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Author's Introduction
Preface by Bennie Strange
Montreux
Logan Airport
The Briefing
The Red Barn
The Stones Might Come
The Stones Are Coming
The Stones Aren't Coming
The Slender Strand
Twin Cessna 75 X-Ray
Keith Richards
Jane Rose
For Engineers Only
Darlin'...
Confidentiality
Systems, Inc.
Joe Rascoff
Ian Stewart
The Little Boys' Room
Master of All He Surveys
Paul Wasserman
The Tennis Courts
Bill & Astrid
A Typical Morning
A Typical Mid-Morning
Guns
My Friend Mark
Philadelphia
The Pantry
The Rock Wall
Woody
Fraternity Brothers
The Red Line
Neighbors
Judith
Kathleen
Club Owners
A Typical Rehearsal
Visitors
Rob Barnett
One Sunday Afternoon
WBCN-Boston
Bennie Strange in Worcester
The Show Must Go On
Performance!
Bill Graham
Little Girls
Steve Morse
The Raging Rose Saloon
The Publicist's Handbook
Charlie Watts
Mick and Freedom
Press Conference
The Strange Afterglow
Postscript
Appendix A
Appendix B
Appendix C
Wire-copy news
Stones Cinderella Story
The Tennis Court Fiasco


Typical Mid-morning



"No, you can not talk to Mick Jagger."



    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)
 


 All original material copyright © Gilbert Scott Markle. All rights reserved.