In better circumstances, I might have enjoyed the meal. The location was fabulous, even in winter. Loch Fyne Oyster Bar is right across the road from its namesake, and framing the scene across the water were the high hills of Argyll. It was a bit of an upmarket sort of place, but one where you felt the food was more important than the decor.
The meal was astounding for another reason: I watched this person, whom I thought I knew, negotiate things about which he should have known absolutely nothing. He was on first name terms with the female waitstaff (not surprising), but he also knew all about what shellfish to order and could discuss the relative merits of various vintages of champagne. In short, Rolly was the complete opposite of the roustabout Brummy lad I’d grown up with.
Two things hadn’t changed, though, his talk was still pungent with expletives—and he still drank too much.
“You know, Michael,” he said at one point, punctuating his comments with his fork, “the world will treat you like shite if you let it. Look at us. We got fucked over by the record company. Do you realize that we paid for recording all our albums out of our advance money, and then at the end of the day, they owned the bloody masters? How do they figure that’s fair?
“Confront them on that and they’ll tell you this is the way these things have always been done. Take a naïve group of lads with stars in their eyes, and while you’re shaking on the deal with one hand, you’re picking their pockets with the other.”
I nodded. “These same record companies hit me up for freebie equipment rentals all the time. And what do they plead? Poverty! It would make me laugh if it weren’t so unbelievably pathetic.”
“How right you are! My lawyers still can’t get a clear accounting of what they owe us.”
“And at the time, if someone had told us the way things worked in this business, would it have stopped us for one second from signing on the bottom line? I don’t think so.”
“I can’t help wondering how much we got cheated out of.”
“You and I have done all right out of it, haven’t we? Let it go. It’s all in the past, Rolly.”
“Maybe for you, Michael, but I still get a charge out of standing in front of an audience, doing our music. People want to hear it again, and me and the lads want to play it.”
“I don’t,” I said with resignation, knowing all along that this was coming.
“Have a heart, lad! Why do you always stand in the way?”
“Get Drew Whatsisname to play keyboards for you.”
“It’s not the same! Don’t you get that yet? It has to be the original line-up, or it isn’t worth doing. Yeah, yeah, Drew’s an okay player, but it isn’t the same. You’re one of the great ones, Michael, and he’s not.”
“Why don’t you add that he can’t write?” I spat out sourly. “That’s the real point, isn’t it? You’ve told me enough times in your phone messages, comments to the press and through Angus that you don’t want to be a ‘museum exhibit’—isn’t that the term you use?—and for that you need me. Don’t deny it!”
Rolly flashed one of his thoroughly disarming smiles—disarming to everyone but those who knew him well. “I won’t, Michael, because we both know it’s true. Listen, I just had a terrific idea! Why not get the band together for a memorial concert for Angus? I think we owe him that much. I know the other lads would be up for it. Just one gig to salute our fallen comrade. It would be a great send-off for him. What do you say?”
Under different circumstances, I might have said yes. In a very real way, I thought it would be a gesture Angus would have appreciated. I would probably have agreed because of the responsibility and guilt I felt at Angus’s death.
But Rolly had been in the music business far too long, and even though he would have heartily denied it if I’d pointed it out, he’d absorbed too much of the thoroughly false bonhomie, its way of saying one thing and meaning something totally different. I still dealt with this crap every day at work, and I had a very low tolerance for it.
“What do I have to say?” I ruminated. “I have to say no.”
He looked at me closely, his gaze a bit unfocussed due to his intake of champagne. “You’ve always been a right bastard, Michael. I guess I’d forgotten.” He got up from the table, motioning for the bill. “All right! Have it your way. We’ll do a concert, and I’ll make it clear that you were asked but declined to participate.”
“That’s great, Rolly,” I said, also getting to my feet. “You know, you may think you’ve gotten sophisticated in your old age, but one should never try to get the server’s attention by snapping one’s fingers.” I turned on my heel. “It’s very clearly the mark of a boor.”
He made me wait out at the car for a good ten minutes. Typical. At least he had the good sense to allow me to drive. It seemed that the awareness of mortality which age brings—either that, or Britain’s DUI laws—had put a curb on Rolly’s characteristic recklessness with booze and cars.
I took the inland road along Loch Eck back to Dunoon. We didn’t meet many cars, and I made the most of having a Porsche that handled beautifully.
The steep sides of Loch Eck, barren, brooding pieces of rock and scrubby grass rising up six hundred feet or more, make the narrow road a winding, exhilarating sliver of pavement to drive—especially when taken above speed, which I did that day, trusting more to luck than I should have.
Within minutes of leaving the restaurant, Rolly had begun snoring, giving me plenty of time to think while I drove.
Back at the dock in Dunoon, I drove the car onto the waiting ferry, paid the fee and left Rolly sleeping off the champagne with a note stuck in his shirt pocket telling him I’d call in the morning to find out about the funeral arrangements. What happened when he got to the opposite side of the Clyde was not my problem.
The duty officer at the police station recommended a few places that were open during the off-season, and I booked into the nicest one: the Argyll Hotel in the high street.
Once settled in, I rang the shop back in Toronto first. Since it was Saturday, only one employee needed to be present. Kevin had not been happy when I’d asked him to work, but I wanted my senior man on the spot when I was out of town.
He sounded exceptionally bored when he answered. “Oh, it’s you. How’s everything going?”
“As well as can be expected. It’s all rather gruesome. How’s everything there?”
“Fine. The jazz festival got back in touch, complained about the quote, but accepted it anyway.”
“I figured they would,” I answered, taking notes. “Anything else?”
“Well, it’s the usual slow Saturday. As a matter of fact, I’ve been taking the time to do some poking around inside your mellotron. It is quite the machine.”
“Is that order for Montreal ready to go out on Monday? They’re coming early for it.”
“Pulled it all this morning. I’m sitting on one of the amp cases, as a matter of fact.”
“And you gave them plenty of extra cables? I told you what happened last time they rented.”
“Yes, they had four cables that didn’t work,” Kevin answered in a sing-song voice, indicating I’d pounded it into their heads perhaps a bit too hard. “I gave them double what they needed and tested everything. All the paperwork is complete. We do know what we’re doing, you know.”
I ran my hand through my hair. “Yes, I know, and you all say behind my back that I worry as much as an old woman.”
Kevin laughed. “I never have!”
“Well, you’re going to have to keep the place running without me until