Hollywood Hoodlums

By Ronan Joyce

Adam and Nigel are desperate to rekindle the fame and fortune they enjoyed in the eighties with a hit song they could never replicate. When their friend Archie writes a screenplay about their brief brush with success, they embark on an unorthodox mission to get it made into a movie. Discouraged by the chilly reception they receive in Hollywood, they meet a scheming rogue who concocts a dangerous plan that promises to get them back on the road to stardom. Luckily for Adam and Nigel, love has a way of thwarting even the best-laid plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ronan Joyce
• Release date: Apr 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005319786

Ronan Joyce

Ronan Joyce was born in Connemara, in the West of Ireland, in 1967. He was educated at Garbally College, Ballinasloe, and the Limerick School of Art and Design. For the past thirty years, he has wandered the earth working as a journalist for an eclectic array of newspapers, including the Bangkok Post, the Hong Kong Standard, the Sunday World and the Irish Daily Star. He lives in Galway with his wife, Jan.

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Hollywood Hoodlums

by Ronan Joyce

Copyright © 2021 Ronan Joyce

Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book but did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Other Books by the Author

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Contact the Author

Prologue

London, 1985

THE Duke of Cornwall pub on Fulham Palace Road was unusually dark and empty for a Saturday evening in the middle of summer. The reason was obvious, even to Adam Gideon, the handsome, dark-haired libertine nursing a pint at the bar. Outside, dozens of teenage girls were scaling the windows, blocking the evening sun and frightening away the regular clientele.

Adam covered his ears to drown out the screams of the amorous adolescents. He took a sip of beer and watched as the girls banged on the windows and door. Desperate to attract his attention, they climbed over themselves to get a good perch on the windowsills.

‘This is fucking bonkers, Jo,’ Adam informed his girlfriend, who was sitting on the next stool, petrified.

‘I’m the one who should be worried,’ said Jo. ‘They’ll tear me apart if they ever get their hands on me.’

Adam had been going steady with Joanne Cory since his song, ‘A Penny For Your Love’, topped the charts a few months earlier. It had stayed at number one for three weeks, by which time his band, The Love Chairs, released an album and embarked on a sell-out nationwide tour.

‘Not to worry, lassie,’ said Dennis, a Scottish giant who was standing guard at the doorway. ‘They’ll not get past me.’

Jo offered the bouncer a weak smile and turned her attention back to the teens. ‘It just takes one crack for a window to break and then they’ll all come pouring in like a swarm of hungry locusts.’

‘The Beatles had to put up with this type of thing and no harm ever came to them,’ Adam said, hoping to ease some of her anxiety.

‘You’re not comparing The Love Chairs to The Beatles, are you?’

Adam sneered at Jo and drained the last of his pint. He knew he wasn’t Jo’s first musician boyfriend, but he was the first to find success, and he wasn’t altogether sure she was cut out for the rock and roll lifestyle. ‘We might as well have another round, Dave,’ he said to the barman, who was also the manager of the Duke of Cornwall.

‘I don’t think so, mate,’ said Dave. ‘You’re bad for business.’

‘What do you mean? Look at all the buzz I’ve created in the place.’

‘Your teenybopper fans aren’t doing me any favours, mate. Even if they were old enough to buy booze, I couldn’t let them in ‘cause they’d tear the place apart. And they’re drivin’ away my real punters.’

Adam knew he had a point, but he was loath to leave the safety and comfort of the pub, even if the biggest gig of his life was just about to start. The beamed ceilings, old oak furniture and soft lighting were no different from those found in any English pub, except this pub was the only thing standing between him and the army of screaming teenagers. But maybe it wasn’t the crazy teens that frightened him—maybe it was the 5,000 fans lying in wait next door, some of whom were petulant music journalists ready to chronicle the smallest transgression and end his career before it even started.

Earlier in the day, he couldn’t bring himself to enter the massive auditorium to perform the sound check. His bandmates, Archie and Nigel, begged him to join them, but Adam couldn’t be prised away from the safety of the pub. He told them it was because he wanted to heighten the experience by waiting until the last minute, but really it was because he was afraid of freezing and showing the world he wasn’t up to it.

The phone in the corner started ringing again. They could barely hear it over the din of the shouting teens. Nobody bothered to answer it—it was only Archie calling for the umpteenth time to ask where Adam was. It was as if everyone in the pub had made a secret pact just to ignore it.

‘They’re not all teenyboppers, Dave. Some of them are my age,’ said Jo, who told everyone she was in her early twenties but was actually closer to thirty.

‘They’re spilling out onto the main road now, blocking the traffic and causing a right ruckus,’ Dennis said, standing on a chair to get a better view of the front of the pub.

Dave looked at the large concert poster that dominated the far wall. It read: The Love Chairs… live at the Hammersmith Odeon… doors open 6 p.m. ‘It’s just gone half past eight; your support act must be finished by now,’ he glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time to face your paying public.’

‘How am I supposed to leave with all those delinquents out there?’

Dennis turned to Dave and smiled. ‘Operation Ziggy, boss?’

‘Follow me.’ Dave raised the countertop and marched across the pub. ‘You’re not the first rock star to get trapped in here and find himself in need of safe passage to the Odeon.’

Jo jumped off her stool and followed Dave, though she wasn’t entirely sure where he was going. Spotting that Jo had not finished her gin and tonic, Adam picked up the glass and swallowed the contents before following the others to the back of the pub.

Passing a small stage on which a drumkit and other musical equipment had been set up, Adam cast his mind back to when The Love Chairs were just cutting their teeth on the pub circuit. He hoped they would never have to return to the indignity of playing to drunken students in dingy pubs owned by greedy, ungrateful landlords. His band’s journey to the Hammersmith Odeon had been an arduous and laborious one, but it strengthened Adam’s resolve to make it to the top.

And things are finally looking up, he thought. Live Aid at Wembley next week, if Geldof ever gets back to us, and the American tour next month. And we’re about to play our biggest gig… at the Hammersmith bloody Odeon.

His path to the back of the pub was blocked by a girl wearing a Love Chairs T-shirt holding the cover of the band’s album. She waved the album cover in his face with one hand and, with the other, offered him a black marker.

‘Can you sign it, please?’ she said, her hands shaking.

Adam grabbed the marker and the album cover. ‘Why aren’t you outside with the others?’

‘I- I couldn’t get a ticket—they were all sold out.’

‘She’s been in here since lunchtime harassing all the punters about spare tickets,’ Dave said, unlocking a door marked ‘Private’ at the back of the pub.

The teenager smiled at Adam. ‘Can you sign it to Amanda, please?’

Adam signed the album cover and followed Jo and Dave into the private room. He returned a few seconds later, holding his hand out for Amanda. ‘What are you waiting for? You want to see the gig, don’t you?’

Amanda smiled as she grabbed Adam’s hand and let him guide her into the room. They followed the others up a flight of stairs to the second floor and joined them at a bay window.

Adam couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked out the window. Beyond the dustbins and rubbish skips at the back of the pub, the Hammersmith Odeon stood in all its glory. All they had to do was climb down the rickety, rusty fire escape, negotiate the rubbish skips and dustbins below, and they were within touching distance of the world’s most famous concert venue.

Adam looked around the rear of the building anxiously—he noticed plenty of people were milling about, but they were mostly roadies, catering crew and security staff. There were no teenyboppers or groupies anywhere in sight.

As Dave opened the bay window, Adam reached into his pocket and retrieved several laminated concert passes attached to colourful lanyards. He draped one around Amanda’s neck and passed one each to Jo and Dave. Amanda beamed with delight as she looked at her laminate. The words ‘Access All Areas’ were printed in bold black letters on the front, under a picture of The Love Chairs’ album cover.

‘Why is it called Operation Ziggy, Dave?’ Jo said, sitting on the frame of the open window, ready to swing her legs over the ledge.

‘It’s named after David Bowie, who had a similar problem to yours when he played here in 1973.’

One after the other, they climbed down the fire escape and jumped onto the rubbish skip, landing safely on the tarmac at the rear of the venue. Dave looked around to get his bearings and, when he was sure he knew where he was going, led them in the direction of the stage door at the side of the building. Their sudden appearance was noticed by a couple of eagle-eyed security guards, who seemed satisfied that the laminated passes hanging around their necks gave them the right to be there.

Suddenly, they heard a crashing sound that seemed to come from the alley at the side of the pub. The alley had been blocked off to pedestrian traffic by a black metal gate, which was only opened to allow trucks carrying concert equipment to come and go during gigs. On closer inspection, Adam could see the crashing noise was the sound of a metal ladder being hoisted against the gate. His heart skipped a beat when he saw dozens of screaming teenagers climbing the ladder and jumping over the gate. When they spotted Adam, they ran as fast as they could toward their idol.

Adam looked at the screaming teenagers running toward him and turned to the stage door, which was still a good distance away. He estimated he could just about make it safely inside if he ran faster than he had ever run before.

With the military precision of well-drilled guerrillas, Jo and Dave pushed Adam toward the stage door while the security guards stormed into action to intercept the swarm of teens. Because they outnumbered the guards three to one, some of the teenagers easily broke through the human barrier and made a beeline for Adam. Amanda managed to block the path of the lead assailant, but she was flanked by two others who had but one target in their sights. As she fell to the ground, Amanda reached out her arm to trip one of the flanking teens, while the other remained on a collision course with Adam.

‘Save yourself Adam, my love,’ Amanda shouted at Adam, ‘I’ll be alright.’

Dave and Jo grabbed hold of Adam and threw him in through the open stage door. They leapt in after him just before the stage door was closed behind them. They heard a loud thud on the other side of the door, which Adam suspected was the sound of the flanking girl’s head crashing into it.

The three late arrivals lay prone on the floor as if they had just been blown in by a strong hurricane. Adam looked up and noticed two pairs of shoes right in front of him. The scuffed Doc Martins on the right belonged to Nigel, the drummer, while the comfortable espadrilles on the right belonged to Archie, the bass guitarist.

‘Nice of you to drop in, old chap,’ said Nigel.

‘Where is Amanda?’ Adam looked around when he regained his composure.

‘She took one for the team, poor girl,’ said Dave. ‘There’s nothing we can do for her now... the wildlings have her.’

‘Never mind all that,’ Archie said, grabbing the back of Adam’s shirt and hoisting him aloft. ‘This concert isn’t going to perform itself.’

That’s when Adam noticed the rhythmic sound of chanting coming from the auditorium. Concentrating on the chorus for a moment, he realized what it was. The audience was chanting two words Adam had never heard chanted before—love chairs, love chairs, love chairs—over and over again.

‘Are you ready to rock?’ said Archie, pointing toward the stage.

Before he could respond, Adam looked around and tried to drink in the atmosphere and history of his magical surroundings, the cathedral of music to which he had been trying to ascend all his life.

Adam was surprised how rundown the backstage area seemed to be. Then again, that was part of the charm. The black paint was peeling off the walls, revealing the red clay brickwork underneath. The door to the dressing room was falling off its hinges and offered little in the way of privacy for celebrities who expected a degree of seclusion before gigs. He smiled at the notion of eccentric musicians like AC/DC or The Who moving furniture against the door to prevent prying eyes from witnessing their pre-gig debauchery. He spotted all manner of wires and cables protruding out of the walls, and the toilets looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in decades. He was glad he had used the conveniences at the pub before he left.

Adam had dreamed of playing at the Hammersmith Odeon for more years than he could remember... but the venue in his dreams did not quite match up to the reality.

Even so, Adam took a peculiar comfort in the dishevelled appearance of the storied venue. Somehow, it made him feel more at ease. It made the iconic acts who had gone before him appear more accessible and gave him the impetus to follow in their footsteps. The Love Chairs had topped the bill at dozens of top venues around the country, but the whole experience had been managed by the record company and Adam had been lulled into what he considered a false sense of entitlement. But that sense of entitlement was rapidly fading. As soon as he set foot inside the Hammersmith Odeon and heard the chanting of the expectant fans, he understood the history of the place and the flawed but brilliant musicians who haunted it.

‘I was born ready.’ Adam followed Nigel and Archie onto the stage, smiling when the hysteria of the crowd reached a crescendo. Grabbing his guitar from the instrument technician, he waited for Nigel to establish the beat, then he coaxed his electric appendage to life. As he played the first few chords of his hit song, he glimpsed out at the sea of faces below and observed the facial expressions transforming to sheer ecstasy.

The music drowned out his fears and doubts, easing him into the rhythm of his new reality. As the crowd roared and his bandmates followed his lead, Adam embraced his nascent rock star status and vowed to follow his dream as far as it would take him.

Chapter One

London, 2019

ADAM held the paintbrush in his hand and looked across the snow-covered road at the Eventim Apollo. Closing his eyes, he conjured snapshots in his mind, fleeting glimpses of such clarity he felt like he was back on stage performing for five thousand adoring fans. He was invincible then and he wished he could feel that way again.

At the best of times, the eighties were a blur to him. He sometimes wondered if he imagined the whole thing. But not the best bits—not the bits when he was feeding off the energy of excited concertgoers who cheered and pulsated to the rhythm of his music. He would never forget those bits.

To him, it would always be called the Hammersmith Odeon. The name had changed so many times over the years it was impossible to keep up. All he knew was that he performed there once, and it was the best feeling in the world.

Adam was standing at the intersection under the Hammersmith Flyover, the only stretch of Talgarth Road not covered in snow. It was still early, too early for the first batch of morning commuters to disturb the latest coating of fresh snow and turn the scene into a slurry of slush and dirt.

Placing the handle of the brush between his clenched teeth, he picked up a plastic bottle filled with wallpaper paste. He opened it and poured what he considered a sufficient amount of the mixture onto the paintbrush. Stroking the brush up and down, he applied the paste evenly onto makeshift boards attached to a row of disused telephone boxes and kiosks beneath the flyover. The less paste he used, the quicker it dried.

Adam preferred wallpaper adhesive because it was thinner and more consistent than homemade wheatpaste. He made his own sometimes to save money, but it was too messy and harder to apply. By the time he bought all the ingredients and brewed the concoction, it ended up being more expensive and troublesome than it was worth. The homemade stuff was so thick he had to carry it around in larger containers with wider nozzles and he usually ended up with more paste on his clothes than on the wall.

Grabbing a handful of posters out of his bag, he plastered them on the board one by one, using the brush to smooth out the air bubbles and wrinkles. He repeated the process several times until his posters covered an entire section of board.

Unable to stand the cold any longer, he dropped the brush to the ground and rubbed his hands together. Except for the red football scarf around his neck, his only protection from the bitter cold was a battered leather jacket held together with so many strategically placed metal studs he could no longer use the pockets.

Digging his hands deep into the pockets of his faded denims, he stood back to get a better look at his handiwork. With a mixture of pride and sadness, he stared at the posters and admired the image of the three handsome musicians. It depicted a time when he was a young, arrogant guitar player, ready to take on the world and rise to the top of the heap.

But it’d been a long time since he looked like that. His thick dark hair had turned thin and grey, though he still had more hair than most of his friends. And his gentle, optimistic face had become gaunt and pale from years of cigarettes, vodka and unfulfilled ambitions. He failed to live up to his potential and was robbed of the lofty aspirations to which his younger self felt entitled. His youth and arrogance had been replaced by quiet apprehension and general crankiness, the result of missed opportunities and misdirected intentions.

He stared at the poster and read the words aloud.

The Love Chairs

Live at the Duke of Cornwall (around the corner from the Hammersmith Odeon)

Every Saturday, 9 p.m.

‘That’s not what it’s called,’ a voice echoed from somewhere under the flyover.

Adam looked around to see where the voice had come from. Just when he convinced himself that his mind was playing tricks on him, an arm shot up from under a blanket beside one of the giant pillars that supported the flyover. Squinting his eyes to sharpen his focus, he saw that the arm belonged to a man with a weather-beaten face partially hidden behind a dirty beard.

‘You’ll have to change it to the Eventim Apollo,’ the bearded man shouted.

Adam recognised him at once, despite his untidy appearance and the grotty blanket that covered his body. He looked at him more carefully, to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

‘Is that you, Kevin?’ Adam nodded curtly and tried to project the air of an entrepreneur who was performing the clerical functions of a successful, worthwhile enterprise.

‘It’s been a long time.’ Kevin shifted his