Public Secrets Part 45

their first demo six years before. It had been a little rough, a little

raw, and exactly the right sound for its time. He had already managed

two other groups to solid record contracts, but Devastation had been his

chance'for glory.

He had needed them. They had vieeded him. He'd gone on the road with

them, sat in dives, hustled record producers, called in all of his

markers. It had paid off far beyond his initial expectations. But his

expectations were flexible. He wanted more for them. He wanted more

for himself.

The band, individually and as a group, was beginning to worry him. They

wandered off on their own too much these days, Johnno with his frequent

trips to New York, Stevie spending weeks at a time G.o.d

knew where. P.M. was always within arm's reach, but he was taken up in

an affair with some ambitious starlet. Pete no longer believed it was a

fling. There was Brian, of course, spouting antiwar politics at the

drop of a hat.

They were a band, dammit, a rock and roll band, and what they did

separately affected what they did as a group. What they did as a group

affected their sales. Already they were backing off planning a tour

after the new alb.u.m was released.

He wasn't going to see them cracked down the middle as the Beatles had

been.

After a deep breath, he settled back to think about them, as they had

been, and as they were.

It pleased him to see Johnno's collection of cars. The Bentley, the

Rolls, the Ferrari. There was one thing about Johnno, Pete thought with

a small smile. The man knew how to enjoy money. He'd nearly stopped

worrying that Johnno's s.e.xual preferences would leak. Over the years

Pete had gained a strong respect for Johnno's intelligence, common

sense, and talent.

No, he didn't have to worry about Johnno, Pete decided as he glanced

over the papers on his desk. He was one who could keep his private

affairs private. And the public loved him for his outlandish outfits

and glib tongue.

Then there was Stevie. The drugs were a bit of a problem. It wasn't

affecting his performance, yet, but he had noticed that Stevie's mood

swings were wider and more frequent. He'd been stoned during the last

two recording sessions, and even Brian, no slouch in the drug department

himself, had been annoyed.

Yes, he'd have to keep his eye on Stevie.

P.M. was as dependable as a sunrise. It was true that Pete was by

turns amused and irked that the drummer pored over every word in a

contract. But the boy was investing his money well, and earned Pete's

respect there. It had also been a surprise, a pleasant and profitable

one, when the girls took so giddily to his homely face. Where Pete had

once worried that P.M. would prove the weak link, he had turned out to

be one of the strongest.

Brian. Pete poured himself two fingers of Chivas Regal, sat back in his

overstuffed leather chair and considered. Brian was, without doubt, the

heart and soul of the group. He was the creative drive, the conscience.