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November 1968, Los Angelas, California
“Take the last train to Clarksville...” The crowd at the Club Carasco went wild.
Mike Nesmith leaned over his microphone, smiling for once in his life. His bandmates were behind him, enjoying their last live show before the debut of their variety special next week. Peter Tork played his beloved keyboard, his long light brown hair swaying. Micky Dolenz waved at the crowd from behind his drumset, his curly mop bouncing. Davy Jones showed off some of the dancing moves he’d picked up during his days as a child performer on Broadway, to the delight of the girls sitting up front.
Mike made a face when his eyes found the men in the expensive, hip suits sitting in the back. Roger Brown was one of LA’s top rock managers. He’d first heard the Monkees playing in the Vincent Van Go-Go, the Carasco’s cross-town rival, and instantly offered to get them a chance to hit the big time. He didn’t really trust the tall, dark-haired man in the bright-colored shirts, odd-shaped spectacles, and smooth tongue, but they had no better offers. Peter practically begged to join Brown. All he ever wanted was to play his music and for others to hear him play. The other two didn’t really care as long as they had a good time.
Brown shopped their demo recordings around to several studios before Columbia finally offered to hear their music. Several deals and lots of signing and handshaking later, they cut their first album. Mike wasn’t thrilled when they were more-or-less handed songs to perform. Peter was upset, too. Brown said that was the way it was done, though, and their contracts stated they had to play what he said. He did promise them more more artistic leeway on their second album. Mike already knew what song of his he was going to do first.
Mike was looking forward to seeing himself and the guys on TV, though. Brown convinced NBC to have them appear in three specials for the spring 1969 TV season. If they went over well, there would be more, possibly even a pilot for a weekly series.
“And that one of the cuts off our debut album,’” Mike told the crowd as the song wound down. “We’ll be taking a fifteen minute break, so don’t you guys leave or anything.”
Micky was the first one to run out from behind his instruments as the crowd dispersed. “This is so cool! We’re gonna be famous!”
Mike nodded at Brown as he absently tuned his favorite guitar, Black Beauty. “What’s he doin’ here?”
Davy shrugged, leaning his bass against Micky’s drumset. “I guess he just wants to see the show.”
“Who cares?” Micky twirled his sticks, which he set on the drums. “Tomorrow, we’re gonna be bigger than the Doors and the Lovin’ Spoonful put together, and it’s all thanks to him!”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t trust that guy. He could have let us use some of our songs on the album, instead of Columbia’s people.”
“So we’ll get them on next album.” Davy patted Mike’s back. “I don’t know why you’re worried, mate. ‘The Porpoise Song’ and ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ are shootin’ up the charts.”
Mike played a few notes. “Where did Pete go?”
Davy nodded at a table, where Peter sat with a lovely young woman with auburn hair. “He’s talkin’ to Valerie,” the small Englishman told him with a grin. Valerie took his long, slender hands. He blushed the same color as his paisley Nehru jacket. “Looks serious.”
Mike sighed and smiled a bit. Peter met Valerie Cartwright, the heiress to the Cartwright Publishing empire, two years ago when they played for her debutante party. He was shy and quiet the elegant girl at first, but the two quickly fell for each other and had dated on and off ever since. Mike never saw Peter look as happy as he did when he was with Valerie.
The other three walked over to Peter and Valerie, joining them at a table. “So, how’s things?”
Peter was all smiles. “I just asked Valerie to marry me.”
“Well?” Mike turned his thoughtful stare to Valerie.
“I said yes, Mike,” Valerie admitted with a big smile of her own, showing off the small gold ring with the heart-shaped opal. “I love him with all my heart.”
“I know most people like diamonds better,” Peter explained, “but I liked all the colors in the opal. It’s something different.”
Mike grinned and tentatively hugged his best friend. “Congradulations, buddy. I knew you could do it.”
Micky flung his arms around both members of the happy couple. “Hey, you two, that’s groovy! When’s the wedding? Can we play for it? Are we all invited? Who’s gonna be the best man? Where are you going on your honeymoon?”
Mike put up his hands. “Whoa, Mick, one thing at a time!”
“He just bloomin’ asked the girl to marry him, and you’re plannin’ out their weddin’!” Davy added, shaking his head.
“I’m just excited!” Micky was practically jumping in his seat. “I love weddings!”
Davy rolled his eyes. “You love any opportunity for you to eat a lot of food with people you barely know, make a lot of noise, and get really drunk.”
Micky’s grin widened. “What’s wrong with that?”
“I have another surprise for all of you,” Valerie added. She pulled out four wrapped packages and handed them to each boy. “Well,” she said, a bit impatiently, “open them! They’re hot off the conveyor belts today. The first shipments will hit the book stores within a few weeks.”
Mike got his unwrapped first...and his eyes widened. “The Monkee Story’,” he read. “Get all the facts about your favorite loveable TV quartet right here.”
Valerie grinned. “It’s all about the four of you, so your audience will get to know you better between your specials and how you struggled to get to the top.”
Davy paged through his copy of the book. “Look at all the pictures! I didn’t know there WERE this many pictures of us!”
Mike’s eyes were already searching through the book. “Wait,” he exclaimed as he flipped through one section. “I hit my hand with a sledgehammer. I didn’t damage it with a firecracker.”
Peter’s smile faltered, too. “But I’m OLDER than Mike! By almost a year! They say I’m YOUNGER here. It also says Mike writes all the songs. We ALL write songs!”
Micky made a face. “It doesn’t say anything about my being part Indian! I’m proud of my Indian heretiage!”
Davy threw the book on the table in anger. “I’ve never been seen with all those women! Sure, I date around....”
His roommates shot him three amused and annoyed looks.
“A lot,” he grumbled, “but I didn’t go out with any of the girls they mention!”
“Who wrote this?” Mike demanded loudly. “This is the second time we’ve had people write lies about us, and THIS time, I’m gonna complain and screw up the works until it gets retracted!”
Peter looked at the author’s name on the front cover. “The Monkees’ Story, by Roger Brown.”
“Mr. Brown brought it to Father several weeks ago,” Valerie explained. “He wanted to do something to promote you guys and your new album and your special.”
“Figures.” Mike clutched the book so hard, his knuckles turned white. “No wonder every other word is about him and his wonderful collection of songwriters and how wonderful it is that they’re writing all these wonderful songs and oh, yeah, these four guys are singing them, but they matter so little we can rewrite their life stories.”
“Peace, Michael,” Peter said. “He didn’t mean anything by it. His writers really are very good. ‘The Porpoise Song’ and ‘Last Train to Clarksville’ are great songs.”
Mike, however, had already started over to Brown’s table, clenching the book in his hands. The other four followed him. Peter immediately grabbed his friend before he could yank Brown out of his seat. “All right, pal,” he snarled, “what’s with the book and all those lies about us?”
“Lies?” Brown raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow. “I didn’t tell lies, Nesmith. I...bent the truth a little to fit your roles.”
“Bent the truth?” Mike growled. “You wrote outright LIES. You LIED about who we are and what we do. Peter plays twelve different damn instruments, and you only mentioned the bass! We’ve gotten into trouble. We’ve been in jail! You make us out to sound like a bunch of goody-two-shoes KIDS!”
“Well,” Roger said, not a thinning hair ruffled on his shiny head, “you don’t honestly expect your audiences to except the truth, now do you? Truth is dull. I had to spice things up a bit.”
“You insinuate that we can’t play music. That all we can do is sing and dance on cue for you.” Mike leaned closer to the bright-suited manager. “We could sue you for damage to our names and images, you know.”
“And I could sue YOU for breach of contract.” He threw several pieces of paper on the table. “These gentlemen and I have discussed your next album, and we have what I think could be your next major song right here. We’ll plug it in the second special. It’ll be HUGE.”
Peter picked up the song. “Sugar Sugar,” he read, looking over the music and humming it.
Davy peered at the papers over his arm. “It seems like a nice song,” he admitted, humming a few bars.
Mike grabbed the papers, read them, hummed them, and turned two shades of red. “Trash. It’s bubblegum kiddie stuff. We ain’t doin’ it.” He threw the papers on the table so hard, they flew back off. “’Sides, I got my own song I planned on using for our next single. Beats the hell out of that.”
Brown narrowed his eyes. “You have to do what I say, Nesmith. You’re under contract.”
“Not if I quit.”
Peter shook his head, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Michael, please think this over. We don’t want you to leave.” He squeezed his shoulder gently. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Even as Peter spoke these words, some of the patrons of the Club Carasco began chanting “We want the Monkees!” at the top of their lungs. They got so loud, the room vibrated with their stamping feet and clapping hands.
Mike narrowed his eyes at Roger Brown and stormed back onstage. Peter followed, still looking upset. Micky and Davy exchanged concerned looks and went after them. Valerie returned to her table, the look of delight on her face having turned into disapointment and annoyance.
“Mike, are you crazy?” Davy asked. “You’re blowing our chance of a lifetime!”
“Davy, it ain’t worth nuthin’ if we can’t get our own material out there.”
“Look what you’re givin’ up!” Davy went on, pulling Mike behind the curtain. “You’re giving up a contract worth millions and the chance for our music to finally get heard! Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along?”
“Yeah, for OUR music to get heard,” Mike growled. “For people to like us for what WE are, not what some fool manager thinks we should be.”
Micky shrugged. “Some of those songs ARE pretty good, Mike.”
“I’m with Mike.” Peter hurried beside him. “No matter how good the music is, it’s not ours.”
The chanting was getting louder. Micky nodded at the curtain, trying to smile. “Come on, guys. Let’s get out there, before they climb onto the stage and start tearing things apart. We’re in this together, remember?”
Peter nodded. “That’s right!”
“For now,” Mike muttered as he and the others made their way out onto the stage.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Two Hours Later...
Peter made his way down the dark-panneled hallways to the dressing rooms, despite it almost being closing time. He wished Micky had come with him. It was dark and spooky back here. Why had he left his extra guitar strings in the dressing room, instead of sticking them in his pocket like he always did? Micky was too busy chatting up a beautiful blonde at the bar to come back with him. Valerie, Michael, and Davy’d made themselves scarce, too.
He frowned at the sound of two familiar voices coming out of the men’s bathroom. “Mike, you’ve gone bloomin’ crackahs!”
“You’re the one who’s gone crackers, Dave! How could you stand to be a puppet for that guy? I knew he was an asshole the moment I laid eyes on him. I only signed the damn contract for Peter’s sake. The poor guy just wants to play!”
Peter bit his lip. It was definately Mike and Davy. They must be arguing over the contract again, he thought sadly. I hope it doesn’t end up causing more trouble than it’s worth.
“Look, Dave, I’ve got a new song I want to put on the next album. I’ve made a demo recording of it and everything.”
“And you didn’t tell US? What happened to being in on this together?”
“I’m gonna tell Pete and Micky tonight. It’ll be Pete’s wedding present. We’ll all record it when it gets on the album.”
“I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss over this. Don’t you like making the specials and having your music heard?”
“Yeah. All I’ve ever wanted is to be successful at something. I don’t intend to be used to do it, though. That jerk is using us.”
“He wouldn’t use us! You’re just paranoid! I can’t believe you, Mike! I’m starting to think we’re better off without you!”
“Maybe you are, you little prick!”
Peter blushed and ducked back into the hall. “Maybe I’d better just get along,” he muttered. He didn’t like hearing about the possibility of the band breaking up, or the language his friends were using.
To tell the truth, he agreed with Mike. Brown left them all a copy of “Sugar, Sugar.” The song seemed cute, in a child-like way, but it wasn’t something he liked personally. He really wanted to play music and be on a record, though, and they had so much fun making the first special! He and the guys even got to do a number with his childhood idol, Little Richard.
He headed down the dark hall, passing Roger Brown and two of his men on the way. He hoped Brown wouldn’t run into Mike in the men’s room. Mike was still pretty angry about the contract and the song.
It was a long, narrow room, bare of everything except for chairs, a rack for costumes, and long, lighted windows. He spent a good ten minutes searching everywhere he could think of for the guitar strings, but they were nowhere to be found. He shrugged. Maybe he’d left them onstage after all.
His smile turned dreamy as he headed down the hall. He’d been waiting for just the right moment to propose to Valerie. He wanted a nice, small wedding for just them, their parents, and their friends. He wanted to write a special song, just for their wedding, and he wanted Michael to be his best man.
He passed Davy on his way back to the stage. The diminuative young man held several pieces of toilet paper to his nose. “Damn Texan,” the boy muttered. “He don’t know his own strength. Asshole probably broke me nose. I’ll kill him if he blows this for all of us.”
Peter frowned. “Davy, are you ok?”
“Do I look ok, Petah?”
Peter shook his head. “No, I guess you don’t. Do you need any help?”
“No. I’m gonna go talk to Mick. Mike’s a fool if he quits this contract, song or no song.”
“Peace, Davy,” Peter insisted. “He just wants to be heard.”
“There are easier ways of bein’ heard than throwing away your big chance to be someone.” Davy finally pushed past Peter and down the hall.
“Davy,” Peter called, “where’s Michael?”
“Still in the bathroom, for all I know,” Davy called back. “Or care.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Peter called back. “Maybe I can calm him down.”
Peter hurried down the hall, hoping to catch up with his friend before he could take another crack at Davy. He hated it when he and his bandmates got into a big fight. It usually ended with Davy and Mike yelling at each other and Micky sulking and him hiding before things got worse.
He and Michael were very close, and had been for three years. Michael was like a second father to him, and he calmed Michael down when his hot temper flared. He really did have to talk to Michael about his temper. He sometimes said things he didn’t mean before he thought about them.
“Michael?” He pushed into the bathroom. “Michael, are you ok? What happened to...”
He gasped at the sight before him. Michael lay facedown on the floor, a guitar string wrapped tightly around his neck. He knelt by his friend and turned him over on his back...then jumped away in horror.
“Oh...oh...m..my..G..god....” The tight cord left red marks around Michael’s throat. There was dark, heavy tape over his narrow lips. He knew he was dead even before he checked his pulse, like all the cops did in the movies.
“N..no...oh god, no...” He stumbled back out again, not caring where he went as long as he got away from that gristly sight. He finally stumbled into something solid.
“Peter, is there something wrong?” Valerie. “You’re as white as a sheet. Are you sick?”
“N...no, I’m not,” Peter stammered. “Valerie, Michael’s dead.”
Valerie raised her eyebrows. “What?”
“Someone killed him, Valerie. I found him. He’s dead. He has a guitar string around his neck. A bass string.” A whimper rose in his throat. “My bass string. Someone killed him with it.”
“Take me to him, Peter.”
He shook his head. “N...no. I couldn’t. Not again. He looks...his eyes are open.”
Valerie took Peter in her arms. “Oh, god, honey. You’re in shock.” She directed him back to the main room, which was empty now of all but Micky and Davy, who were attending to Davy’s bleeding nose.
“Call the cops and the paramedics, and do it fast.”
Micky frowned. “Why?”
Davy immediately went to Peter’s side. “Petah, are you ok? You don’t look so well.”
“N...no,” Peter gulped. “I..I...Michael’s dead.” He looked at Davy with light brown eyes that conveyed nothing but horror and shock. “And my bass string killed him.”