Rock Star (3 page)

*    *    *

Speed liked money. Only one snag. Money didn’t seem to like him. Every time he made a bundle – something happened. He’d win at the track and some big-boobed bimbo would take it all from him. He’d score in Vegas. Whammo! A showgirl or two would step into the picture and it was all over. When he worked legitimately, which wasn’t a steady activity, his ex-wife’s lawyer was on his case within hours of his first paycheck. What was it with him and his freakin’ luck? He just couldn’t figure it out.

And then, one day, a meeting came to pass with a dude named George Smith, and Speed finally
knew
his fortunes were about to make a drastic U-turn. There was a big job going down, and George Smith wanted him in, because, goddammit, Speed was the best freakin’ driver in the whole of Southern California, and let nobody forget it.

There had been several meetings since the first one, and now today was D-Day, and Speed knew exactly what he had to do.

Dressing carefully in the grey chauffeur’s uniform he had hired from a Hollywood costumiers, he admired his reflection in the long hall mirror of his one-room apartment.

So he wasn’t very tall. Big freakin’ deal. Nor was Dustin Hoffman.

So the hairline was receding. Big freakin’ deal. Mr Burt Reynolds had the same problem.

So he had the features of an inquisitive ferret. Was Al Pacino a matinee idol?

Speed creamed over the way he looked. As far as he was concerned he was a real ladykiller. And when he had the money to back up his imagined charm, he was a hotshot with women. All women except his ex-wife – a platinum blonde stripper with bazoombas to break a man’s heart, and nagging to break a man’s balls.

Speed thought the uniform looked pretty ritzy on him – he admired himself for quite a few minutes before turning to other matters at hand. There were things to do before the evening’s big caper.

He nodded to himself knowingly. This was the big score he had been waiting for all his life, and there was no way he was going to blow it.

*    *    *

Vicki Foxe had a strong urge to kick the grinning jackass security chief in the balls. Men. Sex. That’s all they ever thought about. Most of them, anyway. There
were
exceptions – few and far between, and those always turned out to be the ones who played hard to get.

For a moment Vicki allowed herself to think about Maxwell Sicily – now
he
was an exception. Of course, he’d crap in his pants if he ever thought she knew his true identity – but who the hell did he think he was dealing with anyway? Some dumb dingbat with big tits? Oh no. When Vicki Foxe got involved in a business caper, she
knew
what it was all about.

George Smith, my ass
, she’d thought, when he first contacted her. And it didn’t take her long to find out his real name. It never took Vicki long to find out anything.

‘Are y’all wearin’ a bra, sweetie?’ The beefy man leered, staring bug-eyed at her greatest assets.

Up yours, dickhead
, she thought.
What a cretin!

If he ever saw her at her best he would go into cardiac arrest without pausing to make a will. Right now, skilfully disguised as a maid, she looked her worst. Her bright red hair was scraped back in a bun. She wore little makeup on her face. And her truly sensational body (39D cup, small waist and accommodating hips) was mostly concealed beneath a drab maid’s uniform.

‘Don’t be so nosey, Tom,’ she scolded, flirtatiously batting her eyelids at him, forgetting that she was not wearing the sweeping false lashes she usually favoured. ‘It’s none of your business, big boy.’

Tom was chief of security on the Citroens’ vast ocean-side estate, and already – after Vicki had only worked there for six weeks – he was hot to do anything she might ask in exchange for a sexual favour or two.

‘I’d sure like ta find out,’ he drooled.

‘Well . . .’ Suggestively licking her lips, she gave him a little body brush. ‘Whatcha doin’ later?’

They both had a good laugh at that one. Later was the big concert . . . the giant event. Tom would be up to his eyebrows handling massive security arrangements.

‘If only we could watch the concert together,’ Vicki sighed, deliberately popping a button on her uniform, and then another, and then – very slowly – another.

Tom almost choked on his coffee. ‘You’ve got great ti—’ he began.

Somebody walked into the service kitchen and he shut up.

Vicki quickly turned away, doing up her buttons. She could hear Tom’s heavy breathing all the way out the door. And when the time came to take care of him, it would be no problem. Absolutely no problem at all.

*    *    *

Across town, Maxwell Sicily reported for work at Lilliane’s, the exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant. Maxwell Sicily was twenty-nine years old, five feet eleven, one hundred and forty pounds, and of Sicilian origin. His hair was patent-leather black and greased back. His eyes were brooding and close set. His nose was too long, and his mouth too thin. But the overall effect was of a certain cold handsomeness. He looked like the son of a mob boss.

He
was
the son of the infamous Carmine Sicily – one of the top drug king-pins in Miami.

Father and son did not speak. Maxwell had come to California to make it on his own. He’d certainly had the right training.

‘Hiya, George,’ said Chloe, the pudgy woman supervisor who sat behind the desk at Lilliane’s answering the phones and keeping a sharp eye on the waiters as they punched in.

Maxwell nodded. At work they knew him only as George Smith – a suitable pseudonym.

‘Hot today, isn’t it?’ Chloe said, coquettishly fanning her drooping bosom with a copy of
People
magazine.

Maxwell ignored her, thought better of it and nodded a curt ‘Yes.’

‘I never got to ask you before,’ she said quickly, glad of an opportunity to chat with the handsome waiter whom she’d had her eye on ever since he started work there. ‘You’re an actor, aren’t you?’ She gazed at him hopefully. ‘I’m right, huh? I can always spot ‘em.’

Maxwell repeated his nod. Thank God this was the last day he had to put up with this. Tomorrow he would be on a plane to Brazil with a king’s ransom supplied courtesy of Mr and Mrs Marcus Citroen. Maxwell Sicily couldn’t wait.

Kris Phoenix: London

1965

Chris Pierce celebrated his sixteenth birthday three weeks after being expelled from school. He hit the streets with a vengeance, changing his name to Kris Phoenix because he wanted – more than anything else in the world – to be a rock star.

His entire family thought it was the dumbest thing they’d ever heard. Out of school and out of work, he was not the most popular member of the household. Both his older sisters called him a lazy layabout. His stepfather said he should get himself a job and throw away the third-hand guitar he’d been strumming since he was thirteen. And his brother, Brian – considered the prince of the family because he’d landed a job as a bank clerk the moment he’d left school four years earlier – said, ‘Come off it, deadbeat. You’re never goin’ to get anywhere with your lousy voice and stupid guitar. Pack it in, make mum happy for once.’

Mum. Kris wondered why it always had to come back to mum. Everyone knew she ruled the family with her loud voice and sarcastic tongue, but she hardly ever gave him a hard time and it pissed them all off. Especially Brian, who liked to think of himself as her favourite.

The truth was, Avis Pierce was secretly pleased her youngest son showed signs of wanting to do something different. She had worked as a cleaner in other people’s homes since she was fourteen, and was proud of the fact she’d done that
and
raised a family. Shortly after Kris was born his father was killed in an industrial accident, and for six years Avis had got by on her own. It was tough with four hungry kids to feed, but she’d managed, until eventually she met and married Horace Pierce, a bus driver, and a brave man to take on the responsibility of a woman with four children.

Kris had no memories of his real father. Just a faded snapshot of himself balanced on his dad’s knee when he was a few months old. His father appeared to be quite a lad with his spiky hair and crooked grin.

‘Ah, yes,’ Avis would often say, a faraway gleam in her eyes. ‘’E was a real caution – your old man. Give ’im a beer an’ a smoke an’ ’e was ’appy as a pig in muck. H was a wicked bugger!’

Avis had a way with words.

Kris wished he’d known the father he looked just like. He never seemed to be able to communicate with Horace – who spent most of his waking hours glued in front of the television.

While he was growing up, Kris spent a lot of time with his mum. When he was a kid she used to take him with her on her rounds. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays she cleaned the Edwards’ house on smart Hamilton Terrace. And Tuesdays and Thursdays, around the corner on Carlton Hill, she ‘did’ for Mr Terry Terence, a show business agent.

The Edwards lived in a five-storey luxury house, with a permanent maid and butler. Avis was brought in to do the hard work, such as polishing floors, cleaning windows, and taking care of the laundry. Kris liked it best when the Edwards had one of their frequent dinner parties, and early the next morning he was sent around the living room and the library to empty all the ashtrays. At eight years of age, pocketing the cigarette butts and producing them at school made him quite popular with the other lads.

The Edwards had two daughters, snobbish little fair-haired girls. Kris developed a crush on both of them, but they never gave him the time of day.

Mr Terry Terence was his favourite. Avis liked him too. ‘A real gent,’ she was fond of saying.

‘He’s a pansy!’ Horace used to sneer whenever his name came up.

It wasn’t until Kris reached the ripe old age of ten that he found out what a pansy was.

Mr Terence was an interesting man. He had an autographed picture of Little Richard in a pewter frame on his desk, and a large poster of Johnnie Ray in his hallway.

‘Who’s Johnnie Ray?’ Kris asked one day.

‘Johnnie Ray is the best bloody singer in the whole bloody world!’ Avis replied with gusto. ‘I saw ’im at the Palladium once. Nearly wet me pants, din’t I.’

Mr Terence thought that was most amusing. He gave Kris two Johnnie Ray singles, and threw in an Elvis Presley for good measure.

Kris listened to them on his sister’s record player. He hated Johnnie Ray, was crazy for Elvis, and decided then and there – he was eleven years old – he would be a singer and learn to play the guitar.

Now, five years later, he was trying to do just that. Only it wasn’t easy. In 1965 teenage boys with aspirations to rock and roll were everywhere. Ever since the giant success of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones every Young Turk in England fancied himself as a future international rock star. The only difference was that Kris was dedicated, and thought of nothing else. Not even girls.

‘Ain’t it about time yer got a leg over?’ his best friend, Buzz Darke, asked one day. ‘I got two little darlin’s lined up fer later. Whyn’t yer come with?’

Buzz was always trying to drag him along on his girl-finding missions. Kris preferred to practise his guitar in the dank and dusty back garage attached to the old house Buzz lived in with his divorced mother.

‘I thought we were goin’ to play tonight’, Kris said accusingly. ‘You promised me.’

‘Not
every
night we can’t,’ Buzz replied in exasperation. ‘Cor! I don’t believe it! Ain’t yer interested in crumpet?’

‘It’s more important getting our group together,’ Kris said stubbornly. ‘If all you want to do is chase scrubbers instead of practisin’ – fat chance we got of ever gettin’ anywhere.’

‘Balls! I need t’get me leg over!’

‘I’ll practise without you then.’

‘Good. An’
I’ll
tell yer wotcha missed.’

‘I’m pantin’ t’hear,’ Kris replied sarcastically.

At seventeen, a year older than Kris, Buzz Darke had developed a look all his own. He never wore anything that wasn’t black. He never smiled. He was thin and agile as a snake, and had a bruised, satanic look. Girls loved him.

Kris loved him too, because they were soul-mates when it came to music. They could spend hours on end discussing the merits of The Rolling Stones as opposed to the Yardbirds. Or was Bob Dylan’s latest album better than The Beatles? And who was the greatest soul singer in the world – Sam Cooke or Otis Redding?

Also, Buzz could play a mean guitar – not quite up to Kris’s standard, but pretty impressive all the same.

Kris had decided long ago he couldn’t be bothered with girls. He had his guitar, his singing, and his treasured import record collection. That was his life. Besides, he always came off like dunce of the year whenever he got anywhere near a female. At school he’d never been able to understand any of them, and once he’d even caught two of them discussing him. ‘That Chris Pierce is a weirdo,’ one had said. ‘Yeah,’ the other replied. ‘He’s got ’orrible starey eyes. Wouldn’t like to come across
’im
on a dark night!’

That overheard conversation, plus the sneering giggles of the two little Edwards girls over the years, put him off the female sex altogether. Anyway, what did they know about music? Exactly nothing.

Buzz had set up a rehearsal room in the garage of his house. There was a third-hand drum set he had cadged off an uncle, a large tape recorder Kris had found on a garbage dump and promptly repaired, their joint collection of records, and an ace stereo with giant speakers, a gift from Buzz’s mum, Daphne – an emaciated-looking woman who wore too much makeup, constantly chain-smoked, and worked as a hostess in a Soho nightclub.

Kris liked Mrs Darke, although she didn’t seem at all mumsy with her stiletto heels and all-black outfits. In a funny sort of way she looked exactly like an older, female version of her son.

Sometimes, when Kris and Buzz were locked into their music, playing guitar riffs along with Chuck Berry – the great Chuck, who had taught them more than any music academy ever could – she would enter the garage and stand silently by the peeling paint of the old double doors. ‘Hmmm . . . not bad,’ she would say when they’d finished. ‘You boys are going to get somewhere one of these days.’