CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
by Kelonzi

Headline. Need a headline. Gavin's eyes were bloodshot, nose stuffed, and head throbbing. He'd spent the entire night, post-reprimand, at his desk in search of the story that would save his butt. So far, nothing had presented itself. Where's a good natural disaster when you need one? He grumbled.

"Mr. Adams?"

Litter of puppies born in Chippawah.... now, if they each had two heads, I could use that.....

"Gavin Adams?!"

As his head shot up, he very nearly brained himself on a low hanging desk lamp. "Yeah? Whaddya want?" He looked up to see a woman standing before him. She looked very professional in a gray suitcoat/skirt combination, blonde hair done back in a severe style, three inch heels adding the illusion that she was a good deal taller than she actually was.

"Good morning to you, too. Did you sleep here all night?"

He'd never met this woman before in his life. What the hell right did she have to come waltzing in here and---

"I've been told you're looking for front page news."

"So?" He searched his desk drawers for that packet of Tylenol he'd bought out of the machine at around 4am.

"I can help you. It involves the Paul McCartney tour and an old friend of mine."

Gavin tried to remain disinterested. Afterall, it was that damn tour that had gotten him in trouble in the first place. Diving back into that pile of shit just seemed to invite---

"Sir?"

"Alright, alright." Gavin came around and offered her his hand. "If you can help me, I'll be eternally grateful, miss--?"

"Cynthia Powell." She said with a smile.

He gave her a blank stare.

"Oh, forgive me. It's changed several times over the years. Perhaps this one will ring a few more bells. Lennon?" She shook his hand warmly. "Cynthia Lennon."

Gavin's eyes went wide. Don't pack those bags just yet. He wanted to shout out happily from the rooftops.

* * * * *


"Mismanagement of funds is a dreadful problem." Heather had hoped she was prepared for the media onslaught, but this was becoming more tense than she was ready to deal with today. "But no deception was intended. We're sorting things out as you and I speak." She coughed, then, struck with an idea, continued doing so. Louder and more violently until her executioner in a three piece suit suggested she step out briefly for a drink of water.

"Thank you." She smiled sweetly and exited, smile vanishing the moment she turned the corner toward the water cooler and the bathroom beyond. I had to get out of there before I lost it. Heather pulled a brush from her purse as she entered the ladies' room.

When she faced the mirror, she cringed at her appearance. All of those questions had frazzled her badly, but this issue had to be addressed before it spun out of control entirely. She ran the brush through her hair, then pulled out her silver tube of lipstick for further touch up.

Wonder if Paul's concious yet. The thought flashed through her mind unexpectedly. Self doubt was a problem for everyone, no matter how firm and confident they appeared outwardly. But what brought Paul to her mind at that moment? Sure, she'd given him a kiss before leaving that morning, and he had given her a hung over goodbye in return, but except for that brief encounter, he had been the furthest thing from her mind all day.

Odd.

Capping the lipstick, she decided she was ready to once more face the lion's den. Exiting with a stride of confidence and purpose, she stopped briefly at the water cooler for a quick sip.

Discarding the paper cone, she headed on again.

Which was when she heard the voice.

Somehow she recognized it. Was it someone Paul had introduced to her? Had she met the woman before? For, it was clearly a female voice....

"You weren't so far off."

"What?" Heather repeated under her breath.

"Mrs. Lennon, what do you mean by that?"

Lennon. Cynthia!! What's she doing here? And who's she talking about?

"Paul and his friends are covering up something very serious. And they need to be exposed."

Paul. What does she want with Paul?! Heather knew bad press when she heard it. Whatever this was, it could be explosive. Life ruining explosive for everyone involved. What did that woman think she was doing?! Gotta stop this now.

"Hello?" Heather crossed the hall and into the side room.

Cynthia and the reporter hunched over, carefully writing down her every word, both jumped.

"May I help you, madam?"

Heather pressed her advantage. She knew she'd caught both off guard. "I was just returning from the bathroom, and I'm afraid I've become quite lost. You see, I'm here on an interview and I was looking for someone to lead me back to a Mr. Peterson's office? He'll be quite upset if I'm late in returning."

Using the editor's name had it's desired office on the reporter, she noticed with relief.

"I'll take you myself!" He sat up quickly and took her by the arm.

"But what about my story?" Cynthia protested.

"I'll be right back, I assure you."

"No. It's alright. We can talk later. Here, I'll leave my cellphone number." Cynthia scrawled something quickly on a pad of paper. "I have a flight back to New York tonight. I have to be present for an album recording session tomorrow morning. You can get in touch with me at your earliest convenience."

Gavin cringed. He needed this story. Waiting until tomorrow would be too long. "I'll call you within the hour." He had to take care of Miss Mills first. Anything he could do to keep his boss happy had to be top priority.

As they left, Heather took a moment to shoot Cynthia a look. I heard you say his name. I don't know everything yet, but I will. Whatever you're up to won't go unchallenged.

* * * * *


"God, me 'ead." Paul had his head rooted firmly between his knees when Heather entered the tour bus.

She smiled. Hangover. Of the worst kind. "Your head?"

"Rough interview, luv?"

"To say the least."

"Ah'm sorry." Paul extended his arms, which she gratefully fell into. "Those things can be hell."

"So, you haven't gone anywhere yet today?" She teased. "Too hung over?"

"Yer a regular comedienne. What time is it?"

Heather glanced quickly at the clock on the wall. "Nearly 5:30... hungry at all?"

"Desperately." He sighed.

"We could step out for a bite. That is, if you're up for a date?" Heather batted her eyelashes dramatically.

Paul pretended to take some time considering his answer. "Ya won't be jealous if Ah take out my hairstylist Mindy?"

She threw a pillow at his head.

"'Ey!"

"There's a reason they call them 'throw pillows'." She grinned and ducked into the back room to get changed.

Paul set the pillow back. "So, did anythin' else 'appen t'day while Ah was sleepin' it away?"

"Actually, yes." Heather's voice carried through the door. "I met Cynthia Lennon today. You remember her, of course."

His jaw set in a grim line at the mention of her name. So she didn't leave town already. "Yeah, luv. She was at the concert last night, actually. 'Ow is she?"

"Well, that's the thing. See, she was talking to this reporter when I was there. Not a very remarkable gentlemen, except that he looked terrible. It was like he had been awake all night. They were talking about you."

"Really? What, exactly? My ravishin' good looks?"

Heather rolled her eyes. "No. It was actually kind of disturbing." She walked back out in a tight-fitting pair of black Capri pants. Tonight's dinner was definitely going to be a casual affair.

"Disturbin'? Come on, Ah'm not so bad."

She was quite serious, however. "She accused you of some pretty terrible things. And I quote: "You weren't so far off... Paul and his friends are covering up something very serious. And they need to be exposed."." Heather looked deeply troubled as she recalled everything she'd heard.

But, for all the worry on her face, Paul's was that times ten.

"Do you have any idea what she was talking about?"

That an' a lot more. Paul's headache seemed to grow by leaps and bounds. But 'ow did she find out about John? "Heather, ya wouldn't mind if Ah took a raincheck on that dinner? Ah feel awful, but---"

"Paul? What's wrong?" Heather understood, but his panic concerned her. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Ah will. But not now. Ah 'ave ta go talk ta George. An' Ring. An'---" He caught himself.

"And who?"

"Oth-- Other people." Paul grabbed his coat and shot out the door before she could inquire any further.

Maybe Cynthia's right...

* * * * *


From the moment he came offstage that night, Paul was a man on a mission. They had to leave California as fast as was humanly possible if John was going to catch up with Cynthia at their next tour stop-- New York.

"Everythin' set?" John called to George, waiting near the back exit, laptop proving it's namesake-- in George's lap. "Geo, you an' that thing. Ah never thought ya'd get pulled in by shiny state of the art technology,

George flashed a distracted smile. "Yeah. Guess it got me."

"Care for me to unhook you?" John motioned to the modem jack in the side of the wall.

"No!" George exploded, a little louder than was intended. Softer, he added, "Ah'm almost done. Paulie ready ta go?"

"Almost." John looked at his mate as if he had five heads. "Ah'll just, uh... go hurry Macca along," His face twisted into a mischievous grin, "an' leave you an' yer electronic lap dancer in peace."

"Electronic---" But John was gone already when George looked up.

}}}} Of all the disgusting... {{{{

}}}} Huh? {{{{

}}}} Just John again. {{{{

}}}} *G* What'd he do this time? {{{{

}}}} You don't want to know. {{{{

}}}} Riiiiiiight. Since we need to finish this before you leave, and I think I already
have an idea anyway, I'll bypass my curiosity. {{{{

}}}} I thank you in more ways than you can count. {{{{

}}}} Well, I did the basic HTML layout, but since you've been so elsewhere for the
past few.... DAYS.... I couldn't wait for your OK to proceed. We're running out of
time, you know. {{{{

}}}} Yeah, yeah. You're not me mum, but you're certainly doin' a good impression. {{{{

The IM beeped again for his attention, but George had to slap the lid nearly closed on his computer when John returned from Paul's dressing room. "All set?"

"'E's right behind me." John offered. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he realized, "Or.. not 'e's not." He sighed and decided to risk a bellow, banking on the fact that everyone else was too busy to care about one maniac yelling. "PAGIN' PAUL McCARTNEY!!!"

Paul stuck his head around the corner. "Comin'." He disappeared for a moment, re-emerging with two large suitcases on wheels. "Sorry lads. Got a bit caught up goin' through the doorway."

"Bloody hell, Macca." George shifted his laptop to the side, offering a hand, which Paul quickly shrugged off. "A'right. Never mind, then."

"'Ow much did ya think ya'd need?" John grabbed one of the suitcases, placing it on a pile of "stuff" heading for the bus. "We were only 'ere for two days."

"Two shows. Three days." Paul corrected as if it made a whole world of difference.

"Oh! Ah see." John rolled his eyes.

"Who asked you, Lennon?" Paul grunted, lifting the other bag onto the cart. "Besides, shouldn't ya be on the bus?"

John readjusted his scarf. "Yes, mummy." Then, out of nowhere, he began to muse, "It's near summer. Ah'm not wearin' this damn thing then." He began to scratch his head. "'Ow about big sunglasses? An' Ah could always grow a beard."

"Great. Goin' for the serial killer look?"

John stuck his tongue out, following Paul out of the arena back door.

}}}} George? {{{{
}}}} George? {{{{
}}}} George? {{{{
}}}} GEORGE?! {{{{

Upon flipping open his laptop, he was met with message after message that merely stated his name.

}}}} Yeah? {{{{

}}}} For the fortieth time!! Use BRB or I don't know where you went! {{{{

}}}} What's that mean, again? {{{{

}}}} GAH! Just never mind. {{{{

}}}} Good. Because I have to go. {{{{

}}}} Wait. Are you guys going to stop by? {{{{

}}}} With John and Cyn... {{{{

}}}} Yeah. I know, I know. Just hoping to see you guys at some time. You promised,
you realize. {{{{

}}}} Yes, I know. You remind me of it every day. {{{{

}}}} It's been so long! {{{{

}}}} Only a few months, you bloody comic! {{{{

"Georgie, we're gonna leave ya, ya don't get a move on!" John bellowed.

}}}} See you soon. {{{{ He typed quickly.

}}}} I'll hold you to that. {{{{

* * * * *

"Welcome back to New York, everyone." Paul tried to sound cheerful as their plane touched down at LaGuardia International Airport. Yes, he knew being back in the Empire State was farthest from everyone's mind, and lowest on the importance scale, but it had been an awfully quiet flight. Granted, that was mostly due to it being an overnight flight, but he had still hoped for communication from someone.

Anything to draw attention away from Cynthia and the pressing concern of how far behind her they were.

The original itinerary had the whole convoy traveling across country via bus, but after Heather's news, a flight had to be booked to speed up the travel time. Otherwise, they would arrive days behind Cynthia-- far too late to stop her.

For all those who had kept silent, it was John who disturbed Paul the most. No matter how many times he had tried to engage John in conversation, he had been met with the same response each time: John would grunt to be left alone, and turn his face to the window of the plane.

It's Cyn. Paul sighed as he pulled his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. He doesn't know what ta do about her. Even when he was alive the first time, he hated bein' around her once the divorce was final. Unless he had to be. So what was it that was eating him up now? Guilt? Just plain old irritation? Paul sighed. He really wasn't one to speculate. It was John's life, after all. What stock did he have in it?

Julian, Paul thought sadly. He'd loved that kid since he was a very little boy. Cynthia and John's notoriously rocky relationship had taken it's toll on the now nearly 40 year old Julian, and it wasn't fair. All Julian had done wrong was to be born the son of John and Cynthia Lennon. And that wasn't any crime that Paul was aware of.

Jules, he realized, was his reason for caring.

How many times did ya look at yer own kids an' think with that ol' twinge of regret about little Jules? Paul asked himself, slowly moving towards the tunnel with the rest of their traveling party. While John had been first, a Beatle, and later, too busy "finding himself" during the 70's, Julian had had to grow up fatherless. Sure, Cynthia had remarried... but it wasn't the same thing at all. It didn't make up for all those years he only had his mum to turn to. And some things, you just didn't talk to your mum about. Those topics were only for his dad, and with said father decidedly absent, Julian had either had to keep the questions to himself, or find the answers in some other way.

Ah wonder what Julian's doin' now?

When they emerged into the flood of fluorescent light, Paul glanced at his wristwatch. 5am. And my don't we make a groggy and grumpy lot. "Everyone alright?" Paul felt numb as they stood about in a group, waiting for the taxi cabs that would take them to the hotel. He chuckled in spite of the haze surrounding him. They really were quite the sight-- Ringo, hair mussed, fighting to keep his eyes open; George, blinking rapidly to adjust to the bright airport lighting; Heather, clinging tightly to her pillow, clearly seconds away from placing it against the wall and trying to sleep standing up; several roadies and body guards out of necessity..... and then John, who's dark sunglasses and low baseball cap served as an effective barrier to anyone hoping to read his mood. Various mumbles and yawns answered Paul's question.

"John?" He slid up beside his friend as they slowly walked toward the loading area. "Are you a'right?"

"Bloody sunshine and lollipops. Now leave me the 'ell alone."

Paul nodded. "Just promise me yer gonna get some sleep, okay?"

"Uh-huh." John walked on ahead. He didn't feel like talking anymore. He'd sleep. He didn't say how long he'd sleep, though.

* * * * *


Everyone had gone to bed as soon as they'd located the hotel rooms.

But not John. He sat up on the balcony overlooking the city. The last time he had been here was with Kara and her friends. Wonder how those birds are gettin' on. Stayin' out of trouble, Ah hope.

And before that he had lived here with----

No. He wasn't going to think about her. Damnit. What makes me so scared ta see you again? John sighed. He knew the answer to that question. Frankly, when he'd first returned from the dead, he hadn't wanted to see anyone from "before" as he was now calling it. If it weren't for Kara and that road trip to find Andrea, he probably would have turned tail and found himself a nice cabin up in the Adirondack mountains somewhere. Nice and secluded. No one would ever have to know John Lennon was once more among the living.

But things hadn't worked out that way at all. No, fate had conspired to make him come within a hairs-breadth of the life he used to lead-- touring all over the country, and with Paul, George, and Ringo, nonetheless!

All he could figure was that it had something to do with that voice he'd dreamed of his second night at Kara's. And even that answer felt wrong to him. The voice had told him that he still served a purpose. So my purpose is ta tour anonymously an' 'ide from both me wife and me ex. Real purposeful existence ya got for me. He "thought" at the sky. Ya ask me, Ah think all ya wanted ta do was get the chance ta mess with me 'ead again. Plop Johnny back with the livin' so 'e could spin in little circles for ya like 'e always did before.

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, John drew out a pack of cigarettes. Well, the joke's on you! No celestial sitters ta tell me 'ow ta behave, 'ere. 'Ere, Ah can smoke, drink... He rubbed his temples a tad, still remembering the magnificence that was the night before's hangover. An' there's not a bloody thing ya can do about it. Cancer me ass. He drew long and hard on the cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs before letting it out slowly. "If ya cared so much about me... givin' me some divine mission... Ah've certainly missed the memo. 'Aven't gotten any guidance from upstairs."

He waited.

And nothing happened.

Drew harder on the cigarette.

Still nothing.

"Come on, now. This is the part where ya strike me dead for bein' an ass." John spoke to the dark sky above. "Knock the ciggie out of me 'and an' make me straighten up. Fly right an' that crap." He felt--- despair?--- grip him. And not for the first time either. These feelings had enveloped him periodically since returning. If he was here for a purpose, he would surely be stopped from killing himself, right?

It stung him like a whip. It was true, then. God didn't care what he did.

He drank, smoked, told lewd jokes... hell, anything! Just to feel something was what mattered. Anything, really. He just needed to escape what had held him for months now: that dead, hollowness inside. When Paul let him play, it had helped some, but not near enough. He was still, ironically, lonely. Even while standing in front of thousands.

"Purpose, eh? Just ta die again, probably. See John Lennon, the cosmic joker!" He stamped the butt of his cigarette into the balcony floor before storming through the room and out the door. "Ah'll leave it all. Still find that cabin in the woods. Then ya won't 'ave ta worry yerself with my well bein'--- Ahhh, forgive me." He hissed. "Ya never did ta begin with. So what should it matter if Ah never show my face again?"

The hunched over figure of John Lennon departed the hotel at a brisk clip. He hadn't told anyone where he was going.

* * * * *


Cynthia emerged from the Radisson, eyes bleary. It was early, she knew, but she just couldn't sleep anymore. More precisely, it was as if something hadn't allowed her to sleep any longer. But she was damned if she could put a finger on what "that" was.

She had to talk to him, she decided impulsively. Reaching into her purse she pulled out her phone and dialed. Perhaps by making this call and getting everything off her chest and into the open, she would finally be able to recapture her season pass to dream land. That had to be it. The weight of what she knew was keeping her up at night.

But why couldn't she have made the call inside, then? From her bed? That way, the moment she got off the phone, she could roll over, safe in the knowledge that Paul's little charade was on it's way to a fiery death in the presses.

You're getting strange in your old age. She chided herself over doing things in a fashion that, she felt, was "the hard way". Next thing you know it'll be making your own walker instead of buying one. What was with her having to do things the hard way today?

One ring.... Two.... Three.... Four....

"Gavin, where the hell are you?" She looked at the phone in disgust, as if it was solely it's fault for her problems. Frustrated, Cyn sighed and returned the device to it's previous location inside her purse. For such an urgent story, Gavin certainly seemed to be preoccupied with other things.

Eh well. It would have to wait until she had finished up at the studio. They had a strict policy about pagers, beepers, and any other electronic devices that had a mind of their own when it came to making noise.

As she continued walking down the street, she suddenly became aware of a strange feeling that she simply could not shake. The small hairs on her neck pricked suddenly as if she had walked by something extremely cold. She glanced around for a source, but was met with no success. Refrigeration unit? Someone's air conditioner? Or was this what some people liked to call, 'deja vu'? It was like---- like---- Oh, she couldn't put words to it. Some person, or thing... or... Maybe it's a ghost, right? She laughed at herself. There was only one ghost she could think of that would bother to "haunt" her. And he...

No. It's not HIM. She sighed, unwilling to say the name at first, for fear of what her brain would start to brood on again. I left John back in California. He's too wrapped up in fooling the world to know that I've even left town. Let alone that I'm about to blow the lid off this little charade of his.

She cast her eye on the phone one last time as she approached the front steps of the studio.

"Call me, Gavin. I want this story out now."

The door slid open before her.

"Thank you, Frank."

"Having a good morning, Mrs. Lennon?" The dark-complexioned attendant smiled.

She grunted. "I suppose."

Frank frowned a bit. This wasn't at all like the usually peppy Cynthia Lennon. Alright, it was a touch earlier than she had ever come to the studio before, but that shouldn't have made such a difference. A thought crossed his mind and his eyes brightened almost as quickly as they had dimmed previously. "Would you care for some breakfast? Your party has already taken the privilege of ordering and I could always see to some extra---"

"Fine." She cut him off brusquely. "Now, If you'll excuse me."

He adjusted his tie nervously. "Something put that woman on edge." He muttered to himself. "And whoever it is, I certainly wouldn't want to be him right now." Frank moved to close the door, and nearly jumped out of his skin. "What the hell?" It was like icy cold fingers had moved down his spine. "Deja vu."

Strange weather we've been having around here. He closed the door firmly, convinced the sensation was little more than an errant breeze whispering through the cracks.

Moments after everything had gone back to a relative state of calm in front of the studio, a figure walked over to lean up against one of it's brick walls. Head bent low, hands jammed in his pockets, it was as if the man was determined not to attract any attention. There was nothing remarkable about him, save for the dark glasses and low baseball cap which neatly obscured any identifying features.

"Well, Ah'll be. There ya are." He stamped out his second cigarette of the morning and turned to face the front door. "But what are ya doin' 'ere?"

* * * * *


Sometimes she could just strangle him for following in the footsteps of the "illustrious" John Lennon. She'd seen the music industry at it's height, sure, but she'd also seen the down-and-dirty nastiness that was wont to go on behind the scenes.

If there was anything she had hoped he would avoid, it was this three-ring circus. After all, fame wasn't what it was cracked up to be. He could ask John about that one. It was all well and good so long as the fans didn't start picking up firearms. Ask John... It echoed in her mind.

He could technically do that now, couldn't he? Cynthia sat down on the leather couch in a far corner of the booth. Ask John... he's ALIVE. She emitted a sound that was a close as a human being could come to an honest to goodness growl. Which surprised the recording engineer immensely, as he nearly flew straight out of his chair. When he saw who had caused the sound, however, he merely laughed.

"Down girl. If you want a listen, you can have it." He offered her a headset to listen in on the recording taking place within the soundproof booth.

Cynthia politely declined. "It's not that. Don't worry, I'm just--- frustrated."

"Well, I could tell that a mile off, Mrs. Lennon." He suddenly grew a bit uncomfortable. "It doesn't have to do with---?"

"This recording? Heavens, no. You've really all done a wonderful job, Jerry. In fact, I don't think Julian could have asked for a better label to record under." She smiled kindly as her gaze shifted back toward the panel of glass that separated her from her son.

He really was quite a bit like his father. And not merely the obvious physical traits, either. It almost seemed at times that Julian shared his father's very thought process. When he made a decision, Cynthia couldn't help but think that it was quite similar to the way John would have solved the problem.

It was nice at times. Almost like John had never left. But it was also disconcerting at others. Of all the things the two shared, she prayed with every ounce of her body that they differed in one key point. Circumstance of death.

She simply didn't know what she would do if Julian were mowed down by some maniac. Granted, it would take a true collision of fate for such an event to occur, but given what she had observed in her boy, she knew she had more than a little to worry over. Julian was 39 now... and would be 40 next year. Which meant he had now nearly reached the age his father was when he had been---

"Mum?"

The voice cut into her thoughts. She gratefully reached for the control panel and clicked on the intercom. "Yes, Jules?"

"You okay?"

"Everything's fine." Damn, was she a broken record today, or what? "You should be worrying about more important things than me." She smiled kindly. "Such as getting this album finished so we can fly home to London in time for your Aunt's birthday. We promised, remember?"

Julian strummed a little on his guitar. "Yeeees." He spoke in a sing-song voice. "Ah'm not a little boy anymore, you know." He laughed. "Ya don't 'ave ta dode over me like a mother hen. Besides, it's only natural that Ah worry about ya."

"More important things, Jules." She reiterated.

"C'mon! Yer me mum." He looked up, making eye contact. "Ya are more important things."

"Flattery." She cracked as her hand hovered over the intercom switch, "will get you nowhere." The speaker clicked off. She could see his lips moving in protest, but the words were sufficiently muted behind the glass enclosure.

After a moment, Julian shrugged and, rolling his eyes, returned to the sheet music before him.

No one would hurt her son. She wouldn't let "it" happen twice.

* * * * *


John finally mustered up enough courage to bang on the glass of the front door. The dark skinned man he had observed before talking with Cynthia set his desk phone back in the cradle and got up.

"May I help you?" The man said as walked up to the door and pushed it partially open.

"Ah've come about some business?"

He now looked skeptical. "What business, may I ask?"

Darting a hand under his coat, John quickly withdrew a pile of mail. "A Mr... Hohner?" He read the name off a rather official looking document.

"What are you, the mailman?"

"Special delivery." John insisted. Damn, security had certainly improved around this place. "I 'ave to see Mr. Hohner an' Mrs. Cynthia Lennon as soon as possible or my boss will be severely put out."

Not as dumb as 'e looks. John mused as the man's eyes registered a high level of skepticism.

"Maybe I should give Mrs. Lennon a ring inside the studio. See if she's expecting a package."

"No!" John spoke louder than was intended. "Ah mean, she's with the recordin' engineers, an' unless Ah've been under a rock for the last 20 years," He let himself smirk inwardly at the statement, "those blokes really don't like bein' interrupted."

He hesitated. John could have whooped for joy. There. That oughta fix 'im.

"Still, it's against policy to just let some man walk in unannounced and---"

Damn. John swallowed. Alright, then. One last card ta play. "Mr. McCartney will 'ave me 'ead for this." John mumbled into his chest, head bent down.

"What?"

John pretended not to have realized what he had said. "Huh?" He looked up innocently.

"What's that you said just now? It sounded like---"

"McCartney? Yeah. 'E's me boss." No lie there. Playing on the tour, he had realized sourly on more than one occasion, truly did make Paulie his boss. It was probably one of the main reasons he hadn't already grown so fed up with the whole business that he just walked out. Paul was the boss. Paul knew everything about him. Should he choose, he could make John's life quite unpleasant.

Not that he thought his old mate would blackmail him like that, but a man could never be too careful. The last person he'd taken at face value had pumped his backside full of lead. Just wantin' an autograph, my ass.

"Paul McCartney?"

"Yeah. Drivin' USA tour. Ya 'eard of it, right? We're playin' upstate in two days time. Ya should check it out."

"Got some ID?"

Bingo. He reached under the coat once more and pulled out a plastic ID badge. It was just labeled "Roadie" but it would hopefully do the trick.

"Alright then, Mr---- Joe Revay." Dark Complexion read the badge. "Just a few minutes, got it? Any more and I send the guards in after you and make you cut out the long goodbyes."

The door opened fully and John felt the rush of the air conditioning on the exposed portions of his face and arms. He had made it inside. Now began the hard part of this little mission-----