They all laughed again. The receptionist was still chatting away. Poppy snapped. She leaned over the counter and put her finger on the phone.
He looked up, shocked.
Poppy pulled the laminate out of her shirt.
“Monsieur,” she snarled, “I’m with Green Dragon. Actually, I’m with Dream Management. I’m a tour accountant and I’m going to be settling the bill at this hotel. So unless you want to make an appointment for me to speak to the manager, I strongly suggest you give me my fucking key right now.”
“Oooh,” said the crew guys, chuckling.
Poppy ignored them. The receptionist flushed and hurriedly fished out a little paper wallet with a plastic rectangle tucked inside.
“Mademoiselle, ah oui, I see you ’ere, you are on ze third floor, room 346. Do you want some ’elp with your bag?”
“From this hotel? No,” Poppy snapped. She grabbed the key and stormed off toward the elevators. She had to stand right next to the crew guys.
“What’s up, sugar?” one of them cooed.
“Hey, baby, you showed those Frenchies,” said another.
Poppy saw nothing but annoyance and hostility in their faces. She was too tired to think about that now.
“See you guys later,” she muttered.
Mercifully, the doors hissed open. Poppy rode up to her room, slipped the electronic key in the door. The tiny light switched to green. She threw her bag on the floor, tempted to just collapse onto the bed. No, it was more important to get the sweat off her. She staggered into the bathroom, so tired she felt drunk. It had one of those tiny tubs you couldn’t stretch out in. Never mind, she’d just take a shower. Poppy thought wryly that if she could stretch out, she might just fall asleep and drown.
She peeled off her clothes and dropped them on the tiled floor. Then she ran the water. The instructions were in French and her shower was only lukewarm. Poppy couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. Mechanically she sluiced her body down, lathering it with the cheap soap. Then she reached for a towel; this wasn’t America, obviously; the hotel towels were scratchy little white handkerchiefs. Her parents had a bigger towel than this for the dog.
Poppy stumbled into her room. The windows had thick curtains with white chiffon panels floating across them. She didn’t even have the energy to pull the curtains closed. Poppy set her alarm for two hours and flopped onto the bed. She was asleep in minutes.
Twenty-Seven
The taxi dropped her off at the end of the street which led to the arena. It was an open-air gig; kids were parking in a lot, in fields, in streets, and walking down.
“You get out ’ere,” the cabbie said. “I cannot—”
He gestured at the mass of humanity streaming toward the gates. It was more crowded than rush hour in Tokyo: leather, studs, teased hair everywhere; T-shirts ranging from Slayer to Cinderella, Megadeth to Bon Jovi; naturally, a ton of Green Dragon jackets and shirts. The rock ’n’ roll uniform.
Poppy was wearing a black T-shirt, leather jacket and jeans. She figured that was the professional way to go. She had selected her ankle boots, wore no makeup except a slick of concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes, and had tied her hair back in a severe ponytail. No time to wash it; thank God for baseball caps. Her laminate was tucked safely inside her bra. Last thing she needed was some deranged fan to snatch it from her.
Her sleep had only taken the slightest edge off her tiredness. Jet lag and the time difference made her feel spaced-out; when she’d woken, for a few seconds she’d had no idea where she was or how she’d got there.
She paid the cab and stepped out. No time for weakness right now. Anyway, the procession of teenagers and twenty-somethings was better than any cup of coffee; it jolted her senses and made her feel alive.
The excitement started to build up as she trudged toward the stadium. Already she could hear the sound of one of the support bands, the cheering of the crowd already inside. She felt slightly dizzy. She had an insane impulse to jump up and down and clap her hands wildly. She was a part of this. She was actually a part of Dream Management.
The box office loomed in front of her. Gates A–E,F–K …
Poppy found a security guard.
“Where’s the backstage entrance?”
He looked at her blankly.
She fished the laminate out. Access All Areas. Her photo beamed out from under the coiled Green Dragon logo. He examined it with a grunt, then reluctantly pointed to a small iron turnstile to her left. It had four security guards and a posse of groupies, all in high heels, wearing fishnet tights and low-cut tops, standing outside pleading with them.
Poppy marched up to it and flashed her laminate. The surly looks of the guards disappeared; they opened the gate and let Poppy through, forcing back the chicks that tried to slip in after her.
She was standing backstage. Laminate-wearing crew were everywhere. There were tents and signs in English. Catering. Press. Production Office.
Poppy breathed in deeply. She stood still for a second.
She felt absolutely overwhelmed with pure joy.
*
“Hi,” Poppy said.
She had stuck her head in at the production office. People were sitting around wooden tables, on the phone or shouting into walkie-talkies. Nobody paid her any attention.
She said loudly, “I’m looking for Mike Rich.”
“I’m Mike,” said a man. He wore chinos and a white shirt, a gold Rolex, and a string with several laminates, the Green Dragon one on the top. “You with Special?”
That was the name of the promoter.
“Nope, I’m here from Dream.” Poppy held out her hand. He didn’t take it.
“Fucking Joel. Like I need a fucking kid.” Rich looked her over, unimpressed. “You’re a girl.”
“You’re perceptive,” Poppy said.
“I don’t like women on the road.”
“Too bad,” Poppy said. “What do you want me to do? I’m supposed to be your assistant tour accountant.”
Rich handed her some envelopes. “Go give the band their per diems. And then bring us all coffee.”
Poppy told herself the hostility was to be expected. They always hazed you on the road, right? That was part of rock folklore. She got the coffee first.
“That’s great,” one of the men said. “We could use our own waitress.”
She ignored this. Pick your battles. The vital thing, Poppy told herself, was that she was about to meet the band. Excited, she grabbed the envelopes full of hundred-franc notes and headed off for the tented area signed “Band Only.” It was set up like an enclosure at some mad garden party. A security guy was outside; even people with laminates couldn’t get in here, she knew.
Poppy had Green Dragon posters on her closet door. Blaze, the singer, with his fountain of dirty blond hair, had been one of her first crushes. She also fancied Drake, the bassist. Blaze, Drake, Tony, and Mark; four names well known to Jack Daniel’s-swilling frat boys and horny teenage girls across America. They had tunes as well as looks; they rocked. And now, now she worked for them.
Poppy forced herself not to grin. She had to make these men take her seriously. It was a man’s world. She had to be the ultimate pro.
“You can’t come in here,” the guard said. An American; band security.
Poppy showed him her laminate. He just shook his head.
“Mike Rich sent me over. I’ve got something for the band,” Poppy said.
He grinned. “Another one, huh? Go right in, honey.”
Poppy walked into the enclosure and froze.
Five or six good-looking girls were sitting around with their tops off, leaning over the band. She recognized Blaze at once; he was the one standing up, pants around his ankles, being expertly serviced by a girl whose face she couldn’t see.
“What are you waiting for, baby?” Mark said. “Get ’em out.”
Poppy screamed. Then she turned and fled, through the little corridor of fabric, out to the main b
ackstage area. Her face was the color of a tomato, her entire body hot with shame.
She stormed back into the production office. The men saw her and started to laugh.
“You fucking asshole,” she spat at Rich.
“You’re gonna let her talk to you like that?” said the man who had made the waitress comment. He had a coarse English accent.
“Who the fuck are you?” Poppy snarled.
“Leo Ross. Tour manager,” he said flatly.
“Oh,” Poppy said. That took some of the wind from her sails. The tour manager was God as far as a road crew was concerned. He ran the show. However, he was also hired and fired by management, Poppy reminded herself.
“Sugar baby, you gonna cry?” Rich asked. “I told you, the road is no place for a woman. Why don’t you just get on a plane and go home? Save us all a major headache.”
“I’m here because Joel Stein sent me,” Poppy said, forcing herself to be calm.
“And are you gonna ring him and start crying about the big bad boys on the crew?” Ross asked.
“I can handle myself,” Poppy said. “Of course, I won’t guarantee not to spit in Mike’s next coffee.”
The other men chuckled at that.
“Why don’t you give me something to do? There’s got to be at least some grunt work you can’t be bothered with,” Poppy said to Mike.
He was still hostile, but she had raised a grin from Ross. He shrugged.
“Might as well let her stay till she fucks up,” Ross said.
“That won’t take long,” Rich told him. He looked at Poppy. “OK, toots. Go find Jacques Remy, he’s the promoter. Ask him to give you the latest expenses. Bring them back here. Don’t drop anything. Then call the band’s hotel. Get the bill for last night. They were complaining. Tony doesn’t want to pay an extra five thousand. Take care of it.”
“OK,” Poppy said. That was something to do, at least. She took a breath. “OK.”
She got out of there before they could screw with her some more.
*
She tried to go over the primer that Joel had given her.
“Bands are on a percentage of the net. Tour accountancy is all about verifying gross ticket sales, subtracting promoter costs, then take a percentage of the net. Our percentage is ninety.”
“That’s a lot.”
He ignored her. “You also settle the hotel bills, give out per diems, check band and crew in and out of the hotels…”
“Plural?”
Stein smiled faintly at her naïveté. “You think the rock stars sleep with the catering crew? Not exactly. And then you take care of certain expenses. Be creative.”
“Like what?” Poppy asked, mystified.
In answer, Stein bent close to his desk, pressed a finger against one nostril, and snorted up an imaginary line of blow.
“I see,” Poppy said faintly.
His eyes narrowed.
“Can you handle this, kid? I don’t have time to play nursemaid.”
“No problem,” Poppy had said brightly. “I’ll take care of everything.”
*
She made herself useful. The promoter handed her a sheaf of papers without comment. Poppy delivered them, then got herself a fold-out wooden chair in the production office. Her stapled tour book told her the band were staying at the Hotel Charlemagne.
“Parlez-vous anglais?” Poppy tried.
“Certainly, we speak English, madam,” said the woman on the front desk soothingly. Poppy could hear the sound of running water faintly in the background. A fountain. She could tell instantly that this hotel was a classy joint.
She was aware that the men in the room were listening as she spoke.
“I’m with Green Dragon. Dream Management. I’m calling to check on the bill.”
“Hold on, please,” said the woman, a little more coldly.
Poppy was put on hold for a second. An older man came on, and his tone was severe.
“You are responsible for the Green Dragon bill? It comes to fifty-eight thousand francs.”
She did a quick conversion in her head. That was over seven thousand U.S. dollars.
“Furthermore, I’m afraid I must ask you for immediate payment and for one of your representatives to come back here and remove the luggage from the rooms of these guests.” She could almost see his lip curling. “They have destroyed two rooms, and I can no longer admit them to our property.”
“Can you hold on a second?”
“Very well.”
Poppy hit the hold button. She turned to Mike Rich. “This is the hotel manager, Mike. He says he wants the band checked out, that he’s throwing them out of the hotel, and that the bill is seven thousand dollars…”
Rich just stared at her. “Well, sort it out. You’re supposed to be a tour accountant, right? Fix it.”
Poppy picked the line up.
“Monsieur, I will be right over. I will need to see you personally to settle the damages.”
“That is fine, madam.”
Leo Ross walked in. “We got a problem with the PA. Somebody get over to the band, clear the tarts out. The wives’ limo just pulled up.” He glanced at Poppy. “How you doing, kid?”
“I’m gonna go sort the hotel thing out.”
Ross laughed. “Oh, are ya? I’m afraid we’re gonna have to eat that one.”
“I’ll be right back,” Poppy said.
*
It was everything she had expected. The Charlemagne was central, elegant, formal, and, quite obviously, expensive.
Poppy walked into a marble lobby. There was the water feature, a Japanese-style flat fountain mounted against the wall. Gold rails and soft white carpeting were everywhere. She told the receptionist she was there to see the manager.
He materialized. He was about fifty.
“If you will follow me, mademoiselle,” he said.
They rode the elevator up to the top floor.
“These are our presidential suites,” the manager said.
He opened the doors and showed them to Poppy, one by one.
They were wrecked. Poppy was actually quite impressed. She hadn’t thought this kind of decadence was still out there.
TVs were overturned, wine had been spilled on the carpets, lamps were broken, there was glass everywhere, stains on the walls. The bathrooms stank of vomit. In one particular room, Tony’s, she assumed, the TV had been smashed to pieces and the curtains were blackened where somebody had set them on fire.
Poppy looked grave.
“Monsieur,” she said, “can we talk about this in your office?”
*
He had a picture of his family on his desk. Poppy studied it as she eased herself into the chair. Two teenage daughters.
She spoke confidently.
“Monsieur”—she read his name tag—“Souris, I am a lawyer in a firm in Beverly Hills in the United States. We manage a great many clients, including film stars. I know your hotel has a record of hosting many of our clients.” She nodded at a signed headshot of Tom Cruise that was mounted on the wall. “I would hate for that relationship to be adjusted.”
He swallowed hard. “But the damage—”
“Yes, the damage is significant. But not seven thousand dollars’ worth. How long have you had those televisions? Those curtains? Many years. I am not paying brand-new prices for them. Lamps? A few francs. If you present me with that bill, I will pay it, and then I will sue. I guarantee you, monsieur, that you will spend many more times the amount in legal fees than you gouge from my clients in costs.”
He was staring at her. Poppy plowed on. “As you can see, I brought this camera with me to meticulously document everything and prevent false claims. Make no mistake, we will sue for a fraudulent bill.”
“But, my maids will not clean that—”
“If I take them into court and ask them if you have ever asked them to clean up vomit, what will they say?” Poppy smiled. “Give me their names and I will personally give them such a generous bonus
they will be glad to do it.” She made a little gesture at his family photo. “Monsieur has two lovely daughters. Will they be at the concert this evening?”
He sighed. “I could not get tickets—”
“I can take care of that.” Poppy beamed at him. “There is no need for unpleasantness, monsieur. Two thousand, the band stays, I personally call the chairman of your company with a glowing report as to how helpful you have been, five hundred to split between the maids, and I will escort your daughters and two of their friends to the concert as guests of the band. Teenage daughters can be hard to get along with, no? Just think, monsieur, what a hero you will be—both to them and to your boss.”
He smiled back. “Mademoiselle is very persuasive.”
“I thought you’d see it that way.” Poppy tapped his computer. “If you’ll just put that in writing.”
Back at the stadium, she turned up in a taxi with four ecstatic French girls in the back. Poppy escorted them backstage, stuck them in a generic hospitality area, and then picked her way through the dusk to the production office. Mike Rich wasn’t there, but Leo Ross was.
“I fixed it,” Poppy said simply.
Ross grabbed the paper from her and scanned it.
“Well, fuck me,” he said.
Poppy grinned. “No thanks.”
“Out the way, out the way,” came a man’s voice from the crackle of a two-way radio.
“Leo—”
Poppy drew back. Surrounded by ferocious-looking bodyguards the size of bears, Green Dragon had entered the room. The men around them yelled into their radios as though they were the President of the United States. Poppy blushed scarlet.
“Well, look ’oo it is.” Mark’s famous English accent. He and the band were staring at Poppy. “The squawker.”
“What, the band’s not good enough for ’er but you are?” Blaze laughed. “That’s a turn-up, innit?”
Leo said calmly, “Lads, Poppy here works for Joel.”
“Didn’t know Joel was that way inclined,” Tony said, to laughter.
“She’s your new tour accountant. Gonna help Mike.”
Drake looked skeptical and as though he was about to say something, but Leo plowed on.
“You know that bit of bovver at the ’otel?”
Devil You Know Page 22