Read Romeo's Tune (1990) for Free Online Page B

here,’ ordered McBain. ‘You, come with me.’
    ‘I answer to the name Sharman,’ I said. ‘Or Nick. But not whistles, or “Hey”, or “You”, or snapped fingers or anything like that. I’m just old-fashioned I guess, but there you go.’
    ‘Sorry, Nick,’ said McBain. ‘I’ll try hard to remember that.’ I couldn’t make up my mind who was taking the rise out of whom, and nor could Algy who sat down on the sofa with a bemused look on his face.
    McBain pushed through another exit door from the studio and I caught it as it closed behind him. The door led into another corridor which again looked as if the builders had just downed tools and gone to lunch, but somehow had the air of a place that had lain untouched for years. Gouges had been cut in the walls with one or several blunt instruments, and dust lay thickly on the bare floorboards.
    McBain just grinned. At the end of the corridor he opened a set of double doors and ushered me into what was obviously his bedroom. It had that air of grubby decline that I would come to always associate with McBain. In the centre of the room was a massive circular bed. It was unmade and the satin sheets were tangled and creased. Hung on one wall were two dozen or more gold and silver discs mounted on wooden plaques or framed behind glass. I walked over and examined them. The earliest dated from the mid-sixties and I recognised the name of the band. Their records were played all the time as golden oldies on Radio One.
    ‘Was that your band?’ I asked.
    ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ said McBain. ‘Of course they were. We had two consecutive number ones in 1965. And do you know what I earned out of them? Twenty pound per week tops. I never saw a penny in royalties. It was a classic rip-off. I could buy as many clothes as I liked in Carnaby Street. But cash, never. And satin shirts don’t pay the rent and you can’t eat flash trousers. And do you know the worst thing? I played some of those fucking gold records, and they aren’t even our music. It was some stuff they couldn’t sell so they sprayed it gold and gave it to us. Fucking slags.’
    ‘So how do you live now?’ I asked.
    ‘Easy, now I’m rich. I write songs.’ I looked at the state of the place and he caught my look.
    ‘I’m rich all right,’ he said. ‘I started to earn when I wrote a song for a Three Dog Night album – do you remember them?’
    I shrugged. ‘Vaguely,’ I said.
    ‘They never did much over here, but the album stayed fifty-six weeks on the American top hundred and then they put the track on the B-side of a single that went to number four. So I cut down touring and just wrote songs. You’d be surprised what I’ve done. Last year alone I had two American number ones, a British number one and hits all over the world.’ He seemed proud and I didn’t blame him. ‘I bought this house in ‘66 on a mortgage and nearly lost it two years later. It may not look like much now, but it’s still worth a fortune, looking over the park and everything.’
    He went over and flopped on to the bed. It moved under him like jelly.
    ‘Water bed,’ he explained. ‘Eight hundred gallons. It weighs a ton. I had to have the floor strengthened.’ He shook his head. ‘Stupid really,’ he said.
    I almost felt sorry for him.
    ‘So you’re a private detective, are you?’
    ‘Yeah,’ I replied. I took out a card from my pocket and handed it to him. He flicked it on to the bedside table.
    ‘Did you used to be fuzz?’ he asked.
    ‘How did you guess?’
    ‘You’ve got the look. I’ve been busted a couple of times.’
    ‘Drugs?’
    ‘Drugs, guns, motoring offences,’ he replied.
    ‘Bentleys?’ I asked.
    ‘Not any more. They’re Algy’s toys. Like I said, I hardly ever leave this place now. I even had the outside phone lines disconnected. I don’t communicate much any more, just with music. No, Algy likes Bentleys, and smashing them up and spending my money. Do you know what he did once?