Last Long Drop

by Mike Safe

  ‘For god’s sake, no. I came here to make the music happen – not to get messed up. Give me some credit. I could have done that at home if I’d wanted to and stayed in a nice sunny climate to do it. But Elmore … I don’t know …’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry … I can’t help being your father.’

  Jack told Harcourt that the previous day the band had gathered for a showdown meeting with Sissy about the album and the vote had been three to one go with the original tracks. Elmore was the dissenter. Sissy had supported going with what they already had but the record company would have final say and her feeling was there would probably be a push for some re-recording. ‘They can’t help themselves – they’ve always got to have a finger in the pie,’ she’d said, or words to that effect.

  The meeting had ended on that uneasy note, although no one had mentioned Elmore’s mood swings and his growing disenchantment with his fellow band members. They’d then had what Jack described as a ‘short but shambolic’ rehearsal. The mood had soured, especially when they’d tried out a couple of new songs, including Harcourt’s ‘Deeper Blue’. Everything had degenerated from there with Elmore repeating how he hated the softer stuff, old and new, including his own songs. It had ended badly – and he’d stormed out.

  From the few bits of detail Sissy had been able to glean from the police so far, he and his two record company pals had gone to a neo-punk club somewhere up the West End where they’d proceeded to get drunk or drugged, maybe both. The police were waiting on an autopsy and toxicology reports. The two Englishmen had deserted Elmore around 1 am, citing an early start in the morning with Sissy and their superiors to discuss the fate of the Solar Sons’ album.

  Elmore had left the club alone. There was a claim, as yet unsubstantiated by the police, that a doorman had tried to hail a cab to take him wherever he wanted to go but Elmore had refused. He’d staggered off up the street, saying he had ‘business to do’ – whatever that meant. His body was found a couple of hours later in an alley around the corner as a security man did his checks of local businesses. He’d suffered a major injury after falling and hitting his head. His wallet had been found nearby, stripped of cash and credit cards but with his Australian driver’s licence still in it. There were a few pills and a small dose of white powder, probably cocaine, in small plastic bags in the front pocket of his jeans. There were no immediate suspects.

  ‘So now we’re just waiting to find out what happens next,’ said Jack, his voice a whisper.

  ‘Do you want me to fly over there?’ Harcourt asked, remembering in the same breath that he was supposed to be flying to the Sunshine Coast in the late morning for his meeting with Mike Vargas and, anyway, what could he do once he arrived in London?

  ‘No, there’s no need. There’s nothing you can do – Sissy’s here and she’ll be on top of it, I guess.’ He paused and then said, ‘Elmore’s dad and mum are coming over. Apparently they’ll try to get on the first flight available. That’s what Sissy said. They’re divorced, or maybe just separated, I’m not sure, but I think they’re coming together … I can’t believe this …’ Jack’s voice trailed away.

  Harcourt had never met Elmore’s parents, or those of the other guys in the band.

  ‘Maybe I should ring them,’ he offered. ‘I know it’s a crazy time, too early, but just to offer condolences, solidarity, whatever …’

  ‘If you want to,’ said Jack. Harcourt could hear him scratching about at the other end of the line. ‘Sissy left some numbers – uh, here’s one for his father at least. Apparently the cops here told the cops there and they officially informed him an hour or so ago. His name’s Rex – apparently he was a blues guy back in the day, he even had a bit of success, or so Elmore used to say …’ His voice trailed away again.

  They talked a bit more, the conversation coming in dribs and drabs, neither quite sure where it was going. Finally, Harcourt said he would ring in the morning, or maybe the late afternoon would be better with the time difference, to see if there were any developments and emphasising that Jack should get in touch if there was anything he needed. ‘We love you, Jack. We’re here for you, don’t forget that.’

  Afterwards, Harcourt, now wide awake, settled back on the bed. Three forty-nine the green numerals on the bedside clock now read. He turned on the small reading lamp and punched in the numbers for Elmore’s father he had somehow managed to scrawl in the dark on a small pad he kept on the bedside table.

  ‘Hello,’ a haunted voice said after the phone was answered on the second ring.

  ‘Is that Rex?’

  Yes.’

  ‘Rex, it’s John Harcourt, Jack’s father. He just phoned from London and told me about Elmore. I’m so sorry …’

  ‘Oh, yes, thanks …’

  It was a stilted, awkward exchange, lasting only a couple of minutes.

  Rex Bruce, obviously traumatised with his thoughts elsewhere, apologised. He said he had to keep the line clear as he was waiting to hear back from his ex-wife about bookings they were making to fly to London as soon as possible, probably that afternoon.

  Then, before ringing off, his voice seemed to soften as he said, ‘I remember Elmore mentioning you to me, how you were a newspaper writer and how you and Jack used to play music together.’

  ‘Oh, sure, for what I was worth. Jack’s the talent in our family. And he mentioned you were a blues player in the old days.’

  ‘From which you can probably gather where Elmore’s name came from.’

  Harcourt almost smiled to himself. ‘Elmore James, right? “Dust My Broom” and all that classic slide stuff he played.’

  ‘Yeah, right. You know Elmore was a drinker and a bit of a hard head, ripped off one too many times by dodgy promoters, I guess. He died of a heart attack back in the early sixties just as the blues revival was picking up steam,’ said Bruce. ‘He never saw a decent pay day compared to John Lee Hooker and some of the other old guys who’d hung in there. Just the way it goes, I guess.’ The line went quiet for a moment and then Bruce said, ‘Anyway, thank you for calling, John. I appreciate it.’

  NINE

  Dexter Dutton was impossible to miss as a hot and bothered Harcourt made his way into the Sunshine Coast Airport terminal, which lived up to its upbeat name crowded as it was with holidaymakers dressed in resort clothing that matched their loud voices, the harassed mothers struggling to corral herds of excited children. Dutton managed to stand out like a big black boulder. He wore a tight-fitting black tee-shirt, black shorts, black Air Jordan basketball shoes and black Ray Ban Wayfarer sunglasses. Whatever he thought of the cacophonous scene that raged around him remained hidden behind a wall of impassiveness.

  ‘Hello, Dexter. I’m John Harcourt. I remember you from Vanuatu when Mike was filming up there.’

  Harcourt stuck out his sweaty hand for Dutton’s massive paw to engulf.

  ‘Of course, Mr Harcourt. I remember. It rained a lot.’ A set of very white teeth showed a bit as the corners of his mouth turned upward.

  They headed towards the baggage collection, Dutton shouldering his way through the mob to grab Harcourt’s bag. He then led the way outside to the parking lot, the masses of holidaymakers parting before his presence like the Red Sea before Moses. The waiting ride was black, shiny and big, a Range Rover Sport V8 Luxury SUV. Behind tinted glass and soothed by whispering air-conditioning and, to Harcourt’s surprise, softly playing easy-listening music, Tony Bennett or some such crooner, they exited the airport car park and turned north towards Noosa where Dutton said Mike Vargas was waiting.

  Harcourt hadn’t been to the Sunshine Coast for a decade or more and as they glided along he was shocked at how built up it had become. Back then, it had been strips of rag-tag development, the blight of the Australian coastline and prime example of the awakening dream of a water view with a sandy beach within easy walking distance. But now the dream had become a bit too real – hot chicken joint upon pizza parlour, swimming pool maintenance shop jammed next to brick veneer
holiday flats that went on for block after block. Still, he could hardly condemn. He was living his version of the dream, if minus the water view.

  On the flight up he’d tried to consider how best to approach Vargas – go in hard or take his time – but had been unable to formulate any sort of plan. He was worried about his son.

  After Jack had woken him with the news and then his brief conversation with Elmore’s father, he’d called Tess in Adelaide.

  ‘He seems calm,’ Tess had said when Harcourt finally got through. She’d been speaking with Jack. ‘I can’t believe such a thing could happen.’

  He heard her yawn, having like him been woken from sleep. ‘It could have been Jack.’

  ‘No, it could not have been Jack,’ Harcourt had replied. ‘He’s not the kind of kid to fill himself with shit like that or put himself in such a position. Come on, Tess, he’s our son. You know he’s better than that.’

  Or we hope he’s better than that, Harcourt had thought. But ‘nice’ kids, not just malcontents and the disconnected, seemed to get regularly messed up as well. He’d sighed before adding, ‘He’s still in his first reaction to what’s happened. He’s more or less shocked by it, I guess.’

  An early hour silence had descended upon them. ‘They grow up on you,’ Harcourt had finally said. ‘They reach a stage where you have to give them room.’ Yeah, sprouting clichés, he’d thought. Give ’em room, as long as the big mistakes, the ones that really matter, are made by someone else’s kid.

  With the Range Rover purring northwards, Harcourt checked his watch. It was still early morning in London.

  Dutton gave him a quick glance. ‘There’s no hurry, Mr Harcourt. Like I said, Mike’s at the house but he’s got plenty to go on with. There’s the new film that I believe you know about. He’s finishing script rewrites that are taking some time.’

  ‘Oh, no, Dexter, I’m not in any hurry,’ Harcourt said. ‘If anything, I’m trying to eliminate the word “hurry” from my life. I’ve got to make a few calls a bit later, that’s all.’ He paused before adding, ‘And call me Johno, please. Everybody does.’

  ‘Sure, as you say, Johno.’ The smile appeared to be in operation somewhere behind the Ray Bans before Dexter’s attention focused back on the road as the Noosa headland with its green swath of national park loomed before them.

  They swung around it and up through Noosa Junction township and then down the long sweep of hill to the beach. The overpriced restaurants and bars of Hastings Street stretched away to the north while the First Point surfing break, a perfect longboard wave on its day, as long as you didn’t mind sharing it with a hundred of your new best friends, appeared before them. Harcourt caught a brief glimpse as they swept by – a nicely formed little wave was breaking, a multitude of surfers swarming all over it. They turned up a tropical bushland side street and turned again before slowing. An electronic gate of shiny grey steel rolled open before them and Dutton steered the Land Rover up a winding white stone driveway, lush lawns on one side, a kaleidoscope of tropical vegetation, palms and blooming orchids, on the other.

  The vehicle came to a halt before a modern split-level house of more white stone and reinforced glass. It was all angles and clean surfaces, an understated but powerful sort of elegance, the kind that found its way into the pages of overpriced design magazines. Dutton retrieved Harcourt’s bag from the back of the SUV and they turned to walk towards the polished timber double front doors and there to meet them, hands on hips and dressed in a ragged white tee-shirt and salt-faded canvas board shorts was Mike Vargas.

  Vargas was somewhere under the old six-foot mark, with a full head of dark hair, probably professionally coloured. He had a well-maintained body, no doubt thanks to Dutton’s early morning workouts.

  ‘Hello, Johno. We meet again. Welcome to Noosa.’ His voice was deep and resonant, as if coloured with a whiskey burr that had dropped it an octave over the years. He had startling green eyes, a bit watery and with the whites a little red around the edges from late nights or maybe nothing more than too much Noosa sun and saltwater. His handshake was firm but Harcourt managed to give back as good as he got.

  After the spacious entry hall, Vargas led him into a large lounge room with a conversation pit in the middle. Surrounding this was a selection of well-cushioned couches in neutral colours, lots of plain surfaces of stone and wood as well as a bar to one side. Harcourt somehow found himself thinking of the Jungle Room, the strangely preserved space at Graceland, the late Elvis Presley’s money-making tourist trap of a mansion in Memphis. The Jungle Room featured a similar pit but garish sofas and god-awful bright green shag pile carpet.

  As they sat, Vargas asked if Harcourt wanted a drink. He agreed and Dutton went to the bar and fetched him a frosty bottle of Bohemia, a Mexican lager Harcourt had heard of but never tried. Pouring it into a chilled glass with a wedge of lime, he noticed Vargas had settled for a bottle of sparkling water.

  ‘Yeah, I’m off the grog,’ said Vargas with a rueful smile. ‘But I really like that Mex beer. I got a taste for it when I did that south of the border shoot ’em up a decade or so back. What was it called, Dexter? I’ve tried to forget it.’

  ‘The Dead and the Dying,’ Dutton replied.

  ‘Oh, yeah, that was it.’ Vargas laughed and continued. ‘That one lived up to its name. It tanked and my third wife filed for divorce while I was down there making the fucker, but the beer and pay cheque were good. Not one of my finest moments but the bank balance came out of it all right, until the divorce came through, that is.’ He laughed again. ‘Anyway, that was there and this is here, and now I’ve got work to do. So I’ve got to keep my attention span in order.’

  Harcourt asked about the script for the new film and Vargas told him how it had been reworked already by two teams of writers – Harcourt recognised the names but knew next to nothing about them except that they would have come at a high cost – and now it was a matter of adding what were hopefully final touches, or as Vargas said, ‘Customising it, if you like – it’s mine, after all.’ He went on to tell how he had owned the script for going on two decades, having bought it for a pittance from a washed-up Hollywood writer who was now long dead, but back then had been consumed by the bottle and debt.

  ‘He needed the money, the poor bastard,’ Vargas said. ‘These things are floated all the time and most are rubbish, not worth the paper they’re written on, but I saw something in this one. It wasn’t right for me then, but I knew it’s time would come – that time’s now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Vargas smiled. ‘It’s me, it’s me now. It’s the story of a Hollywood actor who has it all and who’s seen it all. He’s looking back on his life, its highs and lows. He has his memories, he has his regrets, but most of all he wants one last throw of the dice – he gambles it all on making a movie that will make or break him in the eyes of the world.’

  ‘Is this art imitating life?’

  ‘Well, that’s for me to know and others to find out,’ said Vargas. ‘But just between us three you’re on the right track.’ He looked towards Dutton, who was mixing himself what was probably a horrible-looking health concoction. ‘But Dexter knows that already.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘But we’ll let the rest of the world, especially those money dipshits in Hollywood who always know best, work that out for themselves – and hopefully pay most of the cost of making the thing.’

  Harcourt took another tug on the Mexican beer. ‘And does it all end happily for the Hollywood actor who has it all?’

  ‘Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?’ Vargas rose from the couch, glass in hand, and strolled over to the picture window that looked out on the expanse of garden and trees. ‘Will he make it, or will he break it? That’s what I have to decide. Will it be a happy Hollywood ending where he rides off into the sunset of his golden years, a hero in his own mind and everybody else’s?’ Vargas turned back from the window and looked directly at Harcourt. ‘The sunset is your John Wayne heroic cowb
oy moment. Or will there be a mess-up of giant proportions where it all falls apart and he ends up broken and alone? Or maybe dead, done in by the whole shit storm of a thing? That could be your Orson Welles and his Citizen Kane kind of moment.’

  ‘And so what are you leaning towards?’

  ‘Well, I’m probably leaning towards the Orson scenario – fuck ’em all in the process. But I’m not sure the LA money men will like that. They’d rather the nice sunset and heroic cowboy.’

  ‘As you say, fuck ’em, do it your way.’

  ‘I agree with you agreeing.’ Vargas laughed. ‘Anyway, enough of this bullshit. Let’s go surfing.’

  Dutton showed him to his bedroom for the night. It was on the east side of the house and had a pleasant outlook over the garden with a bank of trees fronted by a sweep of lush green lawn. The room was tastefully done out in beiges and whites, with a king-sized bed and an ensuite. There were a couple of nice local photographs, one of small waves peeling down First Point and the other of the wide sweep of beach at Tea Tree, one of the classic surf breaks inside the adjoining national park. It reminded Harcourt of a hotel room, nice enough but impersonal. He changed into his board shorts, smeared some thirty-plus sunscreen across his face and met Dutton back in the lounge room. They proceeded to the back of the house, through what to Harcourt’s untrained eye appeared to be a state-of-the-art kitchen with a large, airy-looking dining area off to one side, and into a smaller room that was lined with surfboards, a sort of mini private surf shop. There must have been a dozen or so longboards down one side and a similar number of shortboards along the opposite wall as well as a couple of SUPs – stand up paddleboards – and a pile of paddles on racks. As well, there were wetsuits, rash vests and board shorts, ranging from brand new to others in various stages of disrepair. There were a couple of benches, similar to those found in the shaping bays of surfboard factories, although there was no sign of boards being made here. Indeed, the space was super clean.