When he reached Faulkner he gave his name and said: ‘The President has asked me to call you, sir, about a special the network is planning on Jane Addams.’
Jane Addams, who died in 1935, had been a progressive campaigner, suffragette, and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize.
‘That’s right,’ said Faulkner. ‘Is the President a fan of hers?’
Is he hell, Cam thought; Jane Addams was just the kind of woolly-minded liberal he hated. ‘Yes, he is,’ Cam said. ‘But the Hollywood Reporter says you’re thinking of casting Evie Williams as Jane.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You probably saw the recent news about Evie Williams and the way she let herself be exploited for propaganda by America’s enemies.’
‘Sure, I read that story.’
‘Are you sure this anti-American British actress with socialist views is the right person to play an American hero?’
‘As a board member, I don’t have any say in casting . . .’
‘The President has no power to take any action about this, heaven forbid, but he thought you might be interested to hear his opinion.’
‘I most certainly am.’
‘Good to talk to you, Mr Faulkner.’ Cam hung up.
He had heard people say that revenge is sweet. But no one had told him how sweet.
*
Dave and Walli sat in the recording studio on high stools, holding guitars. They had a song called ‘Back Together Again’. It was in two parts, the different parts in different keys, and they needed a hinge chord for the transition. They sang the song over and over, trying different things.
Dave was happy. They still had it. Walli was an original, coming up with melodies and harmonic progressions that no one else used. They bounced ideas off one another and the result was better than anything either did alone. They were going to make a triumphant comeback.
Beep had not changed, but Walli had. He was gaunt. His high cheekbones and almond eyes were accentuated by his thinness, and he looked vampirishly handsome.
Buzz and Lew sat nearby, smoking, listening, waiting. They were patient. As soon as Dave and Walli had the song figured out, Buzz and Lew would move to their instruments and work out the drum and bass parts.
It was ten in the evening, and they had been working for three hours. They would keep going until three or four in the morning, then sleep until midday. Those were rock and roll hours.
This was their third day in the studio. They had spent the first jamming, playing old favourites, enjoying getting used to one another again. Walli had played wonderful melodic guitar lines. Unfortunately, on the second day, Walli had suffered a stomach upset and had retired early. So this was their first day of serious work.
On an amplifier beside Walli stood a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a tall glass with ice cubes. In the old days they had often drunk booze or smoked joints while they worked on songs. It had been part of the fun. These days Dave preferred to work straight, but Walli had not changed his habits.
Beep came in with four beers on a tray. Dave guessed she wanted Walli to drink beer instead of whisky. She often brought food into the studio: blueberries with ice cream, chocolate cake, bowls of peanuts, bananas. She wanted Walli to live on something other than booze. He would take a spoonful of ice cream or a handful of peanuts, then return to his Jack Daniel’s.
Fortunately, he was still brilliant, as the new song showed. However, he was getting irritated with their inability to come up with the right transition chord. ‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘I have it in my head, you know? But it won’t come out.’
Buzz said: ‘Musical constipation, mate. You need a rock laxative. What would be the equivalent of a bowl of prunes?’
Dave said: ‘A Schoenberg opera.’
Lew said: ‘A drum solo by Dave Clark.’
Walli said: ‘A Demis Roussos album.’
The phone flashed and Beep picked it up. ‘Come on in,’ she said, and hung up. Then she said to Walli: ‘It’s Hilton.’
‘Okay.’ Walli got off his stool, put his guitar in a stand, and went out.
Dave looked enquiringly at Beep, who said: ‘A dealer.’
Dave kept playing the song. There was nothing unusual about a dope dealer calling at a recording studio. He did not know why musicians used drugs so much more than the general population, but it had always been so: Charlie Parker had been a heroin addict, and he was the generation before last.
While Dave strummed, Buzz picked up his bass and played along, and Lew sat behind the kit and began to drum quietly, looking for the groove. They had been improvising for fifteen or twenty minutes when Dave stopped and said: ‘What the fuck has happened to Walli?’
He left the studio, followed by the others, and returned to the main house.
They found Walli in the kitchen. He was stretched out on the floor, stoned, with a hypodermic syringe still stuck in his arm. He had shot up as soon as his supply arrived.
Beep bent over him and gently pulled out the needle. ‘He’ll be out now until morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Dave cursed. That was the end of the day’s work.
Buzz said to Lew: ‘Shall we go to the cantina?’
There was a bar at the bottom of the hill, mostly used by Mexican farm workers. It had the ridiculous name of The Mayfair Lounge, so they referred to it as the cantina.
‘Might as well,’ said Lew.
The rhythm section left.
Beep said: ‘Help me get him to bed.’
Dave picked up Walli by the shoulders, Beep took his legs, and they carried him to the bedroom. Then they returned to the kitchen. Beep leaned against the counter while Dave put on coffee.
‘He’s an addict, isn’t he?’ Dave said, fiddling with a paper filter.
Beep nodded.
‘Do you think we can even make this album?’
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Please don’t give up on him. I’m afraid—’
‘Okay, stay calm.’ He switched the machine on.
‘I can manage him,’ she said desperately. ‘He maintains in the evenings, just keeping going on small amounts while he works, then in the early hours he shoots up and nods out. This was unusual, today. He doesn’t often just crash like that. Normally, I score the stuff and ration it.’
Dave was appalled. He looked at her. ‘You’ve become nursemaid to a junkie.’
‘We make these decisions when we’re too young to know better, then we have to live with them,’ she said, and she started to cry.
Dave put his arms around her, and she wept on his chest. He gave her time, while the front of his shirt got wet and the kitchen filled with the aroma of coffee. Then he gently disengaged himself and poured two cups.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Now that we know about the problem, we can work around it. While Walli’s at his best we’ll do the difficult stuff: writing the songs, the guitar solos, the vocal harmonies. When he’s not around we’ll lay down backing tracks and do a rough mix. We can get it together.’
‘Oh, thank you. You’ve saved his life. I can’t tell you how relieved I am. You’re such a good man.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips.
Dave felt weird. She was thanking him for saving her boyfriend’s life and, at the same time, kissing him.
Then she said: ‘I was such a fool to give you up.’
That was disloyal to the man in the bedroom. But loyalty had never been her strength.
She put her arms around his waist and pressed her body to his.
For a moment he held his hands in the air, away from her; then he gave in, and put his arms around her again. Perhaps loyalty was not his strength either.
‘Junkies don’t have much sex,’ she said. ‘It’s been a while.’
Dave felt shaky. At some level, he realized, he had known this was going to happen, from the moment she drove up in that red convertible.
He was shaking because he wanted her so badly.
Still he said nothing.
‘Take me to bed, Dave,’ she said. ‘Let’s fuck like we used to, just once, for old times’ sake.’
‘No,’ he said.
But he did.
*
They finished the album the day FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover died.
Over breakfast at noon the following day, in the kitchen of Daisy Farm, Beep said: ‘My grandfather is a Senator, and he says J. Edgar liked to suck cock.’
They were all amazed.
Dave grinned. He was pretty sure old Gus Dewar had never said ‘suck cock’ to his granddaughter. But Beep liked to talk that way in front of guys. She knew it turned them on. She was mischievous. It was one of the things that made her exciting.
She went on: ‘Grandpapa told me Hoover lived with his Associate Director, a guy called Tolson. They went everywhere together, like husband and wife.’
Lew said: ‘It’s people like Hoover give us queers a bad name.’
Walli, up unusually early, said: ‘Hey, listen, we’re going to do a reunion concert when the album comes out, right?’
Dave said: ‘Yeah. What’s on your mind?’
‘Let’s make it a fund-raiser for George McGovern.’
The idea of rock bands raising money for liberal politicians was catching on, and McGovern was the leading contender for the Democratic nomination in this year’s presidential election, running as a peace candidate.
Dave said: ‘Great idea. Doubles our publicity, and helps to end the war as well.’
Lew said: ‘I’m for it.’
Buzz said: ‘Okay, I’m outvoted, I concede.’
Lew and Buzz left soon afterwards to catch a plane to London. Walli went into the studio to pack his guitars into their cases, a job he did not like to leave to roadies.
Dave said to Beep: ‘You can’t just go.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because for the last six weeks we’ve been fucking our brains out every time Walli nodded out.’
She grinned. ‘Been great, hasn’t it?’
‘And because we love each other.’ Dave waited to see whether she would confirm or deny this.
She did neither.
He repeated: ‘You can’t just go.’
‘What else am I going to do?’
‘Talk to Walli. Tell him to get a new nursemaid. Come and live here with me.’
Beep shook her head.
‘I met you a decade ago,’ Dave said. ‘We’ve been lovers. We were engaged to get married. I think I know you.’
‘So?’