Dave now had nine years’ experience. That was longer than the entire career of many pop stars. All the same, as the fans streamed in, buying beer and T-shirts and hot dogs, all trusting Dave to ensure they would have a great evening, he felt shaky.

A young woman from the music company that distributed Nellie Records came into his dressing room to ask if there was anything he needed. She wore loon pants and a crop top, showing off a perfect figure. “No, thanks, darling,” he said. All the dressing rooms had a small bar with beer and liquor, soft drinks and ice, and a carton of cigarettes.

“If you want a little something to relax you, I have supplies,” she said.

He shook his head. He did not want drugs right now. He might smoke a joint afterward.

She persisted. “Or if I can, you know, do anything . . .”

She was offering him sex. She was as gorgeous as a slim California blonde could be, which was very beautiful indeed, but he was not in the mood.

He had not been in the mood since the last time he saw Beep.

“Maybe after the show,” he said. If I get drunk enough, he thought. “I appreciate the offer, but right now I want you to get lost,” he said firmly.

She was not offended. “Let me know if you change your mind!” she said cheerfully, and she went out.

Tonight’s gig was a benefit for George McGovern. His election campaign had succeeded in bringing young people back into politics. In Europe he would have been middle-of-the-road, Dave knew, but here he was considered left-wing. His tough criticism of the Vietnam War delighted liberals, and he spoke with authority because of his combat experience in World War II.

Dave’s sister, Evie, came to his dressing room to wish him luck. She was dressed to avoid recognition, with her hair pinned up under a tweed cap, sunglasses, and a biker jacket. “I’m going back to England,” she said.

That surprised him. “I know you’ve had some bad press since that Hanoi photo, but . . .”

She shook her head. “It’s worse than bad press. I’m hated today as passionately as I was loved a year ago. It’s the phenomenon Oscar Wilde noticed: one turns to the other with bewildering suddenness.”

“I thought you might ride it out.”

“So did I, for a while. But I haven’t been offered a decent part in six months. I could play the plucky girl in a spaghetti western, a stripper in an off-Broadway improvisation, or any part I like in the Australian tour of Jesus Christ Superstar.”

“I’m sorry—I had no idea.”

“It wasn’t exactly spontaneous.”

“What do you mean?”

“A couple of journalists told me they got calls from the White House.”

“This was organized?”

“I think so. Look, I was a popular celebrity who attacked Nixon at every opportunity. It’s not surprising that he stuck the knife in me when I was foolish enough to give him a chance. It isn’t even unfair: I’m doing my best to put him out of a job.”