Gimme More (12 page)

‘Why don't you set the record straight?' Junior once asked her.

‘Which record?' sighed Birdie. ‘To whom? People think what they want to think. They aren't interested in the truth. They only want a good story. With pictures. If I so much as open my mouth I'll only be giving them weapons to use against me.'

Ambiguous, Junior thought. And then remembered how experienced she was with journalists and photographers. Experienced enough to be for ever on guard. He'd often wondered why the famous or notorious didn't simply keep their mouths shut more often, since they were made to look such idiots when they opened them. Damned if you do, damned if you don't, he mused. He himself would surely be damned for what he didn't do if there was any choice in the matter. So his feeling of kinship with Birdie strengthened.

He was glad she didn't want to talk about it because, deep down, he didn't want to know. That was heavy stuff. Heavy feelings. Hassle. Better to smoke a little herbal and chill. Don't let it get to you, man. Who needs it?

That's eventually what he said to Teddy when Teddy unexpectedly came knocking at his door. At first it was, ‘Hey, man! God! Shit – how long's it been?' Thinking, fuck, if he hadn't said his name I'd never've recognised him. Bald, for fuck's sake. What happened to all the hair?

Teddy used to have authentic rocker's hair which he waved like a banner for the cameras. In all the pictures of Jack on stage, somewhere behind or off to the side, you'd see Teddy with those streamers of rocker's hair. Or Teddy, the typical autistic axeman, curled over his guitar, hiding behind his own tangled vines. That was one of his favourite poses – the recluse in the spotlight. Especially after a solo. Camera-shy, and modest with it. Wanker, Junior thought. Because nothing could have been further from the truth – every scrap of tension between Jack and Teddy could be put down to the perpetual war waged between frontman and sideman.

‘Those were the days,' Teddy said, from the prison of Junior's woman's armchair. ‘Don't you miss it?'

‘Dunno ‘bout that,' Junior said. ‘I don't miss the friction or the nerves. I was fuckin' getting ulcers back then. Everyone on your case all the time. No, I was glad I got out of it when things got
really
brutal.'

‘But not before Madison Square Garden.' Teddy really did sigh then. Because Madison Square Garden was the venue of the famous axe'n'sax thrash which Junior captured for all time on
Jack's Back Live in the USA.
It was one of those rare occasions when Jack was forced to step away and let Teddy take centre stage – a time when they'd asked Al McQueen, sax maestro, to sit in, and Teddy's solo on ‘Packet of Ten' turned into an extraordinary exchange between guitar and sax. A battle in which neither was prepared to yield. Lunge, parry, riposte. Hit and run. Trading bar for bar, blow for blow, it was a passage of pure musical aggression fuelled by pure adrenaline. It was a spontaneous event which usually only works live. But Junior, going mental at the mixing desk, caught it and preserved it, as if he knew it would be special even before it happened.

Both Junior and Teddy were justifiably proud of what they did at Madison Square Garden all those years ago. The ephemeral made permanent.

‘Man, you were the best,' Teddy said.

‘Oh yeah,' Junior said, sceptical, remembering all the mixing wars. If for some reason you wanted to mix Goff or Wills up at Teddy's expense you had a fight on your hands. It was all like that.
Every band member wanting to be heard loud and clear. No one satisfied. No one wanting to be the texture behind. Every silly sod a soloist, Junior thought. All at the same time. Then Junior was the ignorant bastard who was paid exorbitant sums to wreck their careers.

‘I was working with Wills in New York only last week,' Teddy said. ‘Do you see any of the old faces these days?'

‘People drift through,' Junior said. ‘Like
everyone
comes around April, May.'

‘I mean us,' Teddy said. ‘Jack's people.'

‘Anyone comes to N.O. and looks me up, I see 'em.' Junior snapped open a couple of cans of Bud and passed one to Teddy. Outside, dusty afternoon sun fought its way through the hanging jungle on the balcony and began to creep into the room. Time to pull the blinds. Junior thought about it but tipped a little beer down his throat instead. Having company was hard work when you didn't know what the company wanted after all this time.

‘Goff told me you kept in touch with Birdie,' Teddy said, looking round for a glass. There wasn't one.

Uh-oh, Junior thought, time for the blinds, and he heaved his bulk off the sofa. While he threaded his way through his woman's delicate knick-knacks he said, ‘She's still in the business, you know.'

‘As much as she ever was,' Teddy said. ‘I'm surprised anyone wants to know. How old is she now?'

‘Never asked.' Junior busied himself at the window. It was a precise operation. His woman liked the blinds closed enough so that direct sunlight was blocked from her paintings, carpet and soft furnishings, but open enough to air the room. He didn't usually give it as much attention as he was giving it now.

‘She's still a full-on bread-head,' Teddy said. ‘You know she's always fighting the labels to give her half Jack's royalties?'

‘Yeah?' said Junior, padding back to the sofa. ‘Well, that ain't nobody's business but hers.'

‘You might as well say I co-wrote,' Teddy said. ‘Which I did. Or even you. Think of what
you
put in. Jack would've stayed a fucking pub player without us.'

‘Improbable.' Junior lowered himself into the cushions. ‘Jack had the magic from very early on.'

‘Oh he was the best frontman in the business, I'll grant you that. No one could sell a song better than him. But whose song was it? That's the question.'

Junior looked at Teddy over the rim of his beer can. Confrontation, he thought. Hassle.

‘Well?' Teddy asked, leaning forward.

‘I don't think about it, man,' Junior said. ‘I got well paid for what I did. So did you.'

‘That's open to question too. How much did
you
make when the albums were re-released on CD?'

Junior didn't answer. This was what he didn't need. This murky, dirty music-business talk – resentful victim-speak. It got you in a bean-counting mood and you ended up feeling you'd been shafted all your life. Everyone else was getting rich off your creative input. Only the stars could fight and win. Nobody else even fought. They just gathered in small rooms and bitched. About money. About recognition. About contracts, credits and Christ knows what-all else.

What the fuck, Junior thought, everyone knew it was a dirty business, and everyone still wanted to be in it. So you signed an agreement and you were happy to get the gig. But when the gig turned out to be a money-maker and you weren't cut in … When there were big-time winners on the music lottery and you were never one of them … Bitch, bitch, bitch.

But it was justifiable bitching. You
were
shafted. The fat cats
were
blowing smoke up your arse. You thought about it. You started bitching. You got hassle. You got ulcers. And, if you were called Junior Moline, you got out. You sucked on your beer can, you sucked on your chillum and went back to loving the music. Forget about hating the business – that takes too much energy, man, that just fucks with your head. Listen to the sounds and kick back.

New Orleans was the place to do that. There was a pair of buskers under Junior's window right now noodling on ‘A Place in the Sun' and doing it more than justice. This was a town where buskers could sound better than Eric Clapton. Junior tuned Teddy
out and tuned the buskers in. Yes. One voice. Two acoustic guitars. Pick ups, amplifier, two small speakers. He could imagine two old guys on folding chairs, guitar case open at their feet to catch a few thrown dollars. Crap equipment – all of it beat-up and warped by the wet heat. Ah, but that voice, man, those finger-licking riffs.

God bless their golden hearts, Junior thought. Better to have your guitar warped by the sun than to have your heart warped by a dirty business.

Teddy was saying, ‘C'mon, June, don't you want to claw some back? It won't cost you nothing, all you got to do is talk to Birdie.'

‘And tell her what, man?'

‘Tell her to release the materials. All the Antigua stuff. I mean, you could help with the re-mix. We could all come away with another slice of the pie.'

‘Not me, man,' Junior said, slowly. ‘I don't want any more of Jack's shit. Dead or alive, if it's anything to do with Jack, it's always a heavy scene. Everyone fussing and fighting. Bad karma, man.'

‘That's bullshit, June, and you know it. Don't hide behind that karma crap. This is a big deal. They're making a telly programme. There's going to be a book. The full package. It's like our time came round again. All the old stuff's cool.'

Unbelievable, Junior thought. Bald and still hungry. Still aching for the super-trooper and the big car. Whatever happened to counter-culture? Did it go under the counter when the bean-counters took over the world?

‘I don't know about you,' Teddy said, ‘but I could do with the extra moolah. I got three kids and four mortgages to service. You never had any kids?'

‘Not that anyone told me,' Junior answered.

‘Birdie didn't either. Too busy looking after number one. But they say she's hit hard times now.'

‘We all have our ups and downs,' Junior said.

‘More downs that ups these days.' Teddy eyed the sagging furniture. ‘What I'm saying is that Birdie's got access to stuff that could make us a lot of bread. If you don't want to be involved, well, cool. But I do. I think I'm owed, man. I was there on the film. I was playing in the studio. That stuffs as much mine as it is hers.'

‘Maybe,' said Junior, who would say anything to avoid an argument, ‘but what am I supposed to do about it?'

‘You don't have to do anything,' Teddy said, to Junior's great relief. ‘But didn't she, like, come to see you after Jack died? I mean, she did one of her disappearing tricks, so did she ever turn up here with stuff to store in your cellar?'

‘There aren't any cellars in New Orleans,' Junior said.

‘The attic, then.'

‘Why would she do that? What stuff?'

‘I don't know,' Teddy said. ‘Who knows what women keep. They say she rescued everything of value after the fire. Pity she didn't rescue Jack, eh? They say she grabbed everything – stuff that wasn't hers – and took it out of the country. She'd have to store it somewhere.'

‘Not here, man,' Junior said. ‘I've only lived here eighteen months myself. This is my woman's place.'

‘Oh well,' Teddy said, losing interest.

‘What're you looking for?'

‘Nothing,' Teddy said. ‘Her, actually. Thought I could persuade her to co-operate. Appeal to her better nature, if she's got one. I was Jack's best friend, after all.'

You and whose army? Junior thought. It was amazing how many best friends Jack had after all these years. He said, ‘Can't help you there, man. I don't know where she's at.'

‘You must have an address.'

‘E-mail address,' Junior said, vaguely slapping his pockets. ‘I only see her when she shows up. But I can give you the e.'

‘Got it. She isn't responding. C'mon, man, where do you send the Christmas card?'

‘Christmas card?' Junior laughed. ‘Look, Ted, as far as I know she's been in L.A., Geneva, Kingston Jamaica, Kingston England, Kingston Ontario, Sydney, Berlin and Tunis. All in the last couple of years. Oh, and Kuala Lumpur. She ain't what you'd call a home body.'

‘Shit,' Teddy said. ‘When did you see her last?'

‘Dunno. Oh, must've been May. Festival. She was scouting acts for a night-club owner in Malaysia. That's how I remember Kuala
Lumpur. He was even fatter than me and a damn sight richer, man. Best hotel in town. Three secretaries. If you want to know who's paying the bills, try Kuala Lumpur. Or better still, try her sister.'

‘Done that,' Teddy said, standing up. ‘She was in London up to two weeks ago and then she took off. The sister doesn't know where to.'

‘Where are you staying?' Junior stood up too. ‘I might think of something.'

‘The Sheraton on Canal. Just the one night. Yeah, if you think of something, let me know.'

‘I'll look in my files,' Junior promised. He padded barefoot to the door and watched Teddy go down the narrow staircase to the courtyard. Sharp shoes, he thought, but it's too damn hot for socks, even silk ones. Teddy slid a pair of celebrity shades on to his nose, raised a hand in farewell and walked away into the dense, wet heat.

What, no limo? Junior thought and shut the door.

When he got back to the lounge, he saw, without surprise that Birdie was coiled in the deep armchair Teddy had just left.

‘How the fuck did he find me?' Junior asked, flopping down on the sofa. ‘You could've struck a flint off me when he said who he was on the door phone.'

‘I thought you were superb,' Birdie said. ‘Super cool.'

‘Yeah, well – I was having caniptions.'

‘Poor baby,' Birdie said.

‘You can laugh,' Junior said, ‘but my shoulders hurt.'

‘How about some ice cream and a back rub?'

‘Yes and yes.'

‘And then a game of cribbage,' Birdie said, gliding away to the kitchen. ‘I've got to think fast.'

‘OK,' Junior said, with less enthusiasm. He owed her four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-nine dollars from cribbage games over the years. At a hundred dollars a win and a dollar a point, that represented a fair number of losses.

He remembered his own astonishment at seeing her play with Jack the first time he travelled with them. First-class on Concorde from London to New York, the compartment full of musicians and tour bigwigs. Ignoring them all, at the front of the plane sat Jack
and Birdie with a deck of cards and a cribbage board, deadly serious. Rock stars don't play cribbage, he thought. But Jack did. When he was feeling unsociable he played obsessively, game after game, dragging himself through the dead hours of travel.