Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (20 page)

Designed by Huber & Pirsson, The Chelsea Hotel was opened in 1884 as one of the City's earliest cooperative apartment houses. It became a hotel about 1905. The florid cast iron balconies were made by the firm of J. B. & J. M. Cornell. Artists and writers who have lived here include Arthur B. Davies, James T. Farrell, Robert Flaherty, O. Henry, John Sloan, Dylan Thomas, Thomas Wolfe and Sid Vicious.

—Plaque, The Chelsea Hotel, NY.

“Well, it's not what I bloody corl a picture.” Mrs Cornelius waded across the foyer on old, flat feet and lowered her tray of Lyons Maids and Kia-Oras to the counter. “I mean, in my day it was love an' adventure an' that, wannit.”

Lifting a crazed eye from behind the hotdog warmer Sergeant Alvarez opened his disturbed mouth.

“Who … ?” he began. But his attention was already wandering.

“Now it's all vomit an' screwin',” she continued. “I wouldn't mind if it was Clark Gable doin' it.
An'
there's no bloody adventure, Sarge. Wot you grinnin' at?”

“Who?”

“Oh, shut up, you pore littel bugger. It's that Mrs Vicious I feel sorry for.”

“Killed … ?” said Sergeant Alvarez.

“Too right.” Mrs C. heaved her tray around. “Oh, well. Back into the effin' fray.”

On the screen an old robber, desperately clinging to the last vestiges of publicity (which he confused with dignity) pretended to play a guitar and wondered about the money. Something in his eyes showed that he really knew his credibility in South London was going down the drain.

“Then who the hell did get any satisfaction out of it?” Mo Collier felt about in his crotch for the popcorn he'd dropped.

“You got a complaint?” Maggy's voice was muffled.

Mo sighed. “Now's a fine time to start asking.”

Robbers cavorted on beaches. Robbers limbered up. Robbers made publishing deals and wondered why their victims went crazy.

Mo looked away front the screen. He sniffed. “There's sulphate in the air-conditioning.”

“Is jussa keepa way,” said Maggy.

“What?”

She raised her head again, impatiently. “It's just to keep you awake.”

“Oh.”

The popcorn was running out.

A kilted figure came on screen and began to rationalise his own and others' despair. It was called hindsight.

“I think I'd better try to see what happened to it.” Mo hated political movies.

“What? The money?”

“Call it that, if you like. Unless you have a plot, see, you can't have the paranoia.”

Maggy rested her head on his thigh. “I don't think it
is
sulphate. It's something else.” She tasted the air. “Is this an EMI cinema?”

But Jerry was already backtracking.

“As long as we all believe in the New Jerusalem,” said Mitzi Beesley, having trouble with her Knickerbocker Glory, “we stay together. And as long as we stay together, we can all believe the same thing. And if we can all believe the same thing long enough, we can believe for a while that we've made it come true. We all have to be a bit over the top. But when some silly bastard goes well over the top, that rocks the boat. The trouble with Johnny, for instance, was that he wouldn't bloody well stay in uniform. And after Malcolm had gone to all that bother, too.”

“I wouldn't know abart any o' that, love.” Mrs Cornelius waved away the offer of a bit of jelly and ice cream on a long spoon. “Can't stand the stuff. I ‘ave ter carry it arahnd orl bleedin' day, don't I?”

They sat together on red vinyl and chrome stools at the bar. Behind them was a big plate glass window. Behind that was the traffic; the Beautiful People of the Kings Road in their elegant bondagerie. Dandyism always degenerated into fashion.

Little Mitzi was having trouble getting to the bottom of her Glory. Her arms were too short. Mrs C. tilted the glass. “Pore fing. There you go.” She laughed. “Didn't mean ter interfere, love.” She glanced out of the window.

From the direction of Sloane Square a mob was moving. It was difficult to make out what it consisted of.

“Skinheads” said Mrs C. “Or Mods, is it? Or them Rude Boys? Or is that ther same?”

“Divide and Rule,” said Mitzi. “My dad always thinks. And
that's
the first lesson in the management of rock and roll bands.”

“Oh, well, they all do that, don't they.” Mrs C. squinted up the street. “Blimey, it's a load of effin' actors. Innit?”

The mob was dressed in 17th century costumes. “Pirates?”

“Nostalgia hasn't been such a positive force since the Romantic Revival.”

“'Ippies, yer mean?”

“The Past and the Future—they'll get you every time.”

“I know wot you mean, love.” Mrs C. picked up her handbag. “Stick to ther Present. I orlways said so, an' I bloody orlways will. I've met some funny bastards in me time. Lookin' backwards; lookin' bloody forwards. It's un'ealthy. Nar. Ther future's orl we fuckin' got, innit?”

“And it doesn't do you any harm.”

The mob was carrying effigies of four young men. Over loudspeakers came the sound of Malcolm McLaren singing “You Need Hands.” The mob began to growl in unison.

“I've seen 'em come an' I've seen 'em go.” Mrs C. shook her head. “An' it'll end in tears every time. Wot good does it do?”

“It stops you getting bored,” said Mitzi. “Some of the time, anyway.”

The effigies were being tossed on a tide of angry shoulders.

“You can get 'em attackin' anyfink, carn't yer.” Mrs C. was amused. “Give 'em a slipper ter worry an' they won't bovver
you.”

“The Sex Pistols were the best thing that ever happened for British politics at a very dodgy moment in their career.” Mitzi reached her money up to the girl at the till. “Or so we like to think. But no bloody B.O.s or whatever they are for them. Divide and Rule, Mrs C. And up goes your Ego.”

“I 'ope this doesn't mean they've stopped ther bloody buses again.” Mrs Cornelius looked at the clock over the bar. “I'm due for work at one.”

“They still showin' that picture?”

“It's really good business.”

“I think Malcolm McLaren is the Sir Robert Boothby of his generation, don't you?” Mitzi got to the exit first and pushed on one of the doors.

“Well, 'e's no bloody Svengali, an' that's for sure.”

“He did identify with the product … “

“‘E should 'ave bought an Alsatian. They're easier ter train.”

A youngish man in a trilby and a dark trenchcoat went past them in a hurry.

“That's Jerry.” Mitzi pulled on her jacket. “He still thinks there's a solution to all this. Or at least a resolution.”

“It's one o' ther nice fings abart ‘im.” Mrs C. directed a look of tolerant pity at her retreating son.

“The trouble with messed up love affairs,” said Mitzi “is that you waste so much time going to the source of the pain and asking it to make you better.”

“‘E'll learn. You on'y got yerself ter blame in the end.” Mrs Cornelius saw that the mob had parted to allow a convoy of No. 11 buses through. “I'd better 'op on one o' these while I've still got ther chance.”

“The ultimate business of management is not just to divide your group but to divide their minds. The more you fuck with their judgement, the more you control them. It's like being married, really.” Mitzi waved to Mrs C.'s lumbering figure as it launched itself towards the bus.

“Don't let 'em piss on yer, dear.” Mrs C. reached the platform. “Just becos yore short.”

“You can only manage what you create yourself. The trouble with people is that they will keep breaking out.”

The mob was beginning to split up. Fights were starting between different factions. Cocked hats flew.

“After all,” said Mitzi shadowing Jerry, “someone has to take the blame. But you can bet your chains we won't have anarchy in the UK in our lifetime. Just the usual bloody chaos.”

“Role models make Rolls-Royces. Kids pay for heroes. But it doesn't do to let either the audiences or the artists get out of control—or you stand to lose the profit. It's true in all forms of show business, but it's particularly important in the record industry.”

Frank Cornelius lay back in his Executive Comfort Mark VI leather swiveller and wondered if it would be going too far if he waved his unlit cigar.

“What can I do for you, Mo?” His eyes, wasted by a thousand indulgences, moved like worms in his skull.

“I was wondering what happened to the money.” Mo unbuttoned his trenchcoat, looking around at the images of rock singers in various classic poses, emulating the stars of westerns and war films except they had guitars instead of rifles.

“It hardly existed.” Frank put his cigar to his awful lips. “Well, I mean, it's real enough in the
mind.
And I suppose that's the main thing. What are you selling me, Mo? Thinking of going solo? This company's small, but it's keen. We really identify with the kids. Can you play your guitar yet? Don't worry if you can't. It's one of the easiest skills in the world to learn.”

“What happened to the money, Frank.”

“Don't look at me. Malcolm had it.”

“He says you had it.”

“I haven't made a penny, personally, in six months. It's all gone on expenses. Do you know how much it costs to keep an act on the road?”

“Where's the money?” Mo was beginning to lose his own thread. Frank's responses were too familiar to keep anyone's attention for long.

“Gone in advances, probably. Ask Malcolm, not me. I only became a director towards the end. For legal reasons.”

“Where's Malcolm?”

“Who knows where Malcolm is. Does Malcolm know where Malcolm is? Is he Malcolm? What is Malcolm, anyway?”

Mo frowned. “Give me an address, Frank.”

“You're not kipping on my floor again. Not with your habits. Haven't you got a squat to go to?” Frank glared in distaste at his brother's ex-friend.

“Where?”

“You're too heavily into bread. That's your problem. You've really sold out, haven't you? I remember you when you didn't give a shit about money or anything else. What are you really after? Mummy and Daddy, is it? If you don't like the heat, you should stay out of the kitchen. I look after a lot of people, but I can't look after you all the time. It's killing me. I have to deal with the hassles, cool out the managements of the venues, pay for the damage … ”

He raised a suede arm. “I haven't had more than twelve hours sleep in a week. Profits? Do you think there are any profits in this business? If so, where are they? Show them to me.”

“They're up your nose, Frankie.”

There came a noise from Frank's throat like the sound of an angry baby. Mo recognised it. It was called The Management Wail. It was time to leave.

Identity Manipulation Associates (IMA = Whatever You Want Me To Be) had taken over the old Soho offices. Mo was beginning to feel a little flakey around the edges. He'd started off thinking this was a caper: a time-filler. Now, what with one thing and another, it was beginning to smell like an obsession.

“I've had enough of obsessions.” He felt the old call to retreat, to get some air. “On the other hand, this might not be one. It could just be ordinary.”

He opened the door and went into the lobby. A young woman looked up at him from threatened brown eyes. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering about the money. Did Malcolm … ?”

“We only do identities here. The money comes later.”

“Is there anyone I could see?”

“They're all in meetings. Are you a performer?”

“I … ”

She became sympathetic and far less wary.

Mo was no-one to be afraid of. She spoke softly. “They won't be back this afternoon, love. What do you play?”

“I think it's Scrabble, but I'm not sure.”

“Magic!”

He was plodding off again.

The permanently depressed tones of Malcolm McLaren, doing his best to make some sense of his impulses, could be heard on the other side of the doors.

Mo pushed his way through. There were no pictures, only a soundtrack. The little room was dark, but somewhere in it lawyers and accountants shuffled and whispered. “Why is everybody so unhappy?”

“Sometimes it's all you've got left of your adolescent enthusiasm,” said Mo. He began to giggle.

“Were you ever talented?” Aggressive, self-protecting, attempting condescension, a lawyer spoke.

“Did you deliberately set out to shock?”

“I don't know,” said Mo. “I don't read the papers any more.”

“Have you just come from Highgate?”

“That's an idea.”

“It's the image that's important, isn't it?” This was an upper-class woman's voice. Lady D?

“So they say.”

Bodies were coming closer. “Well, ta ta.”

“Ta ta.”

Mo waded into the mud. He was not quite certain what lay on the other side of the vast building site. He wasn't sure why he was trying to get to South London. A helicopter came in low seeming to be observing him. He looked up. “Mum?”

A voice began to sing “My Way” through a loud hailer.

It was beginning to feel like victimisation, or a haunting. That energy was going. Or maybe it had already gone and that was what he was looking for.