by Mick Norman
Dolan’s thin face, and deep-set eyes were immovable. The red marks of the slap stood out lividly on his cheeks. For a moment, Rupert thought that he was going to attack him. But, the moment passed.
‘Rupert.’ The words seemed dragged out from a great distance. The voice was suddenly that of a tired man. ‘I’ll do a deal with you. I’ll lay off Gerry if you’ll do me a favour. I can’t guarantee that the Laurel Canyon boys will agree to take any crap from the English Angels. But, I’ll do what I can.’
Relief staining his face, Rupert sat down heavily in one of the deep, over-padded chairs. ‘Shoot baby. You tell me what the favour is that you want, and I’ll do what I can to help out. What is it? Bread; chicks? Boys?’
The unanswer stretched out. Far below them, Rupert was aware of the constant rumble of traffic, despite the lateness – or earliness – of the hour.
He coughed, wondering whether to speak or not. Finally, he had to. ‘Smack?’
The deep eyes looked up at him. Surprised. ‘How the fuck d’you know? Someone split on me?’
Rupert smiled at the concern of the question. Though it really wasn’t a funny thing at all. Heroin addiction in anybody is one of the least funny things around.
‘You know when we had to do that pix-session at Glasgow. That one when we couldn’t find you.’
‘Yeah. I was having a sleep in my room.’
‘No. That’s not true, baby. That’s how I know. When you came out of your dressing-room, you had on that new pair of white jeans. Remember?’
‘Yeah. How the hell did that tell you I was on smack? Don’t tell me you could see tracks through them. Because I ... Hey! Wait a minute.’
‘That’s it, Freddie. I was looking at the pix that they took. Only yesterday. There’s a small circle of blood on the front of the right thigh. About the size of a nickel. Like you’d just shot and not had time to clean up properly after. Is that it?’
‘You’re a cunning bastard, Colt. Yeah. You’re right all the way on. The trouble is that my pusher, a guy named Gallacher, got himself busted three days ago. And, the fuzz over here are so fucking tight on hard dope. I sent one of the roadies down to a place called Q Street, where it’s supposed to be easy to score. A Chinese guy offered him what he said was some good smack. Got back here and the schmuck had bought some talcum powder!’
Rupert looked at his watch. ‘I reckon that H is out. But I know somewhere I can score some methadone for you. If I do that, will you play ball?’
The mask cracked, and anger flared briefly. ‘What the fuck d’you want, you bastard fairy? You want me to put my hand on your cock and swear an oath to pay my dues and stand in line? That what you want?’
‘No. That’s not what I want. I want no hassle to wreck the end of a good tour. You’ve told me about your problem. I dig that makes you feel one down to me. Okay, then. I’ll tell you my secret. Once the lights go down and Foolsgold bounce on stage for the last show, then I’m long gone. I’ve bought a small homestead up in a place called Shropshire. Quiet sort of country. Not under my own name, even. Rupert Colt’s going to vanish. For ever.’
Even as he told Freddie Dolan about his plans, Rupert began to regret it If Dolan was really hooked on junk, then he would do anything and use anybody to try and get his script. But, somehow, he liked the short, intense singer. For all his faults, the guy had a kind of unshakable integrity. Maybe it would be all right.
‘I’ve got what they call the Gauguin Complex, when middle-aged men jack it all in and head for the sunny side of the hills. Keep in touch, baby, and you can come and sit with me and watch the grass grow. When things all get too heavy.’
Dolan smiled – a rare sight. ‘Maybe, baby. I’ll do just that.’ Then the smile vanished, and the tenseness that is inseparable from the superstar came sidling back. ‘Now, get your friend with the dope. I’ve got to go and see Rick and try and sort things out for you.’
Rupert puckered his lips in what he fondly hoped was a relaxing grin, and went over to pick up the phone. Freddie watched him. ‘You sure you don’t mind, man.’
‘No, Freddie. No. No. I’m the original Freak Brother.’
A floor down, and a few feet to the south, Gerry and Brenda were also relaxing and preparing for the rigours of the last couple of days.
‘Gerry.’ The voice was muffled, as though it came from a mouth that was also occupied with other matters.
‘Yeah.’ His hands were idly running through her hair, pulling strands together, and knotting and loosening the skeins.
‘How you going to handle the Americans?’
‘I’ve brought along ... Ouch! Don’t bloody bite when you’re doing that.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ve brought along our original charter. I’m going to show them Sonny Barger’s signature. That’s for starters. Then, if talking doesn’t do any good, I might get one or two of the brothers to show a bit of class. I’ve got a couple of ideas that might do some good.’
The conversation was interrupted for a few minutes while Brenda gave him his pleasures on a plate, and, in return, he showed her what a cunning linguist he was. Then, they both washed and, being clean people, brushed their teeth. After that, they climbed back into bed and carried on the talk.
‘What if that doesn’t work?’
‘What? Oh, the class. Well, I thought I’d go right up to Rick Padrino and shake him by the hand, as a kind of welcoming gesture, and give his hand a tug, then break his neck with my other hand. How does that sound?’
Brenda laughed. ‘I like it G.V., I like it. No more hassles then.’
For a few minutes, they lay together, passing a joint between them, watching the smoke ring around the white ceiling. It was Brenda who broke the silence.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
They had known each other too long and too well for him to need to ask her what ‘it’ was.
‘When are you splitting?’
‘You asked us to wait till after the last concert, and that’s what we’ll do. Holly and Lady wanted to split right away, but I wouldn’t let them.’
‘You reckon it’ll work?’
‘I don’t know, Gerry. We want to try and this is the only way I know of.’
‘I’ll have to get another old lady, you know. It wouldn’t do for the president to be single. The brothers would talk.’
‘I know that.’
Stubbing the joint out in the ashtray on the bedside table, Gerry raised himself on his elbow and looked down at Brenda. ‘We never talked much, did we? Didn’t seem that much time for it. Tomorrow’s the party, and you’ll leave straight after the concert on the last day. So, this is about the last time.’ He fumbled for the words he wanted, finding they lay uneasily on his tongue. ‘I just want to say, Brenda, that I’m going to miss you, more than you’ll ever know. That’s all.’
She reached up to him and pulled him down on her, and kissed him slowly and deeply. ‘Let’s have one more for the road then. Remember one thing, Gerry. I always loved you.’
At eight-thirty that morning, Gerry was woken by someone hammering on his hotel door. Brenda had slipped away from him during the night. Rubbing his eyes, he shouted for them to come in.
In burst Gwyn, eyes blazing redly in his pallid face. His hair was so tangled that he’d obviously come down straight from his bedroom.
It had taken the Angels several hours’ talking before they had agreed to accept Rupert’s offer of accommodation. Many of them still mistrusted the soft life.
‘I’ve just had a call from my old lady, Geneth. The local radio back home have just run an item about a fight at Nant Gwrtheyrn. Seems a gang of thugs have moved in and taken over our village. They say that the Wolves are finished and have sold out to the English and they are the only chapter who uphold the rights of the Welsh-speaking minority. Fucking bastards.’
‘Where did she hear this?’
‘Well, she hadn’t been well, so she went to stay with her old mum at Pwllehli. There w
as about five left down at the village. She said the radio talked about casualties. And possible fatalities.’
Gerry reached out and touched Gwyn on the shoulder. ‘One favour, Gwyn. Stay until after the meeting with the Americans. It’s only another three hours or so. Please. Then you can take all the brothers – Cyllell, Deintydd, Bardd – all of them, and get the Wolves riding again.’
Gwyn turned and flashed a grin at him. ‘But, how about you? If you want, we’ll stay till the tour’s over.’
‘No, boyo. The girls are leaving after the tour. Things are changing. We’re all going to have to look to new roads to run this summer;’
‘Even Brenda?’
‘Yes. Shove off now, while I put me best colours on. Then come back here with a bottle of Comfort, and we’ll talk tactics. Bring the council with you.’
Like a blown wave, Gwyn was at the door. Gerry shouted to him: ‘Listen. If you Welsh poofs have trouble up there. The Last Heroes’ll come and sort you out. All of you.’ Under his breath. Very quietly, he couldn’t help muttering: ‘What’s left of us.’
‘Wolf, is there anywhere round here we can get any fucking food that isn’t recycled shit?’
The speaker was Rick Padrino – known as ‘Greek’ to the brothers in his chapter, and as the ‘Godfather’ to the rest of underground America. He was extremely tall – six eight – and thin as a drinking straw. He wore his hair long and tied back in a pony-tail with a red velvet ribbon.
The Laurel Canyon chapter had roared up to the meeting place at the theatre carpark at exactly one o’clock. They all wore black leather, rather than denims, for their colours, and they all rode immaculate Harleys. The flashlights of the Press and the glowing floods of the video people shone and bounced off the mass of chrome.
Gerry had deliberately tried to keep the confrontation as low-key as possible, by leaving their hogs out of sight, and only meeting them with a dozen of the top brothers, on foot. The rest of the chapter were around, watching from hiding.
Padrino had been cool – super-cool – and had shaken hands gently with Gerry. If he was aware of being watched from windows and behind walls, of gun barrels pointing at him, he showed no sign of it.
There, in the spring sunshine, the two chapters met and mingled, drinking the Southern Comfort provided by Rupert Colt. And charged to Albert Donegan Enterprises. As soon as the initial meeting was over, Rupert appeared, shaking hands everywhere, and making himself suitably effusive. The dark figure of Assistant Chief Constable Penn also appeared, introducing himself to the Americans. Even Freddie Dolan showed up, once more fully in control of himself.
He’d done what he promised, and there was no major confrontation between the English and American Angels. The drink flowed, and all the Laurel Canyon brothers gathered round in a sort of worship at the sight of the signature on the charter of the late and great Sonny Barger.
After the booze, and the introductions, and the initial sizing-up, thoughts turned to food. That was when Padrino asked his question.
The concert was at the new Hall in south-east London – not far from New Cross. It wasn’t an area that Gerry knew well, so he looked around at the brothers to see if any of them could help. The answer came from a small man who seemed to materialize from the floor. Although it had been many years since Rat first had his colours christened, the smell of urine and vomit seemed as fresh as the day he was initiated.
‘There’s a smashin’ chippie round the back of Nunhead. The owner keeps a stuffed parrot on the counter.’
The Last Heroes got their hogs and the two chapters rode together for the first time. Children on the pavement shouted and waved, and old men looked the other way or spat in the gutter. The Americans rode in pairs, while the English tended to go single. If they had anyone up, it would normally be their old lady.
The Laurel Canyon chapter had brought no old ladies with them at all. Just eighteen brothers. Gwyn rode next to Gerry, occasionally resting his hand on his shoulder. They both knew this would be the last time.
Although there was to be no violence between the chapters, a little needling over class started as soon as they crowded into the steamy little chip shop. It was getting towards the end of the lunch hour, and there were no other customers. The owner was a large Italian, who ran the place with his even larger wife. The vats of boiling fat bubbled and hissed behind the counter. On top of the marble counter was a long row of dirty jars, each holding two or three quarts of vinegar arid a wide assortment of pickles and huge, lumpy gherkins, bobbing and weaving in the liquid like extra-terrestrial foetuses. In pride of place, at the far end of the counter, by the cash register, stood a stuffed parrot. There were still old people around who swore they could remember the time when Zeppo had a live parrot there. He had been intensely patriotic and had called the bird ‘Neville’ after the then-Prime Minister. Now, it was dead, and viewed the strings of customers with a baleful and glassy eye. To Zeppo, it was the love of his life and woe betide any man or woman unlucky enough to knock against it.
Cassady, one of the youngest of the Laurel Canyon chapter was fascinated by the large gherkins, arid ordered four with his cod and chips. Monk pointed out he wouldn’t normally want more than one. That started it.
‘Wait a minute, there. If I wanted, I’d eat the whole jar damned jar. In fact, I will eat the whole jar.’
Watched by an amazed Zeppo – and a mute Neville – the big Angel took the long fork and proceeded to spear and devour every one of the twenty or so green gherkins from the jar. By the fourth, his eyes were beginning to water, but he ploughed remorselessly on, encouraged by the cheers and shouts of the other brothers. When he finished, even Monk congratulated him.
Rick grinned at Gerry. ‘Not a bad bit of class, eh? Any of your boys want to show us what they can do?’
Rat pushed the tall thin brother aside, with a contemptuous flick of the hand. Putting on an American accent, he swaggered through to the counter.
Narrowing his eyes, so that he thought he looked like John Wayne, Rat ran his gaze along the row of jars. And stopped at the one that had held the gherkins. Now all-it held was a couple of pints of very old and rather dirty vinegar.
He gestured to Zeppo. ‘I kinda reckon I feel like a little drink, barman. Pass me that there glass of sarsaparilla.’
Speechless, the Italian handed it to him. The watching Angels began to clap in unison, faster and faster, as the littlest brother drained the jar to the very bottom. For a moment, Rat stood there grinning proudly, then his already pale face began to turn paler. ‘Pardon me, brothers. I feel like a walk in the good old clean air.’ Then holding his hand to his mouth, Rat fled the shop.
To the amusement of the Last Heroes, Cassady had also been going a greener shade of pale and he followed Rat out of the door, muttering something about seeing how the little fellow was.
‘Honours even, Rick?’
‘I guess so, Gerry.’
But, at least one of the Last Heroes wasn’t prepared to leave it like that. Good, brotherly love is one thing, but class is class, and it has to be shown. The chance came as they neared the end of the queue. Zeppo had been getting increasingly choked-off with the kidding and jokes of the Angels. When one of the Americans came to pay him, and fumbled for the right money, Zeppo made a crack about them getting out of the country.
That was the excuse Mick Moore needed. With lightning speed, he picked up Neville, and threw him with unerring accuracy straight into the hissing chip-fat. There are still people who swear that the bird squawked as it plunged into the boiling liquid, but all that bubbled to the top was a load of feathers and a lot of sawdust. Zeppo couldn’t believe it. He clutched his head, finding it near to bursting. The Angels fell about, English and American holding each other with helpless laughter. Yet, Monk wasn’t finished. He looked at the Italian with a consoling smile. ‘You know mate; you really ought to do something about that parrot of yours. If it goes on moulting like that, it’s going to come to a sticky end.’
> ‘Things went well, didn’t they, boyo?’
‘Yes, Gwyn. I reckon that cunning little Rupert had a word with Freddie; maybe even got him some junk. And Freddie had a word with, all together now, Rick and the Laurel Canyon boys.’
The albino laughed. But it was not his usual full-throated laugh. The tension they both felt still lay between them, like a heavy curtain. The parting was upon them, and they both found it difficult to talk.
After the meeting with Rick and the brothers, Gerry had taken him round the theatre, and they had talked, with half a dozen from each chapter, about problems they’d had and what should happen that night. It was agreed that the Americans would take the front line in the theatre – fifteen of them – and that the brothers and sisters of the Last Heroes would run the auditorium and the stage itself.
The news had been broken to all about the departure of the Wolves to clean up their own patch back in North Wales. With them gone, Gerry had lost in one swoop most of the top fighters in the chapter. All he had left, apart from the usual small number of prospects, old ladies and madams, was Mick Moore, Rat, Cochise, Riddler, Dick the Hat and Hanger John.
That meant that out of the whole of the old Last Heroes chapter who’d ridden under their last president, Vincent, only five were left, plus Brenda and Forty – the gargantuan old lady of Cochise.
The death toll for both the Wolves and the Last Heroes had been heavy, even since they joined together. Kafka, Draig, Ogof, Shelob, Gafr – all righteous brothers who’d got wiped in the best of ways; wearing their colours. Three of them still to be avenged. That would come. After the end of the tour.
Now, Gwyn and Gerry lay together, relaxing after the food and drink, passing a joint backwards and forwards between them. The rest of the brothers were getting ready for the run back home.
The sun shone almost painfully off the long white hair of Gwyn. In the caverns of his face, the ruby eyes glittered as brightly as ever.
