Page 384 of Edge of Eternity (The Century 3)

Lew said: "A drum solo by Dave Clark."

Walli said: "A Demis Roussos album."

The phone flashed and Beep picked it up. "Come on in," she said, and hung up. Then she said to Walli: "It's Hilton."

"Okay." Walli got off his stool, put his guitar in a stand, and went out.

Dave looked inquiringly at Beep, who said: "A dealer."

Dave kept playing the song. There was nothing unusual about a dope dealer calling at a recording studio. He did not know why musicians used drugs so much more than the general population, but it had always been so: Charlie Parker had been a heroin addict, and he was the generation before last.

While Dave strummed, Buzz picked up his bass and played along, and Lew sat behind the kit and began to drum quietly, looking for the groove. They had been improvising for fifteen or twenty minutes when Dave stopped and said: "What the fuck has happened to Walli?"

He left the studio, followed by the others, and returned to the main house.

They found Walli in the kitchen. He was stretched out on the floor, stoned, with a hypodermic syringe still stuck in his arm. He had shot up as soon as his supply arrived.

Beep bent over him and gently pulled out the needle. "He'll be out now until morning," she said. "I'm sorry."

Dave cursed. That was the end of the day's work.

Buzz said to Lew: "Shall we go to the cantina?"

There was a bar at the bottom of the hill, mostly used by Mexican farm workers. It had the ridiculous name of the Mayfair Lounge, so they referred to it as the cantina.

"Might as well," said Lew.

The rhythm section left.

Beep said: "Help me get him to bed."

Dave picked up Walli by the shoulders, Beep took his legs, and they carried him to the bedroom. Then they returned to the kitchen. Beep leaned against the counter while Dave put on coffee.

"He's an addict, isn't he?" Dave said, fiddling with a paper filter.

Beep nodded.

"Do you think we can even make this album?"

"Yes!" she said. "Please don't give up on him. I'm afraid . . ."

"Okay, stay calm." He switched the machine on.

"I can manage him," she said desperately. "He maintains in the evenings, just keeping going on small amounts while he works, then in the early hours he shoots up and nods out. This was unusual, today. He doesn't often just crash like that. Normally I score the stuff and ration it."

Dave was appalled. He looked at her. "You've become nursemaid to a junkie."

"We make these decisions when we're too young to know better, then we have to live with them," she said, and she started to cry.

Dave put his arms around her, and she wept on his chest. He gave her time, while the front of his shirt got wet and the kitchen filled with the aroma of coffee. Then he gently disengaged himself and poured two cups.

"Don't worry," he said. "Now that we know about the problem, we can work around it. While Walli's at his best we'll do the difficult stuff: writing the songs, the guitar solos, the vocal harmonies. When he's not around we'll lay down backing tracks and do a rough mix. We can get it together."

"Oh, thank you. You've saved his life. I can't tell you how relieved I am. You're such a good man." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his lips.

Dave felt weird. She was thanking him for saving her boyfriend's life and, at the same time, kissing him.

Then she said: "I was such a fool to give you up."

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