All The Young Punks Pt. 49

"Do you read poetry?" she asked. "I was a literature major at King's College."

"Actually," he paused. "I don't, but I have a book of the greatest hits, so I know the snowy woods." He leaned in to whisper. "I think they use the miles to go before I sleep in the novel I'm reading."

"What novel?" Charlotte asked.

"The Boys From Brazil," Joe said. "Are you familiar? Do you like thrillers?"

"I don't know it, but mysteries and suspense are my favorite."

"I read it a few years ago and now I'm reading it again. They made a movie with Sir Lawrence Olivier and Gregory Peck." Joe made eye contact. "You know who they are, right?"

Charlotte stiffened, standing tall and straight, almost offended. "Of course I do. I was a theater minor."

Joe recognized that he had possibly alienated his hotel desk clerk. "I'm sorry, of course you know Sir Lawrence."

"Your wake-up call is scheduled, sir."

"Please call me Joe. I'm going sightseeing tomorrow. I'm a stinking tourist for two days before I must keep my promises."

"Where are you going?"

"London's greatest hits, starting with The Tower of London, then the Tate Museum. I hear you have a bridge and a clock. After that, I can wing it. I might find some pubs."

She smiled. "I believe you already have."

"Yes, I have. I'm from New York and I love the subway, so I'll be all over the tube, or inside it, however you Brits say it." He waved. "Thank you, good night, Charlotte."

-- ROYAL CUNTS ---

On his third day missing, Joe had a promise to keep. Simon had friends meeting at one of his hangouts from his private school days when he was a delinquent punk rebelling against his parents and the headmaster. Joe arrived at the 100 Club in Soho early and found a place at the bar.

While nursing a Guinness, he noticed a table of punks eyeballing him. He scanned the room. Simon had told him this was a legit punk bar. All the UK punk rock greats had played here. There were punks present, for sure. Their fashion gave them away, but it was no more punk than Tommy Guns. Most patrons appeared relatively normal.

"Excuse me," a blonde girl tapped his shoulder. "Are you Joe?"

He turned to see a smiling face. "Yes."

"I thought so. I'm Simon's friend, Shelly."

"Pleased to meet you, Shelly. Have you seen him?"

"He was here last night. We're expecting him soon, as well as you. That's how I know who you are." She gestured to her table, six in all, the group had been sizing him up. "Would you care to join us?"

Joe nodded, "Of course."

Shelly had the biggest, blue eyes Joe had ever seen, radiant and expressive, surrounded by a round face with perfect milky white skin. He spent most of the next hour sharing tales of Simon McManus. Five of the six Londoners knew Simon from his youth. They told stories of his rebellion and Joe dished dirt on Simon's life in New York. They asked about his 1979 assault.

Joe's eyes widened. "This week is the fifth anniversary." Then told them everything, including the tale of retrieving his RAF leather. Then they moved to the topic of his band.

"I know it's not your best song," Shelly said. "But my favorite is Sons of Providence."

"Only because of one line," her friend Mary noted. "The first to tell King George fuck off." She turned to Joe. "She despises the royals."

"I don't believe we should be supporting those Royal cunts," Shelly said. "They've done nothing for the people except provide fairy tales. We're not their subjects."

"Well, my colony was the first to say that," Joe said, raising his hand to get their server's attention. "The other twelve followed. And we all know how that worked out."

"Simon says you toss the revolution in his face all the time," Andrew said from under his short spiky hair.

The server arrived. Joe made a hand motion around the table. "I'd like to buy a round for my new Limey friends. And keep my tab open."

The six nodded in appreciation.

"I'm just fucking with him," Joe said. "I love history and there's plenty of revolutionary lore where I'm from." He then told the tale of the burning of the HMS Gaspee and the centuries-old parade to celebrate the relatively minor skirmish of 1772.

"We didn't know what that lyric referred to," Shelly said. "They don't teach that here."

"No one outside Rhode Island knows of the Gaspee. It's not taught outside our colony." He turned to Mary. "So I take it you're a royal watcher."

"Oh, my lord," Shelly laughed. "She worships them. If Prince Charles walked in here Mary would be on her knees gobbling his knob."

"Piss off!" Mary scowled at her. "I don't worship them."

Terrance nodded. "Yes, she does, and Shelly wants to burn the House of Windsor to the ground."

Shelly and Mary were roommates. Both were cute, but they were very different. Shelly had long blonde wavy hair, intense ocean eyes, and round curves below the neck. Mary was tall and lean, with short brunette hair just below her ears. Joe noticed his new friends looking up at someone behind him, and then a pair of meaty paws landed on his shoulders.

"You, mate, have created bloody fucking chaos at EIC!"

Joe turned to see Simon. He shrugged and flagged their server again. He turned to the six Brits. "If Simon gives me a bloody and a fucking in the same sentence, it's either very good or very bad."

"Is this good or bad chaos?" Shelly asked.

"It depends on where you're sitting," Simon said as he took a chair from another table and joined their party, squeezing between Mary and Terrance the tattooed punk. "My American mate is a rabble-rouser. He's achieved precisely what he aimed for."

The server arrived with a fresh round of pints. Simon ordered his.

"That's on me," Joe added. "And let's do seven Jamesons."

"What did you do?" Mary asked.

"Just a small prank on corporate cunts," Joe smirked. "I'll let Si tell you since he has both sides of the story."

Simon ran down the events of the last two days. Saturday the band arrived at JFK, as well as several EIC tour organizers, and when Joe didn't show, panic ensued.

"Today, David Benjamin interrogated us. He demanded we tell him where Joe is. Sal is furious. The entire tour team is searching for this bloke. They called the airline."

Joe smiled, "I cashed in my ticket and flew a day early, on a different airline... aboard Concorde."

"You flew Concorde?" Three voices asked at once.

"Yes."

"That had to cost you a few pounds," Andrew said. "Thousands."

"First class," Joe nodded. "I probably shouldn't be buying drinks."

Shelly put her hand on Joe's, "Hon, every seat on Concorde is first class."

"Oh," he made a duh face. "I didn't think of that."

After a few rounds at the 100 Club, the group took a short ride on the tube to Simon's other punk hangout, The Hope & Anchor in Islington. When they arrived, another group was waiting, a table of five.

"The Ramones played here," Simon informed Joe as punks arranged chairs and tables to make one large party of twelve. "And The Clash, and The Police, and...."

"And any band worth a damn," one of Simon's Anchor mates interrupted. "This is the best punk bar in London."

The 100 Club punks glared but did not challenge that claim on enemy turf. They were all punk in the same tribe, more or less. Joe sat back after buying one round, watched and listened to Simon and his old punk crew reminiscing about their youth. He was happy for Simon, who was delighted to have him as a guest. There seemed to be three conversations at the same time and Joe was trying to engage each one.

Simon nudged him. "Joe was there, right?"

"Where?" Joe turned to the other conversation.

"The night Lennon died, you and T went up there."

"Yes, it was surreal."

"You were at The Dakota the night he died?" Mary asked.

"It's not a big deal, hundreds of people were there."

"What was it like?"

That question, and Joe's short tale of taking the subway to the Upper West Side to join mourners, ended the other conversations as all ears were on his unremarkable tale. Joe noted the intense focus of his audience.

"It was all so fucking senseless. Lennon lived in New York because he felt safer in a city filled with fame." Joe paused, all eyes on him. "And that city killed him."

The long silence after those words, with Londoners quietly contemplating Lennon's demise, sipping their pints, gave Joe chills up his spine. He sensed he had connected with Simon's people.

Near the end of the evening, Joe raised a hand. "How many of you are going to the show?"

"Several hands went up, but not Shelly and Mary."

Joe furrowed his brow. "You're not going?"

"Tickets are pricey and we're lowly serfs."

"Simon didn't hook you up?"

"I gave two tickets to my brother and two to them," he pointed. "I'm sorry. We only get four tickets."

"That's another reason I hate working for the man," Joe said. "I have four tickets and no one in town." He nodded at the girls. "You can have mine."

Their British smiles were his reward.

.

.

--- HAMMERSMITH ODEON ---

In the 48 hours before the Young Punks pre-tour party at the Hammersmith Odeum, dozens of EIC mid-level execs were scrambling to locate Joe Theroux. David Benjamin had flown over on Concorde a day later than Joe. Once he arrived and learned the lead man of the band was MIA, he was on the phone all day pushing buttons and threatening people's jobs.

"If that little fucker torches this tour after all we've done for him I will ruin his life and put his little company out of business."

"Sir, I don't believe Joe would allow his friends and partners to be ruined. I know you see him as an independent and a renegade. You love that about him..." Maya Thomas paused. "The truth is, he is fanatically loyal to his best friends and family. He won't let you hurt his friends."

"If he shows up..." David paused, focusing on Maya's eyes. "you must be certain he has everything he wants or needs."

She nodded. "Of course. You don't have to remind me what my job is, David. I'm very good at it."

"That's why I gave you Theroux. He's got issues. He needs special handling."

Maya Thomas was a mixed-race, half-English woman with a big brain, a tight body, and a Psychology and Behavioral Sciences degree from Cambridge. David trusted her with his headcase clients.

"Look, David," she said. "I understand that you feel the need to do background on your clients and partners, but maybe this is too much."

"This is why I trust you, Maya. You see my mistakes before I do. I never said to use that information, but be aware of his weakness. Theroux is soft on women."

The tour party at the Odeon began at 6 PM GMT, with a large buffet and open bar, with the Young Punks stage set up for their trans-Atlantic debut, including Joe's Butterscotch Tele, Candy Apple Red Jaguar, and Fender Twin Deluxe Reverb amp. David Benjamin, Roger Goodman, Ken Harris, Maya Thomas, Sal Mancuso, and Nate Gordon mingled with London guests, and the tension in the air. EIC tried to make this party seem normal, but that was impossible as word swirled that Joe Theroux was missing. There was speculation and rumors.

Twenty minutes into the somber party, Joe walked up to the rear door of the theater where security stopped him.

"I assure you," Joe said to Barry the thick-necked rugby playing bouncer in the back alley of the Odeum. "They're waiting for me. If you don't let me in, you'll get sacked." Joe made a funny face. "Is that what you Limey's call getting fired?"

Barry wasn't impressed.

"I'm Joe Theroux. Do you need an ID?"

Barry shook his head, "No." He let Joe inside.

He walked in, took several paces, and surveyed the party. After a long moment, an EIC staffer noticed him and pointed his way. Joe didn't hear what he said, but word spread through the party and all faces turned towards the back door. The mood backstage at Hammersmith Odeon transformed in an instant.

He stood tall, dozens of eyes on him. "Where's Simon?"

People parted, creating a line of vision between Joe and his best Brit. "Did you really think I would spoil your wanker party?"

A cloud lifted off the corporate event. The show was on. Most in attendance forgave Joe the moment walked into that room, but not all. After hanging at the bar for a short time, Joe made the rounds while drinking a Beefeater martini, he huddled with his bandmates. They were approached by David Benjamin who was not amused.

"What the fuck are you trying to prove with this shit?" David asked in a loud, authoritative tone. "Do you have any idea how many..."

"Hang on," Joe interrupted, matching David's volume. All nearby eyes were on him. "Do you remember in your office when you said you love how I prank my audience? You appreciate showmanship, right? Isn't that what you said?"

David did not reply.

"You said my stunts and pranks made my show unique."

David nodded but didn't speak. He was seething.

Joe smiled and stepped closer to David, standing directly in front of him, looking down at the much shorter Jewish man from Queens. He extended his hand, singing.

"Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends. We're so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside." Joe smiled and extended his hand further. "Welcome to my show, David."

Everyone in the room awaited David Benjamin's response. He accepted Joe's hand.

"Sorry for the heartburn," Joe said. "I have some ideas for this UK leg. I might need the theater all day tomorrow. Is that possible?" Joe winced. "Can you do that?"

"Of course I can!" David said sharply.

"Great," Joe said, looking back at his bandmates. "We start at ten, right after a proper English breakfast. Have you had the bangers here? It's so fat and greasy. I love it."

Joe then leaned down and whispered to David. "I would never let you burn my friends. I'll do your shows, and then we're done."

Ten minutes later Sal said loudly, "They put you on the fucking Concorde? We flew a 747."

Joe shrugged, "I don't know what to say."

After working the room, meeting corporate guests, tour sponsors, and even a few actual fans of the band, Joe made his way to the bar for another martini. He was approached by an attractive woman in smart business attire.

"Hello, Joe. I'm your tour concierge, Maya Thomas." She offered her hand.

Joe accepted with an expression of surprise. "I have a concierge... for the entire tour?"

"Yes. It's my job to make certain you have everything you need, throughout Europe."

"You're traveling with us?"

"Yes. We have a support coach with tour staff."

"Cool." Joe looked her up and down. "You might want to relax in the wardrobe department. We're not that fancy."

"I am on the job, and we're expected to uphold standards when representing EIC."

"Of course." Joe smiled.

After a short conversation, in which Maya explained a limo would take him back to his hotel, Joe met back up with the band.

"Check her out," he gestured to Maya. "The sharp chick in the blue skirt and blazer, that's my tour concierge."

"What?" Nate asked.

"Didn't you get one?"

"Yeah," Sal answered, pointing at a large man in Maya's conversation. "That guy, in the fancy pants. That's Trevor."

Joe laughed. "You got a dude?"

"We got a dude!" Sal said loudly, pointing to Simon and Nate. "A fucking gay dude."

Joe's eyes widened. "That guy is gay?"

"Yeah," Simon nodded. "The body size and mannerisms do not match."

Joe laughed, looking at Sal. "That man could fuck you in the ass and you couldn't do a damn thing to stop him!"

Nate and Simon roared, knowing Sal's gay-phobia. Nearby EIC people didn't know how to respond, so they didn't.

"How the fuck do you get her and we get him?" Nate asked. "We get a guy to share. You get her?"

"I don't know what to say?" Joe smirked. "But have fun sharing Trevor."

"This is fucking bullshit!" Sal barked. "You fucked with these people and they rewarded you?"

Joe shrugged. "Take it up with the bossman." He smiled, walking away from his bandmates back to the bar where Maya had just arrived. Joe was pleased with his concierge assignment.

.

.

--- UK TOUR ---

From that moment on, Joe was a model citizen. The next day he led the band in a four-hour rehearsal with a lunch break in the middle.

"We can't use the TV singalongs," He announced early in the session in front of two dozen corporate onlookers and British locals, the blue-collar Odeon workers who make shit happen. "That's American television. These Limey's won't know the songs." Joe smiled at a stage grip. "No offense. I use Limey as a term of endearment."

"Yes," The middle-aged sound man replied, "Like we loathe you bloody Yanks and love you in the same breath."

Joe took three steps and put his arm around the older Brit's shoulder. "We make great partners. Even with all our historical differences, we are the best allies through thick and thin."

That's all Joe had to say to make every employee of the Hammersmith Odeon like him, even if the Young Punks weren't their thing. He had ideas the Brits liked, even as many locals disagreed with his opinions on stage during rehearsal with too many corporate suits watching.

"I get it," Joe said. "The Beatles are God and the Stones are the Devil. Pick your side. I love them both for different reasons. For my money, Ray Davies is the greatest British rock star and songwriter. I love The Kinks!" he smiled, "and I am proud to admit it."

Several locals clapped. Joe pointed at the guitar tech who smiled and applauded. "He gets me."

EIC people nodded, understanding that Joe was appealing to a segment of the British market, those with a specific taste... Kinks fans.

"I have some ideas to replace those TV singalongs," he said. "No one has better sing-along lyrics than Ray Davies."

After that public moment, EIC staffers relaxed. Joe was taking charge and he had good ideas. The band hadn't played together in three months. They did a tune-up set of a dozen songs and then worked on Joe's Kinks plan. Sal was not happy, complaining about unnecessary work. He also went on about Joe flying Concorde and having a sexy concierge to himself while the band shared large, gay, intimidating but pleasant Trevor.

Some discussions should not happen in public, but Sal didn't care. "This is bullshit a double standard. Why do you get a better deal?"

Joe shrugged. "I don't know what to tell ya, Sal. I just show up and take what I get."

"Trevor says he's to provide anything we need. Are you getting that from your girl... what's her name?"

"Maya." Joe glanced toward the seats where she sat.

"What if you need your dick sucked?"

Joe smirked, "I'm sure Trevor will take care of you, Sal."

"I mean her!" Sal gestured to the suits in the front rows.

"She's my concierge," Joe said quieter than Sal. "I'm pretty sure they can hear you talk shit."

"Who fucking cares?" Sal waved a dismissive hand at them. "Is she gonna suck your dick if that's what you need?"

"Sal, she's a professional. I'm sure that's not on the menu of services."

"What if it is?"

"It's not on my menu."

Sal rocked back on his heels. "Are you nuts? She's gorgeous."

"You're such an asshole." Joe walked away, stopped, and turned back. "You have no class. Have some fucking respect. And you know I don't fool around."

Sal's face got crunchy. "What? I thought Tina dumped your sorry ass. You're gonna stay road celibate after that shit?"

Joe exhaled. "I don't know. Is it over? I have no idea."

"She'll be at JFK when you return," Simon said. "Of that I am certain."

"I don't know, Si. Maybe she will be." Joe gestured to the many faces looking on. "And I'm not interested in discussing my bloody personal life here."

Sal stepped closer to Joe and lowered his voice. "Are you saying you're not gonna have fun on this trip because she might be waiting for you?"

"I just said I don't know."