Thank Christ for the tour. A chance to get away, think things out. He drifted into sleep, lurched into a nightmare. He was on stage. He was fat, and he was old, and when he opened his mouth to sing nothing came out. In his sleep he moved into the comfort and security of Edna.
Book Two
The Tour
Chapter Sixteen
Bernie Suntan was sweating. What the fuck? Whoever sweated in London? Who knew it was a razzle dazzle heat wave, for chrissakes?
His blue and white striped cotton trousers stuck uncomfortably to his thighs. His red T-shirt emblazoned with AL IS KING was damp with perspiration. His feet flopped damply in his stars and stripes sneakers.
Paul King, beside him, was the picture of cool. Pale beige Yves Saint Laurent lightweight suit. Striped shirt. Dark shades.
They were at London Airport waiting for the star. Everyone else was aboard.
The plane, sleek and black, loaded with champagne, caviar, and liberal supplies of scotch and coke, waited patiently on the tarmac. AL IS KING decorated each side in bold gold lettering. From within, speakers roared out with the sound of Al’s latest album.
An elite group of press waited on the tarmac, sipping iced Daiquiri cocktails, and nibbling small smoked salmon delicacies handed round by a bikini-clad hostess.
‘What the fuck,’ expanded Bernie, ‘nothing but the best for the press.’ And he winked at a lady interviewer of great power and said, ‘I never knew you had such insane legs!’
She blushed, taken aback for the first time in years.
Al’s arrival was heralded by the white Rolls gliding over the tarmac and stopping nose to nose with the plane. The photographers jumped forward. On cue Al climbed out.
He was as thin and fit as possible. White trousers clung. A gold belt. White shirt open to the waist. Several gold medallions.
He grinned, strolled over, kissed the girls, posed for photos, answered questions.
‘I must say, you do look marvellous, Al,’ enthused the lady reporter.
‘Thank you, darling.’ Bitch. Cunt. It was she that had written in her column only a few months previously that if Al King had anything else lifted, the whole lot would collapse. He kissed her on the cheek for a photo and nearly recoiled at the aroma of BO.
‘Is this the start of a tax exile?’ inquired one over-zealous reporter.
‘No way,’ replied Al, ‘I’d miss my wife’s cooking too much!’
‘What about the former “Miss Coast to Coast”? Will you be seeing her?’ asked Bitch. ‘I understand you two were quite cosy on that television special you did together.’
Al smiled calmly. ‘My wife might see her. As I’ve said before, they’re old mates. Perhaps if Edna joins me we will all get together.’
‘What fun!’ Bitch sneered unbelievingly. She needed a good seeing-to, that was her problem. ‘And will Edna be joining you?’
‘I hope so.’ No way.
‘How about having the girls out for a picture with Al?’ suggested Bernie.
Everyone agreed it was a good idea, and The Promises were called from the plane.
They were three stunning black girls. Rosa, at twenty-three, the eldest. Tall and reed-slim, with straight long hair and Chinese eyes. Sutch, twenty, curvy body and afro red hair. Nellie, small and slight, seventeen years old, delicately pretty. They wore identical outfits of white hot pants, thigh-length white boots, and AL IS KING red T-shirts. They grouped round Al, and the cameras clicked.
Paul glanced at his watch. Time to go. He gave Bernie the word. Linda was meeting the plane in Canada, he didn’t want to keep her waiting.
It took another half hour before everyone was safely aboard and the plane was finally taxiing down the runway.
Al went right back to his private bedroom, an elaborate room – featuring a circular bed, leopard print padded walls, and thick pile carpet. A small bathroom led off to one side reached through a concealed door. He stripped off his clothes, put on a towelling dressing gown and picked up the glass of iced champagne waiting for him. Forget the scotch and coke for a while, too fattening. He smoked a cigar. This was it. This was the beginning, and he could feel a mounting excitement that nothing else compared with. Not even sex. And when had that last been exciting.
Maybe he should see a doctor. Hey doc, I’ve got this slight problem – too many beautiful girls, can’t seem to be bothered any more. Can’t seem to make the effort.
Paul came through. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine. Terrific.’
‘Voice OK?’
‘Never better.’
‘Great, kid. You’ll kill ’em!’
‘Don’t I always?’
* * *
Girls screamed when Al disembarked at Toronto. There was a healthy crowd. Banners proclaiming ‘WE LOVE AL’. Policemen to protect him, hustle him to his limousine, ride him to his hotel.
His elation was building. Adrenalin flowing.
At the hotel there were flowers, fruit, booze, telegrams. A young girl smuggled her way in with room service and begged to suck his cock. When he declined she offered to suck Bernie’s because he was ‘close’ to Al. Security removed her.
‘Things ain’t changed,’ shrugged Al. ‘Christ, but it’s good to be back!’
‘What the fuck,’ agreed Bernie. ‘This is one scene that splits your head open more ways than one. We’ll have a time, Al baby. Anything you want, just yell.’
Should he yell for Dallas, or should he put her out of his mind where she belonged? If he could forget about her that would be the best thing. Just another body, and he would be falling over them on this trip. He would not yell. He did not want her that badly. He would survey the available action and put Dallas away once and for all.
‘You get some sleep,’ suggested Bernie, ‘Luke gonna put in time outside the door. He’s a tight guy, be beside you all the way – but nobody gets past him. I tell you he’s the bionic man. Anyway I’m goin’ over to check out the Gardens. Pick you up for the television interview in a coupla hours.’
Bernie waddled off. Al opened the door and checked out Luke, who was to be his bodyguard on the trip. The bionic man was right. Luke was six foot four, black, and mean-looking. His muscles rippled before he even moved.
‘Hey there, man,’ greeted Al, ‘want a beer or something?’
Luke shook his head.
Al went back in his room. Time to shower. Order a steak. More champagne. Gargle. So where was Paul?
Should he call Edna? He had promised he would. But he didn’t feel like listening to her moans. He had promised Evan he could join the tour in Nashville and Edna had wanted to come too. No way. No, thank you. After sixteen years Edna was nagging her way right out of his life.
* * *
‘I’ve missed you,’ confessed Paul.
Linda hugged him, ‘I’ve missed you, twice as much.’
‘Only twice as much?’
‘Well…’ she laughed softly, ‘maybe more. How was London?’
‘The same. Work, work, and more work.’
‘But you love it.’
‘I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love it.’
‘Shall we stand here making small talk or shall I slide you out of your lovely suit and have my way with you before big brother calls?’
‘I wish you’d have your way with me. I don’t think I can wait much longer.’
She grinned. ‘You really have been missing me.’
‘I really have.’
They started to undress each other, fumbling and pulling at belts and zippers.
‘Oh my goodness, Paul, you’ve been saving up!’
‘Just for you. I hope you appreciate what you’re getting.’
They were silent for a while, delighting in each other, moving slowly, quietly. Then the phone rang. Paul groaned.
‘Don’t answer it,’ begged Linda, ‘at least not for a minute.’
The phone continued to jangle. ‘I’ve lost my concentration,’ Paul grumbled, reaching for
the phone.
‘That’s not all you’ve lost.’
‘Yeah, who is it?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Paul, boyo, where are you?’
‘I’ll be right there, Al. I was just coming.’
‘Oh yes!’ whispered Linda.
‘Who are you with? Is Linda there?’
‘Yes, she’s here.’
‘Bring her with you. Come on up, boyo. I’m fidgety, feel like a little company. Check out the lobby and see if there’s anything worth giving one to.’
‘What do you want, the groupie clap?’
‘Shit. You’re right. Who has numbers for Toronto? Find out and get me a piece. I need something before the show.’
‘I’ll try.’ Paul shifted his body away from Linda.
‘Do that.’
Linda sat, up and reached for a cigarette. ‘What did he want?’ she asked tightly.
‘To get laid.’
‘Does he never stop?’
‘I thought he had, but the urge is once again upon him. Pardon me while I make a few calls.’
‘I didn’t know you pimped for him too.’
‘On tour I do everything for him. You had better get used to it.’
‘Oh – that’s great. Are we finished then? Shall I get dressed?’
Absently Paul replied, ‘Yes.’ He picked up the phone and called the desk.
Angrily Linda marched into the bathroom. One minute they had been making love – and now it seemed the furthest thing from Paul’s mind. Well, he would have to beg for another chance. If this was a taste of Paul on tour, he could shove it.
She dressed, brushed her hair, and touched up her make-up.
Paul came into the bathroom and nuzzled her from behind. ‘All fixed,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Oh, good.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Should there be?’
‘Come on, Linda. You promised you would understand. We’ll have plenty of time together later.’
She forced a smile. ‘I understand.’
‘Good girl. Come on, let’s go, he’s waiting.’
Chapter Seventeen
Where had all the money gone?
Dallas shook herself awake from a massive hangover and surveyed the pile of bills that had just dropped through the mailbox.
She was spending faster than she was making. Ed Kurlnik’s paltry pay-off she had blown on jewellery and furs. The money from the commercial she had frittered away. Clothes, clothes, clothes.
She squeezed orange juice and sipped it slowly. What time had she arrived home? She could hardly remember, but she did remember with a smile fighting off Aarron Mack in his chauffeured limo. The Aarron Mack, Swedish czar of Mack Cosmetics. Friend of Ed Kurlnik. Old fart.
He could not believe that they were not going to end the evening in her bed. She had been giving him a strong come-on all night. From the moment they had met at a party she had set him firmly in her sights. A friend of Ed Kurlnik’s was far too good an opportunity to miss, even if he was somewhat older than Ed. He was in his early seventies, but well preserved, with a strong bullet head and a fine set of white sparkly false teeth. Short, though, barely five seven, and she towered over him in her Walter Steiger shoes. It didn’t seem to put him off, he seemed to love it.
‘Why not?’ he had demanded when she wouldn’t allow him to come up to her apartment.
‘We’ve only just met,’ she demurred.
‘Are you an old-fashioned girl?’ he had asked, grabbing for her breasts.
‘No, but I like a little time to get to know a person.’
‘You want money?’
‘Please don’t insult me.’
His hands were all over her. ‘What do you want?’
She moved his hands. ‘Time.’
‘Dinner tomorrow?’
‘I’m busy tomorrow.’
‘The day after?’
‘If you like.’
He squeezed her breast triumphantly, and she elbowed him sharply away. If she played her cards right Aarron Mack was a very viable proposition. His wife had recently died, and he was equally as rich as Ed Kurlnik.
Old rich men with hard-ons. It seemed to be her destiny. Kip Rey might have been her salvation; he had been fun to be with, but always so stoned, and sexually there had been the usual void. Absolutely no turn-on. She had cried at his death, but more at her loss than at his.
Since he had died she had slept with no one. There had been no reason to do so. She had thrown herself into the New York social scene. Getting fired had made her a celebrity, and she was invited to all the openings and parties. She enjoyed having her photo taken, and all the attention she received. She also enjoyed turning down countless sexual propositions. That was the real kick.
Men didn’t understand her. She was young and beautiful, why wasn’t she out fucking her brains out?
The doorbell rang. It was three dozen yellow roses and a box from Carriers. She opened the box; it contained a diamond flower-shaped brooch. She tossed it to one side; might come in useful to sell one day.
Aarron Mack took her to dinner at The Four Seasons. She ordered caviar and steak Diane, then left it all. She drank wine, and brandy, and Pernod on the rocks. Nowadays it took a lot of booze to get her where she wanted to be.
Later they went to Le Club and they danced, his bullet head nuzzling discreetly against her bosom. She drank three Irish coffees, but obliteration seemed nowhere near. He suggested she visit his triplex penthouse for a nightcap. She agreed. Going up in the elevator he unzipped his fly and crammed her hand in. For an old man he was surprisingly erect. She snatched her hand away.
In the apartment they went out on the roof garden, and a butler appeared with champagne.
The city was spread out before them, a sea of lights.
‘Get on your knees,’ Aarron instructed.
One diamond brooch and she was supposed to get on her knees. Dallas laughed aloud.
‘Please,’ he added, and he was shaking himself free as if preparing to pee.
‘No,’ said Dallas slowly, ‘you get on your knees.’ And she opened the slit in her skirt provocatively.
‘Later,’ husked Aarron.
‘Now,’ insisted Dallas.
‘I can give you wonderful presents,’ Aarron promised. ‘Be a good girl and do as I ask.’
Dallas flicked her skirt briskly together. Her mind jumped back to a certain motel, an old man lying dead on the bed, Bobbie deftly pocketing his bankroll.
She turned to leave. ‘I’m going home, Aarron. Find someone else to buy wonderful presents for.’
‘You can’t go,’ he objected.
‘Oh yes, I can. I can do what the hell I like.’
She walked through the sumptuous apartment to the elevator. It could all have been hers if she had cared to get on her knees. But why should she? It didn’t make her happy, nothing made her happy. For the thousandth time she wondered why her parents had never come looking for her. Life at the zoo with Phil sticking it in every night must have been better than this.
It occurred to her that if she went home and took an overdose of sleeping pills nobody would care. Not one single person. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
She took a cab home. It was three o’clock in the morning. Idly she wondered if she had enough sleeping pills to do the job properly. How many did you need? The booze was finally hitting her, and by the time she arrived home she was weaving on her feet.
She nodded at the desk porter. He was asleep.
The apartment was on the fifth floor. The apartment that Ed Kurlnik had rented for her. The apartment where she had entertained him in so many different guises. He would be hard put to find a woman as versatile and imaginative as she was. Perhaps she should leave him a note. That would really put him away with Dee Dee. She couldn’t understand why tears were rolling slowly down her cheeks, and yet she was smiling, giggling even.
She fumbled for her k
eys. Funny, the door seemed to be open, and there was a smell that she couldn’t quite place.
She put her bag down on the hall table and groped for the light switch. Before she could reach it an arm enclosed her from behind. ‘Don’t scream,’ a voice warned. ‘I’ve got a knife and I’ll split you from end to end. You hear me – bitch? You hear me?’
Chapter Eighteen
Toronto was a sell-out. Fifteen thousand Al King fans waiting expectantly for the master.
Al was at tension pitch. Paul stayed solidly by his side. Whatever Al wanted, Al got.
It was hot. Before going on Al was sweating in the black satin jumpsuit that clung to him like a second skin. He swigged down a bottle of Perrier water and watched from the side of the stage as The Promises finished their set.
They rocked in unison – ‘Easy baby – stay with me baby – give it to me baby – Easy baby.’
He could see the sweat rolling off their gleaming bodies and sticking to the suede skins swathed round their supple forms.
‘Easy baby – make it baby – shake it baby – make me come… to you… OOOh baby… OOOh babee…’
The crowd roared its approval. The Promises were just starting to hit it. Their latest record was zooming ahead in the charts.
Al had worked with them once before in Las Vegas, and they offset him perfectly.
They came running offstage, breathless, happy. ‘The vibes are wailin’ tonight, man,’ said Rosa. ‘Jeese – it is but beeeutiful!’
Al’s musicians were starting up. The conga, the drums, the guitar, the tambourines.
He strode on stage.
Who’s gonna give it to you tonight
Who’s got love that’s outa sight
I’m your lover
I’m your man
Hey momma – shake your can
The crowd screamed. Al was one of the few white singers who sang soul the way it should be sung – the black way.
And yet that wasn’t all. His amazing voice could turn from pure funk to sing the clearest ballad around and then double back to a horny, throbbing rasp.
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