Chapter Four
Did you ever see the faces of the children they get so excited . . .
Thankful that they were not obliged to take the Blim line again, it was a correspondingly grateful quartet of Monkees who emerged from the shiny silver DC 8 onto the tarmac of La Guardia in New York. They were hustled from the airport to a busy hotel, where they were quickly introduced to a bewildering number of people who all seemed to be scrambling around, barely giving the tour’s newest act half a glance before scuttling off to tend to whatever last-minute frantic business they needed to.
By the time they were starting to feel really dizzy, they were finally shown into a quiet room, empty save a man with an odd-shaped head and a mournful expression. He waved them in, then motioned for the door to be closed.
“You boys must be the Monkees!” he said, gesturing for them to come all the way into the room. He slowly took in Mike’s fringes, Peter’s paisleys and beads, Micky’s sneakers, and Davy’s Nehru jacket. “Interesting look. My name’s Kit Lambert, I’m the Who’s manager and somehow got myself roped into being road manager for this lunatic trip. Nice to see you made it—everything all right on the way here?”
Mike nodded. “Nice to not have to take the bus here.”
Lambert laughed. “The bus? Across the whole United States? You must be joking!”
“No sir. We’re not rich, and plane tickets are usually more than we can manage on our own. If it hadn’t been for you and the promoter, we’d probably be on a bus now.”
“Well, I won’t lie and say that we won’t have to ride any busses at all this tour, but we have enough power behind us that we can fly when we need to. We’ll make sure you don’t get stuck on the ground this time.” He paused, noticing that Micky had drifted over to the between-room door and was poking at it. “Something you need?”
Micky looked over his shoulder. “Are the Who in there?”
“Micky!” Mike hissed. “Sorry about that—he’s a little starstruck. Still.”
Kit laughed. “No, I’m sorry—they’re off who-knows-where at the moment. Probably the hotel bar. I’ve tried to keep them close since, well . . . that’s a matter that we need to discuss.”
Instantly the Winds felt a small tingle on their necks that, while barely noticeable, did manage to bring their attention front and center. “What matter?” Peter said, fairly convinced that they weren’t in immediate danger but knowing that it was still possible that they wouldn’t like what they were about to hear.
“Three nights ago they were, well, kidnapped.” Kit waited for the stunned looks and glances to subside. “Came back with red rings around their wrists, bruises—John still has the most awful mark on his face—and no idea how they got them.”
Mike frowned. “I don’t suppose they know who grabbed them?”
Kit shook his head. “They don’t remember anything. They were all off in separate places—except for John and Keith, they were together. We don’t know who took them, where they went, or what happened while they were there aside from the marks left behind.” It was clear from his face that the man was worried half to death. “We don’t even know if it was the same people. And they won’t accept help of any kind, least of all any kind of protectors or bodyguards.”
“So why are you telling us all this?” Davy said, smiling a little as Kit started. “Let me guess—you were under the impression we were all American?” At the other’s nod he chuckled. “Not the first time that’s happened.”
“In any case, I’m telling you because we want YOU to be their bodyguards.”
“What?” Peter tilted his head. “I thought you said they don’t want help. And what makes you think we have any idea how to be bodyguards?”
“The person who recommended you to the promoter seems to think that you four have some talent at handling things like this. He was very vague about it, but apparently music isn’t the only thing you boys do well.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lambert, but we were hired to play music, not bodyguard.” Mike’s eyes held a fairly equal combination of anger and insult. “If that’s not what you want us for, then we’re leavin’.” He turned, Davy and Peter immediately moving to fall in step, Micky hesitating to cast a sad glance at the door.
“Wait, no!” Kit was quick to hold up his hands. “You were hired for your music! The promoter didn’t want any group that couldn’t move a crowd, or else you wouldn’t be here. Think of it as a dual hire. You’re being asked to do two jobs. Neither one is more important than the other, even though personally . . . I suppose you could say one of them is.”
Mike stopped and exchanged looks with Peter. It was clear from the tone of Lambert’s voice that he cared very deeply about his charges, and they could tell that it was in a far deeper way than mere business or profit. And Mike wasn’t surprised—the Who were a very important voice in popular music; they couldn’t turn their backs and let disaster happen. “All right. We’ll do it.”
“Excellent! Oh, and one other thing—we want to keep this on the quiet. Keep things peaceful?”
Mike exchanged looks with Peter. “We’ll try our best.”
“Hey, that must be them.” Pete gestured with his glass to the odd quartet who’d just entered the hotel’s bar/restaurant.
“What is this, the fuckin’ circus?” Roger said.
“More like a hippy convention,” John rumbled, taking another sip of his brandy. None of them had been much in the mood to drink, which was just as well—the drink didn’t seem to be having the same effect on them as usual. John wondered if the brandy had been watered down; he wasn’t feeling anything so far. “They might not be too bad.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Pete growled as they approached. Keith’s absence meant that the new opening band was greeted with silence and suspicion, though John did stand up and shake hands with the leader, a man built like Pete with black hair and intense brown eyes who introduced himself as Mike Nesmith. Pete sat and regarded them with a suspicious, almost derisive look as Mike gave several long moments’ attention to the bruise on John’s face. To Pete’s surprise, the shorter blond man standing slightly behind Mike returned his gaze with a calm, even expression that admitted no intimidation at all. It was a look that made Pete uncomfortable for reasons he couldn’t explain.
“We’re the Monkees,” Mike said. “I guess we’ll be openin’ for you guys tom—what IS it, Micky?” He turned to the man next to him, a lanky spring who was literally bouncing at Mike’s elbow like a curly-haired version of Keith.
Micky pushed past Mike and plopped himself down at the table, already shotgunning a combination of awestruck compliments and questions. He rambled for nearly a minute until John’s laughter cut him off. The normally quiet bass player lowered his forehead to his arm as his shoulders shook. Pete glanced at Roger, who was smirking. “What the fuckin’ hell is so funny?” he said.
John looked up, tossing his long hair out of his eyes. “For just a second I was wondering how the hell Keith managed to disguise himself as this guy. Then I realized—there’s two of them now!”
Pete looked at Micky, whose broad features had melted into a look of such confusion that it forced a laugh out from behind his lips. “Rog, pull up some chairs for these boys, and a drink for Keith Monkee here!”
“So what kind of music you guys play? What covers?” John asked as he moved aside to make room for Mike following the introductions.
“We play our own songs, mostly,” Peter said. “Most of them are Mike’s, but some are collaborations. We used to do some Beatles songs and we even did My Generation a few times, but then we found we really prefer to do our own music.”
“Oh, I see. My Generation’s not good enough for you, ey?” Pete said in a tone that left the Monkees unsure whether he was kidding or not.
“My Generation’s not even good for US,” John said, finishing his brandy. “What with all the smashing and whatnot . . . ” It was clearer from his tone that he WAS kidding. “I’m goin’ up. We’ll see you boys tomorrow and you can impress us then.”
“Do you lot have a room?” Roger asked in the sudden silence following John’s departure.
“Yeah. We’re sharing one for the night, then we’ll probably split up into two rooms once we’re on the road,” Mike said.
“Where’s Keith?” Micky asked, as if it had only just occurred to him that the drummer was indeed absent.
“Probably tossin’ TV sets into the swimming pool, knowing him,” Pete said ruefully. “Don’t worry—you won’t have to wonder when he shows up. You’ll know.”
On to Chapter Five
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