Keith Moon’s Iceberg
by Regis Boff
Jim Callaghan, the early morning remains of Keith Moon’s security detail shifted nervously from foot to foot. He was wearing only one shoe.
We both ignored him.
Moon was seated legs crossed in an Admiral’s uniform having tea on a small Victorian table against his suite window that opened to whichever lake was next to Chicago. It was sometime in the late seventies.
The drummer summoned an image of an unshaven Judy Garland during her last catastrophic years.” He was wearing Callaghan’s other shoe.
“Spot of tea, Regis?” He offered, not aware there was not a second cup. “Did you take in some theater before you rushed here to help me?” he added.
“I wanted to pick up more money,” I dropped, working to deflect him and to get to his point. “Increased money” worked on him, I knew from practice.
He regarded me as a magically tall cash fountain and understood vaguely that on occasion, I needed replenishment.
“We have disturbing confidences to discuss. I have finally slept with the wrong woman.” He paused here searching our faces for some sympathy or recognition. None arrived. But we didn’t laugh either.
Callaghan broke first,” He’s got the clap.”
“Quiet!” he whispered, “this is our grave intrigue; no one can ever know.”
I was immediately ahead of the puzzle,” I’ll get a doctor over this morning.”
I had a doctor in Keith’s suite within the hour. I can make anyone do anything for enough Who tickets and cash.
That afternoon I got the call that confirmed our boy had an especially hateful strain of Vietnamese gonorrhea.
I headed back up to the room to tell him and found him and his close friend Dougal hunched over a coffee table with pen and paper looking liked Hitler and Goebbels planning a North African panzer campaign.
“Should we let the girl know?” I asked Keith.
“The girl?” he sniffed as though I had demanded the definition of a two hundred letter word, “What girl?”
“There is no girl, Regis, don’t be stupid, there are zodiacs of girls. We are standing on the tip of a dangerous iceberg!
Women moved like buffalo around the free range of any rock tour. ‘Moon’s Iceberg,’ as we were later to name it, made notifying the potential girls unimaginable without also calling the National Center for Disease Control.
We settled, the three of us, on cataloging all of our crew and traveling party that Moon knew for sure had shared one of his girls. I would call them and make them come to get their shots.
This doctor now worked for me.
He made a fortune and walked away with enough tickets to start his own Ticketron.
To my great discredit, I grasped that innocents were named, caught up in the net of Moon’s finger-pointing enthusiasm, but the drummer, once he got into the melody, could not stop implicating bystanders.
Nearly the entire Who entourage was English. Britains are always the last ones to realize they are victims of a trick. They came over to the suite with a sick look on their faces and dropped their pants.
Sadly, this was one of the funniest days of my life in the business.
There was a picture taken of everyone standing or kneeling together in the suite, like a baseball team card. The little Indian doctor was sitting in the center holding a lap-full of Who tickets and a syringe. I don’t know who has that photo today. I would pay anything for it.