On an amplifier beside Walli stood a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a tall glass with ice cubes. In the old days they had often drunk booze or smoked joints while they worked on songs. It had been part of the fun. These days Dave preferred to work straight, but Walli had not changed his habits.

Beep came in with four beers on a tray. Dave guessed she wanted Walli to drink beer instead of whisky. She often brought food into the studio: blueberries with ice cream, chocolate cake, bowls of peanuts, bananas. She wanted Walli to live on something other than booze. He would take a spoonful of ice cream or a handful of peanuts, then return to his Jack Daniel’s.

Fortunately he was still brilliant, as the new song showed. However, he was getting irritated with their inability to come up with the right transition chord. “Fuck,” he said. “I have it in my head, you know? But it won’t come out.”

Buzz said: “Musical constipation, mate. You need a rock laxative. What would be the equivalent of a bowl of prunes?”

Dave said: “A Schoenberg opera.”

Lew said: “A drum solo by Dave Clark.”

Walli said: “A Demis Roussos album.”

The phone flashed and Beep picked it up. “Come on in,” she said, and hung up. Then she said to Walli: “It’s Hilton.”

“Okay.” Walli got off his stool, put his guitar in a stand, and went out.

Dave looked inquiringly at Beep, who said: “A dealer.”

Dave kept playing the song. There was nothing unusual about a dope dealer calling at a recording studio. He did not know why musicians used drugs so much more than the general population, but it had always been so: Charlie Parker had been a heroin addict, and he was the generation before last.

While Dave strummed, Buzz picked up his bass and played along, and Lew sat behind the kit and began to drum quietly, looking for the groove. They had been improvising for fifteen or twenty minutes when Dave stopped and said: “What the fuck has happened to Walli?”

He left the studio, followed by the others, and returned to the main house.

They found Walli in the kitchen. He was stretched out on the floor, stoned, with a hypodermic syringe still stuck in his arm. He had shot up as soon as his supply arrived.

Beep bent over him and gently pulled out the needle. “He’ll be out now until morning,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Dave cursed. That was the end of the day’s work.

Buzz said to Lew: “Shall we go to the cantina?”

There was a bar at the bottom of the hill, mostly used by Mexican farm workers. It had the ridiculous name of the Mayfair Lounge, so they referred to it as the cantina.

“Might as well,” said Lew.

The rhythm section left.

Beep said: “Help me get him to bed.”

Dave picked up Walli by the shoulders, Beep took his legs, and they carried him to the bedroom. Then they returned to the kitchen. Beep leaned against the counter while Dave put on coffee.