“The whole idea behind a compcard is to show your range. You are going to need more looks. Here.” I reach over to pick up a compcard and hand it to him. “See this? It’s for Lynda Travers. She’s not just going Irish or cute redhead. Here, intense eyes. Here, a three-quarter shot. More looks, more bookings.” I nod to see if he gets it.
He nods back.
“We need more to work with. Has anyone else done recent shots for you?”
“No. I thought Ron was.”
“That’s kinda what tonight’s about. But you can, and need to, arrange stuff on your own. But have the photographer talk to me first. I’ll screen out the freeloaders and idiots.”
“What tonight’s about?”
“I told you when you got here,” I say. “Wendy’s expecting you to show up at a party with her. Ron’s supposed to be there.”
“Where at?”
“Some loft in Wicker Park.”
“You know who’s going to be there?”
“Not really.”
He gives a petulant grimace. “Why do I have to go?”
“Wendy said so. Look, I don’t want to go either. I hate these parties.”
“What parties?”
“Favors for Tanya,” I say, sighing. “Look, it’s nothing life-changing—unless you don’t go. Tanya asked for you, specifically, to show up. We’re supposed to check out Ron’s new studio, which is in this loft where these friends of Tanya live. They’re in a band or something like that.”
“A band?” he asks, perking up.
I shrug. “Friends of Tanya.”
“Oh. Right. Friends of Tanya,” he says, shoulders slumping.
“I know. But it won’t kill you to show up.”
“What’s with her and Wendy?”
“Tanya got Wendy into the business—helped her start Les Femmes. In other words, if Tanya says ‘come,’ Wendy goes. And if Wendy says ‘go,’ we go.”
“Bunch of airhead seventeen-year-old models, and trolls trying to pick them up.”
“You’ve actually met the guys who live there.”
“Who?”
“Back in May. Big party at Tanya’s place. That guy with long hair. Got introduced in a big way. From Columbus. He and Tanya go way back, I hear.”
“Oh. He’s cute,” Kenny says. “He was with that really big dude.”
“Think so.”
“They together together?” He interlaces the fingers of his hands.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“And they’re in a band?”
“That’s why they’re here, and why Ron has a studio now, and why we’re going.”
“So maybe it’s not just another stupid Tanya thing.”
I shush him. “Watch it.”
He looks around to see if anyone heard him.
Chapter 17
So Very Pretty
—Scott—
The bon voyage party is pumping. The W-bins fill the loft with a heavy, pounding rhythm. The second keg’s been tapped. The whole place smells of spilled beer, cigarettes, and kef. It’s mostly Tanya’s gang and a couple of people from our straight jobs. Jonathan’s parading around wherever. Ron’s stalking the whole place with his camera. I follow him by the bursts of light from his flash.
In the far end of the loft, I pour vodka over the ice in my cup and push the bottle back into the ice bucket behind my mattress. This is fun, but it’s too soon for a band launch party. We’ve had only a week of rehearsals. Mercurial Visions is still finding itself and the chemistry between the four of us. We’ve never performed. Not even for friends. I start back for the lit part of the loft and run into Nancy.
“This is a vanity party,” I say to her. “We shouldn’t have—”
“Yes, we should,” Nancy says. “People are having a blast. They’ll put our name with having a blast in their heads.”
“Still.”
A flash.
I’m blind for a moment. “Thanks, Ron.”
“Good shot of a band in their natural habitat,” he says. “Want some smoke?”
I shake my head. “Puts me to sleep. I stick with this,” I say, holding up my vodka.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Nancy says.
“What a surprise. I was trying to be polite,” Ron says as he leads her away.
They leave, and I notice the redhead model from the auditions is standing two people away. After a moment, she notices me noticing her and steps over.
“You’ve got a lot of friends.”
“Only looks like it,” I say. “Mostly friends of friends and co-waitrons. Just moved here.”
“I remember that. Moving here. Waiting tables,” she says.
I give her a what-can-you-do shrug and eyebrow raise.
“You know, if I had to lose out on the gig, I’m glad it was to Nancy,” Lynda says. “She’s great.”
“You know her?”
“I’ve seen her perform. Hell, if I’d known I was up against her, I wouldn’t have even bothered showing up.”
“Then you wouldn’t be here.”
“Getting to know you?” She gives me her professional smile: wide, white, and welcoming. Her eyes gleam in the light like emeralds.
“You’ve got really great eyes,” I say before I realize I thought it.
“My god. What a lousy line.”
“I didn’t mean to say that. Sort of popped out. But I did think it. Do. Mean it. They are.”
“That’s pretty bad too. At least it’s cute,” she says. “Here. Tell you what. I’ll let you take it back.”
“All right,” I say in spite of myself. Flirting’s only trying to get something for nothing. “So who do you actually know here?”
“Better. But really, you have to work on your technique.”
“Something you could help me with?”
“Now that. Much better. Almost smooth,” she says. “The answer’s yes. But only if you tell me where you got that cocktail. I don’t much like beer.”
“Easy. Right here,” I say, reaching down behind my mattress and pulling the bottle up from the ice bucket. “Your cup, please.”
“Full of beer,” she says, holding it out.
“Guess we’ll have to fix that.” I take the white-plastic cup and dump it into the bucket.
“There’s a little beer left. But the vodka’s ice cold.” I pour her two fingers of it. “Don’t have any ice.” I hold the cup out to her. “Think Russki.”
“Ya Natasha,” she says. Taking the cup, she drags her fingers deliberately along mine.
Then Jonathan appears from behind her. He’s got on that impish smile of his—cheeks pointing up, brows dipping together, lips bent into a mischievous curve—meaning he’s got some surprise or other to unleash. “We shoulda come here years ago.”
“You came all the way back here to tell me the obvious?” I ask, the feeling of Lynda’s touch fading quickly. “This exact moment?”
“Hey,” he says to her. “You were at the audition.”
“Lynda,” she says.
“Sang something by Yaz. ‘Situation.’ Yes,” he says. “Glad you could make it. But I need to borrow your beau here for a second. A ton of people have been asking when we’re going to play—the band. Bon voyage party.”
“We never decided,” I say. “We’re not set up. That’s exactly why we needed more time to plan this.”
“Here,” he says. “Let’s do ‘Amy’s Face.’ You and I’ve pulled that off alone before. Don’t need the sequencers. No drums. They know the choruses. Simple. Your Marshall amp, my keyboard, three mics—all into one PA. Ten minutes or less.”
“You’re right. That’d work.”
“I’ll grab the wonder twins. Get my keyboard set up. See you in ten.” Suddenly he leaps between Lynda and me and pulls us to
gether. A flash bursts.
“Jesus, Ron, where the hell did you come from?” I ask, blinking away spots.
“Trade secret,” he says.
“Gotta get things set,” Jonathan says, flying back into the party.
“Hey, Lynda,” Ron says, sweeping his ponytail back over his shoulder. “We need to set up those new shots for you. I’ve got time this week.”
“Sure,” Lynda says. “You finally got a decent studio? Your apartment doesn’t cut it.”
“Right here,” he says. “Got my backdrops, lights, power packs, stands.”
“You’re shooting here?” Lynda asks.
“Photo studio slash rehearsal space,” he says.
“Slash apartment,” I say. “Now we work late. No till-dawn bullshit.”
“The light at dusk—gorgeous,” he says.
“Have you seen Sexy Sequencer Girl?” Jonathan asks, reappearing. “Little Drummer Girl’s getting ready.”
“Check the bathroom,” Ron says. “Can’t hold her beer.”
Spinning to leave, Jonathan abruptly stops and waves a group of women over. “Scott. Come here. You remember these guys from Tanya’s party?”
The first one I don’t remember. She’s got a bland natural look—no makeup, with long, dirty-blonde hair, and a big chest draped with a long, loose T-shirt. Gotta be a trendy bisexual artiste type. Wonder if you can use “art fag” for a woman? She’s introduced as Chris.
Next is Wendy, whom I recognize from Tanya’s party. She’s fierce looking, with short, dark hair that’s slicked back like Rudolph Valentino’s, and she’s poured into a tight, wickedly short scarlet dress. She’s an executive type for a talent or modeling agency.
Wendy then leads a tall, slim woman forward. Everything about this woman is long: her legs, her neck, her waist. I recognize her from Tanya’s party as well: Charlene. She’s like the idea of a model.
“Hey, Ron,” Wendy says. “We need new shots for this one.” She nods at Charlene. “Looks like we’re going to sign an exclusive deal for her in the next couple of weeks. Plus I got my hands on a great wardrobe. Last chance. It’s now or never.”
“I’ve got the studio all but set up here. Let me know when,” he says, taking a quick shot of the two women.
“When she’s the next Linda E. and you sell that shot to the tabloids, I’ll need some sugar,” Wendy says.
For a woman about to be launched into a serious modeling career, Charlene doesn’t look excited or even happy—only blank.
From behind Charlene steps a woman I definitely remember from the party: a slender, slightly built Eurasian woman. Wendy wanted Ron to shoot her too. He called her “exotic looking.” She obscures her slightly almond-shaped eyes with the blunt bangs of her espresso-colored hair. The same as at Tanya’s party, she merely raises her beer when anyone says “hey,” and then stares into the froth as if she hates being here.
I catch Jonathan studying her. He’s not checking out her body but rather reading her cutoff shorts, black nylons, sleeveless black shirt, silver necklaces, and large hoop earrings for the particular way she’s broken—the special way she needs to be rescued.
He’s auditioning her as a replacement Amy. No. That’s dead. As of right now. No Amys in Chicago. This is about him and me, alone.
“Lead Singer Man,” I say, motioning him to come with me. “We’ve got a song to play, ’member?” I grab his arm and walk him away from her.
After leaving him to handle the PA and mics, I open my guitar case. My Stratocaster sits nestled in fake yellow fur.
“First audience in Chicago,” I tell my guitar, lifting it out. “Make it good.”
Standing behind his keyboard, Jonathan’s tapping his microphone. I plug my Stratocaster into the Marshall amp. AnnMarie picks up her drumsticks behind the array of flat, black drumheads. Grasping her mic stand, Nancy puts on an expression like she’s about to sleep with everyone in the room. Jonathan nods. I stop the CD.
Quiet rolls through the loft.
“I’m sure,” Jonathan says into the mic, “everyone knows why they’re here. Free booze. A chance to get lucky.”
Everyone gazes at him. Whenever he’s on a stage, everyone always does. Even the light seems to concentrate on him.
“But,” he says, “we’ve an ulterior motive. That’s to thank you for showing up for the launch party of Mercurial Visions. A toast. To you. Thanks for being here.”
He lifts his cup high above his head.
“Now we’re going to play a song for you—‘Amy’s Face.’”
His hair flares out as he spins to sit on the stool behind his keyboard. I brace myself, feeling the guitar’s weight on my hip. He cracks his knuckles above the keyboard and raises his hands, ready to strike the first chord.
I pick out the opening notes on the strings, breaking the hush. His hands fall; the song takes off into the throbbing notes of the keyboard and the rat-a-tat of drums, and then the eyes watching me fade, the faces, the bodies, and, finally, light and dark. There is rhythm, melody and his voice:
“Amy, come dance with me …”
While he’s singing and I’m playing, I know we’ll succeed. I can even imagine the dead are still living. But inevitably the song ends.
I hear clapping, and then see the half circle of people around us.
“Thank you,” Jonathan says.
Chris, the artist chick in the loose T-shirt, runs up to him before he can leave his stool. “Oh, that’s great,” she says. “Really. I’m not just saying that. I appreciate how much work it takes to pull something off. Especially something people like. See, I’m a graphic artist.”
“That’s cool,” he says, thickly, as if he’s been awoken mid-dream. I’m never sure he knows who he is right after he stops singing.
“Anyway, I wanted you to know I really liked your sound.”
“Thanks,” he says.
“And …” she says, “maybe I could show you some stuff. You know. Maybe I could do a cover for you. Or some promo work?”
“Sure. Sounds good,” he says.
“Well,” I say, “a label contracts covers separately. We have no say in that. We could show your stuff to someone. But we can’t guarantee anything. And, well, that hasn’t even happened yet. So …”
“Bring your stuff by,” he says. “Whenever. Or better, hang around a rehearsal sometime. Bring your friends.”
“Great,” she says, her face brightening. “I think Wendy’d come. She’ll be dragging her new finds here for Ron to shoot anyway. Charlene. Sure.”
“What about that other one. Hoop earrings?” he asks, making a circle at his ear with a couple of fingers. “Jennifer, right?”
“Maybe,” Chris says. “I’ll ask her.”
Knew it. He’s trying to replace Amy. Gotta get that dead. Gotta make you understand Chicago’s about us.
Several partygoers surround him, all talking about the band.
I leave him with his fans and cruise around the loft for a few minutes before realizing that I’ve been looking for that redhead, Lynda.
What the hell, Scott? Think band. No need to show off you’re straight here. It’s my house.
I drain the last of my vodka and start toward my mattress to get a refill.
That’s making more sense.
As I get closer, I see a body lying on it. Lynda. Looking for the vodka—or something else? She’s half curled up, like a baby, with her back to me. The deep shadows cast by the low cinderblock-and-board shelves play tricks with her, making her long hair appear shorn off, and her body boxy. I slink through the darkness—not that I need to sneak. “Brand New Lover” by Dead or Alive masks the sound of my steps, but she planned a surprise, so I plan one too. Kneeling softly, I start, ever-so-slowly, putting my weight on the edge of the mattress.
I lean over to whisper hello. Then th
e body turns over.
Sammy? But you’re dead. I jerk back. They beat you to death.”
The body sits up from the shadows, and the light reveals a pretty blond boy I vaguely recognize.
“Oh, hey, man,” the boy says, “this your place?”
“Um,” I say. “Yeah. It is. And so’s that.” I point at my mattress.
With blond bangs falling across an eye, the moist curve of his mouth, and the smooth edge of his jaw, he’s almost beautiful—as if he could be a girl with a little makeup, like Boy George when he sang “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me.” His eyes are intense hazel—like Jonathan’s. I can’t look away.
“Sorry, I was just, sorta, trying this on for size,” he says. “Kenny. Kenny Magnum.” He sticks out his hand. “You’re Scott, right?”
“Yes,” I say, finally able to break off the stare. “I am.” We shake, and his hand’s so warm and smooth. I yank mine away.
Then I remember. “Tanya’s party,” I say. “You were doing something with Ron. Or Wendy.”
“Both. She’s my agent. He’s a photographer. Doing my headshots, comps—that stuff.”
“Okay.” I look at him again. You are really so very pretty.
“But modeling is only a side gig,” Kenny says. “I play guitar. I’m not as good as you. At all. What I really like to do is write songs. And sing. But who knows, right?”
“Right,” I say, no longer paying much attention to what he is saying.
Ron’s flash goes off, jolting me: I realize I was staring at Kenny again.
“You seen Lynda?” I ask Ron, turning away from Kenny.
“Nope.”
“’Scuse me,” I say. “Gotta go.” I head for the bathroom—the one place I haven’t looked for her.
I push open the bathroom door right as a large, laughing man pulls it, and I stumble forward. We almost collide.
“Great party!” the man says.
I take a half step back.
“What’s the name of your band again?”
“Mercurial Visions.”
“Rock ’n’ roll, man,” he says, holding two fingers up like horns.
I flash my two fingers back at him and then push on by.
A Perfect Blindness Page 11