Utopia Avenue : A Novel

by Mitchell, David

  ‘That one.’ He points. ‘With the hot tub.’

  ‘All mod cons. Outstanding views. Nice choice.’

  ‘Hell of a party. Met any eligible bachelors?’

  ‘Oh, not especially. Met any eligible ladies of the canyon?’

  ‘A woman just offered to make a plaster-cast of my knob.’

  Elf checks that he’s serious – and shrieks with laughter. Dean’s happy that she’s happy. When she’s able to speak, Elf asks, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks.’

  ‘Why? You could’ve gone into mass production. Whole warehouses stuffed to the gills with “The Dean Machine”. Batteries not included.’

  Dean snorts out a laugh. ‘Hey, I just met Frank Zappa. He gave me a short sermon about why Laurel Canyon isn’t Paradise.’

  ‘Clever old Frank,’ says Elf. ‘I was thinking how it’s the Land of the Lotus Eaters.’

  She can’t mean the car. ‘Go on, then, Prof Holloway. Lotus Eaters?’

  ‘It’s from The Odyssey. Odysseus spies land and rows ashore with some of his men. He sends three off to forage. They meet a tribe of hippies called the Lotus Eaters who greet them with love and peace and say, “Hey, guys, try this lotus stuff, you’ll love it.” Love it they do. They forget about getting home. They forget who they are. All they want is more lotus. Odysseus drags them back to the boat and orders the others to row like hell. The three “wept bitter tears as the oars smote the grey sea”.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t? Saying goodbye to all that free dope.’

  ‘Odysseus gave them their lives back. Lotus Eaters don’t create anything. Or love. Or live. They’re kind of the living dead.’

  ‘Who’s dead here? Cass isn’t. Joni ’n’ Graham aren’t. Zappa isn’t. They write, record, go on tour. Have careers.’

  ‘Sure. But reality creeps in wherever you live, however pretty the flowers are, however blue the sky, however great the parties. The only people who actually live in dreams are people in comas.’

  The sound of wind chimes floats up the hill.

  ‘Nice try, but I still don’t want to go back,’ says Dean.

  ‘That’s what you said in Amsterdam, I recall.’

  ‘Yeah, but I was high in Amsterdam.’

  ‘And that’s a Dunhill you’re smoking, is it?’

  Night blooms scent the breeze.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Elf. ‘For earlier. At the TV studio.’

  ‘Yer thanking me? For getting us barred from networks?’

  ‘Thorn was a creep. You stood up for me. Women are usually told to get a sense of humour or to take it as a compliment.’

  ‘Thanks for braining him with a guitar,’ says Dean. ‘Thanks for saving my arse in “Roll Away The Stone”.’

  ‘Any time. Though don’t do cocaine before a show again.’

  Dean winces. ‘Bloody idiot. I didn’t even do it for a reason. At least Doug’s a proper addict. I just thought, Yeah, why not?’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. All four of us are handling new stuff. Everything’s happening so quickly.’

  They hear owls.

  ‘Seen Jasper or Mecca recently?’ asks Dean.

  ‘They slipped off. We’ll see them back at the house. Or, possibly, hear them.’

  ‘Slander. I can vouch that Jasper is no shrieker.’

  Elf makes an ugh face. ‘What about Griff?’

  ‘Griff is a shrieker. I needed ear-plugs at the Chelsea.’

  Elf’s ugh becomes a glurggheugh. ‘All I was asking is, has he hooked up with—’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I saw him go into one o’ the Wigwams of Love and he was not alone, but to say any more would be indiscreet.’ Dean tokes on his reefer. ‘Smash a guitar on my head if I’m a Mr Stoner crossing a line, Elf, but … you and Luisa.’

  Elf doesn’t reply for a while. ‘Ye-es?’

  Can’t backtrack now. ‘She’s got a heart o’ gold, she’s sharp as a whip, and if I’ve read the clues right … good on yer.’

  Elf takes Dean’s reefer from his fingers. ‘What clues?’

  ‘Well … partly the way Levon was protective of yer both in New York. Mostly, it’s the way yer light up when she walks in. Plus … yer ain’t denied it yet.’

  Elf takes a long drag on the reefer. ‘I won’t deny it. I assert it.’ She gives Dean a defiant smile. ‘But this is personal, Dean. Not just to me but to Luisa, too. So … I’m trusting you.’

  ‘I like it when yer trust me. Brings out the best in me.’

  ‘Have Jasper and Griff said anything?’

  ‘No. Who knows what Jasper knows? I doubt he’ll bat an eyelid. Not after ten years at an all-boys boarding school. Same with Griff. He’s got no problem with Levon. Touring jazzers are a broad-minded tribe, I’ve found. I ’xpect he’ll just be, “Fine, so Elf was into Bruce, now it’s Luisa, right, got it … Where d’yer want that drum-fill again?” So is Luisa yer first …’ Dean can’t quite say it, yet.

  ‘“Girlfriend” could be the word you’re after.’

  Dean smiles a little. ‘I reckon it is.’

  Elf smiles a little. ‘She is, yes. It’s … wonderful. Love, though, eh? They sure as Billy-O don’t give you a map.’

  The wind stirs the trillion leaves and needles of Laurel Canyon. The night is all blues, indigos and blacks, except for the pale yellows around the lamps and streetlights. Dean thinks of an ocean shelf, dropping away. ‘I wish I could give yer directions,’ he says a little later, ‘but I’m a stranger here myself.’

  Eight Of Cups

  Dean balances on the footboard of the double-bed, stretches his arms out and falls, flumphing onto a snowy eiderdown. He inhales the smell of soap powder … and thinks of a launderette in North London. He turns onto his back. A space-age light fitting, a huge TV housed in its own cabinet, with doors, an abstract print in its aluminium frame. It’s everything his old bedsit at Mrs Nevitt’s wasn’t. The British upper classes, Dean thinks, favour ugly furniture from olden times, Rolls-Royces, grouse-shooting, inbreeding and an accent like the Queen’s. Wealthy Americans appear to be content with just being rich, and feel less need to rub the noses of the poor in their money. Dean checks Allen Klein’s card is still safe in his wallet. A visa, a ticket, an insurance policy. He hasn’t told the others about Jeb Malone’s overture at Cass’s party. It’s a hard subject to broach. Sorry ’n’ all that, but a music mogul thinks I’m the real star and he’s offering a quarter of a million dollars. The thought of the money still makes his heart quiver. I could pay the blackmailers in London as easy as buying a packet o’ cigarettes. He still hasn’t heard back from Rod Dempsey. Which could be good news, or bad, or neither …

  Dean goes to the window. New York was vertical; Los Angeles was a spillage; San Francisco dips, rises, levels out, dips, rises and falls sharply to the bay. Crazy gradients are the price of keeping to the grid pattern. The big telephone emits one long loud rrrrrringggggg, not the jumpy rrring-ringgg … rrring-ringgg like at home. His heart pumping, Dean picks up the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  A woman speaks: ‘Hello, Mr Moss, hotel switchboard here. We have a call from London for you. A Mr Ted Silver …

  ‘Uh, yeah. Put him through, please.’

  ‘Hold the line one moment, sir.’

  Click; scratch; clunk. ‘Dean, my boy, can you hear me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Mr Silver.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid. How’s America treating you?’

  Who gives a shit? ‘Are the results of the paternity test through?’

  ‘They are indeed. The verdict is “Inconclusive”. Your blood group is O. So is Miss Craddock’s and so is her son’s. According to the laws that govern these things, you might be the daddy, as might any other man with the blood group O. Which, I am told, constitutes eighty-five per cent of the British population, give or take. So there you have it.’

  Fat lot o’ bloody use that was. ‘What now?’

  ‘For now, dear boy, enjoy the States, make hay while the sun shin
es, and we’ll discuss your next move back in Blighty …’

  At £15 an hour. ‘Okay, Mr Silver.’

  ‘Chin up, my boy. This, too, shall pass.’

  ‘Not if I’m that baby’s father, it won’t.’

  ‘The fact may not, but the anguish it provokes in your breast shall. I guarantee it. Is today the big festival?’

  ‘Yeah. Just flew in from Los Angeles, and a car’s coming to pick us up in a bit. Then we’re recording tomorrow, ditto Tuesday, back on Wednesday.’

  ‘Until Thursday or Friday, then. Good luck and bon voyage.’ Ted Silver hangs up and the line goes prrrrrrrrr …

  Dean hangs up. So I am a dad, I’m not a dad, and I’m a possible dad, all at once. He’d like to tell Elf the non-news, but she’ll be unpacking and may need some girl time. He unpacks. He takes his Martin from its case, tunes it to DADF#AD with the capo on the fourth fret and strums a tune he’s been working on. This time the music’s arrived first, but what Elf said the other day about uncharted waters being where you grow has lodged in his head. What rhymes with ‘waters’? Daughters … Maybe … Mortars … Definitely not … There’s a knock at his door.

  It’s Levon. ‘We’re pushed for time, so order yourself a bite of lunch on room service.’

  ‘Room service? Seriously?’

  ‘Welcome to the big-time. Gargoyle’s dime.’

  ‘Right yer are.’ Dean shuts the door and picks up the phone. Room service. He’s seen this in films. You say what you want on the phone, and the food arrives on a trolley under a silver dome. There’s a button marked ‘ROOM SERVICE’. He presses it.

  A man answers: ‘Room service.’

  ‘Uh, hi, I’d like a bite o’ lunch if that’s okay.’

  ‘What’s that now, sir? A what for lunch?’

  ‘A bite o’ lunch. Some lunch. Please.’

  ‘Oh, a “bite” of lunch. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘Um … what is there?’

  ‘There’s a menu right by the telephone, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’ He opens the menu but it’s in a foreign language, or most of it is. Croque monsieur; John Dory; avocado; boeuf bourguignon; lasagna; tiramisu; crème brûlée … Dean can’t even pronounce most of these, let alone guess what they are. ‘A sandwich?’

  ‘We have the club sandwich, sir.’

  ‘Thank God. One o’ them, please.’

  ‘And would you like that on poppyseed, sourdough, walnut …’

  ‘In bread, please. Just normal white bread.’

  ‘You got it, sir. And vinaigrette or thousand island dressing?’

  Dressing? ‘Mate, are yer taking the piss?’

  A pause. ‘Perhaps just a little ketchup on the side, sir?’

  ‘Now yer talking. Cheers.’

  ‘It’ll be with you in thirty minutes, sir.’

  Dean puts down the receiver. Stress ebbs away.

  The telephone emits one long loud rrrrrringggggg.

  Oh God, something else about the sandwich. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Moss, this is the hotel switchboard again. We have a second call from London for you: a Mr Rod Dempsey.’

  Dean’s whole body tightens. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Hold the line one moment, sir.’

  Click; scratch; clunk. ‘God of Rock, how are yer?’

  ‘Hi, Rod. That kind o’ depends on yer news.’

  ‘The news is, the ballistic missile o’ scandal ’n’ shit that was about to destroy yer life has been knocked out o’ the sky.’

  Thank fuck for that. ‘So I’m in the clear?’

  ‘Yep. The Other Party dug their heels in for three and a half grand, but yer won’t be short of a few bob now yer’ve a hit single, I know. I wrote a cheque for the first two thousand, so yer can reimburse me once yer back.’

  Enough to buy a house on Peacock Road. ‘Right. Thanks. And they’ll send the negs once yer cheque clears?’

  ‘They’ll send the what?’

  ‘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 titbit 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 practised 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 cheque.’

  ‘I paid in cash, genius. Cheques leave a trail.’

  ‘Ah, but yer just told me yer paid with a cheque.’

  ‘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 forwards. ‘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-grey 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.