Authors: Jackie Collins
She looked at Buzz for approval. Laconically he nodded. Jumping off the old mattress where they lounged away most of the day, she smoothed down her crumpled blouse, added a miniskirt and floppy sandals, and scurried off.
Buzz drew deeply on the last of his joint, stubbed if out on the floor, and leaning back clasped both hands behind his head. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Start pissing me off.’
Kris knew how to play it. Turning away he said, ‘Hey, man. You wanna stay on your back all day gettin’ laid an’ stoned, I don’t care.’
‘It suits me,’ Buzz said stubbornly.
‘Good, ’cos I just wanted to be sure before I take off on my own.’
‘Whadderya mean – on your own?’ Buzz asked suspiciously.
‘If you think I’m goin’ to sit around here watchin’
you
get bed-bugs, you’re barmy. I’m settin’ somethin’ up with Ollie an’ Rasta, an’ there’s another bloke – he plays guitar – does vocals. He can take your place.’ A meaningful pause. ‘I just wanted to be certain you didn’t want in.’
‘Fuck!’ Buzz grumbled. ‘
What
other bloke?’
‘He’s an okay guy, you’ll like him. When we get our first gig you’ll come an’ see us.’
Buzz sat up. ‘Like hell I will.’
‘Course, he’s not quite as good as you, but with practice . . .’
‘Sod it!’ exclaimed Buzz, hauling himself off the bed, and throwing a dirty black shirt over stovepipe black jeans. ‘Yer won’t quit until yer got me. Let’s go.’
A few days later they had their group. And a name. The Wild Ones. Two lead guitars – Kris and Buzz. A bassist and sometime keyboard player – Ollie Stoltz. A dynamite drummer – Rasta Stanley. And vocals shared between Kris and Buzz.
They were all set to fly with nowhere to go.
‘Fuck!’ snarled Buzz. ‘We’d better get our freakin’ act together or die. I’ve
had
this being poor shit.’
All of a sudden Buzz had ambition. Kris decided it was a good sign.
Bobby Mondella
1968
‘You’re a fat lazy sonofabitch, an’ I don’ wan’ you livin’ with us no more. So pack your bags an’ git the hell
out.
’
So spoke Ernest Crystal, all six feet five inches of him. He had never forgiven Bobby for not laying the golden egg.
No way this boy goin’ nowhere’, cried Fanni, shaking chubby fists in his direction. ‘He
my
flesh,
my
blood, an’ the only way he done go is if n I say so.’
‘You arguing wit me, witch?’ demanded Ernest, glowering ferociously.
‘I’m jest sayin’ what’s right’, retorted Fanni, refusing to back down. ‘An’ don’ you be callin’
me
no names, Ernest Crystal. You watch your damn mouth.’
‘I’ll call you what I pleases, woman’, steamed Ernest.
Standing between them, Bobby felt as if he hardly existed. Neither of them cared about him. They merely enjoyed using him as a prop for their never-ending fights. He had lived with them for two years, and throughout that period Ernest had tried to throw him out more than a dozen times, with Cousin Fanni always springing to his defence. She did not do it out of love – more a bitter desire never to let Ernest get the better of her.
‘The day this’n boy goes,
you
go’, she announced spitefully, glaring at Erriest.
Bobby hoped she knew what she was saying, because in one week it was his eighteenth birthday – and as soon as that day came, he was out of there.
For two years now he had been working in the men’s room at the Chainsaw discotheque, and he had learned plenty. Being locked up in Nashville all those years, being looked after by Mr Leon Rue, had taught him exactly nothing.
‘You-all are
dumb
, boy’, Ernest Crystal often said, and in the beginning he was right. ‘Sweet Little Bobby’ was about as dumb as they came.
Working at the Chainsaw gave him the opportunity to see life as it really was, and he soon began to get a whole lot smarter – fast. The fact was, he had to. Surviving the rigours of the Chainsaw’s men’s room was like treading through a mine-field in lead boots. The last thing people came in for was a simple pee. They entered the men’s room for many different purposes – the number one reason being to score drugs. Bobby cottoned on to that the first night he worked there when he tried to stop a major sale and nearly got fired for his trouble.
‘listen, kid,’ Nichols Kline, the manager, told him. ‘You clean up piss, you clean up shit, you stop any fights, an’ you keep your mouth tightly zipped.
Don’t
interfere with the customers, an’ they won’t interfere with you. Got it?’
Yes, he got it, especially when he heard about the last men’s room attendant, who’d had his face carved up by an irate drug dealer claiming the attendant was ripping him off by selling his own stash.
‘Keep clean an’ you’ll stay alive’, a white waiter called Rocket Fabrizzi warned him. ‘They’re hirin’ kids now ’cos it’s a tough pace. The guy before the last one had a heart attack an’ dropped dead over the crapper. Oh, an’ you’d better watch out for your ass. Don’t get caught with your pants around your ankles.’
Bobby didn’t figure that one out for several weeks, until he had to fight off an overexcited old queen who kept on crooning, ‘I just
adoooore
chubbos, especially
black
ones. I’ll give you three hundred dollars and a simply
delicious
time!’ And so he learned. They came in to—
Buy
Sell
Cruise
Talk about sex
Pop pills
Sniff cocaine
Have sex
Smoke a joint
Throw up
Shoot up
You name it, they did it.
At least once a night Bobby had to eject some drunken but willing female who was either sitting across a guy’s lap in the one John with a door, or giving all and sundry a blow job.
Dull it wasn’t.
Sordid it was.
However, it certainly afforded him a crash course in survival. He’d lied about his age to get the job – making himself three years older than he actually was. And once he had it, he was determined to stay, because working at the Chainsaw certainly wasn’t ordinary.
The Chainsaw was the first of the really large discotheques – a vast two-storey emporium of flashing strobe lights, outrageously loud music (sometimes live groups, mostly records). It had hot-looking bartenders in black bell-bottom pants with skin-tight white vests, and equally hot-looking waitresses in leather mini-dresses.
The Chainsaw was what hip New Yorkers called a happening place. It catered to the rich, famous, and infamous – most of them notorious for never picking up a cheque. And to pay the bills it also catered to whoever looked beautiful enough or bizarre enough or outlandish enough to gain entry. In other words – no polyester crowd ever broke through the heavily guarded doors of the Chainsaw. And the word ‘tourist’ was
never
mentioned.
‘I gotta go to work,’ Bobby announced, squeezing past his cousin Fanni, who had now launched into a loud tirade about Ernest’s disgusting bathroom habits.
They both ignored him as he left.
He was sweating as he walked towards the subway and he knew why. Anyone would sweat carrying around the extra weight he packed, and he’d finally decided to do something about it. A new waitress had started work at the club a few weeks earlier. Her name was Sharleen. She was black, about twenty-three, and she was gorgeous. Bobby was in love. The only problem was she had no idea he existed. Every time he tried to talk to her she gave him a blank look as if she’d never set eyes on him before.
On quiet nights he studied his reflection in the ornate mirror above the line of porcelain sinks in the men’s room. When he was ‘Sweet Little Bobby’ the chubbiness kind of suited him – it went nicely with his white sequinned stage suits and modified Afro. Now, at nearly eighteen, and growing taller every day, he looked like a huge blob. ‘Fat Big Bobby’ could be his new title.
Living with Fanni was no help. The woman loved to cook. Grease was her middle name – even the once muscular Ernest was getting fatter by the minute.
Bobby knew he had to move on. If he stayed with Fanni and Ernest, he’d remain fat forever, and there was
no way
Sharleen would notice him.
He had his plans. Rocket, the waiter, had promised there might be a bed available in his basement apartment as his roommate was leaving. Bobby had said he’d take it – and handed over a month’s rent in advance. Unfortunately, every time he asked what was happening, Rocket had a ready excuse. Finally Bobby insisted he move in on his birthday or get his money back. Rocket had promised everything would be worked out.
Arriving at the club, Bobby found the usual frantic staff activity. Friday night was the hottest night of the week. It was also the night the celebrities came out to play before taking off for long restful weekends.
Hurrying straight to his supply cupboard, he checked out boxes of Kleenex, soap, clean towels, packets of Durex, and bottles of cheap aftershave.
‘Bobby,’ said Nichols Kline, the manager, appearing at his side.
‘Yes, Mr Kline?’ Bobby replied alertly. He had this lingering fear that one of these night he would get fired, and would be unable to afford to move away from Fanni and Ernest.
‘I’m puttin’ you in charge of the private men’s room tonight,’ Nichols Kline said. He was a tall, jumpy-looking man in his thirties, with a shock of abundant rust-coloured curls and a Captain Hook nose. He had the reputation of being a formidable stud, and was often to be found behind locked office doors with any female of his choice. ‘Seymour’s out sick. Can you handle it?’
Jumping to attention, Bobby said, ‘Yes,
sir.
’
The private men’s room. Wow! He wondered what was wrong with Seymour, the usual attendant. He hadn’t missed a night since Bobby worked there.
‘Just take it easy, play it cool, an’ let ’em do what they want,’ Nichols said, lustfully eyeing a passing waitress.
Oh God! He’s checking out Sharleen, thought Bobby.
She sashayed by with a pert, ‘Good evening, Mr Kline,’ failing to notice Bobby.
‘Famous people – y’know, like singers, film stars; society folk. Well . . . they’re different,’ Nichols explained. ‘You gotta leave ’em alone, yet be right there if they want anything.’ He scratched inside his shirt, jangling a few gold chains. ‘Never stare. They don’t like that. And
no autographs –
even if it’s for your dying mother in Nebraska. Got it?’
‘Yes, Mr Kline.’
‘Oh, an’ if they do any drugs, just ignore it.’ Casually he added, ‘Of course, if they wanna score you can send ’em to me.
No
selling. One complaint, kid, an’ you’re
out.
I don’t care
how
many years you’ve worked here.’
‘Yes,
sir
!’
For one brief second Bobby thought about telling Nichols he had once been a famous person himself. Minor league, of course, but he’d had his moments.
Common sense told him to forget it. Firstly Nichols would never believe him. And secondly, what did he have to gain by letting everyone know he was a has-been?
No. His secret was locked deep within him. Since leaving Nashville and Mr Rue he had not sung one note or written one word. Music was his past. It had to stay that way.
The private men’s room – or Seymour’s Palace as it was known around the club – was a Deco fantasy of black granite floors, black marble washstands, shining urinals, and silver walls adorned with framed sepia photographs of Marilyn Monroe – caught at every stage of her career. Nichols handed Bobby a key to Seymour’s famous locked cupboard, and there he found atomizers of expensive aftershaves and colognes, the finest hair brushes and combs, a half-filled bottle of Courvoisier, a glassine envelope containing a white illegal substance – probably cocaine – and an assortment of mixed pills.
Bobby shoved the cocaine and the pills to the back of the cupboard, took out what he needed as far as supplies were concerned, and locked up. He had never had much contact with Seymour, a short, dour black man in his fifties, who – the rest of the staff informed him – only enjoyed talking to his famous clientele.
After setting up, Bobby made his way down to the kitchen, where the staff had an early dinner before the club opened.
Rocket waved to him, so collecting a plate of pasta from an assistant chef he went to sit with his waiter friend.
Rocket was an aspiring actor from the school of method acting. He was of Italian origin, in his early twenties, with long, greasy hair, and darting, inquisitive eyes. ‘I hear you got lucky tonight,’ he said in his flat, nasal voice. ‘Upstairs doin’ big time, huh?’
That’s right.’
‘Shame you didn’t know about it earlier. If you’d known you could’ve come prepared.’ He dropped his tone to a low whisper. ‘You could’ve done us both a favour.’
‘I
am
prepared’, Bobby said.
‘Naw,’ Rocket explained, ‘you’re not gettin’ my drift. In the private John y’can
really
get a score goin’. They got big bucks, an’ they ain’t got nothin’ to do with ’em but buy. Why d’ya think Seymour never socializes? The creep is a fartin’ king up there. Makes a fortune.’ He looked furtively around before continuing. ‘Give me an hour – if I can get someone to cover for me I’ll try t’get everything you’re gonna need. Then we’ll split your take – fifty-fifty.’
Bobby didn’t want to get into selling drugs. He was smart enough to know it only led to trouble. Besides, Nichols Kline had already warned him.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Like it’s too dangerous, man. I don’t wanna risk my job.’
‘You’ll risk your fartin’ job if you
don’t
give ’em what they want,’ Rocket said knowledgeably. ‘Hey – old Seymour’s lasted a long time up there, right? He gives those famous fuckers pronto service, an’ if you don’t – believe me – you’re
out.
They’re
mean
rich motherfuckers.’
Bobby thought about Seymour’s locked cupboard. Maybe there was something in what Rocket had to say after all.
‘C’mon, Bobby, we gotta make a killin’,’ Rocket pleaded, sensing a weakness. ‘Maybe we only got tonight – so let’s go for it, huh?’