Gimme More

by Liza Cody

  Eventually it occurred to Junior that this was, quite simply, how Birdie lived: someone else paid the bills. What was more, people seemed to fall all over themselves for the privilege. He knew he should have despised her. He knew that he should despise himself, but he could never quite summon up the energy. Drifting, as he did, between boom and bust, what he felt was a kind of kinship.

  Maybe she just fuckin’ likes me, he thought, when he thought about it. Maybe it’s because I never hit on her. Maybe with so many sweaty erks pawing her all the time she could relax with a lazy technician who considered her out of his league.

  Birdie, he thought, used to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. And both men and women couldn’t seem to keep their hands off her.

  He remembered once leaving a restaurant with Jack. What were they doing? Probably having a preproduction meeting about Hard Candy. After about two hours Jack called his car. Jack would never leave anywhere until he knew his transport and security were in place. Even so, on this occasion, word got out and Jack, Birdie and Junior had to wade through a boiling crowd of photographers and fans to get into the car.

  Junior, in those few violent moments, had a confused nightmare impression of grabbing hands and flashing lights before he was bashed on the head and dragged into the car. The car lurched slowly away, covered in kids. Kids on the roof, kids clinging to the hood, kids spraying hearts in shaving cream or Miracle Whip on the windscreen. Kids writing ‘Screw me!’, names, phone numbers, in lipstick on the windows.

  Inside Jack was screaming furiously at the chauffeur and the security man. Birdie was trying to make herself decent. Her shirt had been yanked so violently that there were no buttons left and her skirt was torn to the waist. Even her lacy black underwear was in tatters.

  Junior, who was feeling shocked and stupid, said, ‘Ain’t stardom just peachy?’

  Jack sat back adjusting his own vandalised clothing and said, ‘I reckon I must be one of the few men in the world who knows what it’s like to be a beautiful woman. Junior, give the girl your jacket.’

  Junior struggled out of his jacket and Birdie put it on without a word. It was big enough, even in those days, to cover her to mid-thigh. She wrapped it around her like a dressing gown and sat with her arms folded across her chest.

  All legs and eyes, Junior thought, trying not to stare.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jack said, reading his mind, ‘she’d look like a doll if she was wearing a brown paper bag. They try, but they can’t seem to ruin her.’

  Birdie said nothing. Of the three, she appeared to be the calmest.

  ‘You look like a rape victim,’ Jack said. ‘Battered and beautiful. Want a fuck?’ His hands were shaking and his eyes were raw and angry.

  ‘Do you?’ asked Birdie.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jack.

  ‘Then go fuck yourself,’ said Birdie, in her soft, white English voice.

  ‘I could throw you out there to the wolves,’ Jack said.

  ‘You could,’ she agreed. She searched in the small bag she always carried and produced a gold powder compact. Inside were a few capsules wrapped in tinfoil. She gave two to Jack and offered one to Junior.

  ‘What are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Peace,’ Jack replied, stuffing the capsules into his mouth. ‘Time out of war. Cessation of hostilities. Surrender.’

  ‘Jelly babies,’ said Birdie.

  Junior shook his head. For the rest of the trip he remained as shocked and stupid as he had been at the beginning.

  What had Junior seen that day? He replayed the incident in his mind many times, especially after Jack’s death. Because rumours surfaced in the press, persistent rumours which even now floated around on the Internet. They claimed that Birdie was Jack’s murderess – that she had set the fatal fire, that she had drugged Jack so that he couldn’t respond to the emergency, that she had supplied him with enough scag to kill six horses and then burnt him and his house to destroy the evidence.

  What had he seen? Two young people under great pressure? Jack’s unexpected thuggish side? Birdie controlling Jack with drugs?

  Surely not that. Junior knew, better than most, that the Name, unless he’s desperate or a moron, never carries his own stash. That’s the roadie’s job, or the friend’s, or the girlfriend’s. At a pinch, it might even be the sound engineer’s. No one wants the Name to be busted. So, while it might look as though Jack’s girl was supplying, it was more probable that she was simply carrying. Even so, when Jack died and was sanctified – as is the custom with beautiful young rock stars – Birdie was demonised. And the underground rumble was so hostile to her, so full of conspiracy whisperings, that Junior himself wondered if a small percentage might be true. Lost in Louisiana, away from the action, he read stories about mythic strangers called Jack and Birdie the way a child might read stories about Snow White and the murderous wicked stepmother. The stories, he felt, had more to do with folklore than fact, but they were as infectious as germs and, like germs, they multiplied.

  Every objection was countered: why would Birdie do away with her meal ticket? Well, said the anonymous accusing voices, Jack was already fed up with her. He was going to dump her. He was seeing someone else. She was about to be publicly humiliated.

  No, said others. She wanted his money. She had secretly forced Jack to marry her. In Vegas. In Mexico. In Tahiti. In Cuba. He was furious with her for her extravagance. He was going to cut off her funds. He was going to divorce her.

  Wrong. She was a member of a coven. The Sisterhood of Ishtar. An extreme right-wing/left-wing sect. She was a hypnotist. She involved him in satanism. When he woke up and wised up she had to kill him.

  That’s stupid, said others. Why ignore the obvious? Birdie was seeing someone else. Jack caught them together. There was a fight. Jack was killed. Birdie torched the house to protect her reputation and her lover.

  Who was her lover? Ah, now there’s a loaded question. He had to be big. Someone worth protection. So let’s begin with the British Royal family. The long list of possibilities began with Prince Charles and worked its way through sheikhs and kings. It included any of the fifty richest men in the world who were not gay. Industrialists. Politicians. Film stars.

  And so on, and so on. It was enough to make a lazy man’s head spin. And, being a lazy man, Junior simply turned his back on it as he did with anything that caused him hassle. It was easier not to think about it. If he thought about it, he might have to do something about it.

  He might have to leave New Orleans and find out for himself what the truth was. He might have to accuse Birdie himself. Or he might have to defend her.

  It is best to know nothing if you plan to do nothing.

  Besides, Birdie never defended herself. Perhaps that was her greatest crime. She spoke to no one. She gave no interviews. Even Jack’s funeral was a secret affair – the cremation, wags said, had already taken place and no one could find a grave to desecrate. Birdie was never seen in mourning. If she wore black it was because black was stylish and it suited her.

  ‘Why don’t you set the record straight?’ Junior once asked her.

  ‘Which record?’ sighed Birdie. ‘To whom? People think what they want to think. They aren’t interested in the truth. They only want a good story. With pictures. If I so much as open my mouth I’ll only be giving them weapons to use against me.’

  Ambiguous, Junior thought. And then remembered how experienced she was with journalists and photographers. Experienced enough to be for ever on guard. He’d often wondered why the famous or notorious didn’t simply keep their mouths shut more often, since they were made to look such idiots when they opened them. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, he mused. He himself would surely be damned for what he didn’t do if there was any choice in the matter. So his feeling of kinship with Birdie strengthened.

  He was glad she didn’t want to talk about it because, deep down, he didn’t want to know. That was heavy stuff. Heavy feelings. Hassle. Better to smoke a little herbal and c
hill. Don’t let it get to you, man. Who needs it?

  That’s eventually what he said to Teddy when Teddy unexpectedly came knocking at his door. At first it was, ‘Hey, man! God! Shit – how long’s it been?’ Thinking, fuck, if he hadn’t said his name I’d never’ve recognised him. Bald, for fuck’s sake. What happened to all the hair?

  Teddy used to have authentic rocker’s hair which he waved like a banner for the cameras. In all the pictures of Jack on stage, somewhere behind or off to the side, you’d see Teddy with those streamers of rocker’s hair. Or Teddy, the typical autistic axeman, curled over his guitar, hiding behind his own tangled vines. That was one of his favourite poses – the recluse in the spotlight. Especially after a solo. Camera-shy, and modest with it. Wanker, Junior thought. Because nothing could have been further from the truth – every scrap of tension between Jack and Teddy could be put down to the perpetual war waged between frontman and sideman.

  ‘Those were the days,’ Teddy said, from the prison of Junior’s woman’s armchair. ‘Don’t you miss it?’

  ‘Dunno ‘bout that,’ Junior said. ‘I don’t miss the friction or the nerves. I was fuckin’ getting ulcers back then. Everyone on your case all the time. No, I was glad I got out of it when things got really brutal.’

  ‘But not before Madison Square Garden.’ Teddy really did sigh then. Because Madison Square Garden was the venue of the famous axe’n’sax thrash which Junior captured for all time on Jack’s Back Live in the USA. It was one of those rare occasions when Jack was forced to step away and let Teddy take centre stage – a time when they’d asked Al McQueen, sax maestro, to sit in, and Teddy’s solo on ‘Packet of Ten’ turned into an extraordinary exchange between guitar and sax. A battle in which neither was prepared to yield. Lunge, parry, riposte. Hit and run. Trading bar for bar, blow for blow, it was a passage of pure musical aggression fuelled by pure adrenaline. It was a spontaneous event which usually only works live. But Junior, going mental at the mixing desk, caught it and preserved it, as if he knew it would be special even before it happened.

  Both Junior and Teddy were justifiably proud of what they did at Madison Square Garden all those years ago. The ephemeral made permanent.

  ‘Man, you were the best,’ Teddy said.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Junior said, sceptical, remembering all the mixing wars. If for some reason you wanted to mix Goff or Wills up at Teddy’s expense you had a fight on your hands. It was all like that. Every band member wanting to be heard loud and clear. No one satisfied. No one wanting to be the texture behind. Every silly sod a soloist, Junior thought. All at the same time. Then Junior was the ignorant bastard who was paid exorbitant sums to wreck their careers.

  ‘I was working with Wills in New York only last week,’ Teddy said. ‘Do you see any of the old faces these days?’

  ‘People drift through,’ Junior said. ‘Like everyone comes around April, May.’

  ‘I mean us,’ Teddy said. ‘Jack’s people.’

  ‘Anyone comes to N.O. and looks me up, I see ’em.’ Junior snapped open a couple of cans of Bud and passed one to Teddy. Outside, dusty afternoon sun fought its way through the hanging jungle on the balcony and began to creep into the room. Time to pull the blinds. Junior thought about it but tipped a little beer down his throat instead. Having company was hard work when you didn’t know what the company wanted after all this time.

  ‘Goff told me you kept in touch with Birdie,’ Teddy said, looking round for a glass. There wasn’t one.

  Uh-oh, Junior thought, time for the blinds, and he heaved his bulk off the sofa. While he threaded his way through his woman’s delicate knick-knacks he said, ‘She’s still in the business, you know.’

  ‘As much as she ever was,’ Teddy said. ‘I’m surprised anyone wants to know. How old is she now?’

  ‘Never asked.’ Junior busied himself at the window. It was a precise operation. His woman liked the blinds closed enough so that direct sunlight was blocked from her paintings, carpet and soft furnishings, but open enough to air the room. He didn’t usually give it as much attention as he was giving it now.

  ‘She’s still a full-on bread-head,’ Teddy said. ‘You know she’s always fighting the labels to give her half Jack’s royalties?’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Junior, padding back to the sofa. ‘Well, that ain’t nobody’s business but hers.’

  ‘You might as well say I co-wrote,’ Teddy said. ‘Which I did. Or even you. Think of what you put in. Jack would’ve stayed a fucking pub player without us.’

  ‘Improbable.’ Junior lowered himself into the cushions. ‘Jack had the magic from very early on.’

  ‘Oh he was the best frontman in the business, I’ll grant you that. No one could sell a song better than him. But whose song was it? That’s the question.’

  Junior looked at Teddy over the rim of his beer can. Confrontation, he thought. Hassle.

  ‘Well?’ Teddy asked, leaning forward.

  ‘I don’t think about it, man,’ Junior said. ‘I got well paid for what I did. So did you.’

  ‘That’s open to question too. How much did you make when the albums were re-released on CD?’

  Junior didn’t answer. This was what he didn’t need. This murky, dirty music-business talk – resentful victim-speak. It got you in a bean-counting mood and you ended up feeling you’d been shafted all your life. Everyone else was getting rich off your creative input. Only the stars could fight and win. Nobody else even fought. They just gathered in small rooms and bitched. About money. About recognition. About contracts, credits and Christ knows what-all else.

  What the fuck, Junior thought, everyone knew it was a dirty business, and everyone still wanted to be in it. So you signed an agreement and you were happy to get the gig. But when the gig turned out to be a money-maker and you weren’t cut in … When there were big-time winners on the music lottery and you were never one of them … Bitch, bitch, bitch.

  But it was justifiable bitching. You were shafted. The fat cats were blowing smoke up your arse. You thought about it. You started bitching. You got hassle. You got ulcers. And, if you were called Junior Moline, you got out. You sucked on your beer can, you sucked on your chillum and went back to loving the music. Forget about hating the business – that takes too much energy, man, that just fucks with your head. Listen to the sounds and kick back.

  New Orleans was the place to do that. There was a pair of buskers under Junior’s window right now noodling on ‘A Place in the Sun’ and doing it more than justice. This was a town where buskers could sound better than Eric Clapton. Junior tuned Teddy out and tuned the buskers in. Yes. One voice. Two acoustic guitars. Pick ups, amplifier, two small speakers. He could imagine two old guys on folding chairs, guitar case open at their feet to catch a few thrown dollars. Crap equipment – all of it beat-up and warped by the wet heat. Ah, but that voice, man, those finger-licking riffs.

  God bless their golden hearts, Junior thought. Better to have your guitar warped by the sun than to have your heart warped by a dirty business.

  Teddy was saying, ‘C’mon, June, don’t you want to claw some back? It won’t cost you nothing, all you got to do is talk to Birdie.’

  ‘And tell her what, man?’

  ‘Tell her to release the materials. All the Antigua stuff. I mean, you could help with the re-mix. We could all come away with another slice of the pie.’

  ‘Not me, man,’ Junior said, slowly. ‘I don’t want any more of Jack’s shit. Dead or alive, if it’s anything to do with Jack, it’s always a heavy scene. Everyone fussing and fighting. Bad karma, man.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, June, and you know it. Don’t hide behind that karma crap. This is a big deal. They’re making a telly programme. There’s going to be a book. The full package. It’s like our time came round again. All the old stuff’s cool.’

  Unbelievable, Junior thought. Bald and still hungry. Still aching for the super-trooper and the big car. Whatever happened to counter-culture? Did it go under the counter when t
he bean-counters took over the world?

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ Teddy said, ‘but I could do with the extra moolah. I got three kids and four mortgages to service. You never had any kids?’

  ‘Not that anyone told me,’ Junior answered.

  ‘Birdie didn’t either. Too busy looking after number one. But they say she’s hit hard times now.’

  ‘We all have our ups and downs,’ Junior said.

  ‘More downs that ups these days.’ Teddy eyed the sagging furniture. ‘What I’m saying is that Birdie’s got access to stuff that could make us a lot of bread. If you don’t want to be involved, well, cool. But I do. I think I’m owed, man. I was there on the film. I was playing in the studio. That stuffs as much mine as it is hers.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Junior, who would say anything to avoid an argument, ‘but what am I supposed to do about it?’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Teddy said, to Junior’s great relief. ‘But didn’t she, like, come to see you after Jack died? I mean, she did one of her disappearing tricks, so did she ever turn up here with stuff to store in your cellar?’

  ‘There aren’t any cellars in New Orleans,’ Junior said.

  ‘The attic, then.’

  ‘Why would she do that? What stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Teddy said. ‘Who knows what women keep. They say she rescued everything of value after the fire. Pity she didn’t rescue Jack, eh? They say she grabbed everything – stuff that wasn’t hers – and took it out of the country. She’d have to store it somewhere.’

  ‘Not here, man,’ Junior said. ‘I’ve only lived here eighteen months myself. This is my woman’s place.’

  ‘Oh well,’ Teddy said, losing interest.

  ‘What’re you looking for?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Teddy said. ‘Her, actually. Thought I could persuade her to co-operate. Appeal to her better nature, if she’s got one. I was Jack’s best friend, after all.’

  You and whose army? Junior thought. It was amazing how many best friends Jack had after all these years. He said, ‘Can’t help you there, man. I don’t know where she’s at.’