Dead Beat (2 page)

Right now, as I savagely toweled my hair and smoothed moisturizer into my tired skin, I cursed my susceptibility. Somehow he always manages to dig himself out of his latest pit with the same cute smile, a bunch of roses and a joke. It shouldn’t work, not on a bright, streetwise hard case like me, but to my infinite shame, it does. At least I’ve managed to impress upon him that there are house rules in any relationship. To break the rules knowingly once is forgivable. Twice means me changing the locks at three in the morning and Richard finding his favorite records thrown out of my living room window on to the lawn once I’ve made sure it’s raining. It usually is in Manchester.

At first, he reacted as if my behavior were certifiable. Now, he’s come to accept that life is much sweeter if he sticks to the rules. He’s still a long way from perfect. For example, being color-blind, he’s got a tendency to bring home little gifts like a scarlet vase that clashes hideously with my sage green, peach and magnolia decor. Or black sweatshirts promoting bands I’ve never heard of because black’s fashionable, in spite of the fact that I’ve told him a dozen times that black makes me look like a candidate for the terminal ward. Now, I simply banish them to his home and thank him sweetly for his thoughtfulness. But he’s getting better, I swear he’s getting better. Or so I told myself as the desire to strangle him rose at the thought of the evening ahead.

Reluctantly abandoning the idea of murder, I returned to my bedroom and thought about an outfit for the evening. I weighed up what would be expected of me. It didn’t matter a damn what I wore to the concert. I’d be lost in the thousands of yelling fans desperate to welcome Jett back in triumph to his home town. The party afterwards was more of a problem. Much as I hated having to ask, I called through to Richard, “What’s the party going to be like, clothes-wise?”

He appeared in the doorway, looking like a puppy that’s astonished to have been forgiven so easily for the mess on the kitchen floor. His own outfit was hardly a clue. He was wearing a wideshouldered baggy electric blue double-breasted suit, a black shirt and a silk tie with a swirled pattern of neon colors that looked like a sixties’ psychedelic album cover. He shrugged and gave that smile

That was the problem. I didn’t. I’d met the man once, about three months before. He’d turned up on our table for ten at a charity dinner and had sat very quiet, almost morose, except when discussing football with Richard. Manchester United, those two words that are recognized in any language from Santiago to Stockholm, had unlocked Jett as if with a magic key. He’d sprung to the defense of his beloved Manchester City with the ardor of an Italian whose mother’s honor has been impugned. The only fashion hint I’d had from that encounter was that I should wear a City strip. “No, Richard, I don’t know Jett,” I explained patiently. “What kind of party will it be?”

“Not many Traceys, lots of Fionas,” he announced in our own private code. Traceys are bimbos, the natural successors to groupies. Blonde, busty and fashion-obsessed, if they had a brain they’d be dangerous. Fionas share the same characteristics but they are the rich little upper-crust girls who would have been debutantes if coming out had not become so hopelessly unfashionable with everyone except gays. They like rock stars because they enjoy being with men who lavish them with gifts and a good time, while at the same time shocking their families to the core. So Jett liked Fionas, did he? And Fionas meant designer outfits, an item singularly lacking in my wardrobe.

I flicked moodily through the hangers and ended up with a baggy long cotton shirt splashed with shades of olive, khaki, cream and terracotta that I’d bought on holiday in the Canaries the year before. I pulled on a pair of tight terracotta leggings. That was when I knew the motorway sandwiches had to go. Luckily, the shirt covered the worst of the bulges, so I cinched it in at the waist with a broad brown belt. I finished the outfit off with a pair of high-heeled brown sandals. When you’re only 5’3”, you need all the help you can get. I chose a pair of outrageous earrings and a couple of gold bangles, and eyed myself in the mirror. It wasn’t wonderful, but it was better than Richard deserved. Right on cue, he said, “You look great. You’ll knock them dead, Brannigan.”

I hoped not. I hate mixing business with pleasure.

   We didn’t have to scramble for a parking place near the Apollo Theater, since we live less than five minutes’ walk away. I couldn’t believe my luck when I discovered this development halfway through my first year as a law student at Manchester University. It’s surrounded on three sides by council housing estates and on the fourth by Ardwick Common. It’s five minutes by bike to the university, the central reference library, Chinatown, and the office. It’s ten minutes by bike to the heart of the city center. And by car, it’s only moments away from the motorway network. When I discovered it, they were still building the little close of forty houses, and the prices were ridiculously low, probably because of the surrounding area’s less than salubrious reputation. I worked out that if I pitched my father into standing guarantor for a hundred percent mortgage and moved another student into the spare room as a lodger, I’d be paying almost the same as I was for my shitty little room in a student residence. So I went for it and moved in that Easter. I’ve never regretted it. It’s a great place to live as long as you remember to switch on the burglar alarm.

We arrived at the Apollo just as the support band were finishing their first number. We’d have caught the opener if they hadn’t left the guest list in the hands of an illiterate. One of the major drawbacks to having a relationship with a rock writer is that you can’t put support bands to their traditional use of providing a background beat while you have a few drinks before the act you came to hear gets on stage. Rock writers actually listen to the support band, just so they can indulge in their professional one-upmanship with lines like, “Oh yes, I remember Dire Straits when they were playing support at the Newcastle City Hall,” invariably to

The bar at the Apollo reminds me of a vision of hell. It’s decorated in a mosaic of bright red glitter, it’s hot and it reeks of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. I elbowed my way through the crowd and waved a fiver in the air till one of the nonchalant bar staff eventually deigned to notice me. At the Apollo, they specialize in a minuscule selection of drinks, all served at blood heat in plastic tumblers. It doesn’t matter much what you order, it all seems to taste much the same. Only the colors vary. I asked for a lager, which arrived flat and looking like a urine sample. I sipped tentatively and decided that seeing is believing. As I pushed my way back towards the door, I saw someone who made me stop so suddenly that the man behind me cannoned into me, spilling half my drink down the trousers of the man next to me.

In the chaos of my apologies and my pathetic attempts to wipe up the spilled beer with a tissue from my handbag, I took my eyes off the source of my surprise. When I managed to make my embarrassed escape, I looked over to the corner where he’d been standing. But it was now occupied by a threesome I’d never seen before. Gary Smart, brother and partner of Billy, had vanished.

I stared round the crowded bar, but there was no trace of him. He’d been standing with a tall, skinny man who’d had his back to me. I didn’t hear a word of their conversation, but their body language suggested a business deal. Gary had been putting some kind of pressure on the other man. It certainly hadn’t looked like a pleasant, concertgoers’ chat about which of Jett’s albums they liked best. I cursed silently. I’d missed a great chance to pick up some interesting info.

With a shrug, I drank the few remaining mouthfuls of my drink and went back down to the foyer. I checked out the tour merchandise just to see if there was anything among the T-shirts, sweatshirts, badges, programs and albums that I fancied. Richard can always get freebies, so I usually have a quick look. But the sweatshirts were black, and the T-shirts hideous, so I walked back through the half-empty auditorium and slumped in my seat next to

“That their name or a critical judgement?” I asked.

He laughed and said, “Well, they ain’t honest enough to call themselves that, but they might as well have done. Now, while we’ve got a minute to ourselves, tell me about your day.”

As he lit a joint, I did just that. I always find that talking things over with Richard helps. He has an instinctive understanding of people and how their minds work that I have come to rely on. It’s the perfect foil to my more analytical approach.

Unfortunately, before he could deliver his considered verdict on the Smart brothers, the lights went down. The auditorium, now full to capacity, rang with cries of “Jett, Jett, Jett …” After a few minutes of chanting, wavering torch beams lit up pathways on the stage as members of Jett’s backing band took the stage. Then, a pale blue spot picked out the drummer, high on his platform at the rear of the stage, brushing a snare drum softly. The lighting man focused on the bass player in pale purple as he picked up the slow beat. Then came the keyboards player, adding a shimmering chord from the synthesizer. The sax player joined in, laying down a line as smooth as chocolate.

Then, suddenly, a stark white spotlight picked out Jett as he strode out of the wings, looking as frail and vulnerable as ever. His black skin gleamed under the lights. He wore his trademark brown leather trousers and cream silk shirt. An acoustic guitar was slung round his neck. The audience went wild, almost drowning out the musicians in their frenzy. But as soon as he opened his mouth to sing, they stilled.

His voice was better than ever. I’ve been a fan of Jett since his first single hit the charts when I was fifteen, but I find it as hard now to categorize his music as I did then. His first album had been a collection of twelve tracks, mainly acoustic but with some subtle backings ranging from a plangent sax to a string quartet. The songs had ranged from simple, plaintive love songs to the anthem-like “To Be With You Tonight” which had been the surprise hit of the

Eight other albums had followed, but I’d increasingly found less delight in them. I wasn’t sure if it was the changes in me that were responsible for that. Maybe what strikes a teenager as profound and moving just doesn’t work once you’re halfway through your twenties. But it seemed to me that while the music was still strong, the lyrics had become trite and predictable. Maybe that was a reflection of his reported views about the role of women. It’s hard to write enlightened love songs about the half of the population you believe should be barefoot and pregnant. However, the packed crowd in the Apollo didn’t seem to share my views. They roared out their appreciation for every number, whether from the last album or the first. After all, he was on home ground. He was their own native son. He’d made the northern dream a reality, moving up from a council flat in the Moss Side ghetto to a mansion in the Cheshire countryside.

With consummate showmanship, he closed the ninety-minute set with a third encore, that first, huge hit, the one we’d all been waiting for. A classic case of leaving them wanting more. Before the last chords had died away, Richard was on his feet and heading for the exit. I followed quickly before the crowds built up, and caught up with him on the pavement outside as he flagged down a cab.

As we settled back in our seats and the cabbie set off for the hotel, Richard said, “Not bad. Not bad at all. He puts on a good show. But he’d better have some new ideas for the next album. Last three all sounded the same and they didn’t sell nearly enough. You watch, there’ll be a few twitchy faces around tonight, and I don’t just mean the coke-heads.”

He paused to light a cigarette and I snatched the chance to ask him why it was so important that I be at the party. I was still nursing the forlorn hope of an early night.

“Now that would be telling,” he said mysteriously.

“So tell. It’s only a five-minute cab ride. I haven’t got time to pull your fingernails out one by one.”

“You’re a hard woman, Brannigan,” he complained. “Never off duty, are you? OK, I’ll tell you. You know me and Jett go way back?” I nodded. I remembered Richard telling me the story of how he’d landed his first job on a music paper with an exclusive interview of the normally reclusive Jett. Richard had been working for a local paper in Watford and he’d been covering their cup tie with Manchester City. At the time, Elton John had owned Watford, and Jett had been his personal guest for the afternoon. After City won, Richard had sneaked in to the boardroom and had persuaded an elated Jett to give him an interview. That interview had been Richard’s escape ticket. As a bonus, Jett had liked what Richard wrote, and they’d stayed friends ever since.

“Well,” Richard continued, interrupting my reference to my mental card index of his past, “he’s decided that he wants his autobiography written.”

“Don’t you mean biography?” Always the nitpicker, that’s me.

“No, I mean
auto
. He wants it ghosted, written in the first person. When we saw him at that dinner, he mentioned it to me. Sort of sounded me out. Of course, I said I’d be interested. It wouldn’t be a mega-seller like Jagger or Bowie, but it could be a nice little earner. So, when he rang me up to invite us tonight and he was so insistent that you come along too, I thought I could read between the lines.”

Although he was trying to sound nonchalant, I could tell that Richard was bursting with pride and excitement at the idea. I pulled his head down to mine and planted a kiss on his warm mouth. “That’s great news,” I said, meaning it. “Will it mean a lot of work?”

He shrugged. “I shouldn’t think so. It’s just a case of getting him talking into the old tape recorder then knocking it into shape afterwards. And he’s going to be at home for the next three months or so working on the new album, so he’ll be around and about.”

Before we could discuss the matter further, the taxi pulled up outside the ornate façade of the grandiosely named Holiday Inn Midland Crowne Plaza. It’s one of those extraordinary Manchester