“How long have you been in this business?” Arvo asked.
Harvey sucked on his cigarette. “’Ard to say, really,” he answered, blowing out smoke as he said it. “Since the sixties, I suppose. I used to hang around the London clubs when the Stones, the Yardbirds and the rest used to play there. Christ, those were some days. You can forget Liverpool. I mean, fuck Liverpool, man. London was where it was at. The energy. The talent.
“I was just a snotty-nosed little kid back then, didn’t know my arse from my elbow. I got into the business slowly, in a small way at first, working as a roadie for a local band, arranging a few gigs for my mates. Then, poof, all of a sudden these local bands are in demand. Record contracts materialize out of thin air. There’s money in it. Well, Stan, this beats clocking on for a nine-to-fiver, I told myself, so I set up as a semi-pro. One thing led to another, and here I am.”
“When did you come over here?”
“Late sixties. Matter of fact, I came over for Woodstock — the original one — and never really went back again. Well, you know what I mean, not back to settle there, like. Business trips, of course. But LA’s my home now, for my sins. England’s finished. Fucked. Has been for years.”
“What exactly was your relationship with Gary Knox?”
“Purely business. I kept the bastard at arm’s-length as much as I could. Between you and me, he was an evil little pillock. Talented, sure, but what a manipulative, arrogant son of a bitch. Unreliable, too.” Harvey shook his head slowly. “You meet all kinds in this business,” he said. “Mostly they’re egotistical little pillocks without any talent, so I suppose Knox at least had one over them on that score. But the bastard cost me money.”
“How?”
“No-shows, for a start. And that notorious gig in Omaha — you must have read about it — when he staggered on stage late, tried to get the opening of the first song right for about five minutes, then swore at the audience and walked off. Stoned. Naturally, they all asked for their money back.”
“What was your job?”
“Well, basically I promoted the tour. You know, arranged the venues, the publicity, transport, accommodation and so on. When I say that, I don’t mean I did it all myself, of course. Most of the work was delegated or contracted out to local promoters. I guess my office sort of coordinated things. I used to work with Kenny Little, Gary’s manager, in London years back.”
“Did you have any contact with Gary and the band while they were on tour?”
“Too bloody much. Knox was such an obnoxious prat, I kid you not, that he’d phone me in the middle of the night to complain if the hotel had Courvoisier instead of Rémy in the minibar. Which can happen a lot if you’re doing places like Milwaukee and Rapid City, no matter how ritzy the hotel, believe me. I mean, you’d be lucky to even get cognac, some of those places. Don’t know Rémy from cough syrup.” He stabbed out his cigarette in an ashtray shaped like a gold record with curled edges. The smouldering butt fell to rest among about twenty others.
“But you didn’t actually spend any time with them at the hotel or backstage?”
Harvey stared at him, open-mouthed. “Spend time with those infantile piss-artists? You must be joking.” He pointed his thumb at his chest. “This may be my job, but I’ve got a life, mate.”
“What about when they were here in LA?”
“Same thing. No, wait a minute. I did have to go down and sort something out once.”
“Sort what out?”
“I like to give local bands a chance to play as openers sometimes, if they’re good enough, and I’d arranged for a band I liked to open at one of Gary’s LA shows. Naturally, they’re all excited, so they get there early and set up their equipment. Then Gary’s roadies arrive and start dismantling it all. They said there wasn’t enough room on the stage for both Gary’s and the support band’s amps and speakers, and they wouldn’t have time to set up for Gary between acts, so the support band would just have to fuck off.”
“Nice guys.”
Harvey smiled. “Welcome to the music business. So, when I get there, there’s almost a fight going on, and Gary’s stoned already, just sort of watching and standing back. I sort it out — find a corner for the support band’s gear — and leave.”
“Did you meet Sarah? Sally Bolton?”
“Oh, yeah. She was backstage, just sitting there, you know, crying her eyes out, and everyone was ignoring her. I remembered meeting her once before, in London. I asked her what was wrong.”
“What did she say?”
Harvey shook his head. “Didn’t say anything. Too stoned.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told her she’d be better off if she left the bastard, that he was a worthless son of a bitch who’d only ruin her life, if he hadn’t already.”
“Did she respond?”
“Just smiled at me through the tears in that stoned kind of way. Christ, she looked so young and lost, like a kid whose favorite doll has just got broken. I told her there was a plane ticket back to England waiting for her in my office anytime she wanted to pick it up.”
“Did she?”
“No. I never saw her again. Not until she turned up on TV, anyway. Done well for herself. Good on her.”
“Did you know any of the hangers-on, any of the people they picked up on the way?” Arvo asked.
“Like flies to shit, people like that, in my experience.”
“Ever heard of a guy called Mitchell Lorne Cameron?”
Harvey frowned and lit another cigarette. Arvo was thankful that the strong urge to start smoking again that swept over him around Christmas had dissipated.
“No,” said Harvey. “Can’t say as I have. Was he a friend of Knox’s?”
“In a way.”
“Never heard of him.”
“They picked him up in San Francisco, him and a couple of others. He stuck to them all the way down here and after. I guess after Knox’s death he was sort of cut loose. He hadn’t been popular with the other band members anyway, so there’s no way they’d tolerate him, not with the boss out of the way.”
“You got this from Carl Buxton?”
“Yes. And seeing as I got his name from you, I thought I’d come back to the source.”
“Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, man. But Carl’s a decent enough bloke. Thinks a bit too highly of himself, but show me one rock musician who doesn’t. Like I said, Carl’s about the only one of them hasn’t fried his brains with drugs.”
“This Cameron,” said Arvo, “he fancied himself as a bit of a player himself. Do you know what I mean?”
Harvey nodded, eyes narrowing. “Uh-huh.”
“Apparently, Gary Knox said he liked Cameron’s poems and songs, and Cameron thought he had a chance to get into the band, or at least into the business. Anyway, we think Cameron is still somewhere in LA, and we’d really like to talk to him.”
“So exactly what is it you want from me?”
“Cameron feels he belongs in the music business. He thinks he’s got talent. He’s even done coffee house appearances, that kind of thing, according to people who knew him. Maybe even played with local bands back in San Francisco. He also thinks that Gary Knox saw and recognized his talent. He feels endorsed, somehow, singled out for stardom. It wouldn’t surprise me if he felt it was his job to take over from where Knox left off, so to speak, carry on the flame. What would he do?”
Harvey reached for another cigarette and lit it from the stub of his old one. At this rate, even the secondhand smoke was getting to Arvo and making him feel dizzy. “Any number of things,” Harvey said. “If he didn’t already have contacts in the business here, most likely he’d advertise in one of the music papers and try to get together with a band. Or maybe he’d look for an ad and answer it. From what you say though, a guy with an ego like his would have difficulty fitting in with someone else’s idea of a band, especially if he fancied himself as a great songwriter. He’d want to gather people around he could control, you know, direct them toward expressing his vision.”