Geoff looked triumphant. “That makes three of us against one of you, Lenny.”

Dave put in: “No, it doesn’t. In a democracy, you have to be able to count. It’s you three against Lenny, me, and Walli—which makes it even.”

Lenny said: “Don’t bother about the votes. This is my group and I make the decisions. Geoff is fired. Put your instrument away, Geoff, or I’ll sling it right out the fucking door.”

At this point Geoff seemed to accept that Lenny was serious. He put his guitar back in its case and slammed the lid. Picking it up, he said: “I’ll promise you something, you bastards. If I go, you’ll all go.”

Walli wondered what that meant. Perhaps it was just an empty threat. Anyway, there was no time to think about it. A couple of minutes later they started to play.

All Walli’s fears departed. He could tell he was good and the group was good with him in it. Time passed quickly. In the interval, he went back onstage alone and sang Bob Dylan songs. He included a number he had written himself, called “Karolin.” The audience seemed to like it. Afterward he went straight back onstage to open the second set with “Dizzy, Miss Lizzy.”

While he was playing “You Can’t Catch Me” he saw a couple of uniformed policemen at the back talking to the proprietor, Herr Fluck, but he thought nothing of it.

When they came off at midnight, Herr Fluck was waiting in their dressing room. Without preamble he said to Dave: “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” said Dave.

“Don’t give me that shit.”

“What do you care?”

“In Germany we have laws about employing minors in bars.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“The police say you’re fifteen.”

“What do the police know about it?”

“They’ve been talking to the guitar player you just fired—Geoff.”

Lenny said: “The bastard, he’s shopped us.”

Herr Fluck said: “I run a nightclub. Prostitutes come in here, drug dealers, criminals of all kinds. I must constantly prove to the police that I do my best to obey the law. They say I have to send you home—all of you. So, good-bye.”

Lenny said: “When do we have to go?”

“You leave the club now. You leave Germany tomorrow.”

Lenny said: “That’s outrageous!”

“When you’re a club owner, you do as the police tell you.” He pointed at Walli. “He does not have to leave the country, being German.”

“Fuck it,” said Lenny. “I’ve lost two guitarists in one day.”

“No, you haven’t,” said Walli. “I’m coming with you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Jasper Murray fell in love with the USA. They had all-night radio and three channels of television and a different morning newspaper in every city. The people were generous and their houses were spacious and their manners were relaxed and informal. Back home, English people acted as if they were perpetually taking tea in a Victorian drawing room, even when they were doing business deals or giving television interviews or playing sports. Jasper’s father, an army officer, could not see this, but his German-Jewish mother did. Here in the States, people were direct. In restaurants, waiters were efficient and helpful without bowing and scraping. No one was obsequious.