Boys of the Fast Lane

by Zack

  “You go on, Bruce. I’ll catch you on the stage. I have to check on the starling.”

  “Where’ve you been?” Nathan demanded the moment Mike entered the suite. “I’m supposed to be ready on set, aren’t I?”

  “Steph done her stuff? Hmm, I guess so. You look like you’re at death’s door.”

  “Hah! Someone’s, anyway. We’re shooting the scene where I corner my rival for the hand of the beautiful garlic-chewing Chloe and take him out by his throat.”

  “As I recall the script, he bops you and judo-throws you down a hillside.”

  “Bunch of shite!”

  “Look at it this way, Nate. Get through the shots efficiently, and that’s it for a few days. The glowing wonders of Blackpool await. Oh shit, Nathan …!”

  He just managed to grab the boy. Nathan felt like he weighed almost nothing. Mike realized the way his eyes looked was not entirely down to Steph’s expertise. Terry Blood was coked up to his glazed eyeballs.

  Nathan managed a wan grin. “Sorry …”

  “You fucking promised me you wouldn’t touch any more of that stuff of Mundy’s.” He manhandled Nathan back to his unsteady feet and then forced him back onto the nearest chair.

  “I didn’t …” Nathan weakly waved a hand at a tumbler in which an inch of purple colored liquid sat at the bottom. “Didn’t take any coke, Mikey, jus drank the Coke, honest.”

  Mike sniffed at the glass, warily tasted a dipped fingertip, and screwed up his eyes. “Nathan, this is spiked with God knows what.” More than just vodka, that’s for sure. “Where did you get this?”

  Nathan’s head lolled side to side. He waved his hand again as though conjuring up a rabbit from a hat. “Him, Lewis the Drive. Said it’d freshen me up ready.”

  What the hell? It feels like Mundy’s doing his best to destroy the boy. Mike shook his head sadly. Nathan’s makeup made him deathly pale, against which the rosebud lips looked obscene. “I have to go have a word with Don or Wolfgang. You’re not fit to do anything this afternoon.”

  “Don’t say anything to Wolfie. I’ll be okay soon, Mikey, really …”

  “Just stay put, and don’t let anyone in.”

  Mike hustled across to the stage and almost ran headlong into Don Waverley, who was not in the best of moods. “Where the hell is the bloody kid? Do you know how many damned extras are lined up in there for the food fight scene? Not to mention Dame this, Sir that, and God knows how many luminaries of stage and screen.”

  Before Mike could respond Henze stalked across, took one look at Mike’s expression, and shook his head. “Don, please be good to set up the reaction shots, then we break and restart when Nathan’s concert commitment is concluded. Go, go!”

  He shooed the fuming first assistant director off and turned back to Mike. “Say nothing to me. I say this to you, Michael. I don’t care what you do or how you do it. You get that boy cleaned up by next Monday.” The director wiped a hand over his forehead and fixed Mike with a glare he’d never before seen, one more of desperation than anger. “Do this for me. This movie teeters on the edge. You read the trade press?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “So you know the rumors. Except they are not without foundation. With the recent flops and losses, First Metropolitan needs Terry Blood and the Vampire’s Rubies to be box-office gold … or else. Everything rides on this, Michael. And right now, that means everything rides on your young shoulders. Get through to him and … make him a star!”

  Lewis lounged casually against the door of the Green Room when Mike returned.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just here to give the lad his ride home.”

  “They haven’t finished with him—”

  Lewis straightened up and fixed Mike with a sly grin. “Oh, I think they have, way he looks.”

  “I told him not to let anyone in.”

  The grin sharpened. “I’m his driver and my colleague’s outside keeping an eye out for any trouble … not that we expect any. Tomorrow … who knows? What the hell he wants to go to Blackpool for, I have no idea. Nothing but a bunch of donkey botherers stuffing their face with fish ’n’ chips, or whelks, or some such—”

  “Why are you going?” Mike almost shouted at hearing that Lewis assumed he and the minder would be chaperoning the star. “The Blackpool thing’s nothing to do with the studio. Isn’t Nathan going with his own people?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you there, but he’s along for the ride and I’m the chauff. Producers’ orders. Director’s orders. He might be off on a jaunt, but he’s still on studio time.” Lewis’s grin made Mike churn. “You want a lift to Blackpool with us?”

  Mike wanted to wipe the sneer of the chauffeur’s face but contented himself with a narrow-eyed negative.

  “In your own wheels, then.”

  “Absolutely. Now, let me past.”

  He pushed Lewis aside and went into the suite and forced the door closed behind. The heavy drumming came from Nathan’s hands thumping up and down in a staccato rhythm on a table top while he sang in a medium crooner’s voice.

  “There ain’t no ball

  And there ain’t no chain …

  To hold me back, cos

  I’m livin’ in the fast lane.”

  He broke the verse with a quick drum change.

  “There’s no holding me back, so

  What for me you gonna do?

  Jump to the fast lane, cos

  The girl beside me could be you! ”

  He broke off at Mike’s slow hand clap. “Very good. Is that a new one or another cover your father recommends?”

  Nathan sprang to his feet, evidently recovered from the worst effects of what he’d drunk earlier, and flung his arms tightly around Mike’s waist, buried his head sideways on his chest. “I’m in the middle of it. I’m writing it for you.”

  “With a girl by my side …?”

  Nathan’s voice came muffled. “It could be ‘The Gil beside me could be you’?”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Boys of the Fast Lane, after you, Mike.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A Load of Puppetry

  This is my second visit to Great Britain as President of the United States. My first opportunity to stand on British soil occurred almost a year and a half ago when your Prime Minister graciously hosted a diplomatic dinner at the British Embassy in Washington. Mrs. Thatcher said then that she hoped I was not distressed to find staring down at me from the grand staircase a portrait of His Royal Majesty King George III. She suggested it was best to let bygones be bygones, and in view of our two countries’ remarkable friendship in succeeding years, she added that most Englishmen today would agree with Thomas Jefferson that “a little rebellion now and then is a very good thing.” [Laughter]

  Gil wasn’t really paying much attention to the broadcast of President Reagan’s address to members of the British Parliament in the Palace of Westminster’s Royal gallery earlier in the day. He was frightened. Alarmed at feelings welling up as though from the past. Nathan Cliffe meant more to Mike than he was letting on, Gil was sure. What had been fake about Trevor felt dangerously real here, and it left Gil vulnerable. He’d thought Mike would be pleased that he had managed time off to go with him to Blackpool. Now he found himself staring out at the dense greenery of the garden through the French window, wondering what Mike was thinking, out in the kitchen.

  On distant islands in the South Atlantic young men are fighting for Britain. And, yes, voices have been raised protesting their sacrifice for lumps of rock and earth so far away. But those young men aren’t fighting for mere real estate. They fight for a cause—for the belief that armed aggression must not be allowed to succeed, and the people must participate in the decisions of government— [applause] —the decisions of government under the rule of law.

  The Falklands War seemed distantly unreal to an American, although the initial jingoism had swept him along with Mike and other friends. And still it dragged on, although it now looked li
ke the “Argies” were copping the worst of it.

  Mike came out from the kitchen with two mugs and handed one to Gil.

  “Thanks,” he muttered, and put it down on the dining table. “You’re really into him, hey? That’s why you don’t want me along.”

  Mike looked crestfallen. “That’s not it, Gil. I didn’t think you’d be able to take time off just like that. Anyway, don’t you want all the spare time to work on your script?”

  “Yeah, so you can work on Nathan Cliffe a bit more.”

  Gil’s words stung, and badly, probably worse than they should have because there was a nugget of truth to them. And before Mike could stop them, his own words tumbled out. “Well working on Nathan’s a bit more of an adult occupation than writing crap for a bunch of bloody glove puppets!”

  He watched the missiles strike and wrestled with a righteous anger muddled up with appalled guilt at the damage. Gil visibly curled up. The fringe of blond hair fell over his brows as he ducked his head. Mike heard the sharp intake of breath and …

  Mike reached out. “Gil, I …”

  Gil almost ran out toward the kitchen, but flung the back door open so forcefully it banged against the side wall. Mike watched him heel a tight corner around the trellis work at the edge of the patio, and his form became indistinct beyond the rambling dog roses.

  “Shit. Fuckin idiot,” Mike berated himself.

  I have discussed on other occasions, including my address on May ninth, the elements of Western policies toward the Soviet Union to safeguard our interests and protect the peace. What I am describing now is a plan and a hope for the long term—the march of freedom and democracy which will leave Marxism-Leninism on the ash-heap of history …

  Six months. The new beginning. Just six months, and now was it heading for the ash-heap of history? No, he couldn’t let that happen. Nothing in Mike’s mind, in his dick, and certainly in his heart spoke more loudly than his love for the floppy-haired moppet, lovably idiotic soul-partner standing brokenly out there on the lawn. He hadn’t succeeded in splitting off almost paternal feelings for Nathan and convincing Gil that … okay, there was sex, but it was the sense of responsibility for Nathan’s welfare that had come to matter more than the odd bit of hot cock action.

  Here among you is the cradle of self-government, the Mother of Parliaments. Here is the enduring greatness of the British contribution to mankind, the great civilized ideas: individual liberty, representative government, and the rule of law under God.

  Gil had no intention of turning when Mike came out from the house, as he hoped he would but began to fear he might not. He fumed at the remark, not least because he felt some embarrassment at the notion of writing lines for puppets, however well animated they might end up. Now Mike had underlined in how much contempt he held Gil’s efforts. Where was the support? No, he wasn’t turning around, even when Mike’s footfalls drew close and then stopped uncertainly.

  “I want you to come with me, Gil. I really do. I’m heading into some kind of trouble, I know it. Something fishy’s going on and I’m going to feel lost without you. Perhaps I’m worrying about nothing, but if it is Mundy feeding Nathan drugs, why is he so damned unconcerned about getting found out? Who, or what’s looking out for him?”

  Gil still felt stubborn. He wasn’t going to turn around, dammit. So it came as something of a shock to find his head buried on Mike’s brawny shoulder. He heard the whispered words breathed in his ear. “Sorry, Gil. You know I didn’t mean it. Should never have … Nathan’s my job, not my lover. I need you.”

  Gil bit back a snuffle. “Real bad?”

  “Desperate bad.”

  After a long moment, Mike pulled free, took Gil by the hand and drew him toward the back door.

  “Not that easy …”

  Mike paused, looked back, appeal and question both written large in his expression.

  “Take back what you said about my writing for puppets.”

  Mike let his gaze drop as he thought through his response. “If … if anyone can make them less than walking hard-ons, I’m sure it’s you, Gil.”

  Gil stared back for a long moment, then allowed the trace of a smile to etch the corner of his lips. “I’m not sure that’s actually a compliment.”

  Mike tugged on his hand again. “Long drive tomorrow, so best get an early night.”

  “How early?” He always loved it when Mike gave him the stern look of incomprehension in which the tiniest glint of humor shone like a shielded torch in the distance. Just a twitch. “Not that early, then?”

  The task I’ve set forth will long outlive our own generation. But together, we too have come through the worst. Let us now begin a major effort to secure the best—a crusade for freedom that will engage the faith and fortitude of the next generation. For the sake of peace and justice, let us move toward a world in which all people are at last free to determine their own destiny.

  Thank you.

  Gil switched the television off. Then he let Mike bring him off.

  * * *

  The Portcullis Hotel sat like a long, squat castle on Blackpool’s North Shore facing the Irish Sea as though daring the Sons of Erin to invade and conquer. Six faux-battlemented stories stretched between three taller towers, and from the road it looked impressive to Gil as Mike rolled Horny off the wide foreshore road into the car park. At a closer inspection the façade appeared a bit weather-beaten. He got out of the Alfa and leaned against the roof to stare out at the bleak plane of gray stretching to the indistinct horizon.

  “The Oirish Sea,” Mike said. He hauled their shared bag out of the back and came around the car. He patted Gil lightly on the bottom. “Let’s go check in.”

  Gil was glad to arrive after the five-hour drive from London, which had taken them up the M1 and then the M6 almost all the way. In spite of the tedium, Gil enjoyed seeing so much of the country he now lived in, showing off its summery fineness. Mike failed to furnish him with a reason why Watford Gap should be as much as seventy miles north of Watford itself, a northern perimeter suburb of London famed, as far as Gil knew, for the died-in-the-wool Londoner’s disdain for anything north of it.

  He even marveled at the complexity of Birmingham’s notorious Spaghetti Junction without having to force the enthusiasm too much. It was Mike who disparaged it by saying how the Gravelly Hill interchange—to give the thing its proper name—was nothing compared to some he’d seen in Los Angeles. “You can’t actually tell much from up here,” Gil remarked as the M6 carriageways sailed far above the tangle of roads below.

  “They say you can sometimes see a skeleton still driving around the loops under here.”

  The Portcullis Hotel looked a bit like it might have a few ghosts lurking. The untidy jumble of one-story add-ons at the building’s front ruined the overall effect, and the tired and faded complex-pattern carpets of the reception area didn’t help the impression. Gil cast a disapproving eye off to the left, along the front, where what the management liked to call the Orangery ran into the far distance, all glass overlooking the car park and sea on one side, and dark, wood-paneled walls on the other. No oranges, though. Low tables and arm chairs cluttered the way through. The place was a-bustle with families, young children running and screaming around the furniture.

  “I imagine Nathan isn’t booked in here?” Gil tried to keep the faint note of irritation from his voice, but he caught the slight pull at the corners of Mike’s mouth.

  “What do you think?” Mike said as they waited for the single receptionist to deal with a family problem which seemed to involve the father complaining about the state of the sheets on his sons’ beds. “Nathan’s in the De Vere Herons Reach. He told me it’s sort of in a golf course.”

  Gil sniffed snootily.

  “I didn’t have much choice, what with the mean expenses and the lack of rooms available in town. Blackpool gets packed in the summer. Just be thankful it’s not September, when the famous illuminations are switched on.”

  With its
various annexes, multiple accesses to upper floors, hallways running to infinity, cross hallways, banqueting halls and conference rooms, and an entire trade exhibition complex, the Portcullis was worse than Spaghetti Junction. “Jeez, Mike, you sure your motoring skeleton isn’t driving around in here?”

  After a few minutes of wandering along narrow corridors and apparently managing a circle, they passed a man Gil had seen minutes before going in the other direction. Mike appealed to him if he happened to know where room four-eight-three might be located.

  The man smiled thinly. “I’m a stranger here myself, but …” He pointed up a cross-corridor, its worn carpet catching the long light coming through an end window in a fire escape door. “I think you’ll find it on the right, last door but one.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said.

  “Don’t mention it. I got pretty lost myself.”

  The deep gloom of low-powered lighting in the corridors added a suitably creepy feeling to the hotel, and their room, though of reasonable size, smelled and felt damp. Must be the nearness of the sea, Gil thought. That was not in sight. The room looked out over an empty expanse of swampy grass, interspersed with concrete ramps, rusty rebar, and abandoned industrial waste. Beyond a distant waterway, hills rose invitingly clean in the mild June afternoon. The room contained two beds, one a mean single, the other a reasonable double

  “So where’s this concert take place?”

  Mike paused in hanging clothes in the old freestanding wardrobe closet. “At the Winter Gardens.”

  “Which is where?”

  “From here, way down south, behind the tower, and not far, I think, from the De Vere. We’ll pass close by when we go to see how Nathan is getting on.”

  “Didn’t he want to stay the same place as you?”

  Mike sketched a curve in the air with his hand. “Come on Gil, I’m sure he would want to, but a thing like this gig is planned ahead. His suite at the De Vere must have been confirmed months ago, and rooms for his entourage. He’s got those two assholes I’m convinced are in Mundy’s pay really, but there must be a host of other hangers-on, from roadies to lighting anoraks, make-up, dressers, backing players … Christ knows why he so wanted us along as well.”