So write about this newspaper. Newspapers are always right.

K. Kinchev.

New York. July 1992.

Even the walls of the conference room on the first floor of the HarperCollins publishing house seemed to be buzzing with excitement, tension and anticipation of future sensations. Still would! To date, the presentation was announced, perhaps, of the most scandalous book of this season - “Flyin“ Loosers “: how it was“. The name of one of the authors has already caused a stir: Dean Coll, the former road manager of this group, who had long rested in Bose, but on whose music the youth is still growing, whose songs are sung by everyone who feels like it - from the provincial garage group of teenagers to the venerable musicians ... He knows the truth about how it was - how the hits were born, how the concerts went, what was behind the scenes ... Why? And backstage is part of the story. Even part of the legend, if you like.

Finally, they also appeared: the author himself - smiling in American style, of medium height, slightly balding, with gray hair in the temples, despite his 46 years - was the director of the publishing house and one of his deputies. The presence of such a large person as a director at the presentation automatically gave weight to everything that Call was going to tell journalists. And, apparently, it felt: the noise gradually began to subside.

The heroes of the occasion sat in places, and the presentation began. After the introductory speech of the director, Call began to speak. He apologized for presenting the book without a co-author - he has family problems and the person could not get out for a presentation. Then he spoke briefly about himself - which, in general, could not be done - and why he decided to write this book. Then he offered to ask questions.

After that, it was as if Pandora’s box was opened in the hall

- Mr. Call, are you not afraid that after this book the group members will stop talking to you?

- Mr. Call, is it true that your responsibilities included organizing the leisure of musicians on tour?

- How true is what you wrote in the book?

- Did you use gossip about you and the group in your book?

Call barely had time to answer. But it was hardly a burden for him: a good-naturedly friendly expression did not leave his face. Later in the cocktail bar, one young and overly attentive reporter argued that Kol’s pupils were unnaturally dilated and that the author himself occasionally licked his lips, as if he was constantly tormented by thirst, despite the fact that there was a carafe of water in front of him. But the reporter was not very much believed, even though he was sitting in the front row opposite Coll, mainly because the neighbors did not confirm this. Or did not notice ...

Finally, somewhere in the middle of the hall, the question was raised:

- Mr. Call, tell me right now: “Shark story” is it true or not?

In the hall instantly there was silence. It seemed that the heavens would open up now, and Moses would descend from Mount Sinai, carrying the cherished tables in his hands - so everything was tensed, waiting for an answer. Even the director of the publishing house and his deputy are half-turned to Coll.

Dean Call was silent for a minute. The silence in the hall gradually heated up. Suddenly he felt some kind of strange irritation and sudden tiredness. “But this story has surrendered to them ... Have they really thought about it for twenty years? - flashed his thought. - They just want to know? And just for this gathered here? And nothing more?..."

Seattle, WA. July 1969. Morning.

July in Seattle this year turned out to be hot, so that by the time the guests arrived, the windows were wide open and the ocean wind was walking around the room. It smelled of salt and freshness.

Dean Call, road manager (or “roadie”, as he was sometimes called) “Flyin“ Loosers ”, a thin 23-year-old dark-haired guy with curly shoulder-length hair, was sometimes confused with this group’s guitarist, impudent gaze and the manner of the London Cockney stopped on the threshold in admiration:

“Great place! ... Johnny,” he said to someone from behind, “just look ...”

“If you budge your ass,” an invisible interlocutor mumbled from behind, “I might share your enthusiasm.”

Call slightly stepped aside. A tall, dense brunette with long straight hair, covering his forehead, with a broad face, on which stood a large nose and a small strip of mustache, and slightly narrowed dark-blue eyes, tumbled into the room. No one would have believed that this man was only 20 years old - he looked five years older. But it was he, John Baldry, 20 years old, the drummer of the band “Flyin“ Loosers “. As written in the newspapers, "drummer from God."

Baldry looked around, sniffed the air, and exhaled loudly. The face broke into a smile. “Well, pure bear,” thought Dean. They have worked together for a year, but the road manager still could not get used to the drummer’s manners.

“Cool,” the drummer approved in the meantime, and going up to the window, he looked out. “You look here, Dean,” he said, not turning around, after a minute. - There is beauty here ...

Call got up next to John.

There was a little excitement in the bay. The waves of the Puget Sound were beaten right into the wall of the hotel, so it seemed that the massive building would now give up every imaginable mooring line and swim straight into the Pacific expanse. Some splashes reached the windows of the first floor and, bending over the window sill (the room was on the second), it was possible to see how they break on the glass. To the right in the morning haze over the city high rises at a decent distance were the port facilities of Seattle. At the left, about ten meters away, an asphalt road ran to the ocean beaches. And right in front of the guys there was an indescribable panorama - dark water, striking with its depth right under the windows and only far away highlighted by glare of the waking sun, inexorable, stubborn, as if hoping to the last to wash and sweep away the hotel waves, turning from deceptive ripples turned into formidable in appearance, but such a helpless force. And - the air, wind, knocking down, intoxicating cleaner than any portion of "Black Jack". The air that wanted to poison itself, from which it wanted to die and, having risen, to live on, enriched by it and the knowledge about it ...

But Call did not study at Oxford, so all his emotions remained unspoken. He just cursed in a flattering delight and asked the drummer:

- Where are the others?

“They're stuck downstairs,” he said. He spoke with an eerie accent of the northern port cities of England, swallowing the endings of words and firmly highlighting the syllables, because of which his speech, especially in moments of agitation or alcoholic drinking, seemed like porridge. - They were there already taken into circulation. And this is just the beginning. Damn, what will happen when we speak ... Maybe you take care of the boat and the rope, eh, Dean?

Call grunted:

- Already fade? Are you afraid of a couple of questions or a couple of girls, John?

“I'm tired,” Baldry muttered. “These damn tours are so long ... You're off-stage, you don't give a damn.” And how about an hour and a half on stage, eh? Come out all wet, and here you are with your girls ...

“Johnny,” Call said almost tenderly, putting his hand on the drummer’s shoulder and hugging him, “have you ever refused my girls after the concert, huh?” Remind me ...

“Go to hell,” the drummer threw his hand off his shoulder, walked away from the window and headed for the shower. Call grinned and shouted after him:

- Breakfast ordered in an hour. At one o'clock in the afternoon - sound check, at seven. Cars will be served at noon. Do not be late!

- First - sleep. - The bathroom door swallowed the drummer and his last phrase.

Closer to midnight.

As soon as Baldry appeared on the threshold of the room, he, without a word, walked with quick steps to the table with drinks. His appearance was more than eloquent: disheveled hair, sweaty bright red T-shirt, on which several large dried spots stood out ... Going to the table, John splashed at least a quart of whiskey into a tall glass and drank it in one gulp. Call closed his eyes and shook his head, then opened his eyes. The musician stood on his feet, only hitherto tense ...