Frankland asks Dean, ‘Well?’
‘Yer brought me here to see the guitarist, didn’t yer?’
‘Correct.’
‘He’s pretty good.’
Levon makes an is-that-all? face.
‘He’s bloody amazing. Who is he?’
‘His name’s Jasper de Zoet.’
‘Christ. Where I’m from yer’d get lynched for less.’
‘Dutch father, English mother. He’s only been in England six weeks, so he’s still finding his feet. Care for a splash of bourbon in that Coke?’
Dean holds out his bottle and receives a good glug. ‘Cheers. He’s pissing his talent away on Archie Kinnock.’
‘He’s like you in Battleship Potemkin.’
‘Who’s the drummer? He’s good too.’
‘Peter Griffin. “Griff”. From Yorkshire. He salted his burns on the northern jazz circuit, playing in the Wally Whitby ensemble.’
‘Wally Whitby the jazz trumpet player?’
‘The very same.’ Levon swigs from his hip flask.
‘Does Jasper de Thingy write as well as play?’ asks Dean.
‘Apparently. But Archie won’t let him play his own material.’
Dean feels a throb of jealousy. ‘He’s really got something.’
Levon dabs his glazed brow with a spotted handkerchief. ‘Agreed. But he’s also got a problem. He’s too much his own man to slot into a pre-existing act like Archie Kinnock’s, but he’s not a solo act either. He needs a hand-picked gang of bandmates as gifted as he is, who’ll spur him on and who’ll be spurred on by him.’
‘Which band do yer have in mind?’
‘It doesn’t exist yet. But I believe I’m looking at its bassist.’
Dean snorts a laugh. ‘Right.’
‘I’m serious. I’m curating a band. And I’m starting to think that you, Jasper and Griff might just have that magic chemistry.’
‘Are yer taking the piss?’
‘Do I look like I am?’
‘No, but … what did they say?’
‘I haven’t approached them yet. You’re the first piece in the puzzle, Dean. Very few bassists would be punctual enough for Griff and creative enough for Jasper.’
Dean plays along. ‘And yer’ll be the manager?’
‘Obviously.’
‘But Jasper ’n’ Griff are already in a band.’
‘Blues Cadillac is not a band. It’s a dying dog. Putting it out of its misery would be an act of mercy.’
A drop of sweat from the ceiling finds the back of Dean’s neck. ‘Their manager’d beg to differ.’
‘Archie’s ex-manager ran off with the piggy-bank, so Larry Ratner’s managing the band. Unfortunately, he’s as good a manager as I am a pole-vaulter.’
Dean swigs his bourbon and Coke. ‘So this is an offer?’
‘A proposal.’
‘Shouldn’t we have a try-out, at least, before we –’ Dean stops himself saying ‘jump into bed together’ ‘– decide anything?’
‘Definitely. As Fate would have it, you have your bass here, and a fired-up audience. All I need from you is the nod.’
What’s he talking about? ‘This is Archie Kinnock’s gig. He’s got a bassist. We can’t do an audition now.’
Levon takes off his blue glasses and commences to clean the lenses. ‘But the answer to the question, “Would you like a try-out with Jasper and Griff?” is “Yes”, yes?’
‘Well, yeah, I s’pose, but—’
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ Frankland puts his glasses back on. ‘I have an appointment. It shan’t take long.’
‘An appointment? Now? Who with?’
‘The Dark Arts.’
While he’s waiting for Levon Frankland to return, Dean stands in the corner guarding his bass and his rucksack. The Small Faces’ ‘Sha-La-La-La-Lee’ is playing. Dean’s thinking the lyrics could be better, when a familiar voice says, ‘Mosser!’ Dean stares back at his beaky-nosed, wide-eyed, goofy-grinning friend from art school Kenny Yearwood. ‘Kenny!’
‘So, yer still alive. Christ, yer hair’s got longer.’
‘Yours is shorter.’
‘It’s called “Getting a real job”. Can’t say as I’m a fan. Was yer back at Christmas? Didn’t see yer down the Captain Marlow.’
‘Yeah, but I had flu so I stayed at my nan’s. Didn’t call up any o’ the old gang.’ Couldn’t face any of the old gang, more like.
‘Are yer still with Battleship Potemkin? I heard rumours about EMI signing yer or something.’
‘Nah, it all turned to shit. I left the band last October.’
‘Oh. Plenty more fish in the sea, right?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘So … who are yer playing with now?’
‘Not … uh … well … Kind of. We’ll see.’
Kenny waits for Dean to answer properly. ‘Are yer okay?’
Dean finds the truth is less exhausting than a lie. ‘It’s been a bitch of a day, since yer ask. I got mugged this morning.’
‘Fucking hell, Mosser.’
‘Six bastards jumped me. I got in a couple o’ decent punches but they took my rent money – all the money I had in fact – so my landlady kicked me out. To cap it all, I got fired from the coffee shop I was working at. So yer find me neck-deep in shit, my friend.’
‘So where’re yer staying now?’
‘Someone’s sofa till Monday.’
‘And after Monday?’
‘Something’ll turn up. Just don’t tell anyone in Gravesend, all right? People gossip, then Nan Moss ’n’ Bill ’n’ my brother’ll hear, and they’ll fret ’n’ stuff, so—’
‘Yeah, sure, but look. Have a sub till yer back on yer feet.’ Kenny’s wallet is out and he’s slipped something into Dean’s pocket. ‘That’s five quid, not me going for a quick grope.’
Dean’s mortified. ’Mate, I wasn’t on the scav, I didn’t—’
‘I know. I know. But if the shoe was on the other foot, yer’d do the same for me, yeah?’
Dean considered giving the money back, for all of three seconds. Five pounds will feed him for a fortnight. ‘Jesus, Kenny, I don’t know how to thank yer. I’ll pay yer back.’
‘I know. Get yer record deal first.’
‘I won’t forget. Honest to God. Cheers. I—’
Shrieks and shouts break out. A man’s lunging through the crowd, knocking over punters left and right. Kenny dodges one way and Dean the other. It’s Larry Ratner, the Blues Cadillac bassist, bolting for the stairs – chased by Archie Kinnock, who trips over Dean’s Fender case, which has slid to the floor. Archie Kinnock lands awkwardly and thumps his head on the concrete ground. Ratner reaches the steep steps and bounds up them, two at a time, barging past startled patrons of 2i’s. Archie Kinnock gets to his feet – his nose is half mashed – and bellows up the stairs, ‘I’m gonna rip your bleedin’ heart out! Just like you ripped mine!’ Then he staggers up the stairs after his bandmate and is gone, too.