The Acid King

by Maggie Abbott

  THE ACID KING

  Maggie Abbott

  Published by

  Escargot-Books

  Ojai, California

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE ACID KING

  Copyright © 2004 Maggie Abbott.

  First Escargot-Books edition: June 2013.

  All rights reserved.

  Maggie Abbott asserts her moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Library of Congress Registration Certificate

  TXul-145-719 November 10 2003

  Cover Design: RL Designs

  ISBN 978-1-908191-78-6 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-908191-79-3 Kindle

  eBook editions by eBooks By Barb for booknook.biz

  To my brother George W. Bambrough, MBE

  PROLOGUE

  1984

  Virginia Water, Windsor Great Park, England – Saturday

  Serene flute music oozed from an expensive stereo. The cerebral Indian tones permeated every corner of an enormous white room the exact center of which was occupied by a slender long-haired man in lotus position on a dhurrie rug. Though engaged in meditation, his eyelids flickered at the muted ringing of a phone in the next room, then his head inclined to listen to a low voice answering it. Pete Stebbings’ curiosity about the call on his private line took precedence over any commitment to spiritual contemplation.

  His middle aged cockney minder, Tony, walked tentatively into the room carrying a cordless phone for Pete’s attention. Tony had been in faithful service to his former school mate since rock and roll sounded the siren call, and by the time Pete made him official butler, he had acquired the grace and tact of a ballet dancer without the feet and the face. He whispered that it was Maddy, calling from Los Angeles.

  Pete put on a pained face but clicked his fingers and beckoned the phone towards him. Then he opened his eyes. He simultaneously scooped up a palm of pistachio nuts from a bowl near him on the floor and tucked the phone under his chin, casually picking apart the first nut. A supercilious smile matched the tone of his voice.

  “Well, it’s the Lady Madeleine visiting the colonies. To what do we owe…”

  “Cut it out, Pete, you smug little bastard. I’m not calling to ask you for anything. I’m doing fine, the kid’s fine, she was sixteen two months ago and that’s not what I’m calling about either.”

  Pete took a slow deliberate pick at his teeth with the long nail of a raised pinkie finger, revealing a dull gold eye tooth. The memorable famous face was a study in rock nostalgia, pouting lips and cat’s eyes still a perfect fit with the sharp Nordic nose and waving blond hair. The only reminder of father time was the map of wrinkles on it.

  Pete removed the food particle and flicked it away. He knew Madeleine would not break the silence until he apologized. Or made a pretense at apologia, which was the closest he could get, but he was going to take his time, just to annoy the bitch.

  The fragment of damp pistachio landed on the lapel of Tony’s black butler jacket. He discreetly drew a clean folded handkerchief from his top pocket, scooped up the missile and flipped it onto the carpet, replacing the hankie with the same dexterity. Out of the corner of his eye Pete was aware of Tony’s moves and used it as an excuse to smile.

  “Alright, let’s start again, then. Good morning, Madeleine, how are you and how is Charlotte, and I did send her a birthday present, you knew that.”

  “Yes, I did. I also knew you didn’t pick it out, nor did you remember the date. Your highly skilled slaves take care of that kind of thing, they’ve got better taste than you. That’s how I can tell. Oh, I hear you’re raiding the Far East now for suitably obedient female staff. How is Ling Ling?”

  “That’s one of the Pandas, you cow. Her name is Ling Pai and for once I’ve got a woman who doesn’t talk too much. She’s also great at figures, so I’m richer than I used to be.”

  “Alright Pete, leave it be. I never should even attempt these conversations with you. I just couldn’t resist telling you I found the Acid King.”

  Pete’s expressive face stopped the chewing and grimacing, and dropped its gravity for a few seconds, frozen in response. Suddenly he seemed dwarfed in the large room.

  “You what?”

  “Met him by chance last night, at some club, and a group of us went to his hippie pad for a drink. It was like Lazarus rose from the dead. I haven’t been able to sleep, and I’m catching a plane later today after a bunch of interviews. Obviously he doesn’t want anyone to know who he is. He’s got a phony name. But I had to tell you.”

  Pete had by now adjusted his face to register disdain at the news. He sat in silence for a moment.

  “That bastard is still alive, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  Another moment of silence as Pete thought of the lives ruined, left in the wake of the man’s deceitful acts.

  Finally he spoke, his words considered.

  “That’s a pity, isn’t it?”

  Without waiting for an answer.

  “Thanks for letting me know.”

  Then Pete put down the phone.

  CHAPTER 1

  Inside his state-of-the-art handsomely equipped recording studio less than an hour later, Pete stopped trying to work on the lyrics for a new song, and submitted to the jarring interruption of his meditation. He’d been denying the assault on his peace and privacy. Now he couldn’t concentrate on his work. Nagging ideas, bitter memories and a mounting sense of irritation were taking over. He hated not being in control. Now he felt driven to share the news with someone. Who else but his former best friend Barry Turnbull, the other victim of Mister X’s drug deal gone wrong.

  Pete punched two numbers on the wall phone and Tony’s voice immediately answered on speaker.

  “Er, Tony, no call from the record company then? Mmmm. Get Barry Turnbull on the phone will yer, we’ve got the number somewhere.”

  Pete’s face registered the strain of remembering an image from that night he’d never forget. It was one of several horrors that burned in his mind when he opened the hatch on that particular subterranean area called sixties memories he had cut out of his biography. This one was King Leo sitting in Jeremy’s high backed antique armchair, primly nursing his silver attaché case while the local constabulary slowly felt inside all the pockets of every jacket, trouser and coat they could find in the house, looking for evidence of illegal substances.

  The dealer had just glibly persuaded the cops to keep their hands off his case of precious unprocessed film. It was outrageous. “I’m a filmmaker, that’s my life’s work in there, my movie, exposed film that would be ruined if you touch it,” he’d purred and pleaded.

  Everyone else in the room knew what was really in those foil-wrapped packages, but couldn’t say anything without incriminating themselves. Jeremy had some morphine in his toilet bag but his rich dad and various physicians would be able to fix that.

  When the local boys in blue brought out some pills and a small bag of marijuana from their search, Pete and Barry exchanged the same horrified look. Pete never forgot that look. It said exactly what he already knew. It was all over. They’d never get out of this. It was beginning real slow, but a life of hell was about to start for the boy rockers.

  Pete shook his head free of
the nasty recall. He dug around on the shelves flanking the stereo unit, pulled out some old audio tapes with handwritten labels and squinted at the titles, knowing what he was looking for. He dropped a tape into the player and punched the start button. An infectious sixties number one hit blew the room inside out in spite of the limits of its eight track recording equipment. Two male voices brayed out clear lyrics in close harmony. Peter’s face softened into an affectionate smile. There was no bitterness in his memory of good times with Barry when they were London’s most popular band.

  ***

  In Pete’s large country house kitchen Tony sat with a younger London lad in chauffeur’s gray uniform. They were perched on bar stools at the kitchen counter chomping on their sandwiches and potato chips. In the background an elderly woman in an old fashioned floral pinafore was rolling dough in a leisurely rhythm.

  “If the number’s not in the rolodex and he’s not listed anywhere in the whole of Northumberland, then we’ve got to look at the old phone books. I know the box they’re in, Freddie. Finish that and we’re going to the garage.”

  “Oh hell, Tony, I’ve got time off this afternoon, right after lunch,” moaned the young dark man in a rich second generation east end accent not at all related to his Jamaican face.

  “The answer to that, Freddie, is tough shit. Himself wants to make a phone call. We’re here to facilitate that. Right now. Forget the rest of that sandwich.”

  “Don’t be hard on the young man, Tony,” said the old lady.

  “Keep out of this, Mum. I have to train them around here. You just feed ’em and spoil ’em it seems to me.”

  Tony laughed when he said this, and slapped his mother playfully on the bottom, getting her chuckled approval. She was already placing shrink wrap round Freddie’s unfinished sandwich.

  “He’s been waiting fifteen minutes already, you know he don’t take excuses.”

  The intercom rang loudly on the kitchen extension.

  “There he is, already wanting to know. You tell him, Mum, just that we’ve gone to the garage to get the old phone books, won’t be a jiffy. And he’s getting his favorite treacle tart for dessert tonight.”

  After leaving the garage and a surprisingly successful rip through the boxes, Tony decided to deliver the good news in person, and tapped lightly on the recording studio door before walking in, still holding the door handle. He raised a folded piece of paper between two fingers.

  “Got the number now, guv. Want me to get him on the line for you?”

  “No, I’ll dial it myself,” said Pete, reaching out for the number.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Rose Bowl, Los Angeles – Friday

  Ann glared at the plastic glass in her hand, blaming it for everything that was wrong about this evening, then swatted a few looks of contempt around the large tent set up as a hospitality room for friends and guests of Swindon Lodge, one of the few rock stars big enough to fill the Bowl these days. This looked like backstage area B to her, containing a number of flashy celebrities and die-hard names from the seventies party set, most of whom were delighted to see her. Probably because they didn’t know she’d been out of the loop just as long as they had.

  She knew for a fact that the current A List were in a more secure area where the star held court, and she was already certain he’d not be visiting this sub-group, preparing herself to be mortified when she failed to introduce her companion, ambitious young studio guy, Craig, to her famous friend as promised. What a pointless evening. And she still had to face several hours of old Swinny’s too familiar pop ballads delivered with that well-honed joie de vivre spreading intimacy to each fan throughout the vastness of the Bowl.

  Why did she always do this? Bringing some prop instead of having the guts to go alone to an event. She could have attached herself to Swindon’s manager when he’d called to offer her tickets, but he’d clearly stated two comps. Maybe it was a message, she’d thought, keeping the distance of time and their social separation where it stood, still sensitive about herself and her slow slide down from the top of the heap.

  So for a fraction of a second that thought had stopped her from offering him one comp back—he might have jumped at that—and asking nicely to share his company, thereby joining the inner sanctum where she belonged. Used to belong. Everything was too big now, the sanctum now a glut of famous names who had never met Swindon before, cleverly congregated by their domineering press agents. In the old days such people were classified as liggers and starfuckers, and only close friends were back there drinking the best champagne out of proper glasses to toast the rockers before they hit the stage and took on the hungry hordes.

  These days the hungry hordes were backstage, requiring tight security to keep the superstar’s current group away from accumulated old friends and their too ordinary companions, but the door was always open for the new big stars he hadn’t met yet. And the eighties was bulging with them, the big hair and shoulder pad set, inspired by Miami Vice, and recently branded by the heat of Vanity Fair and Entertainment Tonight.

  Celebrity was a club where stars felt comfortable only around each other. It wasn’t smart to be around people who couldn’t afford to bring their own lollies. Stars were guarded like the crown jewels. Passes handed out to old friends and family folk which landed them in Area B, where Ann was now. Old darlings who had sagged into the L.A. cesspool and were no longer either useful or glamorous. Worn out by too much competition and excesses of low grade coke.

  Only well-established importance or meteorite fame stamped a passport into this Shangri La owned tonight by Swindon, Teddy and the branded headliners, with their lean sleek agenda of couture, well publicized deals, and arriving big at awards evenings.

  ***

  God she was sour this evening. She hated herself for brooding about the past. If she’d never come to Swindon’s big event, this irritating nostalgia wouldn’t be interfering with her peace of mind. Or at least her very long road to find peace of mind, which seemed to be taking as long as withdrawal from a drug habit. Not that she’d ever had one, but she did have inside knowledge of how hard they were to shake.

  The monkey on Ann Stapleton’s back was the high of being a popular success, and the bruising pain of losing it all and not being on anyone’s A list any more. Her choice. A wise one but bloody hard on her pride, and now she’d ruined her progress by letting in another glimpse of the way things had changed. She’d have to drive down Sunset to The Shrine for a few hours tomorrow, she decided, and get her spirits back to normal.

  Ann sipped at the empty plastic, caught the ready eye of a waiter, shrugged privately and reminded herself that she’d somehow have the last laugh, it usually worked that way. She wished there were at least two or three of the young club scenesters in the room, but she knew in their reverse snobbery they wouldn’t be seen dead at a middle aged event like this. Anyway she’d be meeting them in all their defiant punk glory tonight at the Lingerie, so she accepted another refill of pretty good Chardonnay, let go of the evil shit and started to enjoy this scene. She’d already hugged and done the tra la la with everybody in the room she knew.

  Now she smiled at Craig, who was doing the neck exercise. Peering in all directions at the people in the room and sizing up the ones he wanted to greet. Ah, there was one. He excused himself and went off to talk to the young woman she recognized as the next big wheel at Paramount. Ann enjoyed the moment because she knew both Craig and the girl were guaranteed to be important studio moguls very soon and would qualify for the A room. They had the dedication. Ann only had the vision, not always a friend to her. Now she settled into her favorite pastime. Observing while sipping, never mind the container.

  CHAPTER 3

  Outside the tent, set apart from the huge number of fans sauntering around the grounds before concert time, some people in a group at the backstage VIP entrance were still vocally presenting their case to be allowed in. Vince Axle, a huge young hunk in security uniform, remained impartial but reasonable, ex
plaining that the unfortunate ones either didn’t have a pass at all, which was an easy one to argue, or that they might have expected to get a pass, or even been promised a pass by some poseur, but their name wasn’t on the list, and the list was final. Which caused a lot of moaning and counter argument.

  When a tall elegant woman arrived at the entrance, pardoning herself with enough authority to part the crowds, there was more grumbling. A man who’d been quietly standing behind the guard came forward to greet her.

  “Miss Raleigh. Good evening.”

  “Reggie! Well, how nice to see you. Still here, then?”

  “Yes, that much is the same. I was looking out for you. Come on in.”

  “Thanks, Reggie. Nice suit.”

  “Hey!” called out one of the frustrated. “Thought you said there’s a list. Why’re you letting her in?”

  “You don’t know Madeleine Raleigh, dude, you don’t know rock and roll,” said Vince, playing his best line of the night. He loved this job.

  Inside the crowded tent, Ann was back in good spirits again, giving a witty commentary to Craig as she pointed out some of the former luminaries getting into party mood with plenty of good wine and enough nibbles to make up for the obvious fact that Swindon was nowhere to be seen yet. Perhaps the more cynical among them had got the picture by now. Swindon Lodge was not coming to join the lowly, there was too much fun going on inside, with the latest hot young actors from the Coppola and Hughes stables, all telling great yarns, their loving babes in awe.

  With her view of the entrance into the tent, Ann spotted Madeleine immediately and lit up in recognition before everyone else in the room did. It was probably that which drew Madeleine’s attention to her, as she came over to Ann, smiling broadly, arms already extended wide for a hug.

  “Now this is the A tent. Here comes royalty,” Ann whispered to Craig, who turned to watch Madeleine’s approach.