BAD CO ADJUST
To Wealth, Fame, Willing Wantons, And The Knowlege That Georg Solti Doesn't Know Who They Are
Ten stories below us the Amazon photographer stalks the pool deck, taking light meter, readings in the sweaty mid-day heat of Miami Beach in May, sizing up angles and perspectives, awaiting the appointed hour of deliverance. In the hotel room, the air conditioning turns the Florida steam bath into an icebox, but that's not the reason for my shivers. I am thinking of that large bikinied woman down there and the menace in her voice as we parted a few minutes ago.
Across from me at a small table is the object of her harsh words—a young pixie-faced boy from Herefordshire. And if he isn't delivered to her at the aformentioned fixed time, my life won't be worth the price of a pocket Insta-^ matic. Mick Ralphs yawns and stretches, looking not at all like a likely photo subject in rumpled hair and ragged cut-offs. He isn't worried, but then why should he be? All he has to do is worry about being attacked by thousands of horny young girls at Bad Company concerts. If he ever had to face the wrath of a giant female photographer delayed, he'd pack up his guitar and light out for Stoke Lacey, the little British country town where he still hasn't finished up his apprenticeship as an electrical engineer.
