She focused on Travis Jackson. He wore beat-up, faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid shirt, and a bandanna. The shirt had short sleeves; the boy was muscled, and covered in tattoos. He had a smattering of silky black hair visible at his collar, a square jaw, and five o’clock shadow. Plus a way of looking at women that made them melt inside.
Poppy felt her heart thud.
She was staring at Travis. He locked eyes on her, sang right to her. Gave her a wink.
Poppy felt her heart flutter.
But that was right where she kept her wallet.
She beckoned the waitress over.
“What’s his story?”
“Cute, ain’t he?” The woman leaned low. “But honey, trust me—you’ll have to take a number and stand in line. We got women come eat here every day just to be in a room with him.” Her blue-lined lids took in Poppy’s youth and slim figure in that Azzedine Alaia dress. “Hmm, but you got a shot, though.”
Poppy scrawled her number on a piece of paper and gave it to the woman in a twenty.
“I really want to speak to him,” she said. “Like, really. Give him the number, OK?”
“Sure thing, sugar,” said the waitress, eyes widening at the tip.
Poppy threw some more money on the table to cover the bill, then stood up, leaning forward so Travis would get a good look at her breasts. He continued singing, with that angelic voice, but he’d got a devilish look in his eyes.
Poppy blew him a kiss and headed toward the door. The waitress grabbed her sleeve.
“One thing, honey, lemme warn ya. You’re from Cali. You gotta know, these Southern boys … they look real good and they sound real good. But they’ll break your heart.”
Poppy looked and saw the woman was talking from experience.
“I’ll be careful,” she said.
She took one final look at Travis Jackson. But she was thinking about Henry LeClerc.
*
Poppy went home, washed her hair, and carefully selected an outfit. It had to say money and class and record-industry nous. She picked out black Levis, Manolo Blahnik strappy heels, a Green Dragon road-crew shirt, and an Armani black leather jacket. She made up in neutral tones, designed to make herself look gorgeous and sophisticated, but still young. There would be no point at all in trying to pretend she was something she wasn’t.
The phone rang at eleven-thirty. Poppy had no illusions; she was a hot chick, one of the hottest. She’d known he wanted her.
“Who’s this?” Poppy asked.
“You know who it is, ma’am.”
Damn, you are sexy, Poppy thought. Total confidence; the guy acted like he was the prize here and she was the huntress. Which was truer than he knew.
“Travis,” she said, breathily.
The smile in his voice was almost visible down the phone line. “Mm-hmm. And what’s your name, sugar?”
“Poppy Allen,” Poppy said.
“Now ain’t that about right? Cause you’re just as pretty as a flower.”
Lord Almighty, Poppy thought, with an adrenaline rush of excitement, the man was perfect. He was a babe, he was talented, he had songs, and he was a pussy hound. And if anything sold records to men and to women, it was a guy that liked to fuck. Indelicate, yeah, but the way it was.
Girls wet their panties for guys who liked women. It was always the bad-boy womanizer they went for. It had been that way since Errol Flynn, or Elvis Presley.
“I’d love to meet you for a cup of coffee,” Poppy said. “If you have the time.”
“I always have the time for a girl as pretty as you,” Jackson answered. “Where you at, sugar?”
“Third Street.”
“You know the Rattlesnake Bar?”
“Yeah.” The Rattlesnake was a few blocks away; a dimly lit, cheap-but-charming little bar, decorated in a Southwestern theme. Poppy was duly impressed. The guy probably had a romantic hangout in every part of town.
“I’ll see you there in twenty minutes, honey.”
“Can’t wait,” Poppy said truthfully.
*
He was sitting up at the bar when she got there, nursing a beer and looking as masculine as a walking Y chromosome. The beach babes were staring at him, heads together, giggling in their little groups.
Travis stood up and touched the brim of his Stetson. Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw the girls swooning.
“Jack,” he turned to the guy behind the bar, “get us a table, would ya?”
“You got it, dude,” the man said, and led them into a booth for two right at the back, nice and secluded.
“Regular?” Poppy asked.
“They know me here,” Travis admitted. He grinned that bone-melting grin. “Glad you could make it. You’re a fine-lookin’ young lady. You know that, right?”
Poppy grinned back. “So I’m told. And you seem to have the votes in from the female contingent.” She stuck her tongue out at a table of longhaired blondes who were fluttering their eyelashes at Travis, and they hastily looked away.
He laughed. “Cute. You the jealous type, baby?”
“Actually, not at all,” Poppy said. She took a deep breath; she had to be six years younger than this guy. “I have a proposition for you, and it’s not to do with sex.”
“How disappointing,” Travis said.
“I’m interested in your music. I want you to hear me out. My name’s Poppy Allen, and I want to manage you.”
He stared at her a second, then burst out laughing.
“Who, sugar? You? You don’t look old enough to get a beer without givin’ the waiter a kiss.”
Poppy nodded quickly. “Hear me out, OK? If you don’t want to know, I’ll buy you that beer and leave you to your fan club.”
He smiled, but it was just polite. She could see he wanted to call a halt to the conversation. So she plowed on.
“I found Silver Bullet. You’ve heard of them?”
“The rock band.”
“That’s right. I signed them to Joel Stein at Dream Management. Then I was a tour accountant on the Green Dragon tour, saved that act a bundle.” She opened her purse, pulled out her tour laminates and tossed them to Travis. “When I got back, they handed me Silver Bullet. The girls didn’t even have a label, nothing. I signed them to a record deal, I set up the showcase, I changed their look, I designed the set. Just last month, they hit number one and had the cover of Rolling Stone, and Joel Stein, my boss at Dream, told me he was taking over the act.”
“So what did you do?” Jackson asked.
“I quit,” Poppy said simply. “And I started my own company. I want to manage you.”
“I dunno,” Travis said. “I ain’t a rock act, hon.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got songs. You’ve got the voice. You play cool. And you’re hot enough to fry eggs on.”
His grin turned rueful.
“I wish the record company folks thought like you do.”
“They will,” Poppy said, confidently. “If you give me a shot. Look, I’ll be right upfront—Dream’s a big company, and everybody wants to take their calls. And I’m just one person. But people know me. I can get you seen. Sign a six-month contract with me. After that”—she shrugged—“if you want to split, I won’t stop you.”
He took a swig of his beer, thinking about it.
“Get you folks something?” said a waitress, brightly.
“Jack and Diet Coke,” Poppy said. Maybe this evening she’d get to finish one.
“Are you two staying for dinner?” the woman asked, perkily.
Travis tipped his beer toward Poppy.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “We are.”
*
“I want to know how long you’ve been out there,” Poppy asked.
He sighed. “Try eight years. I guess I’m just a damn fool. Been doin’ this since I was a kid. Getting that restaurant gig is about the best job I’ve ever had. Tips are good, and they feed you for free, and let me use the washroom in the back. They go
t an old shower there, place was an apartment once, I guess.”
“A shower? Why don’t you do that at your place?”
“Honey, my place is the back of my banged-up old Chevy, outside,” Travis said. “Or whichever lovely lady I happen to be crashin’ with that night.”
“Well, the first thing I’ll do for you is rent you an apartment. Six months, rent-free to you unless we get a record deal. If you’ll sign.”
She held her breath.
“Miss,” Travis Jackson said, “I’m all out of options. I was gonna sign with you anyway.” He stuck out his hand. “Partner.”
Forty-One
“Not interested,” Clayton Roberts said. He pushed back his chair, to indicate the meeting was over.
Poppy didn’t move. “Excuse me? You were all over me when I worked at Dream. Remember? You said anything Silver Bullet needed…”
The banker smirked. “Anything Silver Bullet needed, yes. I deal with multi-platinum acts, baby.”
“Ms. Allen,” Poppy said, acidly.
He grinned at her lazily. “Whatever.”
“I have a new act,” Poppy began again. “Somebody I’m very excited about. I have experience—”
He chuckled. “You’re twenty-three.”
“I still have years of experience. Rock music is a young person’s game.”
“Baby,” the banker said, being deliberately insulting, “you’re a fiery young chick, but you’re too young for me to write a loan to, and you’ve got no capital.”
“What are you talking about? I own my own house.”
“Not interested,” Roberts told her.
Poppy finally stood up, defeated. “You’re going to want to do business with me some day, Clayton. And it’ll be too late then.”
“Yeah … sure, honey.” He opened the door for her. “Have a nice day.”
Poppy walked out onto the sunlit expanse of Wilshire Boulevard, a red mist of rage seething in front of her eyes. Fuck him. Son of a bitch …
Clayton Roberts wasn’t the first banker to turn her down, just the most insulting. Just one of the guys who’d liked to press the flesh at record company junkets last year. The music business had its own bankers, guys that looked after the private accounts of rock stars and moguls, managers and promoters. They understood the needs of the industry, the way things worked.
And how they’d all sucked up to Poppy last year, when she was a prized lieutenant at Dream!
And how quickly they’d told her to get lost this week!
A real lesson.
Well, no matter, Poppy told herself. She was learning, and she was doing it fast.
She found a cheap studio apartment near her own, in the Park la Brea complex. Only $850 a month, and it came furnished. The complex was a nice one, Travis’s rental even came with access to a gym and a pool. That was important; she wanted him to keep lean, keep hot.
He was grateful, but gave Poppy the sense he’d be almost as happy crashing in the Chevy. All Travis was interested in was getting a deal.
Poppy wondered if Joel Stein had made some calls, tried to spike her before she started. Yeah, she thought, as she headed into Starbucks for a bagel and some caffeine, maybe he had.
She needed to think laterally. Take Travis where people could understand his talent, not some place Joel Stein could stop him even getting heard.
L.A. and New York were the places all the acts got signed, and Nashville for country music acts. However, the A & R men who scouted new talent were bombarded in those cities. They were invited to a million showcases each night, and blew off 99 percent of them. Unless you were a big manager, like Joel Stein, it took months of pleading to get ten seconds of a junior scout’s time.
She did not want to go that route. Travis Jackson was Poppy’s first act, and you only got one chance to make a first impression.
Poppy sipped her walnut mocha and pondered. It would come to her. It always did.
*
“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, Chicago?”
Jackson looked warily out of his window seat at the concrete forest of Chicago glittering below him.
“We’re almost there,” Poppy said reassuringly.
He snorted. “Like I care.”
But Poppy could see he was nervous, fidgeting in his seat, checking his watch, his strong hands gripping the armrests whenever there was turbulence.
“I guess you’re more comfortable on a horse?”
Travis’s face softened. “God’s own mode of transportation, ma’am.”
“You really are a country boy.”
“And this is the city,” Travis said with disdain. “It looks real grimy and dirty. And nobody big is here, record company wise…”
“That’s the whole point,” Poppy said.
He raised a brow. “It’s your dime, honey. I hope you ain’t throwing it away.”
Poppy thought about the cost of two round trips to Chicago with four nights in a hotel, separate rooms.
She hoped so too.
*
Poppy set up the showcase at Zadar’s. The club was downtown, and it was a rock fixture. Metalheads loved it; every inch of wall was covered with graffiti. It specialized in punk rock and hardcore thrash metal.
Dispirited A & R scouts were here every night, looking for something, anything, to justify their low-level salaries. They usually stayed for less than one song. That was all it took to establish that yeah, yet another act was up onstage and in the middle of a royal suck-fest. Chicago had even less talent than L.A. or New York.
Poppy wanted to do what Travis had done to her; shock them out of their complacency.
She called every scout in town.
“Yeah, hi, this is Poppy Allen, calling from L.A. I think I met you last year on the Monsters of Rock tour, when I was working with Silver Bullet? No? Maybe when I was on the Green Dragon tour? Well, anyway, I got something for you. Tonight, and tomorrow night, at Zadar’s. Limited crowd.”
And the hooked rep would always ask, “What is it?”
Poppy said mysteriously, “It’s something different. I got Warner’s coming, CBS, RCA, Atlantic, shall I put you down?”
“Sure,” they’d answer.
It was a small white lie, the kind they told every day in this business. In New York or L.A. it might not have worked. In Chicago, they had nothing better to do.
*
Travis performed on a chair, with his guitar plugged in. No lights, no Silver Bullet-style pyrotechnics. Poppy knew he didn’t need any of that crap.
Before the end of the set, she was clutching a bunch of business cards.
The second night, the audience was bigger. There were the original scouts, and now their bosses, who had taken the shuttle from New York City. Poppy grinned. The old flies-on-shit principle; they all saw the other big boys there, and now they were fighting for a piece.
She signed Travis Jackson to a three-album deal with Musica Records at twelve midnight on the third night they were in Chicago. When they flew home, Poppy upgraded to first class.
Travis was going to be a star, she told him, and the star treatment started now.
*
Congressman Henry LeClerc sat at the dinner table and tried to concentrate. His spin doctors were giving him good news, after all; his opponent’s numbers were crumbling …
“Sixteen points since August, Henry.”
“Nobody likes her stand on defense. She actually said our troops were overpaid.”
“Henry, I think we got her, I really do. Her campaign team’s in a real scrabble for funding. They just took a big donation from TexOil, so they must be desperate.”
“Uh-huh,” LeClerc said absently.
He was eating with the Three Stooges, as he liked to term them. Keith Flynn, Jacob Harvey, and Tim Greenwood. They ran the polls, they interpreted the numbers, they formulated “media response.”
Apparently, his campaign for Senate was off to a good start.
But LeClerc wasn’t interested.
He was thinking about Poppy Allen. He’d been thinking about Poppy Allen for six months.
He didn’t understand it.
She had been a great piece of ass. Even sensational. But so what? Lots of women were great in bed. Henry thought that there were no bad lays, only bad lovers. Any woman could be turned into a scratching, moaning animal. It just took the right man to do it.
He was confident, even arrogant—but he could back it up.
LeClerc loved women. He didn’t even have a type. He liked short, curvy girls and lean, aristocratic beanpoles. If they were smart and passionate, that was for him. He had even been known to date plain women, because often they turned out to be the hottest between the sheets; sobbing and bucking and clutching.
Best of all was dating a woman that hated him. A political rival, say. Seducing her, then forcing her into wild and ecstatic submission after hours of careful lovemaking. LeClerc enjoyed teasing a woman. Most men could not be bothered with foreplay, then wondered why their girls lay there inert as tapioca pudding. He liked to stroke, and kiss, and lick, and pin down with one hand, until they were aching for him.
Poppy had been amazing, but weren’t they all amazing? Smart, but he only dated smart women. Beautiful … but …
He was crazy. Losing it for some tween. Wasn’t that what they called the twenty-somethings these days? Teens and tweens.
The most utterly ridiculous thing of all was that when he tried to compare her to his other women, he felt odd. Not right. Like one of his most enjoyable leisure-time pursuits was actually a little seedy.
He wasn’t so much thinking of fucking Poppy Allen again as of talking to her. Damn it, she had been interesting, when most everybody was boring. She had some kind of life in her little subculture. Henry LeClerc liked Mozart; Metallica to him might be from outer space. But he’d enjoyed her passion. Her fire. Her raw ambition.
“You know what would really help, Henry? Port?”
“Yes, thank you,” he said.
They poured the Cockburn’s reserve into his small glass.
“A lady. Somebody we can introduce as your wife.”
Devil You Know Page 32