Typical
Mid-morning
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"No, you can not talk to Mick Jagger."
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I could see from even halfway across the drive that Kathleen was on the
phone. The first three lights on the keyset were blinking, indicating
people on "hold." I could see them blinking through the top half of the
Dutch door, which was open. The red telephone was off the hook, and
lying in the wastepaper basket, indicating someone else on "hold."
Kathleen was smiling, and just about to speak.
"No, you can
not
talk to Mick Jagger. No. That is simply not
possible. What I
will
do, however, is take your name and
telephone number and see to it that he gets a message, if and when I
see him. O.K.? Go ahead. Yes, I'm writing, Carolyn. You think he might
remember you from Detroit, three years ago. Yes, I've put that down.
Area code three-one-three, O.K. Two-nine-three, six-eight-, three-four.
O. K., I've got it. Good speaking with you again, Carolyn. How do I
know it's you? I can tell your voice. Please, Carolyn, don't call back.
It's silly and costing someone a lot of money. Oh. I see. It's costing
your
boyfriend
a lot of money. Listen, I've got three other
people on hold. Really, Carolyn. Goodbye."
Kathleen slammed down the receiver. "That's three times so far today.
She must have called six times yesterday. Each time with a different
story. The first was that their fathers knew each other in Tripoli,
next that she had a message for him from Bianca, and now that she saw
him at a party in Detroit three years ago. When will it end?
"Now, let's see." Kathleen pushed one of the three blinking telephone
buttons. "Yes, Bill, sorry. I
understand
that Mick said he wanted
to see you today, but you've just got to stay over there in the motel
until I know when. I don't know when, yet. Honest, I'll call you as
soon as I see him. I know. I really understand, you've come a long way.
I know. Patience, Bill. Some people don't get to see him at all, like
the lady from Japan. She had to go all the way back to Tokyo. Never got
to see the man even once, and Mick told
her
he wanted to speak to
her,
too. Bye-bye, Bill."
Kathleen turned to me, oblivious of the two remaining blinking lights.
"We've got to do something about Solveig. She's crying again, in front
of Mick, too."
Solveig is a most beautiful twenty-one year old Swedish girl whom I
found — met, I should say — in Tobago last winter. She pronounces
her name "Soll-vay." Ravishing creature. She worked the Geils gig, took
some time off, and came back for the Stones, much to the astonishment
and delight of her friends and parents back in Stockholm. She has long,
lean legs and long blond hair. She
looks
very Swedish, and must
be three inches taller than Mick Jagger.
"She's what?" I asked.
"Crying in front of Mick. Being rude to him. Not answering him when he
says something to her."
"Kathleen," I said, "stay out of this one. There's more than meets the
eye here. If Solveig is crying in front of Mick, it's not from
overwork."
"Well," Kathleen said, "I don't know what it
is
from, then."
Kathy suddenly became inaudible beneath the roar of a single-engine
Cessna which had swooped down to within two hundred and fifty feet of
the top of the Farmhouse, rattling the panes of glass and making the
dogs bark. It was now out over the valley, dipping its left wing, then
its right.
"That's
him
again," Kathleen shouted. "He always calls fifteen
minutes later, once he's on the ground, and asks, 'Did Mick see me that
time? Did Mick see me?' Stupid ass. I told him if he did it one more
time I was going to report him. Now I will, if I can find the I.D.
number of the airplane. Wrote it down here somewhere the last time he
flew by. Nearly hit the barn that time. It's got to be here somewhere."
A large figure suddenly materialized in the doorway to the office. "Ah,
yes, Kathleen. Good morning, Kathleen." It was Alan Dunn.
"I'll get the phone," I said to Kathy, "you talk to Alan."
"I should like to discuss last week's invoice, Kathleen," Alan began.
"There are several items to discuss, one of them in your favor,
actually."
"Well, O. K.," Kathy replied. "I need my copy first, though. Oh,
here's
the number of that damned airplane. Just a minute, Alan.
Just you sit right there, and talk to Gil or something."
"Gil doesn't talk to me anymore. He sends me memos instead. Don't you,
Gil? You and your memos."1
"I like to have things written down, Alan."
"Ah, yes, so you do, Gil. So you do. I'd put the same energy into
stopping those press leaks of yours, if I were you. I don't know how
that Providence paper knew what they knew yesterday, but your name was
all over the piece, and so was Kathleen's. Mick was very put out by
that, I want you to know. So was Bill Graham."
"Here, Alan," I said.
"You
take this phone call." It was from a
particularly persistent reporter from a paper in Lowell. This fellow
really saw no reason why he should not write a page one story for his
newspaper giving the exact present location of the Rolling Stones — Long View Farm, in North Brookfield, Mass. He was going to write that
story
today,
unless we could somehow talk him out of it. I thrust
the phone at Alan Dunn.
"Let's see how
you
do it, Alan," I laughed. I figured it was time
for me to get out of there, and went off toward the kitchen for the
first of several cups of coffee. It was 10:30 in the morning, or
thereabouts.
1
Cf., Appendix F: The
Tennis Court Fiasco (From Gil Markle to Alan Dunn)
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