Gimme More (20 page)

Sasson could answer that himself. He was goading me.

When I didn't reply, he said, ‘Well, he's no Jack. That's for sure.'

Comparisons, comparisons. Poor Sapper.

I said, ‘If you only signed bands who stacked up against the stars you'd only sign one every seven years and you'd be out of a job. You gotta have something new to sell. That's what you're in business for.'

‘True,' he said. ‘There aren't many Jacks around. It's just that I don't have your knack for talent-spotting. I sometimes wonder, if I hadn't grown up with Jack, if I'd first come across him in a club like tonight, would I have spotted him for what he was?'

‘Did you have a tin ear, Sasson?' I asked with mild curiosity. ‘Were you blind? Because you would've had to have been blind and deaf to fail to spot Jack.'

‘Yes.' He sighed and mercifully shut up for a few more miles.

We rolled on west at a steady eighty miles an hour, he in his corner, me in mine; he with his thoughts, me with mine.

We were going to Dorset – not Sasson's county. It wasn't his house we were driving to, and we weren't in his car. The man behind the wheel wasn't his driver. In short, the trip was not Sasson's idea.

It wasn't my idea either – except that it is what I've been walking towards for years. So many little steps, one at a time, bring me to Nash Zalisky's doorstep.

Once, years ago, when he was still more or less a social creature, I met Nash Zalisky at a reception. Even then he was a formidable character. His own independent label had just been bought out by Columbia and he had been transformed from a music industry maverick into a rich, rich maverick with a three-year exclusion clause in his contract.

I was being stealthily pursued by a man with a telephoto lens, and I escaped up a flight of stairs to a shadowy gallery overlooking the reception area. Nash was the only other person up there – watching the party from above as if it were his personal bull-ring.

He said, quietly, ‘Birdie, would you please go elsewhere. You attract too much attention.'

‘Where?' I asked, because I was looking for a private way out and couldn't find one. I looked down and saw Jack at the centre of a crush of women.

He said, ‘You know, I always wanted Jack on my label, but I couldn't afford him. Now I can afford him but I'm not allowed to work.'

‘Money has a price,' I said.

He nodded seriously and we both watched the photographer look up and catch sight of us. With military precision, we took one pace back into the shadows.

He said, ‘I would like to go to the movies now. Would you allow me to take you to the movies?'

‘If you know a discreet way out of here,' I said, ‘I'll allow you to take me anywhere.' At that moment I was sick to death of being a peep show at a circus. I was sick of the hype and fuss and flattery, the grabbing and groping. If a quiet man wanted to take me to fantasy-land and a darkened space I wasn't going to stop him.

‘Only I must warn you,' he said, ‘I won't tolerate talking at the cinema. And afterwards I do not want to discuss the film. Half-digested opinions drive me nuts. But I might want to hold your hand.'

‘Fair enough,' I said. ‘My side of the contract stipulates no groping and you pay for the tickets. Deal?' I thought he was joking.

‘Deal,' he said. He wasn't joking.

We went to a Marx Brothers double bill at the Curzon, and we didn't exchange another word from the time we left the reception until he put me in a cab at the end of the second film. Then he kissed the hand he'd held all through
Horse Feathers
and said, ‘Thank you for your company. It was surprisingly restful.'

I never saw him again from that day to this. But it wasn't the last time I heard of him. Quite apart from becoming a card-carrying eccentric and something of a recluse, when his exclusion clause ran out he came back on to the scene as a major player. Only this time he didn't let any of the big sharks buy him out. He was the shark.

Which, if my research tells me no lies, is why he can send a car for Dog's most important suit well after midnight, and Sasson will meekly hop in and drive away to Dorset when he'd much rather be home in bed. Better yet, he can send me a perfect gold and green orchid, packed in ice, and a handwritten invitation to a late supper. Oh my! Further, he can make Sasson very nervous indeed.

‘I've never been invited to Badlands before,' Sasson confessed, shifting uneasily.

‘Invited or summoned?' I said. I was uneasy myself. The flower was exquisite, and I wondered if that meant Nash might think I was still exquisite too. Being a recluse sometimes means that a man doesn't keep a grip on time.

‘So, you haven't seen him recently,' I said.

‘Who has? Well, he does come to town once in a blue moon – he hasn't completely cut himself off.'

‘What does he do with himself?'

‘Well, I suppose you might say he's become the
éminence grise
behind all sorts of ventures.'

‘Which ventures?' I asked. ‘Dog, for instance?'

‘One thing I know for certain', Sasson said, glancing nervously at the back of the driver's head, ‘is that almost everything you hear is wildly exaggerated.'

‘So there's no truth in the rumour that he heads a multi-media consortium which has its own cable company?'

‘Where did you hear that one, Birdie?'

‘Just gossip,' I said, grinning in the dark.

‘Nash doesn't like gossip.'

‘Tough,' I said. ‘Non-disclosure invites speculation.'

‘You should know,' Sasson said bitchily.

‘Indeed I do. Is he your boss, Sasson? Are you obeying orders? Who are you dancing for?'

‘Actually, Birdie, I don't have a boss as such.'

‘Right,' I said, ‘and that's why you're dogging around in the wee small hours with a bitch you've resented for years.'

‘I don't resent you, Birdie,' Sasson said in a voice you could pour from a cream jug. ‘I just wish I could get a line on you – you're so wayward.'

I laughed and retreated. For the time being, fishing was a waste of energy.

We approached the house through iron gates set in a high wall. After about half a mile on gravel the drive became stone-paved, and at exactly that point the chauffeur switched the engine off and allowed the Bentley to coast silently around the last bend. We had
just enough momentum to bring us to the base of a flight of stone steps. The house was enormous.

I said, ‘Who's the king of the castle?'

‘Shut up,' Sasson said, sounding distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Birdie, please don't …'

‘What?'

But I didn't find out. We were ushered out of the car and pointed up the steps to a pair of colossal doors. The doors opened without any prompting from us and we entered a sort of baronial hall. The floor should have been tiled with marble, but instead it was covered in deep-pile green carpet – acres of it.

‘Aha,' I said. ‘The rule of silence persists.'

‘You remember,' said Nash, appearing from behind a thick oak door like a leprechaun popping out from between the pages of a book.

‘I didn't know you knew each other,' Sasson said.

‘Nobody meets for the first time,' Nash told him seriously, ‘they only think they do. In fact, everyone has met everyone. It's just that they don't
know
anyone.'

‘I see,' said Sasson.

‘No you don't,' said Nash. ‘Would you like some supper? I'm cooking
carciofi ripieni di mortadella'

‘Er, wonderful,' said Sasson, looking blank.

‘Well, I know Birdie loves globe artichokes,' Nash said. ‘Come along.'

Miles of silent corridor led to a kitchen. The billionaire, it seemed, was doing his own cooking. Sasson and I sat at the kitchen table drinking Cuvée Dom Perignon while we watched Nash carefully brown his artichokes. It was a sight to see: he was dressed in black except for a white collarless shirt, which looked like a priest's dog collar under his black sweater—a billionaire vicar cooking supper. He was still very slight and boyish and his buck teeth gave him the appearance of class nerd – the boy who would be surrounded and kicked to shit in the playground. But, up close, his skin was as dry and lined as a man of seventy's and his hair had been dyed an improbable chestnut colour. A cook-book was open on the counter beside him and he studied it at every stage of the operation.

Nothing was said until the artichokes had been placed in a heavy metal casserole. He put damp kitchen paper between the lid and the pan – 1 didn't know if that was to muffle the sound of metal on metal or because it was what the cook-book told him to do.

This man, I thought, has been responsible for some of the loudest recordings in the history of rock music. I grinned and remembered how he'd sat through the Marx Brothers double bill with an earnest, anxious expression on his face, without once cracking a smile.

Nash sat down with us and poured himself a glass of champagne. He said, ‘Forgive me if I seem blunt, but I abhor small-talk. I've heard that you are in possession of a quantity of Jack's recordings and a film which no one else has had sight of.'

‘I expect you've heard about all sorts of things including artichokes.'

Sasson said, ‘Birdie, please, no games.'

‘What a shame,' I said. ‘I'm feeling playful.'

Sasson looked at Nash and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

Nash looked at his watch and ignored us both.

Sasson said, ‘Do the materials exist? A simple yes or no. Is that so hard?'

I smiled at him.

‘Look,' Sasson said, ‘I know you want to be the centre of attention and to be courted and all that, but I must point out to you that under the terms of Jack's contract at the time he died, all the outstanding materials …'

‘Just a minute,' Nash said. He got up, opened the casserole, poked the artichokes with a fork, and then came back to the table.

‘Where was I?' Sasson asked, thrown off his stride.

I said, ‘You were about to explain to the egocentric airhead that, whatever she may or may not have, she has no legal claim to it.'

‘Yes,' agreed Nash, ‘and I was trying to divert you from that course. It isn't profitable.'

‘Not to me,' I said. ‘But Sasson's right. Never mind the contract – Jack's estate was bankrupt and I went down with it. All his assets,
all
of them, Sasson, were sold to Square Hole Records to pay off the debts. And that included publishing rights in which I had an interest.'

‘Debatable,' Sasson said.

‘Then debate it with Inland Revenue. I am still liable for tax on earnings which, according to you, are not rightfully mine.'

‘You see,' said Nash to Sasson, ‘I think Birdie's ahead of you. And if I may say so, it's contradictory to tell her that she doesn't own that which you are attempting to purchase.'

‘To take it a step further,' I added,
‘all
of Jack's existing assets were declared for estate reasons, bankruptcy reasons and tax reasons. Any new material, therefore, cannot exist. Which is a pity.'

‘Are you saying that new materials do exist but you can't admit to them?' Sasson asked.

‘Ding-dong,' said Nash, without a trace of humour.

I said, ‘I'm not saying anything. Especially while this conversation is being recorded.'

There was a moment of electric silence and then Nash said, ‘Sasson, I think you'd better leave. It's most discourteous of you to record a conversation between friends.'

‘But …'

‘I must insist. And please give Birdie the tape.'

Sasson's face was dark with embarrassment and rage. He fumbled in his inside pocket and drew out a little dictaphone.

‘I wasn't recording you, Birdie,' he said. ‘I was recording the band earlier.'

‘Good explanation,' I said, ‘when you already have access to the demo tapes.'

‘You're so tricky and paranoid, Birdie.'

‘Is that an apology?' Nash asked mildly.

‘No,' said Sasson. ‘Look Nash, if I've overstepped I apologise.'

‘You'll find the car about a quarter of a mile down the drive.'

The speed with which Nash dismissed Sasson left me open-mouthed. Metaphorically, of course – a hanging jaw is not an attractive sight. I rested my chin in my hand and watched with a sleepy expression that masked my shock. For one thing, it was such an abrupt change of pace. For another, it only happened because I'd been trying it on. I didn't actually know Sasson was recording the conversation. It was always a possibility – given the way he was trying to pin me down, and given the way Dog was already floating
the notion of an album with ten previously unreleased numbers on it. In those circumstances Sasson was simply doing his job. Of course, I was doing mine too by refusing to be pinned down and creating diversions when the talk got too tight.

Another interpretation might be that I engineered Sasson's departure in order to get my hands on an extra artichoke. That alone would have been worth doing: supper was delicious. Some say seize the moment. I say savour every bite. Especially when you don't know what's going to happen next and you're in the company of a man who, for the last thirty years, has always been on the winning team.

True to form, Nash didn't speak while eating, and afterwards he simply beckoned. I followed him along the padded corridor, through the hall and into a room furnished sparsely with sofas and books. He sat, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. I slipped my shoes off and curled up in the corner of one of the chairs, massaging my feet.

‘You're like a cat licking her paws,' he said unexpectedly. ‘You have a cat's ability to take what's going and move on. I noticed that before. I hypothesised that feeding you might be a pleasure, and so it was.'