Crime Plus Music Read Online Free PDF

though, and its whiteness still burned with that consumptive fire.
    Tony and Connie got married the following April. It was a joyous occasion followed by a wonderful party, during which the bride and groom slipped away for a brief honeymoon in Paris. The band had a new album coming out in May, and he would be out on the road promoting it when they got back. For now, everything was hunky-dory.
    For now.
    D RUGS IS A SUBJECT THAT comes up a lot when people talk about rock music. It’s hardly surprising, given the number of musicians who have succumbed to excess over the years. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison had all died just a short time before Tony became famous. And the list goes on. Tony smoked a bit of dope occasionally, but that was all, as far as I knew. I was with him on that. I didn’t mind the occasional joint, but I had seen far too many talented people fall afoul of the hard stuff, or end up with their brains short-circuited by hallucinogens. Perhaps more than anything, Tony became fond of wine, especially now that he could afford the really good stuff. When he let his hair down—which wasn’t as often as the media made out—you’d more than likely find him drinking Château Latour or Château Margaux. But the hard stuff, never. Not coke or smack. Not even scotch or vodka.
    Connie was a different story. Despite her inner calm and wisdom, a part of her was strongly attracted to the dark side. She read Thomas De Quincey, Coleridge, Huysmans, Gérard de Nerval, Rimbaud, Burroughs. She loved Bosch, Goya, and Dali. The whole idea of a rational derangement of all the senses fascinated her and, she believed, nurtured her art. If there is any truth in the media rumors about a conflict between Connie and me, this is where it has its origins.
    In the early days of their life together, Connie would accompany Tony and the band on tour. She got to see the world that way: America, Australia, Japan, South Africa. But she didn’t like touring, the hanging about waiting, lengthy sound checks, crowds, long hours in hotel rooms, then the constant rush to a new city every day, with little or no real chance to see anything or meet anyone. And her painting was suffering, too; she wanted to get back to her studio. Even her followers and group members were complaining of neglect. She began to stay home more often, but as the lonely days dragged on, she would become restless. She and Tony had recently moved into an Elizabethan mansion on a country estate, and the large empty rooms and grounds only seemed to emphasize her isolation. She painted a lot and had her artist friends over to visit her, but it just wasn’t enough.
    Mostly, as far as any of us knew, she kept her drug use under control, and when Tony came home, everything would appear as much as normal. Certainly there were no dawn police raids, no naked women wrapped in fur rugs and rumors of obscene acts with Mars bars. But we found out later that Connie was taking uppers and downers just to maintain the semblance of normality. When Tony was away, especially for lengthy periods of time, she began to drive down to London more often and fell in with some very shady characters on the fringes of the art world, with whom she delved deeper into the darkness, into the world of coke, hallucinogens, and the drug that became her favorite of all: heroin.
    O NE DAY , T ONY ARRIVED HOME late from the a long studio session and called Connie’s name. Getting no answer, he went from room to room and finally found her in their bedroom. She was lying fully clothed on the king-size bed, pale and still, a needle and spoon on the bedspread beside her.
    Tony felt frantically for a pulse on Connie’s wrist, then her neck, but he could sense no signs of life. The muscles around her throat and jaw felt stiff. He grabbed for the telephone and dialed 999, then he picked Connie up from the bed. Her skin was cool to the touch, and he felt her dead weight