God. You and yer married actress. Is this the thanks I get?”
What if yer wrong? “It ain’t adding up, Rod.”
“Here’s what ain’t adding up: two grand. You—owe—me.”
“Cancel the check.”
“I paid in cash, genius. Checks leave a trail.”
“Ah, but yer just told me yer paid with a check.”
“Who gives a shit how I paid? Yer owe me two grand!”
He’s lying. “What happened to ‘Gravesend boys against the world’? What did I do to yer?”
Nine time zones and five thousand miles away, Rod Dempsey lights a cigarette. “Yer know what yer did. Yer think fame makes yer untouchable? Yer think Mrs. Shag-a-bag’s Bayswater address keeps her safe? Wrong. Dead wrong. Yer shoved yer fat beak into my business. Yer’ll pay for that, Moss. Yer’ll pay.”
The line goes prrrrrrrrr…
* * *
—
THE DRIVER SENT by the festival is a man-mountain by the name of Bugbear. He’s maybe Dean’s age but moves lumberingly and limps. He helps the band into the VW Camper and hunches behind the wheel, like a boy too big for his go-kart. “Climb aboard, y’all. It’s a squeeze. Can’t adjust the frickin’ seats.” Dean sits up front, with Elf, Levon, and Griff behind, Jasper and Mecca and her camera in the back. The Camper coasts down a steep street, growls up a steeper one, and waits at a crossroads. Intersection. The others are enjoying the streetscapes, but Rod Dempsey’s threat and a not-yet-digested club sandwich sit ill in him. Dean knows he should call Tiffany and warn her, but he’s afraid she’ll fly off into a pointless panic. Dempsey’s bluffing about targeting her. Surely? She’s Tiffany Hershey née Seabrook. Not some exploitable nobody like Kenny and Floss.
Elf asks Bugbear if he’s from San Francisco.
“Uh-huh. Nebraska, originally.”
“What brought yer to California?” asks Dean.
“A twelve-hour army transport from Hawaii.”
Dean asks, “Vietnam?”
Bugbear gazes forward. “Uh-huh.”
“I’ve heard it’s bad out there.”
Bugbear puts in a stick of gum. “In the morning, my platoon had forty-two men. By evening, there were six left. Of those six, three made it back to base. So, yeah. It’s bad out there.”
Griff, Elf, Dean, and Levon exchange looks, not sure what to say. Jesus bloody Christ, thinks Dean. And I think I’ve got problems. A streetcar full of tourists rumbles by. Mecca leans from the window and takes photographs. The lights turn green, and the van shunts off, slipping onto a faster road and now the Bay Bridge. The first eastbound section is roofed by the westbound section and walled by flickering girders. Dean sees ships and boats on the blue-green-gray water far below. Towns fringe the distant shoreline. Mountains crumple up behind them. Places I’ll never go. The double-decked span of the bridge ends in an eight-lane tunnel drilled through Yerba Buena Island, halfway across…
Rod Dempsey can’t know I helped Kenny and Floss get out of London, Dean thinks, unless he’s got hold of them again, and forced them to tell him…in which case, God help them. I could get Ted Silver to force the law to get involved, but it’ll get very messy very quickly…and Dempsey’ll blow the lid off me ’n’ Tiffany…“What a bloody mess.”
“Say something, our Deano?” asks Griff.
“Nah. Just…working on lyrics.”
Griff lights a cigarette. “As you were.”
At the very least, Dean is going to have to tell Levon and Jasper that the Covent Garden flat has fallen through and offer a version of why. I’ll have to call Tiffany, too. Even if Dempsey was bluffing, she should be taking sensible precautions. It is not a conversation Dean is looking forward to. He asks for a drag of Griff’s cigarette. He wishes it was a joint, but after the Troubadour, he’s promised himself to abstain from drugs before a show. The van emerges from the tunnel onto the eastern section of the bridge, where all eight west- and eastbound lanes are open to the sky. The cables are as thick as trees. The suspension towers could be parts of a galactic cruiser.
The entirety is steel, mighty, permanent, real…
…and was once just a dream in somebody’s head.
* * *
—
THE CAMPER TURNS off the freeway at a sign for Knowland Park. Further down the slip road, a sign reads, GOLDEN STATE INTERNATIONAL POP FESTIVAL.
“Are we the ‘international’ bit?” asks Griff.
“Us,” replies Levon, “plus Procol Harum, the Animals, and Deep Purple, who played here yesterday.”
“Who’s Deep Purple?” asks Elf.
“A Birmingham band,” says Griff. “They’ve been supporting Cream on tour here. They’re getting quite a name in the States.”
The Camper enters the showground proper. Ranks and files of cars are parked to one side, with tents and camper vans on the other. There are dozens of stalls offering food, drinks, and hippie trinkets. A grandstand and a Ferris wheel are visible above a tall wall. Crowds enter through turnstiles.
“More organized than I’d expected,” says Elf.
“It’s big,” says Griff, “but not big big big big.”
“Twenty thousand punters paying three bucks a head,” says Levon, “is much, much tastier than a half-million paying nothing. The word ‘free’ in ‘free concert’ means ‘bankrupt.’ Walls and turnstiles. That’s the future of festivals, right there.”
A guard recognizes Bugbear and waves the van into a fenced-off compound of neatly parked trailers. Two men are lugging a huge Marshall speaker out of a truck. José Feliciano’s soulful croon and Latin guitar figures fill the middle distance. Bugbear takes them to a trailer with a handwritten UTOPIA AVE sign taped to the door. “I’ll be taking y’all back later, so break a leg.” He walks off without a backward glance.
“A man o’ few words,” remarks Dean.
“Maybe he left his words in Vietnam,” says Jasper.
“I’ll slip away and take some pictures,” says Mecca. She kisses Jasper and exits the compound. “See you all later.”
“Could you take a few of the band when they’re on?” asks Levon. “I’ll find something in the budget if we use any.”
“Sure.” She tells Jasper, “Break your legs,” and goes.
“I love how she says that,” says Jasper.
* * *
—
INSIDE THE TRAILER is a kitchenette with jugs of water, overflowing ashtrays, bottles of beer, Pepsi, and bowls of grapes and bananas. Marijuana smoke hangs in the air. When everyone is settled with a beer, Levon springs a surprise. “Band meeting. Max has put together a possible package of four days’ worth of dates, here in the States.”
Thank God, thinks Dean. I can put off London.
“It’s intense. Portland on Thursday, Seattle on Friday, Vancouver on Saturday, then Chicago on Sunday to a show at the Aragon Ballroom—also known as the Aragon ‘Brawl-room’—to be broadcast across the Midwest and Canada. You can say no. But this could shunt Stuff of Life up ten places. Possibly into the Top Ten.”
“I vote yes,” says Elf.
“I vote yes,” says Jasper.
“I vote ‘Shit, yes,’ ” says Griff.
“This will give us an extra day to record,” says Dean. “Could you say we’ll do it if the record company pay our studio fees?”
“We’ll make a manager of you yet,” says Levon.
“Being skint’s my superpower,” replies Dean.
“Studio fees are in the deal. If we’re agreed, I’ll tell Max—”
There’s a knock-knock at the door. A sunburned man with sweat-patches and a clipboard peers in. “Utopia Avenue? Bill Quarry. I’m the operator of this smooth-running festival machine.”
“Welcome to your trailer, Bill. Levon Frankland.”
Bill shakes everyone’s hand. “José finishes in twenty minutes, then Johnny Winter is on from five till six, then it’s you guys. Why don’t I show you backstage, so you can get the lay of the land?”
Dean is mugged by a huge yawn. “I’ll catch forty winks.”
“Forty ‘winks’?” checks Griff.
“I despair of you two,” says Elf.
“Don’t worry, boss,” Dean tells Levon. “I won’t do anything you wouldn’t. Or take anything.”
“The thought never entered my mind,” lies Levon.
* * *
—
DEAN SINKS INTO the sofa bed. Something smooth sticks against his cheek. He sits up again and peels off a tarot card. It shows a figure walking away, up a mountain across a channel of water. The figure carries a staff, like a pilgrim, and wears a red cape. The pilgrim’s hair is shoulder length and brownish, like Dean’s, though his face is turned away. The yellow moon watches him from a twilit sky. Three cups sit on a bottom row of five cups in the foreground, and the words “VIII of CUPS” are written along the top.
The breeze rustles the net curtain. A woman laughs like Dean’s mother used to. The pilgrim won’t be coming back this way again. A nearby crowd of thousands roars its applause as José Feliciano finishes his fluid version of “Light My Fire.” Dean puts the tarot card into his wallet, next to Allen Klein’s business card. He lies back down and shuts his eyes. There’s Rod Dempsey to worry about; there’s Mandy Craddock and my possible son; there’s what to do about Harry Moffat. I’m sure there are more I’ve forgotten…Problems tangle up like clothes in a tumble dryer.
No. Enough. Dean leaves the launderette and follows a path, up a mountain, under a yellow moon both crescent and full, with a staff in his hand. He’s left his worries behind him, on the other side of the river. He won’t be going back…
* * *
—
…AND ARRIVES AT the Captain Marlow pub in Gravesend. Dave the publican says, “Thank God you’re here. Upstairs is on fire and the firemen are on strike.” So it’s up to Dean, Harry Moffat, and Clive from the Scotch of St. James to work their way up, floor by floor, fighting the fire with buckets of water and sand that are brought by half-strangers. The flames are purple, noisy, and drenched in feedback. At the top of the pub is an attic room. Inside, a scrawny boy with black corkscrew hair is munching grapes…
* * *
—
DEAN IS IN a trailer in California where a scrawny boy with black corkscrew hair is munching grapes. He’s wearing sandals, shorts, and a baggy Captain America T-shirt, and looks about ten. His skin-tone is from everywhere. Dean is unimpressed with Bill Quarry’s security arrangements. “What rabbit hole did you pop out of?”
“Sacramento,” says the boy.
Dean has no idea where, what, or who Sacramento might be. Try again. “What’re yer doing in my trailer?”
The boy flips a top off a bottle of Dr Pepper with a bottle opener. “My parents wandered off. Again.”
Dean sits up. “Who’re yer parents?”
“My mom’s name is Dee-Dee. My honorary dad’s Ben.”
“Don’t yer think yer should go back to them?”
“I’ve been looking. Ever since the man with the sore throat sang about the bad mood rising. No luck yet.”
“So…yer lost?”
The boy sips his Dr Pepper. “My parents are lost.”
All I wanted was a bit o’ shut-eye. Dean goes to the door of the trailer. A few muscled roadies are milling around. They don’t look likely to help a lost boy. In lieu of a more purposeful action, Dean asks him, “What’s yer name?”
“What’s yours?”
Dean’s surprised into answering, “Dean.”
“I’m…” the boy says something like “Bolly Var.”
“Oliver?”
“Bo-li-var. Bolívar. After Simón Bolívar, the revolutionary from the early 1800s. Bolivia’s named after him.”
“Right. Bolívar. Look, I’ve got to go and perform soon, so why don’t yer take those grapes, and…” Dean realizes he can’t tell a ten-year-old to go and hunt for two people in a crowd of thousands. He wishes Levon or Elf was here. He sees the security man at the gate to the VIP compound under his big sun-umbrella. “We’ll go ask that sort o’ policeman over there. He’ll know what to do.”
Bolívar looks amused. “Whatever you say, Dean.”
They leave the trailer and walk over. Security Man wears a hunter’s hat, reflective sunglasses, and a combat jacket. “ ’Scuse me,” says Dean, “but this kid just appeared in my trailer.”
“So?”
“So, he’s separated from his parents.”
“That big blue flag.” Security Man points toward a pavilion across a field of campers. “That there’s the lost kid tent.”
“But I’m Dean Moss. I’m in Utopia Avenue.”
“So in Utopia lost kids are someone else’s problem, are they?”
“No, but I’m a musician. Lost kids aren’t my responsibility.”
“Ain’t mine neither, pal. I can’t abandon my post.”
“So whose responsibility is it to walk this kid to that tent?”
“That’s a procedural matter. Ask Bonnie or Bunny.”
Dean sees his incredulous face reflected in Security Man’s sunglasses. “Where are Bonnie or Bunny?”
He gestures at Heaven and Earth. “Could be anywhere.”
Oh f’ fucksake. Dean crouches. “Look, Bolívar. See that blue flag over there?” He points. “That’s the lost kid tent.”
“Let’s get going, then, Dean.”
“Great idea,” says Security Guy.
Smarmy git, thinks Dean. “We can’t encourage a boy to go wandering off with strangers.”
“But you ain’t a stranger,” says Security Guy. “You’re Dean Mo
ss. You’re in Utopia Avenue.”
Dean has been outplayed. If I don’t spend ten minutes walking him over, I’ll spend seventy years wondering what happened to him. “Okay, Bolívar. Let’s go.”
* * *
—
“IF I RIDE on your shoulders,” says Bolívar, a few paces into their journey, “Dee-Dee or Ben might spot me.” Dean hoists him up. Bolívar presses his hands on Dean’s skull like a faith healer. He shouldn’t trust strangers this much, thinks Dean. Yet now Dean has been chosen, he is determined not to let the boy down. Guitar chords from inside the showground crisscross their own echoes. Women are sunbathing on blankets. Teens sit around smoking. Couples canoodle. Families eat in the shade of tents. Girls are having their faces painted. A woman breastfeeds her baby like it’s no big deal. Yer don’t see that in Hyde Park. Clowns are patrolling on stilts. Teenagers are strumming on guitars. I know that tune…They’re working out the chords to “Roll Away the Stone.” They’re arguing over whether it’s a D or a D minor. I’ll let them work it out, thinks Dean. I had to.
Bolívar asks, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-four. How old are you?”
“Eight hundred and eight.”
“Huh. I guess yer use face cream.”
“Are you from London, Dean?”
“Yeah, I am. How d’yer know?”
“You speak like the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins.”
“Where I’m from, you sound funny too.”
A scrimmage of wild children rushes by, shrieking.
“Are you a dad?” asks Bolívar.
“Wow, look at that balloon-bender.”
“Do you have any kids?”
Sharp as a tack. “The jury’s still out on that one.”
“Why don’t you know if you have any kids or not?”
“Grown-up reasons.”
Bolívar shifts his weight. “Did you have sex with a lady who had a baby, but you don’t know if her baby grew from the seed you put in her womb or not?”
Bloody—hell. Dean twists his head to look at Bolívar.
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