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Official Site of Author Robert S. Levinson
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THE JOHN
LENNON AFFAIR Chapter
Excerpt The Chelsea on West Twenty-Third between Seventh and
Eighth was the only hotel in New York I knew by name and reputation. It was the
place where rock stars on the rise and on the decline could create trouble and
be ignored by the management, unlike the legendary "Riot House" on the
Sunset Strip in LA, where the management was less tolerant and routinely called
the cops whenever some bona fide rock star or a rolling clone tossed a TV set or
the remains of room service, including the cart, onto the boulevard from his
eight hundred dollar a day suite. The bohemian landmark showed all of its seventy-five years and then some. There was something imposing about its street parade of balconied windows, something intimidating about the history I smelled inside, like Dylan tucked in a corner of his room writing "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands." I had to knock on the counter to get the attention of the desk clerk, who was following the news about John on a small-screen black-and-white TV on the shelf underneath the open-faced room key cabinet.
He wheeled around on his stool
with an expression that showed he was not happy about being disturbed. I put him
in his early to mid-thirties, with penetrating black eyes he'd accented with a
thick coat of mascara on his eyelashes and a slash under his lower lids. A
tumbleweed of hair dyed black vying for attention with collagen-impregnated lips
painted a rich shade of green. Clearly, no one had told him Halloween was last
month. I apologized for the interruption
and that seemed to satisfy him, but not his need to spray me with the kind of
once-over that advertised its intention. A twice-over kind of once-over like he
was looking for a place on me to plant a few bills and had just the place in
mind. He gave me an immense smile of confirmation that showed off a mouthful of
misshapen teeth and unredeemable decay. I let him see I wasn't interested,
but he flexed his muscles and did some shoulder exercises in case he hadn't read
me right. Let me see what I was missing under his too tight Freddie Mercury tee
shirt that seemed ready to burst at the seams. "I'm Neil Gulliver," I
said. "Called you last night from LA and reserved a room?" He shrugged his biceps and ducked
under the counter, came up in a few seconds with a red-covered registry book
that he laid on the front counter. Flipped open to a page marked with a pencil
on a string. His fingers, a garden of dirty,
bitten nails, trailed downward
until-- "Yeah. Here. Gulliver. Two
nights, right?" His voice sounded more like a squeal, had a strong English
inflection. "And only you for the bedsprings?" "Maybe three. It depends. A
single, yes." "A bloody shame," he
said, and made a clucking sound. He took the pencil and wrote down
something in the registry book before returning it beneath the counter, then
moved a registration card in front of me. I took the pen he offered and began
filling out the card. "How you plan on squaring,
Neil Gulliver what called us last night from Los Angeles?" "Sorry?" "Cash or plastic? You ain't
known to the establishment, so the policy is no personal checks. Especially
since you're also traveling light." He indicated my backpack and gym bag.
"Too easy to disappear, a popular trick hereabouts on more'n one occasion,
I might say, so no offense." "No problem. None
taken." I pulled out my billfold from a hip pocket, found the Visa card the
Sentinel had issued to me, and passed it across the counter. I knew I shouldn't be using it,
given I'd been fired by Easy Ryder and was no longer on the Sentinel
payroll, but I was owed a last check by the paper and told myself I'd watch it,
make sure I didn't spend more than I was owed. The clerk adjusted his tone again
and wondered, "What band you with, mate?" Making small talk while we did the
paperwork. I shook my head. "I'm a writer." He made a face that said that was
less than he'd hoped for, but acceptable. "Judging by your look, so
much the clean-cut and proper lad, I'll guess middle-of-the-road. I'd wager you
figure to become the next big pop sensation, right?" "Not that kind of writer. Not
a songwriter. A reporter, I meant. For a newspaper back in LA." "Oh." He was about to lose interest in
me, until I pointed at the TV and said, "He's the reason I'm in New
York." He sat upright and studied me with
renewed interest. "Terrible about
himself," the clerk said. "Terrible," I agreed. "Put my hands on the bloody
bugger what done him, I'd give him a what-for to put him outside Heaven for
eternity and a day...You can quote me, you're doing a write-up." "No, I didn't come to work.
To pay my last respects." His eyes took a curious turn. "You saying you knew him? You
knew John Lennon?" "Not as well as he knew
us," I said. He had to think about that, but
quickly began nodding an emphatic Yes. "So say we all, mate,"
he said. "So say we all." "He said that twice, you hear
him?" The question came from behind me. "You said that twice, Nigey." "Say it a million times more
before I'm through," the clerk called past my left shoulder. I glanced that way and found a
bear of a man looking back. Six feet and then some, dressed in a khaki fatigue
jacket and pants, hands stuffed in his pockets, speckled gray and white buskers
cap parked at a jaunty angle on a full head of blond hair, Ray-Bans hiding his
eyes, and a scruffy blond beard otherwise disguising a puffy face. He cupped a hand behind an ear. "What's that you said, Nigey?" "Said I'd say it a million
times before I'm through." The bear aimed an accusatory
finger. "You said that twice,"
he announced gleefully, then to me, "He said that twice." "I heard him," I said,
pivoting around for a better look at him. "What's that?" "I heard him." Pointing the finger at me now. "You said that twice." And he raised his chin and hooted
at the ceiling like he'd just invented humor. Nigey said, "You have to
forgive Harry. He was a true mate of the guv. That's his way of mourning." "Afternoon and night,
too," Harry said, duplicating the voice of Groucho Marx. "I knew John
was dying to get back to woik, but he got carried away this time." His mouth was open, as if he
planned to say more, but instead of words, a gasping sigh worked its way up and
out of his throat, and his cheeks dropped out of his half moon smile. "Fuck," he said after a
moment and patted himself down searching for the cigarette pack he found in a
pouch pocket of the fatigue jacket. He replaced the pack and placed the
cigarette in his left palm, then slapped the inside of his left arm. The cigarette flew between his
lips. He removed it for study, held it
out like both he and the cigarette were waiting for applause, and with a modest
nod parked it in a corner of his mouth. He said, "Anybody got a
light?" Without pausing to think, I
answered, "The people at General Electric." I could feel his eyes dissecting
me from behind his shades before he began nodding energetically and let the
smile back. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and stashed it behind an
ear. "Good one," Harry said.
"You remind me of me." "Is that a compliment?" "Not necessarily," he
said, cackling once more. "In fact, it's a line from the movie True Grit.
And the book. John Wayne. The Duke as Rooster Cogburn. He won an Oscar, pretty
impressive seeing as how Oscar Levant never won a John Wayne." He repeated, "You remind me
of me," sounding like the Duke and walking like him as he ambled forward,
extending his right hand. She looked fifteen or sixteen
years old and spaced out, dead eyes and a face full of puss pimples, some picked
clean and scabbed over. Close-cropped bottle red hair styled in a Mixmaster. A
black summer coat too big for her that reached the tops of her cowboy boots, the
leather peeling and broken in some places.
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