Rock Star (15 page)

Amerika was very persuasive. She talked him into giving it a try, and it was almost as if he had all this stored-up vocal energy just waiting to burst through. And when he opened his mouth out came the voice – the
new
Bobby Mondella voice. And he was certain that finally he was on the road to where he wanted to go.

Right now he felt like celebrating. Putting Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell on the stereo, he went through his phone book and finally settled on a cute ball of blonde fluffiness who worked behind the cosmetics counter at Bonwit’s. Since Sharleen was going to be out late he decided he might as well take advantage of the empty apartment.

The blonde arrived in a backless summer dress with four-inch stiletto heels. Soon the dress was history, but the shoes remained. He satisfied his newfound lust for living, and she squealed. ‘I guess it’s true what they say about black men!’

Within fifteen minutes she was history. Picking up the phone he reached Rocket in L.A.

‘Everythin’ all right?’ Rocket asked anxiously.

No. You’d better get your ass back here. Sharleen is shacking up with Marcus Citroen. And it ain’t my problem.

‘Sure. How’s the movie goin’?’

‘Couldn’t be better. I’m like a piece of shit off the streets of New York, bringin’ back good memories to every fat-butt exile out here.’

‘Sounds exciting.’

‘Yeah, I guess it is. There’s some kinda love goddess ’round every corner, an’ tits an’ ass a man could kill for.’

‘So?’

Rocket made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. ‘So nothin’, man . . . With what I got stashed at home there’s no way I’d blow it. Let me speak to her.’

Shit! If he told Rocket the truth, Sharleen and he might break up. Which would leave the field clear for a certain Mr Bobby Mondella who had been waiting patiently in the background for five long years.

No. He couldn’t do that. Not to Sharleen.

‘She’s uh . . . getting back from the theatre late,’ he said vaguely. ‘One of her girlfriends is throwing a birthday party.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. Somebody’s house.’

‘What a kid, that Sharleen,’ Rocket said fondly. ‘Y’know what I’m gonna do? I think I’ll surprise her with a trip out here. Get her to meet my agent an’ that kinda jazz. She’d like that, wouldn’t she?’

‘You said you were coming back next week.’

‘The film’s runnin’ over. Besides, I told you – they like me here – they’re buildin’ up my part.’

‘Great.’

‘Yeah.’ He juggled the phone, reaching for a cigarette. ‘Hey – guess who I ran into last night?’

Bobby remembered Sharleen asking him the same question. ‘I’m no good at guessing games.’

‘This is
really
gonna blow your mind.’

‘Who?’

‘Nichols Kline. Can y’believe it?’

‘Our old boss? The manager from the Chainsaw?’

‘Ya think there’s
another
Nichols Kline around?’

The Chainsaw had closed down four years earlier, the result of a major drug bust.

‘What’s he doing in L.A.?’ Bobby asked curiously.

‘Pretty fine if you ask me. I ran into him at this rock and roll party at the beach. He had a redhead on one arm, a brunette on the other, and more gold chains than a street hustler could rip off in a week. He’s a concert promoter now. Not bad, huh?’

‘Did he remember you?’

‘Do hookers take money? Of
course
he remembered me. I’m unforgettable, man. One of a kind. When they made me they threw away my mother!’

‘All right, all right, so he remembered you,’ Bobby said, anxious to tell his news.

He was too late, Rocket was ready to go. ‘I gotta hit the sheets, man. Gotta get some sleep. We’re shootin’ downtown tomorra. It’s just like bein’ home – rats, dirt, maniacs roamin’ the streets. My kinda town!’

‘Hey—’ Bobby said quickly. ‘I just wanted to tell you – I’m singin’.’

‘So are the fartin’ birds. All day long. California. It’s a whole different world. Listen, tell Shar to call me tomorra. Love ya both.’

After the phone call Bobby still didn’t feel like sleeping. He was up and speeding. Elated, restless, full of boundless energy. Sitting down at the used piano he’d bought with the first money he’d made as a songwriter, he played a few notes. And before long the notes became a tune, blending with the lyrics he made up as he went along.

He wrote a simple, soulful ditty full of his feelings for Sharleen.

The lady herself staggered home at five in the morning, glassy-eyed and obviously stoned.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked grimly, thinking,
I’m beginning to sound like a broken record.

She was giggly and mellow, the pupils of her brown eyes dilated and starey. ‘Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,’ she sing-songed. ‘Handsome, handsome, Bobby boy!’

‘Sharleen.’ He gripped her by the shoulders. ‘What are you on?’

Gazing at him blankly, she said, ‘On?’

‘What did he give you?’

She started to giggle. ‘Ohhh . . . Bobby doesn’t wanna know
that.
Bobby’s a
good
lil’ black boy. He don’ wanna hear no
naughty
things!’ Hiccoughing and swaying, she began to fall.

He caught her in his arms, swept her up, and carried her to the bed she shared with Rocket.

She stared up at him, a goofy smile on her swollen lips.

‘You look terrible,’ he said sternly.

‘Lil’ ole me’s got herself a recording contract,’ she sang. ‘I’m gonna be bigger than Diana Ross. A star, baby, a
star. Ooooh
, Bobby.’ Reaching for him, she locked her hands behind his neck, pulling him down towards her. ‘Wanna celebrate? Wanna kiss me? Wanna make love t’me? I know y’ do. You’ve
always
wanted to, haven’t you, baby?’

The opportunity was right there. Sharleen, inviting him to do what he
had
always dreamed of.

Two things stopped him. His best friend, and the fact she was so stoned she didn’t know what day it was. When he and Sharleen got together – and he knew that one day fate would arrange it – it would be after she and Rocket were through, and whatever else, the lady had to know
exactly
what was happening.

He wanted Sharleen.

But only on his terms.

Los Angeles

Saturday, July 11, 1987

Cybil arrived home early from her photo session. She was fully made up, her blonde hair a thick mane of stylized curls. She seemed to have forgotten about their fight, and was full of good cheer.

‘How was your randy photographer friend?’ Kris asked sarcastically.

‘Gay,’ Cybil laughed. ‘
Veree
randy and
veree
gay and
veree
careful. My God, Kris, with this AIDS scare, nobody’s
doing
it anymore.’

He didn’t want to discuss AIDS. The very word panicked him. Somewhere he had heard that every time you got into bed with a new person you were also getting into bed with every one of their sexual partners for the past seven years. Jesus! That meant hundreds of people – maybe even thousands – all rolling around together swapping germs. Frightening! One of the reasons he stuck to Cybil in America, and Astrid in England. Playing musical beds was out.

‘I’m going upstairs to change,’ Cybil said. ‘What time are we leaving?’

She obviously expected to go with him to Novaroen, although he couldn’t recall inviting her. But what the hell, he wasn’t in the mood for another fight ‘The Hawk’s comin’ by in half an hour. Will you be ready?’

She grinned. ‘I’m a quick-change artist. Just watch me!’

*    *    *

The smell in the bus was stifling, and Maxwell Sicily was delighted when the vehicle turned off the Pacific Coast Highway and started up a steep incline to an open-space area where everyone was instructed to disembark.

The air was fresh and strong, a brisk ocean breeze tempering the afternoon heat. Glancing around he noticed security guards everywhere busily organizing the restaurant staff into groups, readying them to board the small shuttle buses which would take them up to the main estate.

As they climbed into the shuttles – eight at a time – a guard ticked their names off a lengthy list, while a uniformed woman holding a two-way radio relayed the checked-off names to some unseen person.

‘This is worse than prison,’ joked one of the waiters.

‘How would
you
know?’ sneered another.

True, Maxwell thought. How would any of them know? The grim realities of prison life bore no relation to a glorious sunny day on a billionaire’s estate overlooking the white-tipped waves of the Pacific.

‘George!’ The plaintive whine of Chloe, the plump woman who sat behind the desk at Lilliane’s, wafted through the air. ‘Wait!’

Putting his head down, pretending not to notice the floppy cow bearing down on him, he mumbled his name to the guard as he jumped on the shuttle.

Chloe pushed her way through, managing to squeeze on beside him. ‘Phew!’ she exclaimed. ‘What a journey. I’m tired before we even begin!’

Cheap perfume assailed his nostrils. Sweet and clinging. Hooker perfume. The kind the filthy whores the prison guards smuggled in for hefty compensation wore. Dirt bags, as they were known around the joint.

Chloe laid a pudgy hand over his. ‘You’ll havta keep an eye on me today, George,’ she trilled coyly. ‘You watch out for me, an’ I’ll do the same for you. One thing’s for sure, I’m not gonna miss the concert. I’ll find us a nice place t’watch it. How would you like that?’

She shifted on her seat, leaning against him, enveloping him in her cheap stink.

He didn’t say a word. Chloe was just another minor irritation to dispose of when the time came.

*    *    *

Two representatives from Blue Cadillac Records and an abrasive young publicity woman arrived at L’Ermitage ready to escort Rafealla to Novaroen and the evening concert.

She kept them waiting in the lobby for forty-five minutes, causing all three of them to break out in a nervous sweat.

At last she appeared, wearing baggy khaki pants and a loose shirt, her long dark hair tied back. A bellboy trotted behind her carrying a plastic hanging bag containing her outfit for the concert – a simple blade dress.

She had requested neither a makeup artist nor a hairdresser.

‘This one’s gotta be weird,’ Trudie, the publicity girl, had said. ‘I never
heard
of a female artist who didn’t want the whole shebang.’

The two record executives fawned all over Rafealla, while Trudie stood back and took stock. Who needed makeup and hair when they looked like this? Rafealla was startlingly beautiful, more so than her publicity photos, which did not do her justice at all. The reverse was usually true. Gorgeous, glamorous photographs always seemed to belong to very ordinary-looking women. Rafealla was certainly the exception.

‘We’ll do a sound check as soon as we arrive,’ one of the record executives said, helping her into the limo. ‘Then you’ll have at least a couple of hours to relax before the show.’

‘Fine,’ she said quietly.

Not the talkative type, Trudie noted.

‘You’ll be on after Bobby Mondella, and before Kris Phoenix,’ the executive said.

Rafealla did not reply.
Bobby and Kris.
Two names from, her past.
Kris and Bobby . . .

Sadly, only one of them would remember her.

*    *    *

Speed was running early. He had the uniform. He had the car. And he had several hours to kill.

No big deal. There was a new Sylvester Stallone movie just waiting for his attention. Or maybe he should catch up on
Beverly Hills Cop II.
Speed loved going to the movies. He always bought popcorn, candy and Coca-Cola. And when he sat down in that darkened theatre, with those larger-than-life images flickering on the screen, he
became
the character he was watching. Shoot! He was tougher than Clint, hornier than Warren, fairer than Redford, and funnier than Chevy.

Speed often thought he’d missed his vocation. He should have been an actor. No, not an actor. A movie star. Yeah. For sure.

With a snort of resignation he realized there was no way he could go to the movies today. Too much of a risk. How could he possibly leave the Caddy limo? What if it was stolen?

Reluctantly he knew that whatever he was going to do, he was going to have to do it from the car.

He headed for Westwood, picked up some Kentucky Fried Chicken, stopped to buy
Penthouse
and
Playboy
, and set off towards the beach.

*    *    *

The limousine driver was a brother. A brother with a script and a mouthful of ideas.

‘Shut him up,’ Bobby muttered to Sara. ‘I don’t need this.’

‘Driver,’ Sara interrupted politely. ‘Mr Mondella is very tired. He’d appreciate silence.’

‘Silence!’ the driver exclaimed excitedly. ‘I wrote a song called ‘Silence’ once. Maybe I should sing it for y’all!’

‘No!’ Sara said hastily, vowing never to use this limo company again. The least they could do was check out their drivers and not send out would-be screenwriter-singer-song-writers.

‘I understand,’ the man said in a hurt voice, sounding like he didn’t understand at all. ‘I’m cool.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ Sara said. But just to make sure, she found the button to raise the glass partition and hurriedly pressed it.

*    *    *

Nova Citroen’s white-blonde hair was swept up in an elaborate, twisted chignon. Her fingernails and toenails gleamed with slick, crimson polish. Her body tingled – the result of a vigorous massage – and her makeup was porcelain perfect.

She was ready hours too early, but that’s the way she liked it. Slipping on a plain blue silk shirt and matching slacks, she thought about the three superstar singers due to arrive at Novaroen shortly. A glimmer of a smile brought back the memories.

Kris Phoenix. What a randy bad boy
he
was.

Bobby Mondella. Ah . . . Bobby . . .

And Rafealla. Her smile faded. The bitch Marcus wanted to fuck.