‘I gotta go,’ Bobby said.
‘Yeah. One minute. Where’s my Pammy? She’ll want to say good night.’ Stopping another waitress he said, ‘Where’s Miss Booser?’
False eyelashes fluttered. ‘I don’t know, Mr Kline.’
‘Find out, an’ get her for me.’
‘Yes, Mr Kline.’
‘Bobby.’ Nichols leaned towards him, confidentially lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘Think about my offer. It’s the greatest. We’re the greatest. What a combination we’d be!’
‘Sure,’ Bobby said dully. He’d had it with the noise and the smoke, and most of all Nichols’s stinking revelations.
Pammy appeared, fake smile in place, lipstick smudged, Nichols would never know she’d been giving the disc jockey head in the store room while he took his ten-minute break. ‘Bye,’ she said, with an affected wave.
Nichols pinched her cheek. ‘What a girl!’
Out of there, in the limo, home and bed. Smokey Robinson on the stereo, and a glass of scotch by his side.
Bobby tossed and turned, unable to sleep. It had been a disturbing evening. Too many memories. Too many old times.
Eventually he had to get up and take a comfortingly warm shower. Only then did he feel better.
Finally he fell asleep.
Los Angeles
Saturday, July 11, 1987
I’m not doin’ press,’ Kris said stubbornly. ‘No way, Jose. You can take the reporters an’ shove ’em up your ass.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Phoenix,’ Norton St John replied politely. ‘And if only I had the room, I’d be more than happy to oblige.’
Kris couldn’t help cracking a grin – after all, he was dealing with a fellow Englishman, and he’d always had a soft spot for the gay brigade. Not that he’d ever been tempted to join them, but most of them were witty and well informed, and knew a hell of a lot more about what was going on in the world than the civilian population. Also they loved his records. He even had a gay fan club based in Denmark.
‘Look,’ he said, trying to explain. ‘Talkin’ to reporters wasn’t part of the deal. Tell ’im, Hawk.’
The Hawk nodded. ‘Whatever you want, Kris,’ he said smoothly, pausing for a moment before adding, ‘Although with the release of the new album, and the film talks taking place right now, it wouldn’t be a bad move. This is such a prestigious event. And I’m sure that Rafealla and Bobby Mondella will be speaking to the press.’
‘They certainly will,’ Norton St John said confidently, in spite of the fact he had not received a yes from either of them. His demeanour was cool and collected, although what exactly was he supposed to say to a select group of press and television interviewers when he couldn’t come up with one star willing to answer their questions?
‘I’ll meet them,’ Cybil suggested brightly. ‘They love me. I don’t mean to sound immodest, but ever since the Sports Illustrated cover, they’re all over me.’
‘No!’ Kris said, picking at a bunch of grapes.
‘Why?’ pouted Cybil.
‘’Cos I’ve decided t’do it. I’ll give ’em five minutes.’ He turned to the Hawk. ‘An’ set some ground rules. I’m not gonna answer any questions about The Wild Ones, Buzz, Doktor Head, or her.’ He jerked his head in Cybil’s direction.
‘Why not me?’ she demanded hotly.
‘My fans don’t like it.’
‘How ridiculous!’
‘An’ all those assholes jerkin’ off over your picture probably don’t like it either. Single is sexy. I learned that one a long time ago.’ Swooping a whole bunch of grapes from the dish, he crushed them into his mouth. ‘Saw this in a French movie once,’ he explained between chews. ‘It’s the only way to eat ’em.’
The Hawk tried not to look offended at his star’s lack of etiquette. Rock stars. They were all the same. Street kids with money to burn and the manners of pigs.
Norton St John heaved a hidden sigh of relief. ‘May I suggest we get it over and done with. The press are all assembled.’
‘Okay. You come too, Hawk. Cybil, plant your ass here. I mean it.’
She wanted to argue, it was written all over her pretty face. Californian golden girls were always supposed to get their own way. This just wasn’t fair.
* * *
Maxwell Sicily, ever watchful, fell back into position without anyone noticing he had been missing for over twenty minutes. Chloe found him shortly after. ‘Quick’, she said, tugging anxiously at his sleeve. ‘Bobby Mondella’s rehearsing, come and watch.’
‘I’m working,’ he said, shaking her hand off.
‘That’s all right. I say you can take a ten-minute break.’
The woman was a pest. She’d better stop bothering him, for there was no way he was going to allow her to screw up his plans.
‘I’d better tell you something,’ he said shortly. ‘I’m married.’
Without hesitation she jumped in with, ‘An’ I bet your wife don’t understand you.’
‘Yes, she does,’ he answered quickly. Disappointment crossed her puffy face, but it didn’t stop her. ‘I can’t spot a wedding ring,’ she said accusingly.
Anger flickered behind his blank eyes. ‘Neither of us believe in useless symbols.’
‘I bet you don’t believe in weddin’ certificates either. On your fact sheet – the one you filled out when you came to work at Lilliane’s – you said you was single. What is it? One of them hippie marriages?’
She was asking to be broken in pieces. ‘I guess you could call it that.’
Chloe grimaced, all crooked teeth and a crafty expression. ‘Well, George, let me tell you somethin’. As long as it’s not legal you’re fair game.’ Once more she grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Come on, we’re gonna see Bobby Mondella rehearse. An’ that’s an order from management.’
* * *
He’s something, isn’t he?’ Trudie sighed, watching Bobby Mondella, as his powerful, haunting voice filled the air.
‘Yes,’ murmured Rafealla, ‘he really is.’
‘I guess this is his first appearance in public since the accident.’
Rafealla nodded.
‘Do you know him?’ Trudie ventured.
‘Uh . . . I used to.’
What kind of a reply was that? Either you knew someone or you didn’t. ‘Well . . .’ Trudie said ‘I never saw one of his concerts before, but I’ve heard he had the horniest act going. I expect he’ll have to change that now.’
Rafealla didn’t bother to reply. She was too caught up with the joy of seeing him again. He looked wonderful. Thank God – above all else – Bobby Mondella was a survivor.
* * *
Speed couldn’t believe it. His luck he had to pick a street where the Mexican house-man of some rich couple who were away jiving in Europe had set the place up as a brothel, with three under-age illegal aliens doing duty as flavours of the month. What a break! The street was crawling with vice, busting asses. They wanted it all. The house-man. The girls. Even the clients. He made it in the third category.
Finally, after hours of dumb questions, they allowed him to call a lawyer. He knew this one guy – a shyster, charged a month of steak dinners – but he was fast.
‘Get me the fuck outta here,’ he pleaded on the phone. ‘Like yesterday.’
‘I’m in the middle of a family reunion,’ the lawyer said testily, wondering how a weasel-shit client like Speed had managed to obtain his home phone number.
‘I don’t give a piss if you’re jerkin’ off the President! Get me outta here!’ screamed Speed. ‘I’ll pay double – treble. Just do it!’
An’ there’s heat
An’ there’s woman
An’ then . . . baby . . . there’s you
Bobby sang the song with as little effort as possible – saving himself for the real thing later on – just going through the motions to make sure the excellent musicians hired for the evening had his arrangement down pat, and everything sounded right. Sara had told him Ra
fealla wanted to watch him rehearse. ‘That’s okay,’ he’d said. He had to face people sometime, and tonight was as good a time as any.
He felt strong and fit. Ready for anything.
Successfully he’d passed test number one. A confrontation with Nova. Short. Not so sweet.
Sara hadn’t commented. She’d just led him quickly away when he’d told her to. He wished she had said something. A bitchy remark would be better than her long-suffering silence.
These thoughts went through his mind as he automatically sang the lyrics.
Was Nova standing out there watching him?
Stop thinking about her, man.
Was Marcus around? Was the son of a bitch watching too?
He blew the lyric, touched his dark glasses, and tried to concentrate on the music alone. It wasn’t as easy as he made it seem.
* * *
Vicki mingled, enjoying the frantic activity and general hubbub. Working as a maid at Novaroen was dull stuff up until today. If she breathed very deeply she could smell freedom. Wow! The first thing she was going to do was pile on the makeup, get dressed up in her fanciest outfit, and go out and get laid.
Bobby Mondella was rehearsing. What a voice! What a guy! Now she wouldn’t mind a piece of that.
Grinning to herself, she spotted Maxwell Sicily with some blowsy red-headed broad clinging to his arm.
That stopped her in her tracks. Maxwell hadn’t mentioned anyone else being involved. Dammit! Why was she feeling sharp stabs of jealousy?
* * *
‘I’m going to change,’ Nova Citroen said to her husband. ‘Our guests will be arriving soon. May I suggest you do the same.’
Marcus stared penetratingly at his wife. She was still an extremely attractive woman, no doubt about it. Even in her forties she had lost none of her seductive allure. The same allure that first attracted him to her all those years ago in Hamburg.
If only the world knew what the elegant Mrs Citroen was when he initially set eyes on her. A whore. A putain. Highly paid and highly skilled. A mistress of her art.
The first time he went to bed with her was almost a religious experience. She allowed him the freedom of mind and body women had always denied him. She encouraged him to live out his fantasies with an abandon he had not thought himself capable of. She coaxed him further than he had ever been before. And he loved every moment of her relentless discipline.
When she returned to visit him the next day, she manoeuvred a delicate switch of roles. Somehow she psyched into exactly what he needed, and this time he became the pain master, and she took what he handed out with exactly the right degree of controlled anguish.
A week in her company and he’d thought that would be it. But upon returning to America, he found he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Nobody had ever satisfied him the way Nova did.
Of course, she was not called Nova then. Her hair was dark. Her nose was hardly the fine patrician shape it was today. And she was heavier, quite comely in fact.
He’d brought her to Paris, where he set her up in a secluded apartment and one by one exposed her to beauty experts in every field.
At the same time he hired a language teacher, and an elderly English woman who was most discreet and specialized in etiquette. He also engaged several other experts on everything from paintings to wine.
The one thing he could not teach her about was sex. When it came to pleasing him, her instinct was always right.
He married her exactly eighteen months after their first encounter. By that time she was a lady.
Just what he had always desired. A lady in the drawing room and a whore in the bedroom. He had the best of both worlds.
Now he wanted Rafealla. And whatever Marcus Citroen wanted, he got. Always.
Kris Phoenix
1981
‘’Ere,’ said Buzz in a slurred voice. ‘There’s more ’igh-class pussy lyin’ around in the other room than I’ve ever seen. An’ askin’ for it. Bleedin’ beggin ’. Wot we gonna do, mate?’ he asked gloomily. ‘I only got one cock.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Kris, staring at Buzz’s reflection in the mirror of the luxury hotel bathroom in Chicago. ‘And I’m surprised y’can still get it up, the amount of blow you’re doin’.’
Buzz laughed, a crazed, satanic laugh, touching his forehead with a gesture of deference. ‘I forgot, din’t I? I’m in the presence of Mister friggin’ Clean. Smokes a joint an’ freaks out.’
‘I don’t get off on drugs,’ Kris said wearily. ‘How many times d’you want me to say I’m sorry for not rollin’ around like some piss-assed zombie? Screw it, man. Sometimes you get on my fuckin’ nerves. All you wan’ to do is get stoned an’ laid.’
Buzz made a face. ‘’Ave you come up with any better ideas?’
‘Yeah. Take some time out to rehearse. The other night in Boston, you played like some sloppy kid auditioning for his first gig.’
‘Crap!’
‘Think about it.’
‘Bullshit. We just got the best friggin’ review of our lives in friggin’ Newsweek. The Yanks love our Limey asses. We’re frig-gin’ superstars here. Just wot you wanted, huh?’ As if to bait Kris, he took a small packet of cocaine from the pocket of his leather jacket and laid out several lines of the loose white powder. Then he rolled a hundred-dollar bill and snorted each thin, powdered strip with greedy satisfaction.
Kris turned away. He knew what was happening to Buzz. He didn’t have to watch.
Worldwide fame.
American fame.
Success.
Adulation.
Yeah, they had it all now. Everything he’d always dreamed of. And it was a kick. If you wanted to spend your life joined at the hip to three other people – plus Doktor Head and an evergrowing entourage.
The Wild Ones.
Super Group.
With an appeal somewhere between The Beatles – long broken up – and The Rolling Stones – still rocking when they felt like it.
The Wild Ones.
They covered every base.
Kris Phoenix. Raunchy rocker, with a charismatic stage presence, a wild throaty voice, and a magic touch on his guitar.
Buzz Darke. He inspired a cult following. The Americans loved his devilish looks and brilliant guitar work.
Rasta Stanley. Black. Funny. Sexy.
And Fingers. A tough little female with a genuine rock and roll talent.
We couldn’t have put it together any better, Kris thought. We’re the mix everyone was waiting for.
Buzz flipped up the collar of his leather jacket, pushing his way to the bathroom door. ‘I’m joinin’ the party,’ he said. ‘Whyn’t you do the same? It’s wot it’s all about, ennit?’
Yeah. Maybe, Kris thought.
When they’d first hit it in America, he’d gone crazy, just like the rest of them. He’d laid his way from New York to Los Angeles with absolutely no problem at all. Amazing groupies. The super-cunts, as Doktor Head endearingly christened them. Luscious lovelies with nothing on their mind except climbing into bed with a rock star. In the sack they name-dropped as much as they could.
Well . . . when I was in San Francisco with Mick . . .
Keith was the greatest. I’m telling you – that man could party ’til he dropped . . .
David is the most brilliant human being I ever met . . .
Buzz and Rasta completely freaked. They couldn’t get enough. But after the initial thrill of having more or less any girl he wanted, Kris grew bored, preferring to hang out with the roadies, drinking beer and watching sports on TV. American television blew his mind. So many stations to choose from, and twenty-four-hour action. Horace would have a heart attack. In England the three channels shut down before midnight with a stern newscaster daring you to argue.
Goodnight.
Sleep tight.
Fuck that for a lark!
He’d seen Sharleen a couple of times when they’d first arrived in America, but she wasn’t the same on home ground and told him she
didn’t think they should get together anymore. Fine with him.
Lighting a cigarette he leaned on the marble sink. It was time to rejoin the party, only he had no desire to do so.
A walk would be nice.
Impossible. Riff-raff groupies stalked every hotel they stayed at, waiting to pounce with their blank, starey eyes, quivering lips and voracious appetites. They would do anything to get near one of the stars of a successful group, and invariably did. The bouncers, equipment drivers and roadies had many a bawdy tale to tell of teenage girls willing to perform whatever was required – and all for a mere backstage pass.
Buzz and Rasta had worked out a crafty system for picking the girls they fancied out of the audience. During the course of their performance they were able to give a series of hand signals to a roadie standing at the side of the stage, pinpointing the females of their choice. He, in turn, contacted a second roadie sitting in the audience. By the time the show was over, the chosen girls were assembled in a room waiting for the stars to take their pick. The leftovers were divided among the crew. And the girls seemed perfectly satisfied. They were thrilled to have been noticed in the first place.
Kris had no desire to go along with that kind of soulless action. Random sex had lost its thrill. How about a relationship for a change? Someone who cared about Kris Phoenix the person – not the rock and roll image. The super god in black leather with a red-hot guitar between his legs. Jesus – that’s what he needed, someone who really cared.
America.
It was theirs.
And he wasn’t fulfilled or satisfied or any of the things he knew he should be.
Rasta banged on the door. ‘Are you bleedin’ comin’ out or wot? Mikki’s goin’ spare. She says you promised ’er tonight’s the night.’
Michelle Hanley-Bogart of New York City. A former deb of the year, an heiress with monied parents and a penchant for rock stars. She was twenty-three, exceptionally pretty, and self-titled queen of the groupies. According to Mikki she had been collecting notches on her Gucci belt since the tender age of thirteen. ‘Honey,’ she was fond of saying in her up-town gravelly voice, ‘you ain’t a star until Mikki says you are.’
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