The Man Who Lived by Night (4 page)

Myself, I managed not to salivate on my trousers. Tris Scarr had just dished up enough dirt for three best sellers, and he wasn’t even warm yet. I cleared my throat, and said “Puppy?”

“He was killed, mate.”

“An accidental overdose. I remember.”

“That was no accident. He was done in. Don’t you see?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Done in,” he repeated, emphatically.

“You’re suggesting that someone
murdered
Puppy Johnson?”

“I’m not suggestin’ it. I’m sayin’ it.”

“But who?”

“Never found out. Never will now.” He took a sip of his wine and narrowed his eyes at me again. “Need any more assurances, Hogarth?”

I smiled. “We’re going to do just fine, Tristam. In fact, we’re going to write ourselves one helluva book.”

“The best. I want the best.”

“And you shall have it.”

“I’m accustomed to working from midnight to dawn. Can’t seem to change. You mind?”

“Not at all. I can type during the day. Take care of the other interviews.”

He frowned, confused. “Other interviews? I thought this was
my
book.”

“It is, but other sources will spark your remembrances. Also provide us with some objectivity. Don’t worry—I’ll sift everything through your voice.”

He nodded. “I see.”

“Who might be of help?”

He took a long time answering that one. “There’s Derek …”

“What’s he up to these days?”

“He’s being a toff in Bedford Square with his guns.”

“Guns?”

“Antiques. He collects them.”

“How about Tulip?”

He didn’t answer me.

“Or your ex-manager?”

“Marco’s running a disco these days. Tulip … she’s running around on ceilings. Bonkers, she is. Found the Lord. Pastries, as well.” He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “There aren’t a lot of good feelings, mate. I reckon some of that’s my fault. What I mean is, they may not want to talk.”

“Leave that part to me,” I told him. “I’ll need a car. Either you can loan me one or I’ll rent one and send Jay the bill. Up to you.”

“I’m to pay for it?”

“Part of the deal.”

“I see. In the contract, is it?”

“I can go down and get my copy if you—”

“No, no. Not necessary, Hogarth. I believe you. Just didn’t know, you see. Feel free to take any of the cars.”

“Thank you.”

“The utility cars, of course. Not the show cars. The show cars are mine. Jack will give you the keys. He’s the—”

“Chauffeur. We’ve met.”

“Capable bloke. Was our roadie for a time. Anything else?”

“I’d like to be able to listen to your old records. Didn’t bring mine.”

“All of them?”

“If you have them.”

“Oh, I have ’em,” he assured me, getting slowly to his feet. Our talk seemed to have drained him. He shuffled over to a wall of bookcases, came back with a boxed set of Us record albums called
Completely Us.
“Collector’s item. All electronically reprocessed. Getting three hundred pounds for it.”

“I’ll take good care of it.” I took it from him. Together, we started for the door. “You know, I saw you play Shea Stadium on your second American tour, in ’65.” I could still see him jumping around on the Shea stage that night. Now he was out of breath from crossing the room.

He grinned crookedly at me. “Yes, I thought you looked familiar—you were the one in the front row wearing blue jeans, right?”

“I meant … I mean, you were great. You guys were a great band.”

“We were the best, mate.” His nostrils flared. “And Michael Jagger can kiss m’bloody arse.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll bring my tape recorder.”

Lulu was asleep in her chair before the fire. The message I was hoping for was waiting there on my desk, courtesy of Pamela, who’d also turned down my bed. Possibly I would have to take her back to New York with me.

I sat at the desk and made notes of my initial conversation with Tris Scarr. He was reserved and elusive and in charge. Which approach should I take with him? Buddy? Bully? Shrink? Which would work on him? Which would bring him to life on the page? Too soon to tell.

After I’d put on my new silk dressing gown and poured myself a Macallan I pulled out the very first Us album,
Great Gosh Almighty—It’s Us!
For the cover, the four of them had formed a human pyramid in Hyde Park, wearing matching gold blazers without lapels, skinny black neckties and goofy faces. They were just boys—gawky, pimply boys. On the back cover was that very same human pyramid shot from behind. Har har. And some copy: “
Their names are Tris, Rory, Derek and Albert (though his mates call him Puppy). All London is talking about these four swinging young lads from up Liverpool way who play to the Mersey beat but their own way. They’re mod. They’re now. They’re gear. They’re Us!”

I put the album on the stereo, and listened to the title cut. I’ve finally reached a point where I can hear rock from my youth and not be preoccupied by its evocations of school dances on gymnasium floors and sweaty, unsure rumblings in overheated cars. It’s just music now, and this was fresh, joyous music, bursting with energy and exuberance. Tris’s voice was a ballsy wail, Rory’s chords sharp and scorching. Derek’s bass was tight and steady underneath, Puppy drove them, his drum shots crisp as breadsticks. They were pure and full of juice, their sound uncompromised by the drugs and the years. They were good. It had been good then, he’d said.

I poured myself another scotch and turned the music down. Then I stretched out on the bed and called her. My heart began to pound when she said hello. It always does.

“So how’s Anthony Andrews?” I asked.

“Just a total dreamboat,” she replied in that very proper, very dizzy teenage-girl’s voice that is hers and hers alone. “Also desperately in love.”

“With … ?”

“Anthony Andrews. Hoagy, darling?”

“Yes, Merilee?”

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself.”

Lulu heard her voice over the phone. She always can. Don’t ask me how. She came charging in from the living room, considered her chances of making it up onto the big four-poster bed, ruled them out, and barked. She has a mighty big bark for someone with no legs. I shushed her and hoisted her up. She dug in next to me and gazed expectantly at the phone.

“Actually, it’s going unbelievably well so far,” Merilee said. “Which is just as well—we open next week You’ll come, won’t you? To the opening.”

“Love to.”

“Good. I’ll make sure there’s tickets for you two at the box office.”

“I have to tell you that Lulu’s not much of a Philip Barry fan—she thinks he’s strictly yesterday.”

“She feel that way about her mommy, too?”

“Hardly. She speaks of you often, and in glowing terms. I’ll see if I can get the night off. We’ll have supper afterward. Or is there a party?”

“For you, I’ll skip it,” she said. “Unless, of course, you want to go.”

“Let’s not,” I suggested.

“Let’s not,” she agreed. “So how’s T. S.?”

“Not all there. Actually, I’ve never met anyone before who so aptly fits the phrase ‘shell of a human being.’ With the possible exception of myself, of course.”

I waited for her to contradict me. She didn’t. “I used to have his picture on my wall when I was at Miss Porter’s,” she said. “His jeans were so tight you could see the outline of his dinkus.”

“I always figured you were more of a Derek Gregg type.”

“Never, darling.
Everybody
liked him.”

“Especially the boys,” I advised, confidentially.

She gasped. “No, really?!”

“From the horse’s mouth.”

“Ooh, tell me more.”

“Remember when Puppy Johnson died?”

“OD’d on liquor and pills, didn’t he?”

“T. S. says he was murdered.”

“I don’t know about that one, Hoagy,” she said skeptically. “There’s always weirdness attached to major rock deaths. Some people believe that Jim Morrison is still alive somewhere, and that Brian Jones was actually murdered by the CIA. When I was shooting that thing in Tennessee with Sissy we went to Graceland one weekend. Some of Elvis’s fans there think he’s off living in a parallel universe. It’s all a lot of baked beans, isn’t it?”

“Most likely. I’ve missed your quaint little expressions.”

“Besides, it was over twenty years ago,” she pointed out.

“That may be true, but his chauffeur did threaten me tonight.”

“Hoagy, you’re not getting into the middle of something ugly and scary again, are you?”

“I certainly hope not.”

“I worry about you sometimes.”

“You do?” I asked, pleased at this. “Why?”

“You don’t know when it’s time to walk away.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,”

“I gave it as a constructive criticism.”

“Oh.”

She cleared her throat. “Is there a novel?”

“I think so. There’s something.”

“That’s wonderful, darling! I’m so glad.”

“You might not be so glad when you hear what it’s about.”

“Why, what’s it … Oh no, you’re not doing something tacky and Nora Ephronish are you?”

“That’ll be for the
Times
to decide.”

She sighed. “Kind of funny, the two of us being here at the same time, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Funny.”

“I always think of London as our city.”

“I stayed at Blakes.”

“You romantic fool.”

“You got that half right.”

“Which half?”

“Where are you staying?”

“A darling little mews house on Cromwell Road. I’m subletting from a British actress who’s doing a movie in New York.” She sighed again. “I don’t know what it is about this city. I mean, it’s most definitely not romantic. It’s damp and gray and it smells of exhaust fumes and simply awful cologne.”

“Merilee?”

“Yes, darling?”

“How’s Zack?”

She hesitated. “Zack’s home having some problems. We have that to talk about, too.”

We were silent a minute.

“Darling?” This she said softly.

“Yes, Merilee?”

“It can never be like before, can it?”

“It can be better.”

“Good night, darling.”

“Sleep tight, Merilee.”

I hung up. Lulu was watching me. “Just forget it,” I snapped. “There’s no chance. None. It’ll never happen.”

She whimpered. I told her to shut up. Then I took a bubble bath.

(Tape #1 with Tristam Scarr. Recorded in his chamber Nov. 19. Wears navy blue sweat suit, Air Jordan basketball sneakers, clean shave. Appears more clear-eyed than first meeting, though uneasy.)

H
OAG
: READY?

Scarr:
Ready, steady, go, mate.

Hoag:
From the beginning, if we may.

Scarr:
The beginning. Very well. I was born one evening in … ’56, it was. Supposed to be doing m’studies in m’room. Wasn’t. See, Rory’s brother, Bob, who was stationed in Bremen, had told us about this station you could get on the wireless called Radio Luxembourg. They played rock ’n’ roll music, which the BBC didn’t back then. A fabulous moment, mate. Door closed. Turning the dial. Searching. Seeking. Hearing nothing but static. And then, very faintly …
it.

Hoag:
It?

Scarr:
“Heartbreak Hotel.” Elvis. It was nasty and hot. It was me. I freaked. From that moment on, I knew what I wanted to be, y’know?

Hoag:
Yes, I do. I had a similar experience the first time I picked up
Mad
magazine. I like that anecdote. It’s private, and has feeling. But can we go back to the
very
beginning?

Scarr:
Wee laddie days?
(pause)
Very well. I was an only child. Born April 10, 1944.

Hoag:
In?

Scarr:
Rubble. Officially, it was called London. The war was still on then, of course. Mum was a nurse. Dad was a bombardier in the RAF. Dropped bombs. Poof. Martin and Meta. Named me Tristam after his grandfather. I think they met at a service dance. Neither of them was very young at the time. Or happy. They’re both dead now. Bought ’em a house in Brighton to retire at. It was the only place they ever lived at was their own. He was a short geezer. Hairs sticking out of his nose and ears. Sold things door to door, or tried to. Eight-in-one kitchen implements. Miracle bloody cleaners. M’dad was accustomed to having doors slammed in his face all day long. He never complained. Just kept dreaming. He always believed the big pot of gold was just down the road.

Hoag:
He wasn’t wrong—he was only off by one generation.

Scarr:
You got that right. Mum, she became a practical nurse. Strong woman. Very good posture. Liked everything clean, especially her little Tristam. Wore his proper school uniform, he did. Starched white shirt. Black blazer. Gray short pants. Tie. Gap. My very first act of rebellion was to be dirty … She saw to old ladies who were dying, and was always telling Dad about it at the table. “She’s got blood in her stool again, Martin. Blood in her stool. …”

Hoag:
You were raised in … ?

Scarr:
A bunch of nothing London suburbs. Acton, then Ealing, then Twickenham, Teddington, Kingston … We were always moving.

Hoag:
Wait. Time out. I thought you grew up in Liverpool.

Scarr:
No. Never.

Hoag:
But everything I’ve ever read about you said—

Scarr:
All made up. They made up a lot.

Hoag:
You mean the record company?

Scarr:
And our manager, Marco Bartucci—the man who made us Us. Liverpool was hot. Kids from greater London weren’t. So they gave us fake biographies. Christ, they said Puppy’s dad was a merchant seaman from Dingle, the Liverpool docks. He was actually in jail in Louisiana for killing a man.

Hoag:
And your Liverpool accent?

Scarr:
The scouse was put on, like a costume. Show business.

Hoag:
It certainly is. You were saying you moved around a lot.

Scarr:
Mum would ask the neighborhood shopkeepers to put it on the slate. Then, when they’d get touchy about money, we’d move on to another furnished flat somewhere. “Someday, Tristam,” m’dad would say, “I want you to be a
professional
man. A man in a proper chalk-striped suit and bowler who rides the train into the City every morning with the
Times
under his arm. Yessir.”