Rock Star (14 page)

‘Oh,
shit
,’ he said.

Bobby Mondella

1973

‘Please, Bobby,
please
,’ Sharleen was pleading with him, ‘there’s no
point
in your tellin’ Rocket. He’ll only get mad, and you know what he’s like when he’s mad. And it’s not as if any thing’s going to
happen.
This is a business date, purely business. If Rocket were here I’d take him
with
me. But he’s not, he’s in California, and I wish I
was
with him, and since I’m
not
, there’s no harm in this. Honestly! Now pass me that rhinestone earring and
stop fussing.
’

Reluctantly Bobby reached for her earring, and watched her clip it into place. She looked radiantly pretty as usual, with her glowing black skin, fluff of jet curls, and large brown eyes. Tonight she was wearing a slinky dress sparkling with deep purple sequins. It plunged in front, dipped in back, and he knew she must have blown a week’s salary on it.

‘I could come with you,’ he suggested.

‘Bobby, Bobby, don’t you
trust
me? Rocket trusts me, and he’s my
boyfriend.
If anyone should be concerned it should be
him.
’

‘He’s not here, Sharleen,’ Bobby pointed out. ‘And he doesn’t know.’

Spraying Arpèe liberally up and down her bare arms and across her cleavage, she said, ‘No. He’s not here and he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s out with one of those cute-assed Hollywood starlets. A nice little
white
girl with pink skin and blue eyes.’

‘You know he’s not’

‘
How
do I know?’ she sighed petulantly. ‘He ran off to L.A. fast enough, didn’t he?’

‘He’s working on a movie.’

Standing up, she surveyed the finished product in the mirror with a critical eye. ‘
I’m
working too,’ she said firmly, inspecting her body profile. This is a
work
date, and nothing else.’

He could see there was no way to argue with her. If she thought a ‘work date’ involved going to a man’s apartment at twelve o’clock at night – alone – that was her problem.

‘Help me find a cab, huh?’ She dazzled him with her smile.

Escorting her to the street, he hailed a taxi and saw her safely into it. ‘Call me if you need me,’ he said sternly.

‘I won’t need you, silly.’ Her silky hand touched his cheek. This is my big chance, Bobby. There’s
no way
I’m going to blow it. Please be happy for me.’

Watching the cab skid off down the street, he couldn’t help wishing Rocket would get back soon. The responsibility of baby-sitting Sharleen was starting to get to him. Two nights ago she had come home from the theatre where she was still in the chorus, a triumphant expression lighting her face. ‘
Guess
who was in tonight?’ she’d breathed excitedly. ‘Just start guessing because I want you to
know.
’

‘Stevie Wonder.’

‘Nope.’

‘Billy Dee Williams.’

‘Would I still be alive?’

‘The great Miss Diana Ross?’

‘Bobby. This is important. This is
my future.
’

‘Who?’

‘Marcus Citroen.’ She savoured the sound of his name. ‘Blue Cadillac Records.
The
Mister Citroen himself. And he sat in the front row an’ never took his eyes off me all night!’

‘Maybe he’s short-sighted.’

‘Bobby! Get serious. I had the stage manager deliver an envelope to his driver with my résumé and picture. Oh, Bobby! He called me from his car before I left the theatre, and invited me to a party at his apartment on Saturday night.
And
he said when the other guests leave we’ll talk about my career. Isn’t it
fabulous?
’

‘Are you
kidding?
’

‘No. I am most certainly not. This is the break I’ve been wishing for all my life.’

There had been no talking her out of it. When he’d tried, she’d merely snapped at him, changing the subject. Sharleen was ecstatic, and in a way he couldn’t blame her. For eighteen months she’d stood by and watched both his and Rocket’s careers begin to warm up, while nothing – except the chorus

– happened for her. Rocket landed small roles in two movies, and then a Hollywood agent signed him, and within weeks he was on his way to Los Angeles to play the second male lead in an important film.

As for Bobby, his songs were in demand,
and
his musical arrangements, not to mention his piano backing. He was doing very nicely, and several of his songs had been in the top twenty, recorded by various artists. He’d given up both his outside jobs, and now spent his days composing.

Twice he’d managed to get Sharleen studio time, where she recorded demos of two of his songs. The songs sold, Sharleen didn’t. At least she had the tapes to console her. But she wanted much more than that.

Hey – what was
he
worrying about? She wasn’t
his
girlfriend, although he had spent the last five years wishing she was.

Falling asleep with the television on, he awoke in a cold sweat at four in the morning. He’d been having some kind of nightmare, but couldn’t remember what it was about. His mouth felt like sandpaper, and he was hot and covered in perspiration. Getting out of bed he padded silently into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. The loft consisted of a large living space with two screened-off bedrooms

– one at each end. Before going back to his area he decided to peek in on Sharleen, just to make sure she was safely home.

She wasn’t. Her bed was undisturbed.

Goddamn it! What was he supposed to do now?

Go back to sleep and mind your own business
, an inner voice warned him.

But he couldn’t, and when Sharleen came in at five-thirty that morning he was pacing around the loft like a deranged father. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded, too angry to notice her bedraggled appearance and shaken expression.

‘Leave me alone,’ she said wearily, pushing past him and locking herself in the bathroom.

‘Just you listen to me—’ he began.

‘Shut up!’ she screamed from behind the closed door. ‘I don’t have to answer to you or anyone.
Leave me the fuck alone!
’

He did just that, and early that morning went off to a recording session at Soul On Soul records – a small record company rim by a female producer named Amerika Allen. She was using him quite often. Today they were recording one of his songs with Rufus T. Ram, a young soul singer.

Amerika greeted him warmly. She was a heavily built black woman of thirty-three, with an enormous bosom and a taste for flowing, African-style clothes. Hiya, Bobby Boy.’

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hey – Amerika – my favourite lady. You are lookin’
hot!
’

‘Charm! The man is learnin’ charm.’ Narrowing her eye she peered at him closely. ‘Thing is, Bobby,
you
all look like you had a
haaard
night. One of your little blonde chickies keep you up?’

‘Nope.’

Amerika grinned. She had the widest smile and the whitest teeth. ‘You can’t fool
me
, man. I can
smeeell
a sleepless night.’

He wasn’t about to tell her about Sharleen. Twice he had brought Sharleen to the studio and Amerika had not been exactly enthusiastic. ‘Pretty chick. Small voice,’ she’d said dismissively.

‘I wish you’d give her a chance,’ Bobby had pleaded.

‘Honey – not
even
for you. I only deal with genuine talent.’

‘
C’mon
, Sharleen’s got a great personality. She’d really come across on television.’

‘Sure, baby, she’ll come across all right, but not at
this
record company.’

End of story.

‘You bin holding out on me, Bobby’, Amerika said accusingly, putting a friendly arm around his shoulders as they walked into the studio.

‘I have?’

‘Yeah, baby. I’ve bin findin’ out things.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’ll buy you lunch, an’ then I can tell you all about it.’

‘Hey – tell me now – you got me curious.’

‘Be patient. Don’t you want a free tuna fish sandwich?’

Rufus T. Ram was six feet four inches tall, skinny, with wild Afro hair and a high-pitched, musical voice reminiscent of a young Smokey Robinson. He’d already had a couple of near hits with Soul On Soul.

The song Bobby had written and arranged was a slow, throbbing ballad, ‘Girl, I Want Your Body’. Rufus T. Ram sang it with a cheerful beat.

‘Wrong!’ announced Amerika after a couple, of run-throughs. ‘C’mon, Rufus, baby, you gotta get
down
, get
dirty.

I wanna
hear
the hard-on in your voice.’

Rufus T. Ram nodded as if he understood exactly what she was saying. The only trouble was – he didn’t. The way he sang the song evoked images of a breezy walk in the park, a light musical stroll. It soon became clear that Rufus T. Ram and ‘Girl, I Want Your Body’ did not fit.

Amerika called an early lunch break. ‘We gotta talk,’ she said to Bobby, guiding him from the studio with a firm grip on his arm.

He really wanted to call Sharleen, but Amerika was on the move, hurrying him down the street to a small Italian restaurant she favoured.

‘I’m gonna treat you to more than tuna,’ she announced with a wide smile. ‘I think we both need a
beeeg
plate of nour-ishin’ spaghetti an’ meat balls to survive the afternoon.’

He agreed. Now that he was thin he didn’t mind indulging once in a while, and he liked Amerika, she had been good to him – ever since a musician friend had taken him to the Soul On Soul studios nine months ago and introduced them.

‘I gotta tell you, Bobby, your song is the greatest,’ she said, ordering a bottle of red wine, then reaching for a hot bread roll. ‘Only problem is – Rufus T. Ram can’t sing it.’

‘I know,’ he admitted.

‘So.’ Sitting back, she surveyed the crowded restaurant. ‘What we gonna do?’

‘Write him another song,’ Bobby suggested logically.

She looked surprised. ‘You can do that now?’

‘Huh?’

‘Well,
c’mon
, Mondella, I got a studio full of musicians. I need a steady line of product. Can we have another song an’ full arrangement ready to go right after lunch?’

Disbelievingly, he said, ‘Are you crazy?’

She selected a thin brown cigarillo from her oversized bag, reached for the book matches on the table, and lit up. ‘I want
you
to record the song.’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘Now I
know
you’re crazy.’

The waiter arrived with the wine and poured a small amount for Bobby to taste. He passed his glass to Amerika. She sipped and nodded a brisk okay. When the waiter left, she said, ‘Hmmm . . . “Sweet Little Bobby”, Honey, don’t you think it’s about time you jumped back to where you belong? On vinyl, baby. Makin’ hits.’

*    *    *

Sharleen was not in when he got home later that evening. She had left for the theatre. Scotch-taped to the refrigerator door was a scrawled note:

Sorry!
Love ya!
Don’t tell Rocket!!!
Don’t wait up.

S

Quickly he figured out her shorthand. ‘Sorry’ meant she didn’t want to discuss it. ‘Love ya’ was her salve to keep him at her feet. ‘Don’t tell Rocket’ meant exactly that. And ‘Don’t wait up’ translated into ‘I’ll be home very late’.

Luckily
he
wasn’t involved with her. This girl was out chasing ambition, and nothing was going to stop her.

Sharleen . . . Sometimes he wished he’d never set eyes on her, let alone joined up with her and Rocket to become the adventurous threesome.

Tonight even thoughts of Sharleen couldn’t bring him down, he was too goddamn high on life. Today he had sung for the first time in seven years, thanks to Amerika Allen. He, Bobby Mondella, had gotten up in that studio and sung the pants off Rufus T. Ram. Yeah. He had surprised everyone – including himself. He had a voice, and it was really something! Not the plaintive, high-pitched wail of Sweet Little Bobby but a low-down, raunchy throb. And if anyone could put real meaning into his lyrics –
he
could.

Amerika had been thrilled. ‘You got it, my man,’ she’d said, hugging and squeezing him. ‘You
sure have
got it! Some bitchin’ voice!’

What a day! Amerika hitting him with his hidden past was quite a surprise. It was a secret he thought nobody would ever discover. He’d never even confided in Rocket and only mentioned it to Sharleen once, and she hadn’t believed him, so he’d let it drop.

But Amerika knew. She’d done a touch of detective work and come up with an old 1963 album of his with a fat, smirking Sweet Little Bobby on the record sleeve.

‘First time I set eyes on you I figured I’d seen you before,’ she said. ‘An’ I got to thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ an’
thinkin
’
. Still
couldn’t remember where. Then one day, ‘bout a week ago, I remembered. More than ten years back I was visiting Nashville with some friends, an’ I saw this cute little fat boy on a TV show. “What’s this black boy doin’ singin’ country?” I remember thinkin’.’

‘So how come all these years later you figured out it was me?’

‘Honey – you come walkin’ in here claimin’ no musical past. Hadda be something’ wrong somewhere. My bones told me you’d bin in music all your life. An’ then this one mornin’ I just woke up an’
knew
you was once Sweet Little Bobby.’ She laughed triumphantly. ‘I got a memory like a camel stores water!’

‘I don’t get it. I look different. I sound different. How did you make the connection?’

‘Your eyes haven’t changed, baby. They just got a little older an’ a
whole lot
wiser. An’ now it’s time for you to get back to work – doin’ what
I know
you can do. An’ better than Rufus T. Ram.’