“A proposal.”
“Shouldn’t we have a tryout, at least, before we”—Dean stops himself saying jump into bed together—“decide anything?”
“Definitely. As Fate would have it, you have your bass here, and a fired-up audience. All I need from you is the nod.”
What’s he talking about? “This is Archie Kinnock’s gig. He’s got a bassist. We can’t do an audition now.”
Levon takes off his blue glasses and commences to clean the lenses. “But the answer to the question Would you like a tryout with Jasper and Griff? is Yes, yes?”
“Well, yeah, I s’pose, but—”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Frankland puts his glasses back on. “I have an appointment. It shan’t take long.”
“An appointment? Now? Who with?”
“The Dark Arts.”
* * *
—
WHILE HE’S WAITING for Levon Frankland to return, Dean stands in the corner guarding his bass and his rucksack. The Small Faces’ “Sha-La-La-La-Lee” is playing. Dean’s thinking the lyrics could be better, when a familiar voice says, “Mosser!” Dean stares back at his beaky-nosed, wide-eyed, goofy-grinning friend from art school, Kenny Yearwood. “Kenny!”
“So, yer still alive. Christ, yer hair’s got longer.”
“Yours is shorter.”
“It’s called ‘getting a real job.’ Can’t say as I’m a fan. Was yer back at Christmas? Didn’t see yer down the Captain Marlow.”
“Yeah, but I had flu so I stayed at my nan’s. Didn’t call up any o’ the old gang.” Couldn’t face any of the old gang, more like.
“Are yer still with Battleship Potemkin? I heard rumors about EMI signing yer or something.”
“Nah, it all turned to shit. I left the band last October.”
“Oh. Plenty more fish in the sea, right?”
“Let’s hope so.”
“So…who are yer playing with now?”
“Not…uh…well…kind of. We’ll see.”
Kenny waits for Dean to answer properly. “Are yer okay?”
Dean finds the truth is less exhausting than a lie. “It’s been a bitch of a day, since yer ask. I got mugged this morning.”
“Fucking hell, Mosser.”
“Six bastards jumped me. I got in a couple o’ decent punches but they took my rent money—all the money I had, in fact—so my landlady kicked me out. To cap it all, I got fired from the coffee shop I was working at. So yer find me neck-deep in shit, my friend.”
“So where’re yer staying now?”
“Someone’s sofa till Monday.”
“And after Monday?”
“Something’ll turn up. Just don’t tell anyone in Gravesend, all right? People gossip, then Nan Moss ’n’ Bill ’n’ my brother’ll hear, and they’ll fret ’n’ stuff, so—”
“Yeah, sure, but look. Have a sub till yer back on yer feet.” Kenny’s wallet is out and he’s slipped something into Dean’s pocket. “That’s five quid, not me going for a quick grope.”
Dean’s mortified. “Mate, I wasn’t on the scav, I didn’t—”
“I know. I know. But if the shoe was on the other foot, yer’d do the same for me, yeah?”
Dean considers giving the money back, for all of three seconds. Five pounds will feed him for a fortnight. “Jesus, Kenny, I don’t know how to thank yer. I’ll pay yer back.”
“I know. Get yer record deal first.”
“I won’t forget. Honest to God. Cheers. I—”
Shrieks and shouts break out. A man’s lunging through the crowd, knocking over punters left and right. Kenny dodges one way and Dean the other. It’s Larry Ratner, the Blues Cadillac bassist, bolting for the stairs—chased by Archie Kinnock, who trips over Dean’s Fender case, which has slid to the floor. Archie Kinnock lands awkwardly and thumps his head on the concrete ground. Ratner reaches the steep steps and bounds up them, two at a time, barging past startled patrons of 2i’s. Archie Kinnock gets to his feet—his nose is half mashed—and bellows up the stairs, “I’m gonna rip your bleedin’ heart out! Just like you ripped mine!” Then he staggers up the stairs after his bandmate and is gone, too.
Everyone looks at everyone else.
“What the hell was that about?” asks Kenny.
Dean edits and stores Archie’s threat: I’m gonna rip-rip-rip your heart out, just like you ripped mine.
Levon Frankland appears. “Jeez, did you see that?”
“Couldn’t miss it. Levon, this is Kenny, a friend from art college. We were in a band together in an earlier life.”
“A pleasure, Kenny. Levon Frankland. I hope you both dodged hurricanes Kinnock and Ratner just now.”
“Yeah,” says Kenny, “by a few inches. What was that about?”
Frankland performs an exaggerated shrug. “All I know is gossip, rumor, and hearsay, and who listens to that?”
“Gossip, rumor, and hearsay about what?” insists Dean.
“Larry Ratner, Archie Kinnock’s wife, a torrid affair, and financial irregularities.”
Dean decodes this. “Larry was doing Archie Kinnock’s wife?”
“An ounce of perception, a pound of obscure.”
“And Archie Kinnock just found this out?” asks Kenny. “Just now? Halfway through a gig?”
Levon looks thoughtful and somber. “It might explain his homicidal rage, I suppose. What do you think?”
Before Dean can analyze the implications further, Oscar Morton—the Brylcreemed, owl-eyed manager of the 2i’s club—steams by, heading to the sunken bunker.
“Would you mind keeping an eye on Dean’s rucksack for a moment, Kenny?” asks Levon. “Dean and I may be needed.”
“Uh…sure.” Kenny looks as confused as Dean. The manager steers Dean by the elbow in the wake of Oscar Morton.
“Where’re we going?” asks Dean.
“I hear knocking. Don’t you?”
“Knocking? What’s knocking?”
“Opportunity.”
* * *
—
THE SUNKEN BUNKER smells of drains. Oscar Morton is interrogating the two remaining members of Blues Cadillac and doesn’t notice Dean and Frankland slip in through the door. Jasper de Zoet is in a low-slung chair with his Stratocaster on his lap. Griff the drummer is pissed off. “Off the nearest cliff, I hope. I turned down two weeks at Blackpool Winter Gardens for this fookin’ bollocks.”
The 2i’s manager tries Jasper de Zoet. “Will they be back?”
“I couldn’t say.” De Zoet sounds posh and indifferent.
“But what happened?” asks Morton.
“The phone went.” Griff nods at the black telephone on the table. “Kinnock picked up. He just listened, frowning, for about a minute. His face turned to blue fookin’ murder. He looked at Ratner. I thought, Eh up, something’s not right, but Ratner didn’t notice. He was restringing his bass. When whoever was calling finished, Kinnock hung up without saying a word and looked at Ratner, who finally noticed and told Kinnock he looked like he’d shat his pants. Kinnock asked Ratner, dead quiet, ‘Are you shagging Joy? And have you bought a flat together with the band’s money?’ ”
“Who’s Joy?” asks Oscar Morton. “Archie’s girlfriend?”
“Mrs. Joy Kinnock,” answers Griff. “Archie’s wife.”
“Oh great,” says Morton. “So what did Larry say?”
“Nothing,” replies Griff. “So Kinnock said, ‘It’s true, then.’ And Ratner came out with a load of garble about how they were waiting for the right time to tell him, and that the flat was an investment for the band, and how you can’t choose who you fall in love with. Once he said the L-word, Kinnock turned full-on Incredible Hulk and…you saw him out there, right? If Ratner hadn’t been sitting closest to the door and got away, he’d probably be dead.�
�
Oscar Morton massages his temples. “Who called?”
“Not a clue,” says Griff.
“Can you two play the second set?”
“Don’t be fookin’ daft,” replies the drummer.
“Electric blues with no bass?” Jasper makes a dubious face. “It would sound one-dimensional. And who’d play harp?”
“Blind Willie Johnson just had a battered acoustic,” says Oscar Morton. “No amps, no drums, no nothing.”
“If you want me gone,” says the drummer, “just pay up.”
“I agreed to pay Archie for ninety minutes,” says Oscar Morton. “You’ve done thirty. Until I get ninety, I owe you sod-all.”
“Gentlemen.” Levon speaks up. “I have a proposal.”
Oscar Morton turns around. “Who are you?”
“Levon Frankland, Moonwhale Music. This is my client, the bassist Dean Moss, and we may just be your way out.”
I am? thinks Dean. We are?
“The way out of what?” asks Morton.
“Of your dilemma,” says Levon. “Outside are a hundred punters who’ll soon start screaming for refunds. Refunds, Mr. Morton. Rents are up. Christmas bills are due. A hundred refunds is the last thing you need. But if you refuse…” Levon winces, “…half those kids are off their tits on speed. Things could get very nasty. Riotous, even. What will the City of Westminster magistrates make of that? You need to conjure up a new band. Without delay.”
“Which you just happen to have,” says Griff, “hidden cunningly up your large intestine?”
“Which we happen to have”—Levon indicates the players—“right here. Jasper de Zoet, guitar and vocals; Peter ‘Griff’ Griffin, drums; and introducing”—he slaps Dean’s shoulder—“Dean Moss, bass prodigy, harp, vocals. Has Fender, will play.”
The drummer looks at Dean askance. “You just happen to have a bass with you, just as our bassist runs out on us?”
“My bass ’n’ all my worldly goods. I had to leave my bedsit in a hurry earlier.”
Jasper has been strangely quiet throughout, but now he asks Dean, “How good are you, then?”
“Better than Larry Ratner,” replies Dean.
“Dean’s superb,” says Levon. “I don’t take on amateurs.”
The drummer puffs on his cigarette. “Can you sing?”
“Better than Archie Kinnock,” says Dean.
“So does a castrated donkey,” says Griff.
“What songs do yer know?” asks Jasper.
“Uh…I could do ‘House of the Rising Sun,’ ‘Johnny B. Goode,’ ‘Chain Gang.’ Can yer two play those?”
“Blindfolded,” says Griff, “with one hand up our jaxies.”
“I run this venue,” says Oscar Morton. “And if these three have never played together, how do I know they’ll be any good?”
“You know they’ll be good,” says Levon, “because Jasper’s virtuosic and Griff played in the Wally Whitby Five. Dean you’ll have to take on trust.”
Griff’s growl sounds not displeased. Jasper isn’t saying no. Dean is thinking, I’ve got nothing to lose. Oscar Morton looks sweaty and sick and needs one more push.
“I know showbiz is full of bullshit merchants,” says Levon. “We’ve both met far too many. But I am not one.”
The owner of 2i’s releases a sigh. “Don’t let me down.”
“You won’t regret it,” promises Levon, “and for fifteen quid they’re a steal.” He tells the musicians: “Gentlemen, you get four pounds each. My commission is three. Agreed?”
“Hold your horses!” Oscar Morton is appalled. “Fifteen smackers? For three unknowns? You’re putting me on!”
Levon stares back for a drawn-out moment. “Dean, I misread the situation. It looks as if Mr. Morton doesn’t want a way out after all. Let’s leave before the argy-bargy really kicks off.”
“Wait wait wait!” Morton’s bluff is called. “I didn’t say I’d pay nothing. But I was only paying Archie Kinnock twelve.”
Levon peers over his blue shades. “Ah, but we both know that Archie Kinnock’s fee was eighteen pounds. Don’t we?”
Oscar Morton hesitates for too long and is lost.
Griff darkens. “Eighteen? Archie told us it was twelve.”
“Which is why you insist on paperwork,” says Levon. “What’s not written in ink on paper is, de jure, written in piss on snow.”
A sweaty bouncer enters. “They’re getting rowdy, boss.”
Angry shouts find their way in: “Where’s the fackin’ band?” “Eight bob for four songs?” “We’ve been had! We’ve been had! We’ve been had!” “Re-fund! Re-fund! Re-fund!”
“What happens next, boss?” asks the bouncer.
* * *
—
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” Oscar Morton leans into the mic. “Due to”—a jag of feedback buys Dean extra seconds to check the leads—“unforeseen circumstances, Archie Kinnock’s Blues Cadillac won’t be joining us for Act Two…” The crowd jeers and boos. “But, but, we have a very special act lined up instead…”
Dean tunes up while testing the levels on Ratner’s amp. Jasper tells him, “We’ll go in A major. Griff, give us a driving canter, the way the Animals do it?” The drummer nods. Dean makes a ready-as-I’ll-ever-be face. Levon stands with his arms folded, looking pleased. It ain’t yer who’ll get torn to shreds by a mob of hopped-up Archie Kinnock fans if this goes tits up, thinks Dean. Jasper tells Oscar Morton, “When you’re ready.”
“The 2i’s is proud to present, for one night only…I give you…”
Only now does Dean realize they don’t have a name.
Levon’s face goes, Okay, a name, think of a name!
Jasper looks at Dean and mouths, Any ideas?
Dean’s about to step in with—with what? The Pickpockets? The Evicted? The Penniless? The Anythings?
“I give you,” bellows Oscar Morton, “the—Way—Out!”
A RAFT AND A RIVER
By day three after the bust-up, Elf admitted to herself that, this time, Bruce might not be coming back. The misery was incessant. Bruce’s toothbrush, any song about a breakup, no matter how slushy, or even the sight of his jar of Vegemite in the pantry was enough to set her off sobbing. Not knowing his whereabouts was unbearable, but she was too afraid to phone their friends to ask if they’d seen him. If they hadn’t, she’d have to explain why she was asking. If they had, she’d only humiliate herself and embarrass them by insisting on every last agonizing detail.
On Day Four, she went to pay her phone bill before she got disconnected. She stopped for a coffee at the Etna, where she bumped into Andy from Les Cousins. Before he even asked after Bruce, Elf blurted out that he was visiting relatives in Nottingham. Her lie appalled her. Pathetic, the speed at which she went from a modern girl who wasn’t going to be treated like a doormat to a dumped dumpy ex-girlfriend. “Ex.” She felt like Billie Holiday in “Don’t Explain,” minus the tragic glamour of heroin addiction…
All of which only partly explained why Elf slid her key into the lock of her own flat’s door as quietly as a burglar. If, if, if Bruce had come home, she didn’t want to startle him into taking flight. Stupid? Yes. Irrational? Yes. But broken hearts aren’t clever or logical. Creaklessly, then, on a midweek afternoon in February, Elf let herself in, praying that Bruce would be home…
* * *
—
…AND THERE WAS Bruce’s suitcase. His coat, his hat, and his scarf were draped over it. Elf heard him in the bedroom. She breathed properly for the first time in four days. She held his scarf to her face and inhaled its woolly damp Bruceness. Those Twiggy-thin fans who showed up to Fletcher & Holloway gigs, who gazed at Bruce, who glowered at Elf, they were wrong, wrong, wrong. Elf wasn’t Bruce’s stepping-stone. He loved her. Elf called, “I’m home, Kangaroo!” then waited
for Bruce to reply, “Wombat!” and rush through to kiss her.
But when Bruce came through, his face was stony. LPs poked out of his rucksack. “Thought you were teaching this morning.”
Elf didn’t understand. “The class had flu…but hi.”
“Thought I’d pick up the rest of my stuff.”
Elf realized the suitcase by the door was not full of things Bruce was bringing back but removing. “You came when I was out.”
“Thought it’d be better.”
“Where have you been staying? I was worried sick.”
“A friend.” Flatly, like it was none of her business.
“Which friend?” Elf couldn’t help it. If it was a male friend, Bruce the Australian should have said “a mate.” “A girl?”
Bruce sighed like a patient grown-up. “Why do you do this?”
Elf folded her arms like a wronged woman. “Do what?”
“You’re so possessive. That’s why you pushed me away.”
“Meaning, ‘I’ll do whatever I want and if you complain, you’re a hysterical bitch’?”
Bruce shut his eyes as if at a throbbing headache.
“If you’re dumping me, just tell me it’s over.”
“Suit yourself.” Bruce looked at her. “It’s—over.”
“What about the duo?” Elf could hardly breathe. “Toby’s about to offer us an album.”
“No, he isn’t.” Bruce said it like she was a foreigner he had to speak loudly at. “The album isn’t happening.”
“You don’t want to make an album?” Her voice was a husk.
“A&B Records don’t want a Fletcher and Holloway album after all. ‘Shepherd’s Crook,’ I quote, ‘did not meet expectations.’ No album. We’re dropped. The duo’s finished.”
Below, a motorbike snarled through Livonia Street. Dispatch riders and petty criminals used it as a shortcut.
Two floors up, Elf wanted to dry-retch. “No.”
“Call Toby if you think I’m lying.”
“What about the gigs? Andy’s given us the nine o’clock slot at Cousins next Sunday. There’s the Cambridge Festival next month.”
Utopia Avenue Page 3
