Rock Star (21 page)

‘Don’t bother. He’s probably forgotten. I want to see his face when he realizes I remembered.’

The receptionist giggled and patted her teased hair. ‘Keep on makin’ those records!’

‘Only if
you
keep on buyin’ ’em.’

Striding down the hall he tried to decide exactly what he was going to say. What would make a man like Marcus Citroen set Sharleen free?

He remembered their one and only encounter many years ago. The men’s room in the Chainsaw. He was the attendant and Marcus Citroen was the customer, snorting cocaine with Del Delgardo. Jeeze! That seemed like lifetimes ago.

The door with the gold record attached to the centre faced him. The record was larger than the real thing, and boldly printed on the label was
MARCUS CITROEN – HITMAKER – BLUE
C
ADILLAC RECORDS.
Very subtle.

Without knocking, he opened the door and walked right in.

Marcus sat behind his oversized desk, speaking on the phone. He indicated that Bobby should take a seat. There was not a flicker of surprise anywhere on his impassive face.

Bobby didn’t want to sit down, only there seemed to be no alternative. What else could he do? Snatch the phone from the man and start berating him?

No way. This had to be a civilized meeting. It had to make sense, and above all, he had to walk out of there with some kind of a solution for Sharleen.

Marcus was obviously talking to someone in London, for he made references to various English events, and ended the conversation by saying, ‘I’ll be in on the Concorde next week, I expect everything to be worked out by then. Oh . . .’ His eyes, behind steely shades, settled on Bobby. ‘And you can tell the motherfuckers that if it’s not, someone will be floating in the Thames. And, I can assure you, it won’t be me.’

He hung up.

Bobby cleared his throat, ready to do battle for Sharleen.

Marcus stared at him, put the tips of his fingers together, and continued to stare.

Bobby cleared his throat again. Fuck it. This son of a bitch wasn’t going to intimidate him . . . ‘You don’t know me,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’ve come to see you about Sharleen.’

Marcus nodded.

There was something wrong here somewhere. Why wasn’t the great Marcus Citroen screaming for his secretary? Why wasn’t he telling him to get the hell out?

Bobby pressed on while he had the opportunity. ‘Uh . . . Sharleen’s very unhappy . . . suiddal in fact. And I think you know why.’

Marcus plucked a cigar from a carved box on his desk, reached for a silver table lighter in the shape of a Cadillac, and lit up. Still he didn’t say anything.

What kind of game was this man playing? Bobby’s voice rose with anger. ‘The bottom line is, either you let her out of her contract, or I’m gonna see your name in headlines over every tabloid rag in the country, with
details
of what you made her do.’

‘Good morning, Mr Mondella’, Marcus said smoothly, the oily thickness in his tone as sweet as syrup. ‘I’ve been expecting your visit for quite some time. What took you so long?’

Was this his day for being recognized or what? And exactly
why
had Marcus Citroen been waiting for him to show up?

‘I want you to tear up her contract,’ Bobby said, feeling a surge of anger overpower him.

‘There is an easy answer to all this nonsense,’ Marcus said calmly. ‘And if you think about it, you’ll find it’s the only sensible way.’

‘What’s that?’ Bobby asked grimly.

‘Why,
you
, of course.
You’re
the answer.’

‘I don’t get it.’

Marcus drew deeply on his cigar, blowing a steady stream of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Ah, but you will. Once I explain, you’ll understand perfectly.’ And he proceeded to do just that, while Bobby listened intently.

Marcus Citroen’s solution was simple. Blue Cadillac Records wanted Bobby Mondella. Blue Cadillac Records were prepared to offer him an excellent deal, plus they would buy him out of his Soul On Soul contract. Blue Cadillac Records were also prepared to build Bobby Mondella into a big star, and they had the connections and clout to do so.

The deal included Sharleen. Once Bobby signed on the dotted line, her career would automatically be reactivated, and in no time at all they would guide her back to the top – where she rightfully belonged. An album of duets with Bobby was in her future, plus a possible movie for the two of them – depending on how everything went.

‘I don’t believe this!’ Bobby said vehemently. ‘It’s blackmail.’

‘I would have thought you might jump at an opportunity to get away from a second-rate outfit like Soul On Soul,’ Marcus said, puffing on his cigar. They’ve done nothing for you except squander your talents.’

‘Hey – listen. They gave me my first chance. They believed in me.’

‘Ah . . . loyalty. I do admire it. But you must realize I believe in you too, Mr Mondella – or may I call you Bobby?’ Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, raising his sinister tinted glasses to do so. ‘I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time. In my estimation, with your song-writing abilities, your looks and talent, you can be the biggest black star in the country. You can be number one. And, with Blue Cadillac to guide you—’ He paused, allowing his words to sink in. ‘There is nothing you cannot achieve.’

Bobby was filled with mixed emotions. It wasn’t exactly discouraging to hear Marcus Citroen’s plans for him – if it wasn’t a trap. And yet, he knew he was being manipulated, and that didn’t sit well with him at all. Besides, he couldn’t imagine anything worse than being in a man like Marcus Citroen’s control. And how could he leave Soul On Soul and Amerika after all they had done for him?

Soul On Soul is holding you back
, an inner voice warned him.
Amerika Allen says your records can’t cross over, and you know damn well they can.

Yes. He knew it all right. Much as he loathed Marcus Citroen, Blue Cadillac were big enough to do it for him.

Besides, if he wanted to help Sharleen, he had no choice, did he? The decision was out of his hands.

Los Angeles

Saturday, July 11, 1987

The ride down Sunset was long and boring, but Kris didn’t mind. The limo was well stocked with every kind of alcoholic beverage, plus a VCR, a stack of tapes, and an excellent sound system including a compact disc player with a selection of the latest discs.

He put on Motown’s
Twenty-Five Number One Hits from Twenty-Five Years
, and would have settled back to enjoy The Temptations, The Four Tops, and Marvin Gaye – if Cybil hadn’t decided to be the life and soul of the party, and burst forth with a running commentary on her day.

The Hawk seemed interested enough. He leaned forward in the seat facing her, looking immaculate in a white silk dinner jacket, with his perfect tan and ultra-white capped teeth. Tombstone teeth, Kris thought, all the better to gobble you up with.

The Hawk was not a handsome man, but he certainly made the best of what he had. He was married, with a wife who lived permanently in Buenos Aires and only came to Los Angeles once a year. Every six weeks the Hawk got on a plane and visited her for a long weekend. A rather strange arrangement, but one that seemed to work, for they had been together for fifteen years.

It did not prevent the Hawk from being a player. He had a stable of luscious girlfriends – none of them a day over twenty-two. Although rumour had it that he merely liked to be seen with them – nothing else.

‘So . . .’ Cybil continued excitedly. ‘Jerry doesn’t take any shit from anyone – well maybe from Mick, but that’s about it. Anyway – she looked this guy straight in the eye – like a real confrontation stare, y’know what I mean? And then she said in that crazed drawl of hers – “Honey, the screwin’ you’d get ain’t
nothin
’ compared to the screwin’ you’d get!” ’

The Hawk laughed. He was amused by Cybil’s inside gossip about the world of modelling.

Frankly, Kris didn’t want to know. Glancing at his watch he asked irritably, ‘Are we nearly there?’

‘Relax,’ the Hawk said. ‘Sit back. Enjoy yourself. It’s a beautiful day.’

When wasn’t it a beautiful day in sunny California?

Fuck it. He wasn’t happy about this gig, and nothing was going to improve his mood.

*    *    *

‘Name?’ barked a fierce-looking guard as Maxwell Sicily got off the shuttle bus.

‘George Smith.’

The guard adjusted his opaque sunglasses, and checked out a long list. ‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Wear this.’ And he handed Maxwell Sicily a badge with
LILLIANE
’
S, GEORGE SMITH,
and a number printed on it.

Organized, Maxwell thought, but they would have been better off doing their homework.

‘Name?’ the guard asked Chloe.

‘I’m management. I don’t need a badge,’ she objected, with a haughty toss of her frazzled hair.

‘
Everyone
gotta have one,’ the guard said grimly. ‘Otherwise, lady,
you
ain’t goin’ nowhere.’

‘Hah!’ she said. ‘And who’s going to stop me?’

‘Lady, I am. Them’s the rules.’

Maxwell took the opportunity to move swiftly away, joining a group of waiters busy receiving instructions on where they were and were not allowed to go.

‘No cameras. No recording equipment. And no trespassing other than your allocated area,’ snapped the latest guard.

‘What if we wanna take a piss?’ asked one of the waiters.

There’s facilities.’

‘Oooh, and do
you
come with us, to hold our . . . uh . . . hand?’

The security guard did not crack a smile.

Maxwell followed the group to the back of one of the two main houses on the estate, where a makeshift open-air kitchen had been set up under a large tent. Chefs were busy organizing their equipment, while the waiters were being given a variety of jobs to do.

He got in line, and was instructed to help set out silverware. Grabbing a few boxes he followed a tall woman supervisor who was shouting out orders as she led the way down a narrow pathway to an enormous sunken area, where there were lots of round tables waiting for decoration, and a curved stage that looked like it was balanced right at the edge of the cliff.

By nightfall, with the fairy lights twinkling in the trees, the backdrop of clear sky, and the faint rush of the ocean, the effect was going to be spectacular.

A shame to ruin such a splendid evening, Maxwell reflected grimly. But they deserved it.

All of them.

*    *    *

The attention always made Rafealla faintly uneasy. People jumping at her every command. Didn’t they realize she was just like everyone else? Or were stars supposed to be different?

She hadn’t been a star long enough to quite get the hang of it. Maybe she should be more demanding, behave like a bitch, have hysterics and scream a lot. But that wasn’t her style.

‘Do you always do your own hair and makeup?’ Trudie, the publicity girl, asked curiously.

‘It’s easier if I do it myself,’ Rafealla replied, as the limousine turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway. She wished she could tell it to stop. She wanted to get out and run on the beach, or just sit on the sand watching the endlessly fascinating ocean.

For the last few months she hadn’t been able to do anything without being recognized. It was an outrageous invasion of privacy, and she didn’t enjoy it one bit. And yet she’d wanted it desperately, had craved fame with relentless dedication.

‘If I had a chance to have professionals get
me
together, I’d jump at it,’ Trudie admitted, reaching for an M&M candy set out in a small glass dish.

‘I’m sure Rafealla knows what she wants,’ said one of the record executives, shooting her a warning glare. Rule one – never criticize anything a celebrity does.

‘Uh, you know something – it’s disturbing,’ Rafealla said, feeling she had to explain herself. ‘Having a stranger paw at your face. I don’t like it.’

‘With a face like yours you don’t need it,’ Trudie observed grudgingly. ‘Me – they’d have to pile it on with a trowel and then some!’

Rafealla smiled faintly, and wished she was somewhere else.

*    *    *

Speed had no intenton of hitting on the Mexican broad in the tight red pants and halter top, but she was coming on to him with such force he’d have to be dead to resist her.

She sashayed past the parked limousine several times, wriggling her big ass and jiggling her tits, before finally saying, ‘Hiya, handsome. It’s a too hotta day to be sittin’ in a car.’

It was hot all right. He’d found a nice quiet side street off San Vincente. Residential. Nobody to bother him. First he’d eaten his chicken, then he’d studied both
Playboy
and
Penthouse
cover to cover.

Oh yes, it was hot. And when Miss Mexico tottered by on stiletto heels, he couldn’t help but notice her, and she
certainly
noticed him. Well, he had this magic with women, didn’t he? Sort of a Burt Reynolds magnetism without the looks.

Not that his looks were anything to complain about. Somebody had once told him he resembled Roy Scheider on speed.

He didn’t do drugs. Well, only sometimes. A few uppers, downers. A snort if he was feeling flush.

He wouldn’t mind a snort today,
and
a piece of fine Mexican ass.
Playboy
and
Penthouse
had gotten his engine revving.

Furtively sneaking a look at his watch he realized there was still time.

Miss Mexico hovered near the window, waiting for a go signal.

Speed knew he was irresistible to women. He also knew this one was a hooker – although what she was doing plying her trade in this respectable area in the middle of the afternoon was beyond him.

‘How much?’ he asked, trying to make up his mind whether to proceed or not.

‘Beeg good time or leetle good time?’ the woman leered, suggestively fingering one of her nipples.

‘Head.’

‘What?’

‘Suckee.’

‘Ah.’ She put a finger to her lips, touching it reverently with her tongue. ‘Twenny dollar.’