Saying Goodbye (What the World Doesn't Know) (5 page)

            “The bigger the woman, the more there is to love,” replied Nick.

            “More woman there is to smother yeh in fat flesh,” said Peter.

            Nick threw his arms around Peter and Alex’s shoulders. “Oi, I love yeh chaps!”

            “What about me?” asked Josh, trailing behind.

            “No, we don’t love you,” teased Peter.

            Alex reached back for Josh and then put his arm around his shoulder. “Come on, don’t be such a whiner.”

            The four walked off down the street looking for women, but over the next couple of weeks the women found them. In between shows, each of the guys wandered off on their own, seeking adventure and romance. Seventeen-year-old Alex often found himself at a strip club. There was a beautiful blonde German stripper named Marlene who performed every other hour. To Alex, she was the closest thing to a goddess—tall with a slender build, yet had wide hips and full, heavy breasts.

            After a couple of performances he finally worked up the courage to approach her as she exited the stage doors one night. She ignored him completely and rushed away to avoid any encounter. “I’m playin’ guitar at the Cellar on Friday night!” he shouted. “Yeh should come check us out.” Before he knew it, she was out of sight. Alex sighed, deflated.

            Much to Alex’s surprise, he found Marlene in the audience on Friday night. She was sitting alone at the bar in the back, dragging on a cigarette. She wore a pleased and comfortable smile. From the stage, Alex could tell he had won her attention.

            Marlene waited patiently while all the other girls (and even some of the men) hovered around the band as they packed up their instruments. When Alex, guitar case in hand, approached her, she said, “You looked good up there.”

            “I looked good?” Alex responded. “How did I sound?”

            Marlene wrapped her lips around the cigarette, sucked in a drag, and let it out very slowly. “Do you really think anyone was listening?”

            For a moment Alex was at a loss for words but then responded, “It’s what I’m being paid for.”

            “Oh, honey, no it’s not,” Marlene said. “It’s like me thinking men are coming to see me dance.” She leaned back on the stool. “How old are you?”

            Alex gave her a slick grin. “How old do yeh want me to be?”

            Marlene paused once again to drag and exhale on her cigarette. “Old enough to maintain an erection.”

            Alex laughed. It was the only reaction he could muster at the time. Marlene reached out her hand to him, and they headed out of the club together.

At the time, it meant nothing more than sex—painful years of puberty finally released. He could have lost his virginity over a bed of thorns and would have been grateful. Soon they made it to Marlene’s studio flat complete with a small kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, and a murphy bed she quickly pulled down.

            “You have many dates?” Alex asked, removing his T-shirt.

            Marlene lit a few candles for ambience. “No. I haven’t been with a man in private for almost a year.”

            Alex stared at her. “Why me?”

            She turned her back toward Alex. “Can you unzip me?” While Alex unzipped the back of her dress, Marlene said, “Because you are the first man in a year that didn’t actually chase me down or confront me with come-ons.” She turned around and smiled at Alex. “You invited me to your show. It’s nice seeing a man perform for a change.” She kissed him and then pushed him back onto her bed.

            Alex learned a lot during the months he dated Marlene—a woman he soon realized was thirteen years his senior. Not only was she a stripper with a lot of sexual moves to explore, but late nights in bed, Marlene told stories of her experiences and coming-of-age in Nazi Germany. They were tales Alex never dreamed possible—the propaganda, the hate, the violence, and the aftermath. Marlene confided several times that she had been raped by men of her own nationality as well as foreign soldiers. One rape even resulted in a pregnancy. She abandoned her child to be raised by her parents in a small town outside Dusseldorf and moved to London. He found it hard to believe anyone could every really recover from living through the war in Germany.

            Marlene became more than a lover; she challenged Alex mentally and emotionally. After his love affair with Marlene, Alex would never be the same. There would be scores of women who presented nothing more than a physical body, but his mind and his heart would always travel back to his lover with a troubled soul—Marlene.

 

            Within the next few years British rock bands were getting a foothold in mainstream music. With the Beatles’ first chart-topping hits, hope and promise began to open up windows of opportunity for other British rock bands. The Rolling Stones, the Animals, the Yardbirds, and many more were signing contracts and taking over the charts. The Dark Knights, however, continued playing their music in dark, dingy clubs to a slimy, red-light district clientele; until one day a highly-polished, debonair chap happened to walk inside.

            Darren Chapman, a disciplined music agent, was the first to see the band’s potential. Their musical talent was undeniable, and their performances were high energy; but something had to be done about their image. Sure, they had all the makings of a backroom barroom brawl band, but they certainly weren’t going to go far with their low-down, dirty image—especially not in the early 1960’s. What these boys desperately needed was a makeover.

            During a break in their session, he invited the band over for a drink. His intention was to have the Dark Knights sign a record contract, but with one condition. He had a talented, beatnik poet/singer who was looking to obtain a band.

            “Do we look like beatniks to yeh?” asked Alex, lighting a cigarette.

            “No, actually you all look like a bunch of hooligans, but that can be remedied,” said Darren. “Do you fellas want to continue playing in this hole forever?”

            The band members looked at one another. The answer was obviously no. They wanted to take their career to the next level; and, according to Darren Chapman, Robbie Marin was the answer.

Robbie Marin, a native Londoner, was a tall curly-haired blonde with a passion for music—especially rock and roll. He was handsome, charismatic, and completely cool with the verse, but what impressed the Dark Knights the most was Robbie’s tall, slender, and seductive fashion model girlfriend, Amelia Magdalene.

            “How is Robbie’s style going to mesh with ours?” asked Nick to both Darren and Robbie. “His sound and style is completely different.”

            “Fusion,” explained Darren. “That’s what it’s all about these days. You can’t make it on the styles of yesterday; you’ll get lost in the shuffle if you try to imitate others. You chaps need to find your own sound.”

            Nick was hesitant about having to play second fiddle to Robbie. Peter, Alex, and Josh, however, didn’t care too much; they were much more fascinated with Robbie’s girlfriend Amelia.

“Do you have any friends?” Peter asked her.

            Amelia smiled flirtatiously. “Many.”

            “I think we can work this out,” said Alex to Darren, while winking at Robbie’s girlfriend.

            For the possibility of fame, money, and model girlfriends, the Dark Knights were willing to take Darren up on his offer, although not without some good old-fashioned mouthy revolt. No one was going to clean up or prettify them without a fight. Resistant or not, they were to represent Darren Chapman’s genius, which he would soon spring upon the world—a bunch of rebellious street thugs, with heavy doses of attitude, dressed up as the sweet boys next door.

            The Dark Knights appeared on the scene with a heavy rock sound, but with the smooth and seductive voice of Robbie Marin and his hip, provocative verse. Within a couple of months they were in competition for the top hits on the British charts. Unfortunately for Darren and the band, they were a little naïve and ill-equipped for what was about to transpire.

            At first it was all golden—hit records, sex, money, and fame. While other young men in their late teens and early twenties were struggling to get a kiss goodnight or even rounding second base, the guys in the band were having their sexual fill of women—the daughters, girlfriends, and wives of other men. Sex became as much of an entitlement as their performance salary. The two often went hand in hand. And girls, who presumed they were going to meet a nice young man, were quickly presented with an entirely different personality.

            Darren quickly noticed the response that fan girls had to his band and quickly started playing up each band member’s image; that way every girl in the world would have someone to make them swoon. He emphasized the smooth seduction of Robbie, the dry wit and sarcastic humor of Nick, the romance of Peter, the dark bad-boy persona of Alex, and Josh as the funny party animal. With that they took the world by storm, conquering every nation they landed upon. Their success was bigger than any of them could have imagined.

 

            In the pool behind the Hollywood mansion Alex raised his head above the water and opened his eyes. He rubbed away the excess water that ran down his face and once again stared up the starry California sky above the Hollywood mansion where he was staying. It was a far cry from the backyard of his parents’ terraced home in Manchester; the gardens here were not tended by a tired shipyard worker, but by hired servants.

            “I guess I made good use of that thingamajig, Pop,” Alex said to himself with a smile.

            A breeze blew, causing a chill. Alex knew it was time to get out of the pool. He pulled himself out and dried off with a towel. He had needed a quick dip and a few moments of silence after the concert. Fortunately, with the rest of the band and guests inside partying, he had been able to escape outside without anyone following him. He stepped into his slides and headed upstairs to change into a comfortable pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

            Inside the mansion, it was all rather crazy. No one in the band had had any desire to celebrate, yet the party downstairs was picking up. Although he relished his luxurious bedroom and wanted to sink into the thick mattress for a deep sleep, he knew at the very least he ought to put in a brief appearance; besides, no one knew who might show up (it was Hollywood after all).

            After lighting a cigarette, Alex stalked the perimeter of the party. He made his way toward Nick, who was standing at the bar, engaged in a deep, thoughtful conversation with Cassie O’Brien, a talented folksinger and songwriter, who happened to be the opening act for their tour. Despite being married, Nick had already made his intentions with Cassie known to the other fellows.

            Alex purposely walked over and stood between them as he requested a glass of whiskey from the bartender. It was his way of deliberately annoying Nick. Alex often enjoyed being a pain in the ass.

            “Don’t you have someone else to bother?” asked Nick.

            Alex turned around, leaning on the bar to face the party. “No,” he said with a loving grin, “there’s no one else I’d rather bother.”

            Nick teasingly raised his fist and said, “I’ll give yeh something to bother with.”

            “Ooh, I’m scared,” said Alex flatly.

            Cassie lit a cigarette. “Don’t tell me there’s no girl here who caught your eye,” she said.

            Alex leaned flirtatiously at Cassie and said, “Well, one did.”

            Nick gave Alex a serious push and yelled, “All right, sod off!”

            Alex chuckled as he stepped away—mission accomplished. He walked through the party, studying the guests carefully, with his cigarette between his lips and a glass of whiskey in his hand. Tonight, after the Hollywood Bowl concert, Alex felt on the top of the world. He had more money, fame, and women than any twenty-one-year-old could possibly imagine, but then he caught sight of the one thing that would take his life to the very pinnacle of success: Hollywood starlet Frankie Robinson.

            Alex had first noticed her in American magazines and even saw her once on television. He was totally smitten with her, though they had never met. There was something about her that he noticed was lacking in other girls: passion, fire, and an overall
joie de vivre
. During his globe-trotting years, all the girls he had met were the same—sweet, demure, and oftentimes downright submissive. It wasn’t that he disliked these qualities; they had their purpose (especially when one was trying to make an easy conquest), but the girls with the independent spirits were the ones that Alex was truly attracted to. Perhaps it was because deep inside he felt he had that same spirit within himself.

            Alex’s attention was now focused solely on Frankie. She was even sexier in person than what he had seen on television. She was wearing a tight sundress that fit snuggly over her curvaceous yet athletic figure, with a thick mass of untamed blonde hair, and pouty full lips. Taking it all in, Alex transformed into the cartoon characterization of a hound dog. When she turned and flashed him a cute smile, the infamous bad boy Alex Rowley turned to mush. Frankie Robinson had gotten to him.

            Peter was the first to encounter Frankie and the girls at the door with his suave demeanor. “Hello, ladies,” he greeted with a smile and a wink, “welcome to the party.”

            Gillian was immediately taken in and gave him the sweetest smile she could for Peter while extending her hand. “Hi, I’m Gillian,” she said.

            “I’m Peter,” he said, eying her from blonde hair to her pretty toes, and thus the connection was made; no one else existed between Gillian and Peter.