Chapter Seven
Who are you . . . ?
Micky leaped back from the door as it swung open violently, revealing a sweating, glaring Pete Townshend. He glowered at the seated Monkees. “All right, you lot! Just tell us one thing. What in the flamin’ bloody blue hell was that?”
Keith, coming into the room on Pete’s heels, nodded. “And don’t you dare try to change the subject on us!” He gestured at the lanky guitarist. “He hates that. He once drew a guy’s intestines out his nose for changin’ the subject on him. Another time he sliced a guy’s liver and—”
Pete turned to face him. “Keith. Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”
Keith’s reply was to lapse into silence and beam an innocent smile at the incensed guitarist. As Pete turned back around, shaking his head, the smile remained. It remained even as Keith raised his hand, palm facing him, two fingers jutting straight up at Pete’s back.
Micky giggled, nearly toppling over. Mike shot him a glare that went unnoticed for several long moments until Micky composed himself.
When Pete whirled to see what the laughter was about, all he saw was Keith’s confused look and a shrug. But a devilish smirk erupted as he turned back around. “Well?” he demanded.
Four pairs of eyes looked at each other and all four sighed in unison.
“What you saw . . . you weren’t supposed to see,” Mike said.
“We were supposed to hide it better,” Davy said apologetically.
“Hide WHAT?” Pete demanded, moving his arms as if, for a moment, he was going to smash a guitar before remembering he didn’t have one.
“Who we are,” Micky said, standing up beside Mike.
“What we are,” Peter said, doing the same.
“Which is what?” Pete said, taking an involuntary, slightly defensive step back. Behind him, Roger’s fists started to close and John remained a sentinel behind him, silent as ever.
“The Four Winds,” Davy said softly.
“The four WHAT?” Pete said as Keith scratched his head, affecting a confused look. “I thought you lot were monkeys.”
“We’re both.”
Pete sat down with a thump. “I need a drink.”
“We saved your life out there,” Micky pointed out.
“From WHO?” Pete said. “You pounced a fan—big deal!”
“Said fan had a knife,” Peter pointed out. “He was trying to kill you.”
Pete looked at John. “We didn’t hear that.”
“No, because it was taken care of,” Micky informed them. “By us.”
“Mick,” Mike warned and the Dragon fell silent.
“Kit,” Roger said. “It’s Kit. He hired these guys to . . . watch us or something!” Peter and Davy inclined their heads in almost identical bows.
“So you’re a bunch of bleedin’ bodyguards!” Pete snarled, as if the idea were beyond distasteful and into downright repugnance.
“No, we’re a band,” Peter said calmly. “The Winds thing . . . well, it’s something else.”
“So. Tell us,” John said, speaking for the first time. Three pairs of eyes suddenly turned to Mike.
“That is a very long story that we can’t give you before your next set.”
“So shorten it,” Pete growled.
“We drank some tea that gave us powerful fighting abilities,” Mike said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Got any more?” was Keith’s immediate comeback.
That forced a short chuckle from Mike. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. John was licking his lips, something faintly like recognition in his unfocused eyes as if he were trying to grab hold of an elusive memory that kept slipping away.
“Tea?” Pete scoffed. “Of all the lies you could tell, you picked that one?”
“FIVE MINUTES!” someone roared right outside their door, startling Davy and Micky into fighting stances. Keith and Roger blinked to find their fists had automatically risen as well. Fortunately, nobody seemed to notice.
“Look, we’re on your side, okay?” Mike said. “We’re supposed to help you all out, that’s it. So don’t worry about us.”
Roger nudged Pete. “So calm down, already. I believe ‘em.”
Pete shoved past him, kicking the door open and stomping out. Roger threw up his hands and followed him. John followed a second later with an apologetic smile.
Keith rocked on the balls of his feet for a moment. “Well, damn,” he sighed, frowning ever-so-slightly. “This is awkward, ain’t it? I’m not used t’havin’ to play apology man—that’s John’s job.” He grinned. “So I won’t. Cheery-ho!” He grabbed a stick from the dresser, twirling it and laughing madly as he left.
“This could turn out all right,” Davy said to the silence that reigned after Keith’s exit.
“I hope, man. Let’s go watch the second set,” Peter said as he led the way out.
“And hope nothing else happens,” Mike grumbled as he followed.
It was a sober—and in Peter’s case, bandaged—quartet of musicians awaiting the Who after the concert.
“Calmed down any?” Mike asked casually.
Pete scowled at him, the blood stains on his white boiler suit making him look even more intimidating. Davy ran to get some tape for Pete’s fingers. Pete started to jerk away, but then stopped, letting Davy tend to them. When he was finished, Davy smiled and patted his arm.
“Let’s do this back at the hotel,” Peter said. “I think we all need drinks and a comfortable place to sit.”
“I’ll bring the brandy!” Keith chirped up.
“I’ll bring the Grandad,” John added.
“The Grandad? Is that like an English mafia thing?” Micky said.
Peter looked at John, sharing an amused grin as he waited for the answer. Keith’s cackles filled the silence that Micky’s silence left.
“What?” Micky cried.
“Grandad is bourbon,” John said, fighting a huge grin. “I have half a bottle in my room.”
“Oh.” Micky then did a slight double-take watching Davy smirk. “You idiot, you knew all along!”
“Yeah, it was fun watching you twist in the wind,” Davy laughed.
The ride back to the hotel was marginally less tense, with the two groups splitting several cars. Back at the hotel, they stayed separate long enough to shower and change clothes before converging on Pete’s room, Keith passing drinks all around.
Once comfortably sprawled, Peter began. He spared few details, deciding that the only way the Who’s suspicion would be eased would be with total honesty. Micky and Davy filled in when Peter took a breath. When they were finished, the expressions on the Who’s faces hadn’t changed much except for Keith, whose eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and envy. Davy shot him a commiserating smile. Roger looked over at Keith, nudging John. “Look who’s NOT bouncin’.”
“He hasn’t been bouncin’ for a while now,” John said, his deep voice little more than a purr.
“Really?” Roger frowned, startled. “I hadn’t noticed till now.”
Keith looked around, as if for a moment they were talking about someone else. “Who, me? Come on, boys—I ‘aven’t changed!”
“But they have,” Pete snarled, glaring at the Winds. “You ARE bodyguards.”
“I suppose we are,” Peter admitted. “We were hired, we thought, because of our music. In a way, we were. But our other job was to watch out for any threats on your lives, and to do so quietly and unobtrusively. The promoters of this tour seem to feel that if you knew there was protection around, you wouldn’t be willing to continue.”
“Damn right,” Pete growled, sitting back and crossing his arms.
“We’re not a threat to you!” Micky snapped, apparently deciding that Pete was outright insulting them now. “We weren’t before and we’re not now!”
“We don’t need protection!” Pete snarled back.
Moving like a snake, Micky whipped out a star and hurled it. It flew past Pete’s nose and sank into the wall next to him with a dull thud. “That could have happened tonight. And it would have gone very differently,” Micky said.
Pete didn’t move. His eyes—wide with shock—slowly turned to face the vibrating star. Mike looked at Micky and opened his mouth, but Peter laid a hand on his arm and shook his head.
“Sorry to do that to you, but c’mon!” Micky held his now-empty hands apart, his gesture plainly asking for some reason and sense.
The following silence was broken by Keith’s eerily calm voice. “He’s right, you know.”
“All right,” Pete said, his voice subdued. “If you wanted to hurt us, well . . . ” He reached out and pulled the star out. “Don’t think this thing would help my day any.”
Micky held out his hand for it. Pete handed it to him, rubbing the plaster from his fingertips.
“I only ‘ave one question,” Keith demanded, glaring. “Can you teach me to do that?”
“You would,” Roger grumped and John grinned, shaking his head fondly.
“I don’t know,” Davy asked, looking at Mike and Peter. “Can we?”
Mike grunted good-naturedly. “Do we really want someone who blows up toilets to know how to throw sharp metal objects around?”
“Yes!” Keith shot back before anyone could reply. “Yes, we DO!”
On to Chapter Eight
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