Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  “A date,” said her mom, in a voice which said her day was getting better and better. “And I thought you only had time for work. Sure you can, honey.”

  *

  “There you go, Miss Fiorello.” Mrs. Yablans’s lawyer handed her the keys and shook her hand. “My client said to wish you luck.”

  “Thank her for me. I hope she’s happy in Connecticut,” Rose said.

  The lawyer looked her over again, taking in the slender legs, the sensational figure, the arrogant, slanting cheekbones, and those wild-ice eyes in her dusky face. Unbelievable. Her date of birth said she’d turned eighteen last month. She was barely legal, and she looked like the most incredible piece of ass. It was hard to avoid licking his lips.

  But she didn’t negotiate like a schoolgirl. In fact, he’d come across trial lawyers who were less well prepared.

  “If you need any help, Miss Fiorello, please feel free to call,” he said.

  “I’ll do that,” Rose said.

  She gave him a brisk, professional smile. She didn’t need any help.

  *

  Getting the painting done was easy. Rose recruited kids from her school, boys in her year whom she didn’t hate; quiet, strong kids with blue-collar backgrounds who said they knew how to paint. After all, SATs were done, and now they were in the Senior Slump. Waiting to graduate. Two hundred bucks for slapping on a coat of whitewash—you couldn’t beat it.

  “So who owns this place?”

  Tom Pasano, seventeen and built like a linebacker, mopped the sweat pouring off his forehead with a sodden handkerchief.

  “Someone from my company,” Rose said, dodging the question. “She wants to get it rented out as soon as possible. That’s why there’s a rush on this.”

  Rose walked around supervising. She didn’t do any of the work herself. If she was going to build an empire, she couldn’t waste her time doing grunt work. Besides, she was slim and weak, at least physically. It was better for her to try and select the right kids. Tom was perfect; big, dumb, and shy, but with a natural talent for practical stuff. She hired a machine at his suggestion, and for another hundred he sanded and varnished the floors. It was extra expense, but worth it. Once the junk was cleared from the yard and the grass was cut, the place looked like a different house.

  She knew how to get tenants from her books. Rose had heard all the horror stories: slow payers you couldn’t evict, embittered tenants that damaged a property for spite, tenants with a grudge who would sue you for every cent you owned. But the fact was, Rose thought firmly, that was the owner’s fault; if you qualified your tenants, you wouldn’t have any trouble.

  *

  She went into Keith’s office to resign.

  “What the hell for?”

  Her boss looked annoyed. He was gay, and didn’t salivate over Rose Fiorello like the other knuckleheads at Richmond, but he still wanted her around. Keith had been using Rose more and more, finding her to be completely reliable. He let her do everything on an appraisal short of signing her name to the document, and she was lucky to get $75 a job; the rest went straight into his pocket. He could patronize her and rip her off and pat himself on the back for giving a starving student some “work experience.”

  She should have been grateful. It was clear she didn’t have two cents to rub together. She wore outfits that looked as though they came from the sale racks at Caldor’s, even if they were neat little suits, and her shoes were plastic, not leather.

  “You’re good at this job. I thought you wanted to be an appraiser.”

  Rose shook her head mutely.

  “Well, you know. Mommy and Daddy won’t be able to spring for your college fees,” Keith said nastily. “You’ll need to sweat a little bit, Rose, to cover them. Sorry.”

  “I have a full scholarship to Columbia,” Rose said evenly.

  Keith blinked. A nasty shock of envy washed through him. That was an Ivy League school; he’d barely made it into community college.

  “Oh really. Congratulations.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Living in the big city costs money, even up in Harlem. How are you going to pay for it?”

  “I’m a real-estate investor,” Rose said seriously.

  Keith paused, then burst out laughing. His eyes swept over Rose’s slim teenage figure, her smooth young face with the plump skin, her sparkling eyes, her long hair caught back in a neat ponytail, looking like any hot little schoolgirl in a cheap dress—even if those eyes were startling against that skin.

  “You’re a real estate investor? Oh really, Donald Trump. And what do you own, precisely?”

  Keith made six figures and had an expensive-to-run co-op in Brooklyn Heights.

  “I have a three-family with a finished basement. I’m going to rent out all the apartments and live in the basement,” Rose said, evenly.

  Keith blinked. He stared at her, and it was clear she wasn’t joking.

  “You’re just a kid. I got no idea how you pulled this off, but you’re gonna fall flat on your face. You don’t know the first thing about rent laws and tenants and trust me, you’ll need every penny we give you to try and pay the mortgage. Better give it up, baby, and sell while you still can.”

  “It’s been nice working with you,” Rose said, untruthfully. She shook his hand, and walked out of his office.

  Twelve

  “Good morning, class.”

  “Good morning, Madame LaTour,” the class chorused brightly.

  “Good morning, Madame LaTour,” Poppy muttered.

  She was stuck in the acting class of Madame Marie LaTour, the famous fifty-year-old French doyenne of L.A. acting classes. Despite her un-chic uniform of a black dress which looked like a dyed potato sack and heavy brown brogues, Madame LaTour was the hottest ticket in Hollywood for rich teenagers. Her acting classes, priced exorbitantly high, had in the past produced more than a smattering of stars. Framed headshots adorned her corridors and outer office, the bigger stars in the more prominent positions. Madame was evidently proud not only of her two Oscar winners, but also of everybody you could see on the big and small screen—the soap stars and game-show hostesses among them.

  Poppy grimaced. Mommy and Daddy had slashed her allowance to the bone, taken away her ride, and forced her into this. It was worse because she knew Mommy had to lean hard on all her social contacts just to get her in. Producers’ daughters and studio vice-presidents’ sons were in this class—that didn’t leave much room for the offspring of divorce lawyers.

  Her parents, she knew, secretly longed to be in “the biz.” “The biz” was films, or TV at a pinch—TV was looked down on, but that was where all the money was. Music, apparently, didn’t count. Certainly not with her parents. And the fact that Poppy was passionate about rock didn’t matter in the slightest.

  “Today, you ’ave great opportunity.” Madame LaTour’s voice was masculine and raspy and she had bristling white hairs sprouting from her upper lip. “You learn your craft in the cradle of the art. Of course, acting is more than a craft. Eet ees a joy, a calling … noble … powerful…”

  Her audience was loving it. They sighed, with rapt attention.

  “Through eemagination come performance!” Madame shouted, making Poppy jump in her seat. She pounded a black stick on the ground. “Today—you start the dream!”

  The class applauded wildly.

  Oy vey, Poppy thought.

  “You become a cup of coffee!”

  “Hey, that’s brilliant,” said the pasty boy in front of her with the Rolex. “I mean, that’s, like, super-inspired.”

  Poppy stuck up her hand. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  “Yeah, Mrs. LaTour,” Poppy said, in a not-deferential-enough tone of voice. Her fellow students turned around in their chairs to face the back of the room, and sent her a barrage of deadly stares. Poppy ignored them. “How can we act a cup of coffee? A cup of coffee is an inanimate object. We’re never going to be asked to act an in
animate object, I mean, not since I was a tree in the third grade—”

  Madame held up an imperious hand.

  “You become, you feel, the heat, the confinement … Are you een a paper cup, are you een a silver coffeepot?” She waved her hands expansively. “The choice ees yours!”

  The class started to hum and rock. Some of them shuddered and made perking noises. Another one flung himself headlong to the carpet.

  “Breeliant!” shouted Madame. “He ees speeling all over the floor!”

  “Fuck me,” Poppy muttered. “How long is this class?”

  “Eight weeks,” whispered the pasty youth in front of her. “Isn’t it, like, awesome?”

  *

  “Daddy,” Poppy wheedled. She was wearing her best good-girl outfit, the silk shirt-dress with the small shoulder-pads, the strappy sandals, and her Gucci sunglasses perched on top of her head. “Honestly, I swear. I’ll be good at school. I got an A for my math paper last week. I’m taking those classes—”

  “You’re not dropping out,” her father said darkly.

  “No way,” said her mom.

  “I don’t want to. I totally love those classes! And I’m getting on really well with Jonathan Epstein,” Poppy lied.

  “He’s a very nice boy,” her mother said, softening slightly.

  The phone rang in the next room and the maid entered the living room.

  “Call for Miss Poppy.”

  “Who is it?” her father asked, suspiciously.

  “He say his name is Rick Perez,” the maid informed him.

  Poppy felt the flush rise instantly to her cheek. Her hands started to sweat. “I have to take this call, Daddy.”

  “Who is this Rick? How do you know him?”

  “From acting class,” Poppy said. “He’s my partner for our next assignment.”

  Her mother noted the blush. “He’s not Jewish, with a name like that.”

  “Mo-om,” Poppy protested.

  Her father waved her away. Poppy hurried out to the hallway, forcing herself not to run.

  “Hello, this is Poppy,” she said.

  “What’s up, baby?” said the bassist’s voice. It had been two weeks since the gig and she had given up hope that he’d call. An indescribable thrill shot through her. Her nipples tautened under her virginal white cotton bra, and that heat curled a new fist in her belly.

  “You didn’t call,” she said plaintively, then wanted to kick herself very hard in the shins.

  “I’ve been on the road. You know how it is.”

  Wish I did, Poppy thought.

  “We got a gig tonight at the Whiskey. Want me to put you on the guest list?”

  Poppy died a million deaths.

  “I can’t,” she whispered miserably. “I’m kind of grounded.”

  He chuckled. “Tell me you’re sixteen, at least.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Poppy lied. She was getting good at lying, she thought. Maybe she wasn’t such a shitty actress after all.

  “How about we meet for lunch tomorrow? You know Nathan’s? About one?”

  Tomorrow was a school day. “No problem,” Poppy said decisively. “See you then, OK?”

  She went back in and faced her parents again. Now it was really important! Poppy started to plead passionately.

  “You know, Daddy—”

  “Give me one good reason why I should restart your allowance,” her father snapped. “How do I know what you’ll do with it after the incident?”

  “Well—all the other kids in class have, like, the hot records and they see all the movies and there’s this cafeteria and I don’t have any money and…” Poppy lowered her voice in horror—“I look like the poor kid in class.”

  Her mom blanched visibly. Yes! Score one.

  “Jerry…”

  “On sufferance, Poppy.” Her father smothered an equally horrified look, but Poppy wasn’t fooled. “And you can only have half.” He pulled out his wallet and gave her two twenties. “That’s it, young lady.”

  “Thanks, Dad.” Poppy gave him a jaunty kiss on the cheek, and her father tried not to look pleased. “I’ll be upstairs studying my lines.”

  *

  She couldn’t concentrate in school the next day. Would Rick even be there? And would they miss her? If she was caught absent … it didn’t bear thinking about. Plus, she had no sexy clothes. She was going to have to go in her uniform. She almost didn’t want to do it, but she had no way to call him back.

  And besides, Poppy secretly admitted to herself, she had to get real—there was no way in hell she wasn’t gonna meet that guy.

  It was so exciting. Finally, a little color in her boring, middle-class life. She had kept flashing back to the concert, the lights, the sweat, the crackle of sex …

  She grabbed a ride and headed over to La Brea at lunchtime, casually walking out of the school grounds. Nobody stopped her—she doubted anybody cared. One less JAP to worry about. That was all she was to this school. What the fuck.

  Poppy arrived at Nathan’s by twelve-forty and ordered a bunch of food she was too nervous to eat. She pushed the fries and sauce around her plate and watched the clock.

  One … he didn’t come.

  One-fifteen, one-twenty—nothing.

  Poppy was starting to feel embarrassed. She threw some money on the table and got up to leave when she saw him; standing in the doorway in a T-shirt and jeans, dark hair tumbling down his back, rock-star shades, looking about for her.

  The girls were all staring at him, too.

  She jumped up and waved. “Rick! Over here!”

  He saw her and threaded his way through the crowd. Poppy was suddenly ashamed of her waving and her lack of makeup and her little pleated navy skirt and white school shirt. She wished the linoleum floor would open up and swallow her whole.

  “Hey, baby.” He pushed up the sunglasses to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes, which traveled lazily up and down her uniform. “Dig that skirt. That’s sexy.” Perez leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

  Poppy felt her knees buckle. She was overwhelmed with desire. He was so hot. Her peripheral vision noticed the girls in the diner staring at her. All probably wondering what a cool musician was doing with a schoolgirl. She felt geeky.

  “Already ate, huh?” He was glancing down at her plate.

  “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Wouldn’t have missed it.” He looked deep into her eyes, in a way that made her want to dissolve. Poppy felt herself slick up.

  “Do you want something … I can get the waitress…”

  “Nothing on this menu.” He grinned and tugged at her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Thirteen

  “Get in,” Perez said. He yanked open the sliding door of a beat-up blue van and Poppy jumped up onto the passenger seat. It smelled faintly of incense and weed, and there were empty bottles rolling around in the back. He walked around the other side, got in, and pulled away from the curb.

  “Hi,” he said, looking into her eyes.

  Poppy felt a rush of joy. This was awesome. She was going on an adventure. Her life was finally interesting. It felt like being released from prison. What a high!

  “Hi,” she said, and she didn’t even blush.

  He turned a knob on the ancient-looking radio and blasted KNAC. The strains of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” filled the van, blasting from the windows, and he gunned the accelerator. Poppy cranked her window down—it actually worked with a handle, it wasn’t even electric—and hastily tugged the scrunchie out of her hair, so it tumbled loose and golden, streaming in the blast of air that rushed past them.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.” He drove lazily, one hand on the wheel, caressing it almost. Poppy was attracted to everything about him. She loved the cool skull rings he wore all over his fingers. This guy was a badass.

  “So what’s it like, being in a band?”

  He chuckled. “Lots of sex, drugs
, and rock ’n’ roll; no goddamn money.”

  Poppy hated the idea of the sex. All those bitches hanging around him. She felt her first pang of jealousy.

  “Is that why you got into it?”

  “No, I wanted the money, too.” He laughed loudly at his own joke, then glanced at her through those dark-fringed eyes. “Zach Mason writes awesome songs. I wanted to be in his band. It might go places. And anyway, what else am I gonna do? Be a bank teller? I’d rather shoot myself.”

  Poppy was a bit embarrassed. She hoped he didn’t ask too many questions. She was little Miss Suburban Rich.

  “But why don’t you have any money?”

  “No record deal.” He shrugged. “Even if we got one, we’d likely get screwed. Most acts do.”

  “But you sold out your gig,” Poppy persisted. There couldn’t be that much of a gap between the glamorous band onstage, with the glitter and the flash and the screaming girls and the hardcore security, and his real life—could there?

  Perez scowled. “You’d think so, honey … wouldn’t you? We have to kick back money just to be allowed to play. The house gets most of the take, what’s left has to go on roadie fees, and gas to the next gig, and if there’s anything left over for the band we get a pizza or something. That food in the dressing room is the best we eat all week.”

  Poppy was horrified. “How do you survive?”

  He gave her a sly wink. “Chicks, mostly. If they come over to the crib we only let them in if they bring a bag of groceries, or a six-pack. Oh, don’t worry, not you, baby. You’re just a schoolkid.”

  Poppy didn’t want to tell him she had over seven thousand dollars in her checking account and a twenty-thousand-dollar CD which would mature when she was eighteen as a graduation gift. He was heading past the Beverly Center, barreling down Third Street.

  “But what about you? What are you gonna do with your life? Besides looking hotter than hell.”

  “I’m going to be a rock star, too,” Poppy said enthusiastically.

  Perez grinned. “A singer?”

  “I can’t sing. I sound like a screech owl with a sore throat.”

  “You’re a riot.” He shook his head. “You play something?”

  “I’m going to be learning the guitar,” Poppy told him. She’d have to speak to Daddy about getting some lessons. A glorious vision of herself flung on her knees onstage, ax lifted up to the spotlight, head thrown back, her long, teased blond hair cascading behind her, came blazing into her head. Yeah! She could be the next Nancy Wilson from Heart.