“They’re punk. They're meant to be dreadful,” Fame replied.
“Mickey, you don’t know anything about this type of music. It’s all about passion and attitude,” Seamus said, watching the performance intently.
“Not too much about musical talent,” Mickey replied.
The three men watched as the band’s set progressed, with very little variety between the different songs. Even Mickey was surprised by the unfaltering energy the mohicaned man exhibited. The audience though at no stage seemed at all engaged by their offerings; but if you watched that man perform, you’d think there was a full stadium of fans cheering him on.
“That’s Mohican,” Fame said, pointing to the man with the hairstyle matching the name.
“No shit,” Mickey replied.
In the midst of what Mickey hoped was one of the punk band’s final songs, a young bearded man approached Fame and tapped him on the shoulder. He was not dressed in the same leather or denim clothes as most of the audience and stood out slightly as a result; but his long hair and earrings more than suggested to Mickey he was adhering to some kind of musical following.
“You’re Max Fame aren’t you?” the bearded man said.
Fame kept his focus on the stage, barely acknowledging the man. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ve got this band and…” the bearded man began, in a fashion that Mickey thought had all the hallmarks of a rehearsed line.
Fame, still not looking at the man, interrupted him. “And you think you’d like for me to listen to your demo or maybe come down to one of your shows?”
The man looked uneasy and not sure how to respond. “Yeah.”
Fame now turned to look at the musician—with no pity—and continued. “I tell you what; when you have over fifty thousand hits on YouTube, then give me a call.”
Fame turned back to the band on stage not waiting for a response. The bearded man didn’t move for a moment, not knowing if a response was expected or not. When he realised none was forthcoming, he disappeared back into the crowd.
“You are a real mean piece of shit, do you know that?” Mickey said.
“Please; this from the man who has threatened me with a variety of forms of assault since we met,” Fame replied.
“That was business; you just crushed some kid’s dreams there,” Mickey said, surprising himself with the emotion in his voice.
“No, this is business. This is my business. I just taught him a valuable lesson,” Fame said, continuing his defence.
“Max’s business is a cutthroat business, Mickey,” Seamus said, wading into the argument with the stupidity that Mickey was now learning was typical of him.
Mickey turned to Seamus. “More cutthroat than ours?”
The argument was finished by the break in the barrage of sound from the speakers that signalled the end of Born Stupid’s set.
“Come on, let’s go back stage and talk to them,” Fame said, walking towards the rear of the venue.
“Do you hear that, Mick, backstage bloody passes!” Seamus said excitedly, before trailing behind Fame.
“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said, for a moment letting the two men walk off together without following them.
To Seamus’ obvious disappointment, no one checked the group's validity for going backstage to the dressing rooms, and it took them only moments to reach a door, which had a piece of paper blue tacked to the outside reading; Born Stupid.
The door was ajar and there were excited drunken voices coming from within. Fame motioned towards it. “Let’s get this done then.”
Mickey put his hand on Fame’s shoulder, stopping him. “Always know your quarry,” Mickey said, creeping to the door and looking through the gap into the dressing room.
The three band members were sat on a worn out looking sofa in a small room, which in name only served as a dressing room. They were passing a bottle of whiskey between them and all taking generous swigs before passing it on.
“We rocked it man!” said one of the punks, wearing a t-shirt with I was an accident emblazoned across it.
Mickey looked the fella up and down and reckoned his parents would probably agree.
“That place was jumping. I could literally feel it rock. It was like we were bringing the house down!” the other band member shouted.
This man stood out from the others; one of his ears was covered in safety-pins. Mickey grimaced at the blood stains. The wounds suggested that this had been a new idea.
Mickey didn’t like what he saw; he could see how the situation could kick off. They walk in and offer the lead sing a new break. Yeah, that ain’t going down well with Safety-Pin Ear and his mate. What also didn’t help was that Mickey had never understood punks. Punk music had been huge for his generation. In his final years at school, the radio was full of bands like the Sex Pistols and The Damned; most teenagers back then would dress in a similar manner to the three men he was looking at. But Mickey had never understood the whole craze. Who would want to dress like that—surely people wanted to look the best they could? And, as for the music, it was all two fingers to ‘the man’ and why? Most punks certainly didn’t know! Elvis—now that was what Mickey called music. Elvis dressed to get ladies, which made perfect sense. And if you wanted to broaden your tastes, there was Motown. All pure music—gold. What type of moron would choose punk music over that?
“Yeah! Fucking Rock!” Mohican shouted at the ceiling, before getting up and walking over to the corner of the room for the final bottle of whiskey and last few bottles of beer. It was more than likely that this was how the band had been paid for playing that evening. In any case, Born Stupid’s certainly represented the very lowest rung on the ladder of a career in music, playing venues when your payment takes the form of free drinks.
Moronic punks plus loads of booze, this equalled a ruck, Mickey thought as he looked down at his bag.
“I wonder if there were any A and R guys out there tonight?” the man with the t-shirt asked.
“If there were, they’d be gagging to sign us, literally gagging!” Safety-Pin Ear replied.
“You’re right man, fucking gagging to sign us!” Mohican agreed.
“Intelligent bunch this. I think we go for the intellectual argument on this occasion,” Mickey said, turning back to Fame.
Fame shrugged and leant next to Mickey, to peer around the door.
“We’re so in the zone right now. I think I’d fucking rip someone’s head off if they tried to break us up right now!” the t-shirted man shouted out.
“I think that’s our cue,” Fame said, nodding at Mickey.
Mickey thought about a plan if it all kicked off. Punks in his opinion could be mental, this could get very messy. He picked up his bag, unzipped it slightly, and nodded to the other two men before leading them into the dressing room. The punks all looked startled as the three men walked into their dressing room. They clearly weren’t used to people daring to disturb their after show drinks. All three punks’ drunk faces turned into glares that illustrated their readiness for a scrap.
Suddenly Mohican’s face broke into a disbelieving smile as he recognised the familiar sight of Fame.
“Hello Mo,” Fame said to Mohican.
“Max—fucking—Fame,” Mohican replied.
“I knew it, you’re here to sign us,” the t-shirted punk cried out, in ecstasy.
“No,” Fame replied.
Mickey dropped his bag; he knew exactly the motion needed to grab one of the utensils inside quickly if necessary.
“So what fucking brings you down here then?” Mohican said.
“I’m re-forming Wild n’ Weird,” Fame said.
Fame paused, deliberately not continuing the sentence, to allow time to gage Mohican’s interest. Mickey couldn’t help but be impressed by this display of influencing; he was feeding the punk a bit, testing his appetite.
“Oh fuck off! Get the fuck out of here! Mohican’s not interested in that shit!” the t-shirted punk shouted with venom.
Mickey was calm. He knew this was coming. He looked at Fame to assess if he needed to jump into the situation to rebalance it. But, to his surprise, all he saw was calm on the agent’s face. He must have been well used to this kind of show of angry aggression by a musician and understood his position of power he had over them.
Impressive, but slightly dangerous, when dealing with unhinged punk rockers.
“Mohican?” Fame asked.
“Fuck Yeah! Let’s fucking do it,” Mohican said, downing more whisky.
At this, the t-shirted punk jumped up and reached in front of Mohican in a defensive pose, as if to separate the lead singer from the unwelcome visitors. Mickey still didn’t move. Stay calm let it play out.
“What? I’m not letting you bitches walk out of here with Mohican!” Safety-Pin Ear spat.
Mickey now stepped forward. He knew these were alcohol and drug fuelled idiots but he was not used to this kind of lack of respect and there was only so much of it that he could take.
“Know your audience little man and sit down!” Mickey said, firmly.
The t-shirted punk looked at Mickey. Seeming to sense impending doom, he quickly sat back down. Mickey had control.
“So what’s the plan Max?” Mohican asked, offering Fame his hand to shake.
Fame shook the singer’s hand and gave him a winning smile, Mickey could tell that Fame was used to closing deals like this, as might be expected from his name. This technique was more than familiar to him.
“I can explain it all in the car.” Fame put his hand on Mohican’s shoulder and manoeuvred him out of the room.
The punk with the safety pins in his ears stood up, teary eyed. “Mohican, are you really leaving us?”
Mohican turned back. “Sorry mate, yes.”
“But why? Things were going so well,” the punk questioned, clearly distraught.
“Because—simply —we are shit. Every song we have ever performed sounded shit,” Mohican said.
The two other punks looked mortified; there was no chance now of this kicking off.
Within ten minutes, Fame had hustled Mohican into the back of a taxi and told him to get himself cleaned up. Despite the punk’s drunken state it was abundantly clear there was an appetite for re-joining a band that had far greater chances of success.
Fame turned to Mickey and Seamus, with his arms out stretched. “How good am I?” he said emphatically. “In one day, we have almost half the band back together.”
“The work’s not done, until they’re all on stage in front of Mrs. O’Neil, playing her favourite tunes, Fame. So no celebrations are due yet,” Mickey said, enjoying putting out Fame’s fire.
“So who’s next Max? Are we off to another gig tomorrow?” Seamus asked, with far too much excitement in his voice for Mickey’s liking.
“Tomorrow we need to take a different tack, due to our significant time constraints. I think we need to split up,” Fame said.
“What? No we’re all staying together,” Mickey replied.
“No, you two will need to go up to Manchester and get the drummer, Dave Crossbones,” Fame said, with a matter of fact tone.
“Manchester? And what will you be doing?” Mickey said, now angry.
“I will be investigating where the lead guitarist has got to,” Fame replied.
“Can you not do that on the way to Manchester?” Mickey scowled.
“No, I haven’t heard anything from Neil in over ten years and he had a bit of a drugs problem. It may be easier to find the lost ark than Neil Nails. So I’m going to have to go through every contact I have to find what hole he’s crawled into,” Fame replied.
Mickey was annoyed. He didn’t know if Fame was trying to trick him and actually just wanted to get out of a day of travel, to and from Manchester. Though, at the same time, admittedly there was a time aspect to this task and the entire band must be together by Thursday at the latest. Mickey boiled with frustration; somehow he had lost control of this scheme and Fame had taken the reigns. Had he underestimated Fame or was he just getting paranoid? His only other option was either to send Seamus up to Manchester on his own to get the drummer, which he knew wouldn’t work. Mickey had already made up his mind that Seamus was not designed for any kind of role that required any kind of thinking. The other option was to leave Seamus with Fame, to make sure he was spending his time wisely and not just avoiding the trip. Mickey knew though, if Fame was just planning an easy day for himself, he was more than clever enough to manipulate Seamus.
Fuck it.
“Fine,” Mickey answered.
“Right, excellent,” Fame said, walking towards a red Ferrari, which was badly parked, between two parking spaces. “I’ll be in touch with you two tomorrow at some point, I suppose.”
Fame gave them both a wave and sped off. Mickey was having the distinct feeling he’d just been screwed.
“That’s a cool car. That guy’s a real legend isn’t he?” Seamus said, not hiding his admiration for Fame.
“Seamus, you are here to learn from me. You need to be watching me at all times, looking at how I act in different situations, so you can understand things better,” Mickey said walking back towards Seamus’ car.
“I do Mickey. I do. I was just saying I think Fame is a cool guy,” Seamus continued, not sensing Mickey’s irritation.
“Have you not been seeing how Fame has been like putty in my hand? How I’ve been controlling all his decisions and at that same time always letting him think he’s in command?" Mickey said, wishing he completely believed this himself.
“Well yeah sure but…” Seamus began.
“Jesus!” Mickey shouted, frustrated.
“But it was Max’s idea that we go to Manchester?” Seamus said, getting in his car, now looking confused.
“Or was it?” Mickey replied, trying to sound mysterious.
Seamus looked even more confused. Mickey assessed the face of the troubled Seamus and thought, for a moment, feared even, that he might be losing his apprentice’s mind to a better influencer. He was going to have to up his game with Mr. Fame. And, if he was fucking him, he’d rip the little weasel in half.
Chapter Twenty Four - Billy Blake
Billy sat by the side of the road, watching Nick laugh as he chased the early rising pigeons that had dared to land onto the road nearby. The alcoholic haze he had enjoyed for the last few hours had started to lift and it was being quickly replaced by a dull thumping headache. Billy didn’t mind the pain though, he liked it. Pain helps you think.
John had to die.
Billy was sick to death of carrying his snivelling older brother around; he had been a weight around his neck for almost his whole life. And now—now it was too much to bear. He had watched John creep out the club earlier that night; it had been no later than eight thirty. What time is that! He was the one that had suggested they go out celebrating and he hadn’t even stayed into the evening proper!
Billy had felt so positive a matter of hours ago; the three Blake brothers hitting the town, with things to celebrate, a real thing to celebrate. He had even contemplated telling John about his whole detailed plan, to let him understand the real reason he had to celebrate. But now, now he was pleased he hadn’t. Now he understood—John had to go. Billy had too much happening in his brain at the moment… so much to deal with… so many little tasks that needed handling and one of them wasn’t going to be John. John had to be switched off.
They hadn’t even downed their first pint, before John had tried to get in his ear. “Now was the time to go, this was the point to go straight, before they all ended up on a concrete slab,” the worthless wretch had said. What the fuck did he know? He didn’t even know the plan and he thought he could just advise his more intelligent brother. He’d wanted to claw out John’s eyes when he’d been saying his weak words; he wasn’t a Blake, not a real Blake.
Billy Blake was going to be a name now; he’d be the guy in O’Neil’s shoes before long and he could not tolerate any sign of weakn
ess, a weakness like John.
“Nick,” Billy said.
Nick turned from chasing the pigeons, to look at his brother. He was like a trained pitbull; no weakness at all, just strength, brutal strength.
“Have you got your knife?”
Nick grinned and pulled up his top, to show the large knife tucked into the jeans. It was a miracle none of the doormen they’d walked past that night hadn’t frisked him and discovered the weapon. I guess bouncers aren’t as stupid as the look, Billy thought smiling.
“That knife’s going into our brother’s stomach, so keep it sharp.”
Nick looked back at Billy for a moment and smiled, before returning to chasing the pigeons that had built up again behind him.
Chapter Twenty Five - Mickey the Bag
Mickey carefully closed the front door behind him. Dawn never minded him coming home late; it was an accepted part of who Mickey was and it was something Dawn had bought into long ago.
In the early days, Mickey had told her to think of it as if he worked at a restaurant and this euphemism seemed to stick over the years. On the nights when he had been especially delayed, he’d tell Dawn how the kitchens had been filthy. So they’d had to pull an all-nighter. Or that the pot wash had broken down.
Dawn had once said that she’d have to come down, to try some of the food at the place he spent his long nights at. But Mickey replied that she would hate the food there. She’d laughed at his response, which was a big relief; he had worried it would lead into a long conversation about how he should get out of his particular line of work. Mickey was lucky; most women wouldn’t understand a life like this.
He stood in his hallway for a moment, sucking in the air, reenergising from the lovely feeling of being back home, then automatically glanced down at his bag. A feeling of cold went through his body; it always did whenever he looked at his bag on the floor of his home. What his mind saw on the floor was not his bag but his baby—his dead beautiful baby.
There were not many times he thought about that day; normally, it would only enter his mind at moments like this when it was otherwise empty. The smallest link could then drag him back to that day—the day. His bag went everywhere with him, he couldn’t let it go; sometimes it was just the thing that would prevent him from losing control of a situation; and other times it was his baby.
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