Dean looks around to check nobody saw. “I’m already in a band. I already have a deal. I already have a manager.”
“And Levon is a very nice guy. Very Canadian. But business is a jungle, and you need carnivores, not nice guys. Mr. Klein could close you a deal for two solo records worth a quarter of a million dollars. Not ‘in theory.’ No ifs, no buts. Now.”
The party sound recedes, leaving only the number, which Dean can’t quite believe. “Did you just say…”
“One quarter of a million dollars. A life-altering sum. Think about it. Mr. Klein will be expecting your call. Enjoy the party.” Jeb Malone vanishes in a puff of joint smoke.
Dean heads for the lookout deck at the end of the garden. A quarter of a million dollars. On a nearby roof, cats screech songs of feline lust. “Dean Moss,” says a woman, who might have slid off an Egyptian vase. Kohled eyes, linen shift, stern black hair. “I’m Callista, and I have an unusual passion. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”
“Or maybe I haven’t.” Dean drinks from his bottle of beer.
“I take plaster casts of the penises of rock stars.”
Most of Dean’s beer exits via his nostrils.
“I’ve done Jimi Hendrix,” Callista recounts, “Noel Redding, Eric Burdon, but his broke in two. The cast, I mean. Not the penis.”
She’s serious. “Why?”
“If the penis droops in mid-session, a crack can appear.”
“No, I mean why d’yer do plaster casts o’ knobs?”
“A girl needs a hobby. It’ll only take an hour, and my friend comes along to plate you, so don’t worry about stage fright.”
“Try Griff. A drummer’ll do a lot for free plating.”
“There’s only one man in Utopia Avenue I really want…”
“Good luck with yer collection, Callista.”
“Booo-rrring.” Plaster-caster Callista exits the scene.
Dean continues his journey over to the lookout deck.
“Quite a show you guys put on,” says a face with a horseshoe mustache. He looks like a Mexican bandit who gets shot first in a Spaghetti Western. “ ‘Look Who It Isn’t’ kinda oiled my gun.”
“Jesus bloody Christ. Yer Frank bloody Zappa.”
“On my better days I am,” says Frank Zappa.
Dean shakes his hand. “Janis Joplin put me on to We’re Only In It for the Money. It’s indescribable. It’s—”
“I’ll take ‘indescribable.’ Like Charles Mingus says, writing about music is like dancing about architecture.”
A woman nestles into Frank Zappa’s side. She’s holding a glass of milk. “Hi, I’m Gail. The dreaded wife. We dig your band.”
Mr. Zappa smiles at Mrs. Zappa with pride and affection.
“Nice to meet yer.” He tokes on his reefer. “Care for a puff?”
“We’re abstainers,” says Frank. “The world is majestic enough.”
Frank Zappa doesn’t do drugs? “That’s cool. So, Frank, how’d yer get MGM to release the least commercial LP ever made?”
“My guile and MGM’s ignorance. If you think my stuff’s uncommercial, try Stravinsky. Try Halim El-Dabh. Or try braining Randy Thorn with a guitar on live TV. Pure performance art.”
“That was just…an unplanned accident,” says Dean.
“Accidents are often art’s best bits,” remarks Frank.
“It’ll buy you an authenticity that money can’t,” says Gail. “Utopia Avenue are now the Anti-Monkees.”
A diver belly flops into the pool. Onlookers go, “Woooooo!”
“So what do you think of the place?” asks Frank.
“Laurel Canyon? It’s like the Garden of Eden.”
“The Garden of Eden’s no Paradise,” says Frank.
“I thought it was the original Paradise,” says Dean.
“It’s the original horror show. God creates Eden and puts a naked man and a naked woman in charge. ‘All this is yours,’ His Omniscience says, ‘but whatever you do, DON’T eat this apple dangling HERE on the Tree of Knowledge, or BAD SHIT will go down.’ Why not go the whole hog and hang an EAT ME sign on it? Adam and Eve deserve medals for holding out so long. God has to crack them with the old phallic talking-snake trick. So they eat the knowledge—as God intended all along—and get punished with menstruation, work, and corduroy pants. The carnivores turn on the herbivores and the soil of Eden is soaked in blood. See? The original horror show.”
Dean frowns. “What’re yer saying, Frank? That Laurel Canyon’s a bloodbath waiting to happen?”
“I’m saying,” replies Frank, “that if you ever think, I’ve found Paradise, you are not in possession of the facts. Don’t be dazzled by peacocks either. They’re vain, ornery sons-of-bitches who shit like it’s going out of style.”
* * *
—
DEAN STANDS ON the lookout deck at the end of the garden, smoking Jeb Malone’s second joint, imagining himself on the prow of a ship. Insects trill by the million. Stars run rampant by the billion. If, just if, in the future, or a next-door universe where Utopia Avenue is over, and I’m a free agent, and I call Allen Klein and if, if, I got that quarter-million…which one o’ them houses’d I fancy? He settles on a big house three properties over. It’s all arches and terra-cotta with giant ferns. A couple are enjoying a late hot tub under the half-moon and stars. Dean imagines he’s watching himself and Tiffany. Tiffany’s kids don’t exist in this universe. There’s a garage for Dean’s Triumph Spitfire, which he’d have shipped over, naturally, and space for Nan Moss and Bill, and Ray and his family to come and stay…And what about Harry Moffat? I don’t know. I still don’t know. Some things are so much easier not to think about—and America is an endless, world-class distraction, if nothing else. Elf joins him at the rail. “Which house are you planning to splurge your ill-gotten gains on, then?”
“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 gray 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 peo
ple 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 humor 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 earplugs 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 aluminum frame. It’s everything his old bedsit at Mrs. Nevitt’s wasn’t. The British upper classes, Dean thinks, favor 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 percent 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 shines, 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#D 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.”<
br />
“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 poppy seed, 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 check 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 check clears?”
“They’ll send the what?”
Utopia Avenue Page 59
