Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  “I’ll try to get over it,” Poppy said.

  “Come on, girls. Let’s get the hell out of this dump.” Tossing her hair, Fiona stormed off with the others, leaving Poppy behind.

  “If you don’t have a laminate you can’t stay in the VIP section,” the guard grunted.

  Poppy looked around her at the empty four square feet of ground.

  “That’s fine.” She bit back a smile and went to the bar. “Jack and Diet Pepsi, please.”

  “Diet?”

  “Damage limitation,” Poppy said. She slid ten bucks across the bar and waited for the glass to appear. This was her drink now. The alcohol and soda and ice were cool and pleasant in the heat of the club.

  Poppy needed a drink. She’d have this one, then leave. So much for her career as a rock star. And Joel Stein had actually seen that disaster …

  Ugh.

  “And now, please welcome Silver Bullet,” the PA said.

  The nightclubs had opened now and the crowd was thinner, unenthused. Poppy looked at the stage with sympathy. A quartet of girls ran on, waving. They were cute; they looked a lot like Snaggletooth.

  This is gonna be bad, Poppy thought. She wondered exactly how bad. Worse or better than her own shitty band? They couldn’t be all that much worse …

  “This one’s called ‘Flying,’” the lead singer said. Poppy saw that she was cute and in her early twenties.

  The band started to play.

  Poppy blinked.

  She couldn’t believe it. They were awesome. They were everything Snaggletooth wasn’t; put together, on-beat, punk rock with a nice dose of pop, and a singer with a rich voice. Kind of low and husky for a girl. Great rock-star voice. Kind of Janis Joplin …

  Her drink lay untouched before her on the bar. Poppy watched the whole set. Even the thinning crowd moved to the front of the stage. People cheered and whistled.

  It’s a pity for Joel Stein he didn’t stay to hear them, Poppy thought.

  And then it hit her.

  She tossed back her drink—it felt good—and slid off the bar stool, moving down the steps into the main body of the club, trying to get a good look.

  The place was half-empty, but the electricity was still there. Tunes. They actually had tunes. What a change from her own shitty band; from just about every other half-baked act that played this dive. Excited, Poppy did an inventory in her head. Songs, check, attitude, check—the bass player was a bit overweight and was playing her instrument like she was Keith Richards, with a cigarette hanging on for dear life out of the corner of her mouth—and looks, check—no matter if the bass player was overweight and the rhythm guitarist had the jaw of a horse, the singer was hot, with long red hair, and the lead guitarist was a pretty punk; her hair was spiked up, but it was a disconcerting pastel-pink and the girl had the face of a model. Poppy couldn’t see the drummer. Chops weren’t so great, they weren’t all that polished. But that didn’t matter with a rock ’n’ roll band.

  They were stars.

  She could see it, right away. They were everything Snaggletooth wasn’t. And she had ideas for them, plenty of ideas.

  Poppy wasn’t interested in being a bassist anymore. She watched these chicks and she knew she had no talent. It didn’t bother her, though. She had a better idea.

  She wanted to be a manager.

  Silver Bullet ripped into another number.

  Poppy turned her attention to the small crowd. They were going mental. It was probably a shock to them to watch something that wasn’t a total suck-fest.

  Poppy had found her vocation. She knew something was wrong when her own band stunk the joint out and she didn’t really care. Her heart hadn’t been in it. But when she’d heard Joel Stein was there, then she’d started to give a shit. Poppy had been so impressed by him. The way he’d stood there, so calm. Such command. His eyes had swept over everything, processing data like a computer.

  She had wanted to be him. Instantly.

  And maybe now she could. She wasn’t sure how, but she’d think of something.

  “Hey.” The singer tapped the mike. “Thanks. We’re Silver Bullet.”

  The whole band stood up and just walked right offstage, ignoring the baying cries for more.

  Stylish.

  Wait a second, Poppy thought, I know that girl—

  The drummer was walking off. She had a cute haircut, very distinctive, a platinum-blond bob. Poppy had seen her earlier that evening, up in the bar before Snaggletooth went on. She was getting her rider—the plastic bottle of four-dollar vodka—to carry it backstage, and had seen the girl then. She was tall and lean and surrounded. A group of drunk guys were homing in on her; Poppy had only noticed in the packed darkness because that blond hair caught one of the dim club lights and reflected it.

  Poppy hadn’t thought twice. She’d had her band laminate on, and had strode into the men.

  “Hey!”

  “Ease up, sugar.” A brawny biker-type with tattoos was stroking the girl’s denim-clad butt as she swore at him and tried to get away. “Unless you wanna join the party.”

  Poppy was wearing her spiked-heel boots. She ground one of them into the thug’s toe and he yelped and stared at her.

  “I’m with the club,” Poppy said. “Leave the young lady alone or get the fuck out.”

  Her voice had so much venom they actually backed off.

  “You OK?”

  “I am now. Thanks.” The girl had looked shaken and moved off. Poppy had headed backstage, feeling slightly virtuous, and then forgotten all about it.

  She grinned. That was a start, no? Managers were supposed to make trouble go away. Now the band were backstage. Poppy checked out the door that led back into the club. Nobody was going to see them. She felt a tiny sense of relief. Mingled with nerves.

  Was she really about to pitch these girls to let her manage them? She was younger than them. Poppy tossed her long black hair. It didn’t do to think too much about it.

  They emerged. She saw they’d changed outfits. They were now in jeans and T-shirts. Poppy’s excitement grew. That was rad. Even this early on, they had stage clothes. She loved it.

  Poppy walked up to them.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi. Oh, hey.” The drummer thrust out her hand. “This is the chick I was telling you about, she saved my butt. How you doing? I’m Lisa.”

  “Poppy Allen.”

  “Kate,” said the singer. “Molly.” The bassist. “Claire.” “Debbie.” Rhythm and lead. They were all smiling at her; that was a start.

  “I watched your set,” Poppy said without preamble. “You rocked. I’d like to manage you.”

  *

  She took them to Luigi’s.

  “I’m starving,” Kate had said.

  “Let’s go get a bite. I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Really? That’d be great,” plump Molly said hungrily. “I can normally only afford White Castle.”

  Which explains the size, Poppy thought.

  “Can we go to Denny’s?” Molly said, hopefully. The other girls looked a bit embarrassed, but nobody contradicted Molly. “We don’t get paid that much,” Lisa explained.

  “The diner? We can do better than that. You guys like Italian?”

  They were practically drooling.

  Poppy fetched her car from the parking lot and tipped the valet. It was a drop-top Chevy. They looked impressed.

  “I’m afraid you’re gonna have to cram in there.”

  “Hey, no problem,” Kate said, looking pleased. “I get the passenger seat.”

  Her band exchanged looks, but they clambered into the two backseats, crouching on top of each other.

  Poppy drove to Luigi’s because it was close. Her father gave this place a ridiculous amount of business.

  “Signorina Poppy, ciao, cara,” Stefano said, kissing her extravagantly on the cheek. “Ees so good to see you.”

  “These are my friends, Stefano,” Poppy said firmly. He had been looking askance at the jeans a
nd T-shirts and beat-up leather jackets.

  “Ah, si? No problem, for you no problem. This way, please.”

  He led them into the restaurant and seated them in a corner banquette. Normally the place had a dress code: jackets and ties only. The girls looked at the other diners in their Hugo Boss and Armani and pearls.

  “This is real fancy,” Kate said approvingly.

  “The food here’s not bad.” A waiter handed them their menus. “Anything you want, ladies.”

  Poppy saw their mouths were watering.

  “Lasagne,” Molly moaned. “Oh, man. Hey, thanks a lot.”

  Poppy ordered a carafe of house red. “And bring some champagne cocktails to start off with.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Now they were gazing at her with something close to awe. Poppy felt a bit ashamed. She was buying all this with Daddy’s money, Daddy’s connections. But she had nothing, herself. Fuck it. A manager couldn’t afford those kinds of scruples. Let them think she was super-successful.

  The cocktails arrived, Kir royals in crystal flutes. Poppy lifted hers in a toast.

  “To your success.”

  “Success,” they echoed.

  “This is awesome,” Kate said. “You should definitely manage us.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Poppy said confidently. “You won’t regret it.”

  She talked a good game over dinner. Record companies, radio stations, booking them into clubs which weren’t pay-to-play. They were obviously broke and hungry. They scythed through the food when it came, relished the wine, sopped up the flavored oils with their bread. Poppy could see a warm glow, part contentment, part alcohol, descend over the table.

  But it wasn’t quite that easy. The cute pink-haired punk, Debbie, tried three times to ask her who else she managed, and how she could do it so young. The other girls kicked her under the table, and Poppy just smiled and refilled her glass. But she saw that Kate, the singer, watched with keen interest.

  The band knew they were hot.

  She was going to need to convince them with more than a good meal. But one step at a time. Right now, she just didn’t want them talking to anybody else.

  “Thanks, that was awesome,” Molly said when she had settled up and they were standing on the street outside.

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” Poppy offered.

  “That’s OK,” Claire said. “We live right around here.”

  “Give me your numbers.”

  They looked at each other.

  “We don’t have a phone,” Debbie said, “but I got a beeper. OK?”

  Poppy understood at once. They were probably squatting someplace. “That’s fine.”

  “We’re gonna need to talk with you some more before we sign a contract,” Kate said.

  “I know. I’ll buzz you, we can meet up.” The valet parker pulled up with Poppy’s car and she jumped into it. “See you girls later.”

  That went well, she thought as she drove off. But she knew it wasn’t going to be enough.

  She needed a plan. Bad.

  Nineteen

  “This is Kate.”

  “Hi, this is Poppy. Where are you?”

  “At a pay phone on Wilshire. Hey, I’m glad you called. We had a band meeting. You’re really great, everybody likes you—”

  Poppy could hear the “but” in her voice.

  “We were, you know, kinda wondering what contacts you have at the big labels and stuff.”

  “I know people at college radio, people at venues, and I can get you guys great deals at—”

  “Um.” Kate sounded awkward. “That’s the kind of thing we thought, but that’s not really enough…”

  “Oh, that’s not all.” Poppy laughed. “I’m gonna call you girls back tomorrow. I have a few meetings. Just wanted to touch base and see if you were OK.”

  “We’re fine, but—”

  “Talk to you tomorrow,” Poppy said firmly. “Bye.”

  She hung up. Damn.

  Oh well. She’d expected that. They were all older than she was. It was always going to be a rough sell.

  Poppy felt in the pocket of her coat. She had the demo tape that Kate had given her last night. And now she had exactly twenty-four hours to do something with it, or give up the whole idea.

  The band may have been starving musicians, but they weren’t naïve. They had probably been together a few years, been around the block, just never got discovered. Poppy knew what they were looking for: a major label deal, money for recording time, a professional producer, a support slot on a big tour. The usual. The Sunset Strip dream.

  She had to deliver it or she’d be out before she’d even got in.

  Poppy had no contacts. Last night she’d thought about Daddy, but his roster of clients was all film and TV. Snaggletooth had never made so much as a ripple in the music scene. It was a mystery to her how Fiona had managed to get Joel Stein to come and see them. And she could hardly ask Fiona.

  Joel Stein.

  Of course. That was it. Her first instinct was always the right one. Pity Joel Stein couldn’t see them, she’d thought.

  Dream Management. Big offices on Wilshire Boulevard, near the Whiskey and the Rainbow, right in the heart of the scene. Mercedes and Porsches always parked out front in its lot. They managed so many big stars; they’d know everybody, forget it; the promo guys, MTV, the Monsters of Rock people, and all the major labels.

  I could take them to him. And go to work for him.

  Poppy dialed 411. “Dream Management, Hollywood, please.”

  *

  It was exactly what she had expected.

  The office screamed money. It had polished marble floors, a giant mock-up of the cover of Sgt. Pepper on the walls, a kidney-shaped reception desk, a receptionist in Donna Karan, and framed gold and platinum records everywhere. There were coffee tables in front of the couch laden with Billboard, Music Week from the UK, Variety, and other trade publications.

  “I don’t see you in the book, Miss,” the receptionist told her.

  “Check again.” Poppy was wearing her most expensive clothes, a gorgeous vintage black Dolce & Gabanna suit, with Wolford hose, Calvin Klein shoes, and the gold Patek Philippe she’d been given for her last birthday. “I’m with Reckless Records. Poppy Allen? We made the appointment two weeks back, at least.”

  She opened up her Hermès bag and handed the girl a business card.

  It said: “Poppy Allen. A & R Director, Reckless Records.” The script was embossed in black. Poppy was quite proud of it, for something she’d knocked up at Kinko’s in ten minutes flat.

  “Let me see what I can do,” the receptionist said, warily.

  She punched a button on her phone bank and talked low into the receiver for a few minutes.

  “He says you can go straight in. It’s right at the end of the corridor.”

  “Thanks,” Poppy said, trying not to reveal her joy. She turned and pushed open the glass doors. There was a long corridor with offices at either side; some of them had two or three people inside, shouting into phones. Fax machines were spurting, there was rock music playing in the background, the whole thing was electric.

  Poppy’s palms started to sweat.

  This is rock ’n’ roll, she told herself. Just do it.

  Stein’s office was at the very end of the corridor. The door, like the others, was open. He had large windows and a Persian carpet and the sun glittered off all the records which covered his office, floor-to-ceiling, like multi-platinum wallpaper. He was sitting behind a desk; antique, she recognized at once.

  “Hey.” He didn’t get up, but beckoned her in. “Take a seat. Poppy, is it?”

  She walked over to the Louis XIV–style chair, must be a repro, in front of his desk and sat down. Stein was looking at her curiously, with that same assessing manner he’d had last night in the club.

  “I don’t recall Susie booking this meeting in. She’s at lunch now. What is this about?”

  Poppy made an in
stant decision. She wasn’t going to snow him. At least, not much.

  “It’s about this.” She pulled out the demo tape and laid it on his desk. She was gabbling. “This band I manage. They’re young, they look good, the tunes rock. And I can’t take them any further, they need to move up a step. It was a lie about me being in a record company. We had no appointment. But you don’t need to call security, Mr. Stein, because I’m leaving right now. I wrote my phone number on the tape. If you’re interested you can call me.”

  She got up.

  “And why should I listen to a tape of some baby band? Do you know how many tapes this office gets in every day?” asked Stein.

  He hadn’t pressed any buttons or lifted his phone. Poppy hovered a second.

  “Because you’re impressed with my ingenuity in getting in to your office?”

  He laughed. “I guess I am impressed.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do I know you, kid?”

  “Not really. You met me last night. I was in that band you came to see, Snaggletooth.”

  Stein’s expression changed. “This tape’s your band?”

  “No. Don’t worry, I left the band. They absolutely sucked. And I have no chops.”

  He laughed again. “You’re an interesting young woman.”

  “This band is also girls, but nothing like us. They’re good. Punk-pop. It won’t cost you anything to listen to them.”

  “You don’t manage them, do you?”

  “Not as such,” Poppy admitted. “But in the sense that you don’t know who they are or how to contact them, I do.”

  Stein was grinning broadly.

  “You know what ‘chutzpah’ is?”

  Poppy grinned back and fished out the small gold Star of David she always wore around her neck.

  “Uh-huh. I should have guessed. Well, you’ve got it, toots, I’ll tell you that for nothing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stein.”

  “I remember you,” he said suddenly. “You’re the one that wasn’t shaking her tits at me.”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Don’t worry, that never works. I’m gay.”

  “Ah.” Poor Fiona, Poppy thought.

  “Well, I’ll listen to your band, toots. Since we’re being so honest, let me tell you that they’ll probably suck. Ninety percent of everything is crap. That’s rule number one.”