"Where is he, anyway?"
"London, I think. I imagined you would know."
Walli shrugged. "I know he's taking care of business somewhere. He'll show up as soon as we need to write some songs, or make a film, or go on the road again. I thought you two were going to get married."
"We are. We just haven't gotten around to it yet, he's been so busy. And, you know, my parents are cool about us sharing a bedroom when he's here, so it's not like we're desperate to get away from them."
"Nice." They reached Haight-Ashbury and Beep stopped the car outside Walli's house. "You want a cup of coffee or something?" Walli did not know why he said that: it just came out.
"Sure." Beep turned off the throaty engine.
The house was empty. Tammy and Lisa had helped Walli deal with his grief about Karolin's engagement, and he would always be grateful to them, but they had been living a fantasy life that had lasted only as long as the vacation. When summer turned to fall they had left San Francisco and gone home to attend college, like most of the hippies of 1967.
While it lasted, it had been an idyllic time.
Walli put on the new Beatles album, Magical Mystery Tour, then made coffee and rolled a joint. They sat on a giant cushion, Walli cross-legged, Beep with her feet tucked under her, and passed the roach. Soon Walli drifted into the mellow mood he liked so much. "I hate the Beatles," he said after a while. "They are so fucking good."
Beep giggled.
Walli said: "Weird lyrics."
"I know!"
"What does that line mean? 'Four of fish and finger pies.' It sounds like, you know, cannibalism."
"Dave explained that to me," Beep said. "In England they have seafood restaurants that sell fish in batter with French fries to go. They call it 'fish and chips.' And 'four of fish' means four pennies' worth."
"What about 'finger pie'?"
"Okay, that's when a boy puts his finger up a girl's, you know, vagina."
"And the connection?"
"It means that if you bought fish and chips for a girl she would let you finger her."
"Remember the days when that was daring?" Walli said nostalgically.
"Everything's different now, thank God," said Beep. "The old rules don't apply anymore. Love is free."
"Now it's oral sex on the first date."
"What do you like best?" Beep mused. "Giving oral sex, or receiving?"
"What a difficult question!" Walli was not sure he ought to be talking about this with his best friend's fiancee. "But I think I like receiving." He could not resist the temptation to add: "What about you?"
"I prefer giving," she said.
"Why?"
She hesitated. For a moment she looked guilty: perhaps she, too, was not sure they should be discussing this, despite her hippie talk about free love. She took a long draw on the joint and blew out smoke. Her face cleared, and she said: "Most boys are so bad at oral sex that receiving is never as exciting as it should be."
Walli took the joint from her. "If you could tell the boys of America what they need to know about giving oral sex, what would you say?"
She laughed. "Well, first of all, don't start licking right away."
"No?" Walli was surprised. "I thought it was all about licking."
"Not at all. You should be gentle at first. Just kiss it!"
Walli knew, then, that he was lost.
He looked down at Beep's legs. Her knees were pressed close together. Was that defensive? Or a sign of excitement?
Or both?
"No girl ever told me that," he said. He gave her back the joint.
He was feeling an irresistible rush of sexual excitement. Was she feeling it, too, or just playing a game with him?
She sucked the last of the smoke from the roach and dropped it in the ashtray. "Most girls are too shy to talk about what they like," she said. "The truth is that even a kiss can be too much, right at the start. In fact . . ." She gave him a direct look, and at that moment he knew that she, too, was lost. She said in a lower voice: "In fact, you can give her a thrill just by breathing on it."
"Oh, my God."
"Even better," she said, "is to breathe on it through the cotton of her underwear."
She moved slightly, parting her knees at last, and he saw that under her short skirt she was wearing white panties.
"That's amazing," he said hoarsely.
"Do you want to try it?" she said.
"Yes," said Walli. "Please."
*
When Jasper Murray returned to New York he went to see Mrs. Salzman. She got him an interview with Herb Gould, for a job as a researcher on the television news show This Day.
He was now a different proposition. Two years ago he had been a supplicant, a student journalist desperate for a job, someone to whom nobody owed anything. Now he was a veteran who had risked his life for the USA. He was older and wiser, and he was owed a debt, especially by men who had not fought. He got the job.
It was strange. He had forgotten what cold weather felt like. His clothes bothered him: a suit and a white shirt with a button-down collar and a tie. His regular business oxford shoes were so light in weight he kept thinking he was barefoot. Walking from his apartment to the office he found himself scanning the sidewalk for concealed mines.
On the other hand, he was busy. The civilian world had few of the long, infuriating periods of inactivity that characterized army life: waiting for orders, waiting for transport, waiting for the enemy. From his first day back Jasper was making phone calls, checking files, looking up information in libraries, and conducting preinterviews.
In the office of This Day a mild shock awaited Jasper. Sam Cakebread, his old rival on the student newspaper, was now working for the program. He was a fully fledged reporter, not having had to take time out to fight a war. Irksomely, Jasper often had to do preparatory research for stories that Sam would then report on camera.
Jasper worked on fashion, crime, music, literature, and business. He researched a story about his sister's bestseller, Frostbite, and its pseudonymous author, speculating about which of the known Soviet dissidents might have written it, based on writing style and prison camp experiences; concluding it was probably someone nobody had heard of.
Then they decided to do a show about the astonishing Vietcong operation that had been dubbed the Tet Offensive.
Jasper was still angry about Vietnam. His rage burned low in his guts like a damped furnace, but he had forgotten nothing, least of all his vow to expose men who lied to the American people.
When the fighting began to die down, during the second week of February, Herb Gould told Sam Cakebread to plan a summing-up report, assessing how the offensive had changed the course of the war. Sam presented his preliminary conclusions to an editorial meeting attended by the whole team, including researchers.
Sam said the Tet Offensive had been a failure for the North Vietnamese in three ways. "First, Communist forces were given the general order: 'Move forward to achieve final victory.' We know this from documents found on captured enemy troops. Second: although fighting is still going on in Hue and Khe Sanh, the Vietcong have proved unable to hold a single city. And third, they have lost more than twenty thousand men, all for nothing."
Herb Gould looked around for comment.
Jasper was very junior in this group, but he was unable to keep quiet. "I have one question for Sam," he said.
"Go ahead, Jasper," said Herb.
"What fucking planet are you living on?"
There was a moment of shocked silence at his rudeness. Then Herb said mildly: "A lot of people are skeptical about this, Jasper, but explain why--maybe without the profanity?"
"Sam has just given us President Johnson's line on Tet. Since when did this program become a propaganda agency for the White House? Shouldn't we be challenging the government's view?"
Herb did not disagree. "How would you challenge it?"
"First, documents found on captured troops cannot be taken at face value. T
he written orders given to soldiers are not a reliable guide to the enemy's strategic objectives. I have a translation here: 'Display to the utmost your revolutionary heroism by surmounting all hardships and difficulties.' This is not strategy, it's a pep talk."
Herb said: "So what was their objective?"
"To demonstrate their power and reach, and thereby to demoralize the South Vietnam regime, our troops, and the American people. And they have succeeded."
Sam said: "They still didn't take any cities."
"They don't need to hold cities--they're already there. How do you think they got to the American embassy in Saigon? They didn't parachute in, they walked around the corner! They were probably living on the next block. They don't take cities because they already have them."
Herb said: "What about Sam's third point--their casualties?"
"No Pentagon figures on enemy casualties are trustworthy," Jasper said.
"It would be a big step, for our show to tell the American people that the government lies to us about this."
"Everyone from Lyndon Johnson to the grunt on patrol in the jungle is lying about this, because they all need high kill figures to justify what they're doing. But I know the truth because I was there. In Vietnam, any dead person counts as an enemy casualty. Throw a grenade into a bomb shelter, kill everyone inside--two young men, four women, an old man, and a baby--that's eight Vietcong dead, in the official report."
Herb was dubious. "How can we be sure this is true?"
"Ask any veteran," said Jasper.
"It's hard to credit."
Jasper was right and Herb knew it, but Herb was anxious about taking such a strong line. However, Jasper judged he was ready to be talked round. "Look," said Jasper. "It's now four years since we sent the first ground combat troops to South Vietnam. Throughout that period, the Pentagon has been reporting one victory after another, and This Day has been repeating their statements to the American people. If we've had four years of victory, how come the enemy can penetrate to the heart of the capital city and surround the U.S. embassy? Open your eyes, will you?"
Herb was thoughtful. "So, Jasper, if you're right, and Sam's wrong, what's our story?"
"That's easy," said Jasper. "The story is the administration's credibility after the Tet Offensive. Last November Vice President Humphrey told us we're winning. In December General Palmer said the Vietcong had been defeated. In January Secretary of Defense McNamara told us the North Vietnamese were losing their will to fight. General Westmoreland himself told reporters the Communists were unable to mount a major offensive. Then one morning the Vietcong attacked almost every major city and town in South Vietnam."
Sam said: "We've never questioned the president's honesty. No television show ever has."
Jasper said: "Now's the time. Is the president lying? Half America is asking that."
Everyone looked at Herb. It was his decision. He was silent for a long moment. Then he said: "All right. That's the title of our report. 'Is the President Lying?' Let's do it."
*
Dave Williams got an early flight from New York to San Francisco and ate an American breakfast of pancakes with bacon in first class.
Life was good. Plum Nellie was successful and he would never have to take another exam for the rest of his life. He loved Beep and he was going to marry her as soon as he could find the time.
He was the only member of the group who had not yet bought a house, but he hoped to do so today. It would be more than a house, though. His idea was to buy a place in the country, with some land, and build a recording studio. The whole group could live there while they were making an album, which took several months nowadays. Dave often recalled with a smile how they had recorded their first album in one day.
Dave was excited: he had never bought a house before. He was looking forward eagerly to seeing Beep, but he had decided to take care of business first, so that his time with her would be uninterrupted. He was met at the airport by his business manager, Mortimer Schulman. Dave had hired Morty to take care of his personal finances separately from those of the group. Morty was a middle-aged man in relaxed California clothes, a navy blazer with a blue shirt open at the neck. Because Dave was only twenty he often found that lawyers and accountants condescended to him and tried to give him instructions rather than information. Morty treated him as the boss, which he was, and laid out options, knowing that it was up to Dave himself to make the decisions.
They got into Morty's Cadillac, drove across the Bay Bridge, and headed north, passing the university town of Berkeley, where Beep was a student. As he drove, Mort said: "I received a proposition for you. It's not really my role, but I guess they thought I was the nearest thing to your personal agent."
"What proposition?"
"A television producer called Charlie Lacklow wants to talk to you about doing your own TV show."
Dave was surprised: he had not seen that one coming. "What kind of show?"
"You know, like The Danny Kaye Show or The Dean Martin Show."
"No kidding?" This was big news. Sometimes it seemed to Dave that success was falling on him like rain: hit songs, platinum albums, sellout tours, successful movies--and now this.
There were a dozen or more variety shows on American television every week, most of them headlined by a movie star or a comic. The host would introduce a guest and chat for a minute, then the guest would sing his or her latest hit, or do a comedy routine. The group had appeared as guests on many such programs, but Dave did not see how they could fit into that format as hosts. "So it would be The Plum Nellie Show?"
"No. Dave Williams and Friends. They don't want the group, just you."
Dave was dubious. "That's flattering, but . . ."
"It's a major opportunity, if you ask me. Pop groups generally have a short life, but this is your chance to become an all-around family entertainer--which is a role you can play until you're seventy."
That struck a chord. Dave had thought about what he might do when Plum Nellie were no longer popular. It happened to most pop acts, though there were exceptions--Elvis was still big. Dave was planning to marry Beep and have children, a prospect he found daunting. The time might come when he needed another way to earn a living. He had thought about becoming a record producer and artist manager: he had done well in both roles for Plum Nellie.
But this was too soon. The group was hugely popular and now, at last, making real money. "I can't do it," he said to Morty. "It might break up the group, and I can't risk that while we're doing so well."
"Should I tell Charlie Lacklow you're not interested?"
"Yeah. With regrets."
They crossed another long bridge and entered hilly country with orchards on the lower slopes, the plum and almond trees frothing pink and white blossoms. "We're in the valley of the Napa River," said Morty. He turned onto a dusty side road that wound upward. After a mile he drove through an open gate and pulled up outside a big ranch house.
"This is the first one on my list, and the nearest to San Francisco," Morty said. "I don't know if it's the kind of thing you had in mind."
They got out of the car. The place was a rambling timber-framed building that went on forever. It looked as if two or three outbuildings had been joined to the main residence at different times. Walking around to the far side, they came upon a spectacular view across the valley. "Wow," said Dave. "Beep is going to love this."
Cultivated fields fell away from the grounds of the house. "What do they grow here?" said Dave.
"Grapes."
"I don't want to be a farmer."
"You'd be a landlord. Thirty acres are rented out."
They went inside. The place was barely furnished with ill-assorted tables and chairs. There were no beds. "Does anyone live here?" Dave asked.
"No. For a few weeks every fall the grape pickers use it as a dormitory."
"And if I move in . . ."
"The farmer will find other accommodation for his seasonal workers."
D
ave looked around. The place was ramshackle and derelict, but beautiful. The woodwork seemed solid. The main house had high ceilings and an elegant staircase. "I can't wait for Beep to see it," he said.
The main bedroom had the same spectacular view over the valley. He pictured himself and Beep getting up in the morning and looking out together, making coffee, and having breakfast with two or three barefoot children. It was perfect.
There was space for half a dozen guest rooms. The large detached barn, currently full of agricultural machinery, was the right size for a recording studio.
Dave wanted to buy it immediately. He told himself not to get enthusiastic too soon. He said: "What's the asking price?"
"Sixty thousand dollars."
"That's a lot."
"Two thousand dollars an acre is about the market price for a producing vineyard," Morty said. "They'll throw in the house for free."
"Plus it wants a lot of work."
"You said it. Central heating, electrical rewiring, insulation, new bathrooms . . . You could spend almost as much again fixing it up."
"Say a hundred thousand dollars, not including recording equipment."
"It's a lot of money."
Dave grinned. "Fortunately, I can afford it."
"You certainly can."
When they went outside, a pickup truck was parking. The man who got out had broad shoulders and a weathered face. He looked Mexican but he spoke without an accent. "I'm Danny Medina, the farmer here," he said. He wiped his hands on his dungarees before shaking.
"I'm thinking of buying the place," Dave said.
"Good. It will be nice to have a neighbor."
"Where do you live, Mr. Medina?"
"I have a cottage at the other end of the vineyard, just out of sight over the lip of the ridge. Are you European?"
"Yes, British."
"Europeans usually like wine."
"Do you make wine here?"
"A little. We sell most of the grapes. Americans don't like wine, except for Italian Americans, and they import it. Most people prefer cocktails or beer. But our wine is good."
"White or red?"
"Red. Would you like a couple of bottles to try?"
"Sure."
Danny reached into the cab of the pickup, pulled out two bottles, and handed them to Dave.
Dave looked at the label. "Daisy Farm Red?" he said.
Morty said: "That's the name of the place, didn't I tell you? Daisy Farm."