Zip Gun Boogie

by Mark Timlin

  ‘You nearly punched me out, you big goon,’ she yelled.

  I found myself sitting up in bed, tangled up in the sheet, naked except for my shorts, with a wash cloth around my neck, dripping ice-cold water down my chest. I was soggy, sleepy and as confused as shit. ‘What is happening?’ I demanded.

  ‘Slow down,’ said Ninotchka, and started to laugh. You’ve heard about holding your sides. She did. It was about two minutes later, and I’d straightened the bed clothes, and dried myself with a corner of the sheet, and thrown the flannel on to the bedside table, before she recovered. ‘Shit,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Nick, that was the best.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I said.

  ‘You’re taking me to dinner, remember? No one could get an answer out of you. I got the pass key from the manager. You were sleeping like a baby. You looked so sweet…’

  ‘You could hardly bear to wake me, I know.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to be stood up.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost nine.’

  ‘What time’s dinner?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’

  ‘We’re going to be late then. Let’s not bother.’

  ‘The later the better. I hate being on time.’

  ‘Just as well, because we won’t be. I need a shower. If you’ll wait in the other room…’

  ‘Are you shy?’

  ‘Yes. Now get out of here, will you?’

  She went.

  I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and blanched. Still, nothing that a little Vaseline on the lens wouldn’t cure.

  After a shave, shower and shampoo I looked and felt a little better. I put on my robe and went to choose an outfit. I wanted to wear the tie that Ninotchka had bought me, so I picked a plain midnight blue single-breasted suit, a white shirt with a tab collar, black socks and black loafers. I knotted the tie and stepped back to admire my reflection in the mirror. Not bad, even if I did say so myself. When I’d checked the visuals, I went into the sitting room. ‘Who are you, and where’s Nick?’ asked Ninotchka, who was sitting on the sofa cuddling what looked like a gin and tonic.

  ‘Humorous,’ I said. ‘You Americans aren’t usually known for your cutting wit.’

  ‘How about Steve Martin?’

  ‘Give me a break.’

  ‘Robin Williams?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Pee Wee Herman?’

  ‘Let’s go to dinner,’ I said, and offered her my arm. When she stood up, she said, ‘Do you like my dress?’ and did a quick twirl. It was black, made of satin and lace, with a short, full skirt over loads of petticoats, and a tight bodice that pushed her breasts up and out. With it she wore black tights and elastic-sided ankle boots.

  ‘You look like Annie Oakley on a night out,’ I said. ‘A regular cowgirl.’

  ‘That’s just what I wanted you to say. Let’s go knock ’em dead.’ And she took my arm and we left the room.

  The meal was a little strange to say the least. Ninotchka and I were the last to arrive. When we got downstairs, the hotel manager was waiting for us. He showed us not to the regular restaurant but to a large annexe at the side of it. One huge round table dominated the room. It had been set for twenty-two, and twenty people were sitting round it. They all gave us a good clock as we waltzed in.

  The middle of the table was dominated by a coloured ice sculpture in the shape of two life-sized guitars crossed like swords. ‘Wow!’ said Ninotchka, pinching my arm painfully. ‘That’s amazing. A Vox Teardrop, and a Gretsch Double Anniversary. They look so real.’

  ‘Awesome,’ I said.

  As we walked to the table, Pandora stood up. ‘Ninotchka,’ he said, ‘we thought you weren’t coming. Wonderful dress. And Nick too. You must tell me where you got that tie.’

  He was wearing a red tartan suit, black shirt and a matching tartan tie. He looked horrible. ‘Come and sit down,’ he went on, and a waiter ran forward to pull back our chairs.

  When we were comfortably seated I checked out the rest of the diners. Ninotchka was on my right. On my left was Box’s wife, Barby. She was wearing a little black Lycra dress which showed most of the tops of her breasts. She smiled at me and said hello. And I smiled, and said hello back, and tried not to look at her cleavage for too long. Although it was tempting. Next to her was Box himself, then Lindy Hopp next to her husband. She wiggled her fingers in greeting. He gave me a wry smile. Next to Shapiro was a woman I didn’t know, then a long-haired geezer I didn’t know either, in a Lurex jacket and shades, who was chewing at his nails like the kitchen staff had just gone on strike. On his far side was a straight-looking matron dressed in something green that looked like it had gone off when she wasn’t looking, sitting next to Louis Pascall, the American lawyer.

  Then in a little enclave were Pandora, sitting between the two teenyboppers, with their mother next to them. All four ignored me. On their left was a glamorous-looking blonde who was fixing her lipstick. Then Lomax who flashed us a big smile. Then yet another woman I’d never seen. She looked like one of the three witches from Macbeth on diet pills. Sitting next to her was Tony Tune, the record producer I’d met the day before. He nodded to me. I nodded back. Then there was a fat guy in full evening dress with a wing collar, and what was obviously his date, a knockout redhead in a purple dress that made me want to get acquainted quick and check her zips. Finally there was a bloke with very long hair in a leather jacket, and next to him on Ninotchka’s other side a stunning-looking brunette in a see-through white blouse with no bra. The pink tips of her nipples were plainly visible as she moved. Which she kept doing like she had ants in her pants. If she was wearing any. And that was it. It was like a crowd scene from The Ten Commandments. Cecil B DeMille where are you when we really need you?

  ‘Christ, sort this lot out for me, will you?’ I said to Ninotchka.

  ‘Who don’t you know?’

  I pointed them out. She explained. The fingernail biter was Baby Boy Valin, the drummer. He was sitting next to his girlfriend. The witch lookalike was Scratch, the other female vocalist. The glamorous blonde was one of Lomax’s string of girlfriends. The guy in evening dress was Spike Leonard, the president of Cobra Records, who released Pandora’s Box worldwide. The redhead was one of the PRs from the record company. The rock and roller with all the hair was Shorty Long, the bass player. Plus groupie. As Ninotchka gave me the rundown, a waiter hovered to take our order for drinks. I opted for a whisky sour. Ninotchka went for more gin.

  As the waiter shot off to the bar, Pandora stood up. ‘Welcome, people,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to make a speech, but just a few words now that everyone’s here.’ He looked over at Ninotchka and me as he spoke. ‘This is not the happiest day in the history of the band. But we’ve come through worse. Much worse. After due consideration and consultation with Spike there,’ the gent in evening clothes nodded his head, ‘and Tony, and our advisors, and the members of the band and road crew – we’ve decided to stay on in London and finish the album.’ He paused. If he’d expected applause, he was disappointed. ‘And tonight we go out and tell the world that Pandora’s Box is alive and well, and will outsell everyone else on the planet this autumn. We start with a visit to The Miracle’s reception this evening. It’s due to start at midnight, after they’ve finished their gig at Wembley Arena. I’ve ordered limos for that time. We’ll make a grand entrance about twelve thirty. Pandora’s Box en masse. We’ll blow the fuckers away. The Miracle – what a pile of shit! They couldn’t get arrested with their last album, and from what I hear they’ve papered the walls for tonight’s show. The scalpers are paying people to take tickets off their hands. We, on the other hand, have sold out the same gig for five nights in a row. What more can I say? Class tells. Now enjoy your meal. I intend to.’ He clapped his hands. The doors to the kitchen opened and a stream of waiters burst through, each c
arrying two trays above his head.

  ‘Gipsy violins next,’ said Ninotchka. ‘Or fire eaters or some such.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised at anything. The geezer’s really full of himself tonight. I suppose that’s because you’re staying. The last I heard there was an exodus being planned back to LA.’

  ‘Keith convinced me not to go. He can be very persuasive.’

  Looking round the table and knowing that Pandora had been inside the knickers of at least four of the eleven women present, that I knew about, I couldn’t help but agree.

  The meal was OK. Pandora had obviously got that organised too. For starters it was satay with peanut sauce, chillis, rice cake and slices of purple onion, or watercress soup. The main course was a choice between lamb cutlets in a mint and orange sauce, mange tout stuffed with crab meat, or a single baby chicken braised in Calvados. Each came with a choice of vegetables. For dessert there was lemon and lime sorbet or chocolate pudding rotten with rum. There was a selection of fine wines, coffee and liqueurs. I had the satay and the lamb.

  As I was eating I noticed that Tony Box was really getting into the vino collapso. He’d finished two bottles before the main course arrived. As I was trying to find some meat on my nouvelle-cuisine chop, he leaned over to me, pushing Barby out of the way as he did so. ‘What time are we on tonight?’

  I stopped with my fork an inch from the plate. I looked at Barby, who made one of those faces that people do when a lunatic starts talking to himself on the tube. ‘Sorry?’ I said.

  ‘What time?’ he asked again.

  ‘What? The reception?’

  ‘No, the gig. You’re the fucking tour manager! Don’t we pay you enough to know a simple thing like that?’

  ‘I’m not the tour manager,’ I said.

  ‘Then what the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘Trying to eat my dinner,’ I said. I was beginning to get pissed off. All the other conversations at the table had stopped and everyone was looking towards us. Lomax came to the rescue. He got up from his seat and came around to where we were. ‘Hey, big Box,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Wanker can’t do his job.’

  ‘Well, he’s new, man. Give him time. What’s the problem?’

  ‘What time are we on?’

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing. There’s hours yet. Leave it to me. I’ll give a shout when we need you.’

  ‘I’ve got to get changed,’ said Box.

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘OK,’ nodded Box and stuck his snout back into his glass. Slowly the other conversations resumed.

  Lomax slapped me on the shoulder and winked. ‘OK, tour manager?’

  ‘Safe,’ I said.

  ‘Good. That’s what I like to hear.’

  Barby leant over and whispered in my ear. ‘Sorry about that. He gets a bit funny sometimes.’

  I shrugged. ‘No problem.’

  I turned to Ninotchka. ‘Is he always like that?’ I asked. ‘I thought he was pretty weird when I first met him, but he’s totally spaced out tonight.’

  ‘Some days are worse than others. Poor Tony. He shouldn’t mix the juice with the dope.’ She sighed. ‘But he’ll never change. He’s been in detox so many times he’s got a gold card. And I’m sure he only goes to AA to see his old buddies.’

  ‘Bitchy,’ I said.

  ‘Not really. You should hear him when he starts on me and men. He’s OK, the best one of the lot. We understand each other.’

  ‘Only some days are better than others, by the looks of it.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I skipped dessert, and ordered coffee and Grand Marnier. I was chatting to Ninotchka about something or other when Pandora stood up. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a surprise for you all.’

  As he said it, the main doors to the annexe burst open and two women dressed in black basques, suspenders, black fishnet stockings and black high-heeled shoes burst in. Both carried silver trays upon which were piled parcels covered in silver paper and decorated with ornate silver bows. They made straight for the table. ‘What’s going on now?’ I asked.

  ‘God knows,’ said Ninotchka. ‘Another of Keith’s little surprises, I expect.’

  ‘Has this geezer got a degree in bad taste?’ I asked.

  The pair came up to the table and handed out a parcel to each of us. There was much tearing of paper and oohing and aahing going on. Even I got one. It was small but heavy. When I opened it I found a velvet box. Inside was a gold Rolex with a black face and diamonds for numerals. It felt like the real thing. Ninotchka had the ladies’ version, as they so coyly put it. All around the table it was the same. The men had the larger model, the women the smaller. ‘Christ!’ I said. ‘Are they real?’

  ‘Keith wouldn’t mess with fakes,’ said Ninotchka. ‘It would dent his ego.’

  ‘These are about ten grand apiece,’ I said. ‘That’s over two hundred thousand pounds.’

  Ninotchka shrugged. ‘He likes making extravagant gestures.’

  ‘Shit, I should say he does.’ I put on the watch. I must say it looked the business.

  Pandora stood up again. ‘A small token of my appreciation for your hard work and loyalty.’ This time he got the applause he wanted. Funny what a load of gold jewellery will do. Everyone clapped except Tony Box. He hadn’t bothered to open his gift, just tossed it on the table in the wreckage of his meal and half the wine cellar. Suddenly he came to his feet and stood weaving there, one hand on the table to support himself. The applause died out.

  ‘Bollocks!’ he shouted. ‘Fucking bollocks, Keith.’

  Barby put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. ‘Fucking loyalty,’ he went on. ‘You bastards don’t know the meaning of the word. None of you.’ And he leaned over and picked up the ice sculpture which was slowly melting away on the table, and holding it aloft moved away from the table and heaved it through the closed window of the annexe where it burst into a million tiny splinters on the hard top outside, amongst the shards of glass and wood from the window frame. Everyone was silent. Box turned and stood swaying slightly like a tree in a strong breeze. Then Pandora grinned and started clapping his hands. One by one the rest of the people at the table joined in except Ninotchka and me. I really rated her for that. The rest were just licking arse. I looked over at her and shook my head. She shook her head back. As the applause died down, the hotel manager came into the room. He didn’t even bother looking at the damage, but I would have bet he was mentally assessing it and adding it to the bill. Instead he went up to Pandora and whispered in his ear.

  ‘The cars are here. Let’s go,’ he said. ‘And make one hell of an entrance.’

  Seeing the guy that night I realised why they called him The Tsar, and how Pandora’s Box had lasted as long as they had. Everyone stood up and started milling around. I took Ninotchka’s arm and tucked it under mine. ‘That Box is crazy,’ I said. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Rock and roll, Nick. Just rock and roll,’ she said. ‘Now, come on, it’s party time. And you’re my beau.’

  21

  We went outside, and parked at the kerb were eight black Mercedes 600 limousines converted to right-hand drive. Each was almost twenty foot long, and altogether they stretched the length of the street like a river of shiny cellulose. By the back door of each car was a Premiere man in full evening dress. It was quite a sight. Ninotchka and I were in the third car, with Chas driving and my old friend Don riding shotgun. He even demeaned himself so far as to be almost civil to me as I got in the car after Ninotchka. As we settled down in the back, I said, ‘This is like Alice in Wonderland.’

  ‘Lie back and enjoy it, Nick,’ she said. ‘You could be eating hamburger next week.’ Never a truer word had been spoken. I’ve learned it’s foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if it’s got gold teeth. So I did as I was told
and enjoyed the short ride to The Inn On The Park.

  Even at that late hour there were enough people about for us to cause a stir. Eight long black German cars with darkened windows, headlights and spotlights on full beam, riding in convoy, is not something you see in London every night of the week. We rumbled up to the hotel and the doormen didn’t know what had hit them. The paparazzi were out in force and Pandora and his merry bunch of men and women posed for all they were worth.

  We rendezvoused in the hotel foyer. It was still busy and we got our fair share of attention. The reception was being held in the main ballroom and we teamed up in pairs with outriders of security men and cut a swathe through the guests, onlookers, groupies and disappointed twenty-four-hour-party people who couldn’t get to the free booze. As we went in through the huge doors, Pandora and the blonde teenybopper to the fore, the hotel security just stepped back and let us pass. It was excellent timing. Everyone inside just stopped and gaped.

  Once inside we all stood in the doorway and bathed in the glory, reflected or otherwise.

  After a few minutes, when the novelty was over, Ninotchka bumped me with her hip. ‘I’m off to fix my make-up,’ she said. It was perfect, but I said nothing. Instead I wandered around to see what was happening. The first face I recognised belonged to Seltza. He was standing to one side of the door, leaning against the wall looking cool. I walked over and joined him.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  He turned and grinned. ‘Hi, man. I saw you come in with the high rollers.’

  ‘That’s me,’ I said.

  ‘It was quite an entrance. And that’s quite a dress that our lovely blonde singer is wearing.’

  ‘Sure is. Are you on your own?’