Jools, figuring out what she meant by that, reminded her, “Remember dear, you have to stay in The Hall. No interludes at the condo. No sneaking away to a hotel for a nooner.”
“Stay in The Hall? Every second? Who made that deal?”
“Ms. June. Any infringements on it constitutes breach of agreement of that subpart, which constitutes breach of any and all other and original parts, meaning the deal we have with Paul. Correct, Mr. McCartney?”
Paul had his arm around Renee’s shoulders, and was humming the melody for song number twenty-nine in her ear. He didn’t hear Jools’ question. Anna was pissed at the deal, but decided not to make a big thing about it. She had lasted six weeks without any touch, and figured she could go another two. Besides, she realized there were a few nooks and crannies at the The Hall where, maybe, she and Richard could find a few minutes alone together, despite the hive of activity that would surround them. At least she and he would be together again. Which reminded her that Paul had said they would work on the score for the ballet that she and Richard had started before they left for France and the Spielberg film. That hadn’t happened, and here they were, two weeks from H-hour. He had two days to go and two songs to write, great songs, so she decided to leave off of that. Maybe later he’d keep his promise. And that way, Richard could join them.
Stella took over for her father, and said, “Yes, Jools, we’ll keep to the original deal and this new deal, no escaping, and we’ll come back here at night. Satisfied?”
“Thank you, luv. What time shall we leave day after tomorrow? 7am?”
“These are artists, Jools. They don’t do early. We may be going to bed every night at 3am. Did you think of that when you made the deal? You may be picking us up at the parking lot every night at 2:30am to bring us back here.” She and Anna looked at him with a hint of satisfaction, sensing a little revenge. He looked crestfallen. 2:30am, every night? He was lucky if his Evelyn Waugh book kept him awake till 10pm. Stella went on, “Let’s plan on getting to The Hall about 11am. Maybe some of the others will be there by then, though I doubt Ringo will show up before 3pm.”
Anna said, “Ringo will show up when Gwen tells him to.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
Chapter 79 – Rehearsals
Ringo was, in fact, at The Hall on time the first day for the simple reason that Gwen and Gale went to the Charleston Place Hotel at 10:30am and pried his ass out of bed. They left the two women that were with him there, sleeping, but got him showered, dressed, and coffeed in due order, then into the Mercedes, and up the stage door steps. He woke fully when he saw Paul standing on the stage, chatting with David Gilmour and Alicia Keys, and sipping a bottle of water. Their embrace was heart-warming to the other twenty people or so who were milling around, and soon they were singing We All Live in a Yellow Submarine together, just like one of the nitwits had done on King Street so many weeks ago, when this caper had started. Who’d have thought it? When Christine arrived a few minutes later, everyone was there. Here is the list: Gwen June, Roger June, Gale the Mouth, Little Jinny Blistov and his girl Guignard, Slev and Constantine Rodstra, Stirg and his granddaughter Anna and his bodyguard Nev the Commando, Paul McCartney and his daughter Stella the fashion designer, Richard the wimpy writer and Anna’s squeeze, Ringo Starr, Alicia Keys, Christine McVie, David Gilmour, and the world’s greatest singer Renee Fleming.
Roger had had more upholstered chairs on wheels delivered to the stage, and Gwen let everyone socialize for an hour, with Guignard serving coffee. At noon, McCradys delivered and set up a hot buffet lunch. When Gwen had ordered it, specifying no wine, the catering chief had been shocked. This was a first, the Junes ordering a meal without wine. By 2pm everything had been cleared from the stage to make room for the instrument cases, which arrived right then, on schedule. A mass of drum cases, Gilmour’s six guitars, Christine’s favorite clavinet, Alicia’s Rolland Vsynthe XT, and all sorts of miscellaneous cases containing god knows what. Jinny and Nev were humping it for an hour. At 3pm Gwen stood in front of the group, now settled in their chairs and ready for work. She hoped.
There wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t sense her natural command persona, and bow to it, including Paul, which is saying something. Just watch the video of the 10th Anniversary of the 911 Concert in New York City. Watch the last segments with McCartney on stage, first alone, and then joined by the other 100 rock n roll stars who had performed earlier. It is amazing to watch every single one of these superstars defer to him, sitting at the piano, cheerful and upbeat, almost ignoring them, singing and playing Hey Jude, the absolute master. And now here he was, on stage at The Hall, listening to Gwen lay down the law about how the next two weeks were going to work, and how the production was going to happen. She had decided the other musicians, with the exception of Ringo, didn’t need to know about the whole weird kidnapping thing, and she had told the core team to keep that secret. Her explanation of the production was so clear and concise that when, after an hour, she asked if there were any questions, no one spoke up.
She sat down and Paul stood up. He nodded at Stella who slipped the Dark Hope CD into the computer and played Mad World over the state of the art theater sound system. Renee blushed. Then he nodded again and Stella played a track from On an Island, with Gilmour’s guitar languidly and stylishly filling the air. Then a track each from In the Meantime and Girl on Fire, with Christine’s beautiful vocals and Alicia’s keyboards. When the music stopped he looked around and said, “Any questions about the band?”
Ringo said, “ ‘Ey, what am I, chopped liver?”
He walked to Ringo’s chair and put his hand on his shoulder. “You put the band together, old friend, and I thank you. We’re going to be great in these performances, all of us.” From on top of the Steinway he picked up a stack of papers, and handed a copy to each of the musicians, which consisted of thirty pages. “I have thirty songs ready in rough form, thanks to Renee, Stella, and Anna. Here are the lyrics, and we have demos in the computer we’ve recorded over the last six weeks. I want everyone to know there is lots of room for each of you to add to the songs. We’ve left a lot of space in both the music and the lyrics for each of you to fill in; lots of room to move. Each day I’m going to pick a couple of songs to work on, and we’re going to pick them apart and put them back together, whole and beautiful. Stella will record them when we’re comfortable. She’s also designed a bunch of clothes, men’s and women’s, and when we need a break, we can have some fun picking and choosing from those. While we’re rehearsing the music, Gwen and her team will be doing all the rest of the production stuff: sound, PR, catering our meals, utilities, tickets, everything. We owe them already, and will owe them more by showtime.” He looked around for questions, and there only was one.
“When we going to play?”
“Right now, Ringo, right now.”
Chapter 80 – The Production
The six performances of Man and Woman in the Outer World, spread over three weekends, went off beautifully. The last four had been streamed live and free over the internet, and viewed by millions of people around the world. The days between the performances had been given over to recording the opera, with Paul and David bringing in professional sound engineers and equipment. The performers, all world-famous, had no problem dealing with the media hype. Some media wanted to know about the production itself, the people behind the opera and the performances, but Roger, Gwen, and the rest of the crew were shielded by the formidable phalanx of Jinny and Nev. Jinny spent untold hours bullshitting with magazine reporters, TV crews, PR teams and other media hacks, all wanting to know who the hell the Junes were, and what their relationship with the Paul McCartney, Renee Fleming, and the opera was. Half of what he told them was true and the other half he made up on the spot, out of thin air. He discovered a new talent in himself, talk show improviser and doyen. He was invited onto the Oprah network. A couple of times
paparazzi types infiltrated the work area, and then they had to deal with Nev, who invited them backstage for a private interview with one of the band. Once behind the curtains and out of sight of the other hundred people milling about the stage, they found themselves, not face to face with Ringo, as promised, but face to face with Nev’s Sig Sauer. He took their cameras away from them, checked them for wires and other recording devices, and then gave them a thumbnail sketch of his personal history as a Mossad commando. He finished his lecture with a description of what would happen if they, or anyone from their organization, again tried to penetrate the inner working of the production team. The success rate of his method was 100%.
The performance of the thirty songs was spread out over two hours and fourteen minutes, with a short intermission for the geezers in the band to catch their breath. The geezers were everyone except Alicia Keys, who stayed on stage and played a few of the songs from Porgy and Bess that George Gershwin had written in Charleston in the 1930s, including a killer rendition of Summertime, written on Folly Beach. Based on dozens of reviews published in newspapers, magazines, TV interviews, and blogs around the world, the concept of the opera came through the songs loud and clear. Men and women who truly want a successful long-term relationship, have to match up based on liking to do the same things together time and again, out in the world; not on supposed inner compatibilities, ie. spiritualities, whatever those are. People loved the new McCartney songs, Renee’s stellar singing, the music and performance of the band, but not everyone found the message comforting. There was a lot or resistance to his ideas on the subject, which, considering that he was blowing into the wind, was not unexpected. Paul didn’t care; he had expressed his beliefs, and had had fun doing it. Lots of fun with Renee, especially.
One of the thorniest problems for Gwen to solve during the two weeks of rehearsals was how to stick it to Scotilly and Jools. Especially Jools. She had to honor Paul’s deal with them, which was to pay the five mill ransom, but not let them get away scot free, pun intended. The ransom was six million, actually, based on the negotiated work release program addendum. Gwen wondered about the deal between the two of them for splitting the money. What was the standard rate for services rendered by a butler to an employer for the kidnapping of Paul McCartney? Was it fifty-fifty? Seventy-five-twenty-five? In any case, six million was nothing to sneeze at for either of them. Gwen had to figure a way to allow that to happen, yet make them pay a price of some kind. Then there was the issue of the other ransom, the five mill Scotilly had demanded from Stirg, the nazi-hunter, for safe release of Anna. Early on in the venture he had said all he wanted was for Anna to be safe and sound, and money didn’t matter, especially the paltry sum, to him, of five million dollars. He would pay that to secure her release. But then all the weird stuff started happening, stuff not normally associated with kidnappings, at least not the kind Stirg had been involved in down in Argentina. Stuff like the kidnappees cooperating with the kidnappers by agreeing to not escape, even when Anna discovered she could slab Jools silly, and walk out of the bunker and down the central street on posh Sullivan’s Island. What about that ransom?
So first Gwen had to cut a deal with Stirg, and then she had to work with Paul’s business manager who controlled his finances, and then she had to devise a way to stick it to Scotilly and Jools. One afternoon she sat out in the back of the theater with Stirg, listening to Paul coach Christine and Alicia about singing backup on a song titled Sunday Afternoon, which was about a husband and wife getting ready for their once a month food and wine bash with friends, an activity they had sponsored at their home for over twenty years. She said, “Paul’s manager is here, and yesterday we worked out how and when he is going to pay the six mill to Scotilly. Now it’s your turn. You have to pay up, too.”
Stirg pointed to Anna who was standing on the stage, chatting it up with Ringo, telling him about making movies with Spielberg. He said, “There she is. Safe and sound. I can have Nev pick her up and take her home right now. Why should I pay these dilettante foo foos anything?”
“You know why. Because a deal’s a deal, and Anna agreed to stay with Paul and Stella and help them, even when she knew she could walk out of the place any time.” Gwen didn’t say, “And she agreed to sacrifice her sex life for six weeks, too.” Which reminded her how happy she and Richard looked now, which made her wonder where they were doing their thing in The Hall, with all this crazy activity going on day and night. She would ask Jinny; he would know.
Stirg was grooving on the whole show, feeling good, and said, “Ok. I’ll pay one mill.”
She thought this over for a minute, and then said again, “A deal’s a deal, Stirg. You promised five mill. Jesus, you’re worth, how much more than a billion? And Anna’s your only living relative, and she’s safe and sound, right here in Charleston. Stop being a cheapskate.”
He wasn’t perturbed, and after a minute said, “Ok, Gwenny, two mill.”
Gwen sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, thinking, this is beyond weird, here I am negotiating ON BEHALF OF the kidnappers, one of whom is a nutcase who impersonates a Taliban assassin, and the other is a stuck up little English twerp whose head I’d like to twist off. She badly, badly, wanted to get on the sailboat and head over to St. Barths. In the office she couldn’t face calling Jools to tell him the two ransoms were a done deal, eight mill, and asked Roger to do that. He said he would, but asked, “Is that it? They’re getting the money and getting away?”
She smiled a smile he recognized and loved, and said, “They’re getting the money, yes, and eventually they’ll get out of town to whatever paradise they choose, but there’s going to be an event here before that happens. We’re going to have a little get-together, then they can be on their way.”
“Don’t forget Anna. She seems to want to get Jools alone in a room, too.”
“Yes she does. Me and Anna and Jools. Yes.”
Chapter 81 – Curtin Call
It was intermission of opening night at The Hall, and after playing fifteen songs, the geezers were in the back, wondering what they were doing out on stage, and if they could make it through the next fifteen songs. The audience knew what they were doing on stage: The greatest rock opera ever written. Among the people in the audience who thought this were Scotilly and Jools, sitting to one side in the second aisle, both in disguises.
After Roger had called and confirmed that both ransoms would be paid at the end of the opening night performance, Scotilly and Jools had packed their bags, and Scotilly had told Jools where they were going. At least to start: St. Barths. Jools had started to complain, if they were going to a Caribbean paradise, why go to a fucking French one like St. Barths? Why not a British one, for god’s sake. But he didn’t push it. He still hadn’t decided if he was going to stay with her, or see what life alone was like. The morning of opening night the routine changed in two ways. Every morning for the previous two weeks of rehearsals, at precisely 10:35am, Jools had draped black hoods over the heads of the four kidnappees, and driven them over the bridge to the mainland, where he waited in the shopping center parking lot. Every morning Jinny had picked them up at exactly 10:45am and deposited them at The Hall at 11am. This morning Jools rousted them out of the bunker at 10:15am, took them over the bridge, and left them standing in front of the dry cleaner’s shop. He said, “Sorry to leave you like this, but we’re on our way to the airport. It’s been a pleasure serving you. Ta.”
The second way the routine changed was when, instead of the big white Mercedes showing up with Jinny at the wheel, a Prius from The Green Taxi Company with The Environment is Our Business, Too stenciled on the side pulled up, with a friendly Pakistani man at the wheel. Anna and Paul, having been in the taxi once before, looked at each other and shrugged. Renee, who had not been in this taxi eight weeks before, during the first of five Charleston kidnappings her group was associated with, asked, “Which three get to ride in back
?”
The driver said, “Come, come, beautiful ladies and man who plays great harmonica, come, plenty of room, we get you where you’re going fast, and with minimal damage to our mother planet, Earth.” They looked around, still didn’t see the Mercedes, and piled in. Go with the flow. During the ride to The Hall, Renee, who was up front and not as squashed as the others, chatted with the driver. He asked her what she did for a living, and she said mostly she sang classical opera. He said opera was very popular in Pakistan, and they had one that was a great praise to Allah, eighteen hours long. He said maybe someday, when the ice thawed between their two countries, she would sing it. She said, maybe. Renee was an environmentalist, and when the taxi arrived at The Hall, and Jinny had been called to grab Paul’s arm and extricate him from the backseat, she gave the Pakistani guy a comp ticket to the performance. He said he’d be there, and he asked Paul if he was going to play harmonica, and Paul said, you betcha.
At 7pm that evening the Pakistani guy’s wife got a call for a pickup on Sullivan’s Island, and he said he just could fit that fare in before going to the performance. He zoomed over the bridge, and discovered the address of the pickup was the same place he had deposited the others, eight weeks earlier, when Jools had pretended to be a CIA agent with a gun that had a built-in GPS targeting device. In fact, it was the same guy who came out now, with a woman, both of them in disguise, but not good disguises. He decided this island and this house were strange places. When Jools told him their destination was The Hall on John Street, he thought, that’s where I’m going to the performance. This gets stranger and stranger.
It now was intermission, with Jools and Scotilly in the second row, the Pakistani guy in the balcony, the geezers in the dressing room with oxygen masks over their faces, and Alicia Keys on stage. She finished playing the Gershwin, looked over to the side of the stage where Gwen was standing, and saw her nod. She stood up, walked to stage center, and said, “Paul and the band will be back in just a minute. He’s asked me to entertain you for that minute with two of his favorite jokes, about butlers. You see, when he was growing up in a working class neighborhood of Liverpool, he certainly didn’t have a butler in his house, and neither did Ringo or the other boys, and they used to tell jokes about rich people and their butlers. So here goes: ‘When Albert Einstein was making the rounds of the speakers' circuit, usually he found himself longing to get back to his laboratory work. One night, as they were driving to yet another rubber-chicken dinner, Einstein mentioned to his butler (a man who somewhat resembled Einstein in looks & manner) that he was tired of speech making. "I have an idea, boss," the butler said. "I've heard you give this speech so many times, I'll bet I can give it for you." Einstein laughed and said, "Why not? Let's do it." When they arrived at the dinner, Einstein donned the butler's black jacket and striped pants and sat in the back of the room. The butler gave an excellent rendition of Einstein's speech and even answered a few questions. Then a pompous professor asked an esoteric question about the theory of relativity, digressing here and there to show how smart he was. Without missing a beat, the butler fixed the professor with a steely stare and said, "Sir, the answer to that question is so simple I’ll let my butler, who is sitting in the back, answer it for me."
The Kidnapping of Paul McCartney Page 29
