Stage Fright

by Marianne Delacourt

  I waved and his expression lightened a fraction.

  When I got close he hit me with a man-sized handshake that nearly dislocated my arm.

  ‘How they hanging, Tara Sharp?’

  ‘Better for having you here, Bon. It’s mad outside.’ We walked towards the lift.

  ‘Just a bunch of kids,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘Yeah, but the guy we’re minding’s just out of rehab and psych counselling. He flips out every time a fan gets close enough to touch him. It’s kinda weird actually. He enjoys the attention and he loves the ladies, but when fans grab at him he goes mental.’

  ‘So that’s all you want me to do—keep the fans from touching him?’

  ‘Yep. Pretty much.’

  ‘How much and for how long? I got to get home soon.’

  ‘You’ll meet Stuart in a minute; he’ll talk to you about that. Slim is in Brisbane for few days.’

  Ames grunted.

  ‘Don’t want to hold you up—go home when you have to,’ I said. ‘But thanks for stepping in today.’

  Another grunt. By this time we were in the lift heading up.

  ‘How was the funeral?’ For some reason it was the only thing my brain would let my tongue say.

  He shrugged.

  There was a short awkward silence before the doors pinged open, in which time I smelled the rum leaking from his pores. His aura wasn’t at all messed up with emotion as I would’ve expected. In fact, he seemed quite calm.

  I led him out of the lift and along to Slim Sledge’s suite. There was a young guy in hotel uniform standing outside looking bothered.

  ‘Hi, I’m with Mr Sledge’s tour,’ I said. ‘This is Mr Ames, Mr Sledge’s new bodyguard.’

  ‘Please wait here.’ He turned his head to speak discreetly into his phone. Before he’d hung up, the door to the suite opened.

  Stuart stepped back when he saw Bon.

  ‘Meet Bon Ames, your new bodyguard,’ I said.

  With his mouth open, Stuart stepped aside so we could enter. I glanced around the suite. Food plates littered the table but there was no sign of Slim.

  ‘He’s in the bedroom,’ said Stuart. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a week, all stubble and red eyes.

  ‘Bon Ames, this is Stuart Cooper. He’s Slim Sledge’s promoter and tour manager. He’ll talk to you about money and times.’

  Stuart slapped me on the back nervously then pumped Bon’s hand. ‘Man, thanks. I mean . . . thanks.’

  ‘I’ll leave you two to talk business,’ I said and headed to the bathroom. I rang Mr Hara from in there, waking him up.

  ‘Hai?’

  ‘Hoshi, sorry to call so early but Wal is missing. I think it’s by choice but can you ask around about any trouble? My aunt Liv is about to bring in the SWAT team.’

  Hoshi knew both Liv and Wal. After I won the Perth triathlon a few months back, we’d all played Monopoly together to celebrate. Immense fun after a couple of bottles of champagne.

  ‘Surely, Missy. How your job going?’

  ‘Uh, interesting, I guess. Any news on Henry? Smitts is on my back as well.’

  ‘Missy Smitty was right ’bout one thing. House owned by Missy Bussey.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Me got Cass watching house today. Tell you more tonight, maybe. Depends on if he come back.’

  I heard Mrs Hara shouting to him in the background.

  ‘Dragon wakey wakes,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Byeeee.’ He hung up.

  I felt sick. That wasn’t what I’d expected. How could Henry be seeing Belle the Black Widow Spider? Didn’t he know she ate her mates? Didn’t he know Smitts would carve him into little pieces over this? I wanted to call and bawl him out for it, but Smitts would be in bed next to him at this time. No, it was better to wait until Cass had done her surveillance and I had more proof. I didn’t want Henny slipping out of this when I nailed him.

  A quick face sponge and I went back into the main room of the suite feeling bolshie.

  Slim Sledge appeared simultaneously from his bedroom, sporting a white suit jacket and a bunch of long chains with crosses hanging from his neck onto his naked chest. His pants were black and homey-style and he wore a baseball cap and dark glasses; a real honest-ta-goodness, god-love-’im rap-per. I was momentarily reminded that I was in the presence of a superstar.

  ‘Shawty, where you been?’ he said. ‘I done missed you.’

  ‘Done missed you too, Slim,’ I replied. ‘But I brought you Mr Ames. He’ll keep those germy little fans away.’

  Slim walked a slow circle around Bon and we all held our breath—all except Bon. He looked like he wanted to grab Slim and tip him upside down, just because he could. But maybe he looked at all people that way.

  ‘Will you do good for a brother, man?’ Slim asked.

  ‘Fucking A,’ Bon replied.

  Slim’s mouth split into a wide, dazzling grin. ‘Motha-fucker.’

  When the singer smiled like that I could see why millions of fans adored him.

  Behind him, Stuart just looked relieved. ‘Okay. Okay. It’s about fifteen minutes until the press meeting in the Pandanus Room. Tara, you and Bon go down and make sure everything is cool then come back and get us. Juanita is already down there.’

  Bon and I did as we were instructed, making very tiny small talk in the lift.

  ‘Thanks for doing this, Bon,’ I ventured.

  ‘Fucking weirdo.’

  ‘He’s recovering from stuff, y’know.’

  ‘I’ll give him fucking stuff.’

  OMG, what have I done? I know nothing about this guy at all. I swallowed the huge lump that had grown in my throat and was glad when the lift chimed open.

  •

  Juanita was flitting around the Pandanus Room, seating journalists as they arrived and arguing with them about where their recording equipment should go. Hotel staff were also bustling about, handing out complimentary orange juice and sparkling water and setting up an urn and tea and coffee cups on a long, linen-covered table.

  ‘Dahling,’ Juanita said as she swayed over to us looking dead sexy in spiked heels and a Kardashian-style fitted dress. Her long hair was out and falling silkily on her shoulders today and her make-up was photo-ready-heavy. ‘Everything alright at Ground Zero?’

  ‘Um, yes. So far. Juanita, this is Bon Ames. He’s agreed to be Slim’s temporary bodyguard.’

  Juanita gave him her sweeping once-over with a flicker of her thickly mascaraed eyelashes. ‘Excellent. Someone who knows what they’re doing. No offence, Tara dahling, but we really do need to keep those nasty little fans away from our sensitive artiste.’

  For the first time since he’d arrived Bon’s expression changed and his aura expanded. His eyes took on a predatory gleam that suggested he’d like to scoff Juanita for morning tea. But Juanita’s aura was all focused and businesslike and she flashed over to the coffee table to head off rumblings over the lack of sugar sachets.

  ‘So it’s all good then?’ I said.

  Bon dragged his eyes from Juanita’s butt and glanced around the room. ‘One door, first floor. Windows are sealed. I’ll stay out in the corridor and watch the lift and stairs and make sure no strays get past the hotel security.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘You stay near him, keep the news scum at a distance.’

  It was obvious Bon didn’t have time for a lot of people.

  ‘Roger that,’ I said.

  Bon stared at me. ‘Who?’

  ‘I meant . . . nothing,’ I said lamely.

  He shook his head. ‘We’d better go get the weirdo.’

  Instinctively, I wanted to defend Slim. His neurotic fits were annoying, but other than that, he was okay. I didn’t know how sane I’d be if strangers wanted to touch me all the time. But Bon Ames wasn’t the kind of man you’d take to task over his opinion, especially when he was helping you out. I suddenly felt grateful for one Wal Grominsky—for all his quirks and narcolepsy problems, Wal was
a lot more user-friendly.

  Stuart and Slim were waiting for us. Slim was looking smooth and ready to roll, so we trooped back into the lift and went down again. Once we hit the convention floor, Bon stationed himself between the lift and fire exit, and I trailed the others into the limelight.

  Slim took to the podium and I kneeled down in front of it like a concert bouncer ready to leap up and rescue fainting fans. I felt silly, but Slim relaxed a bit when I did it and began to flash his thousand-carat smile.

  Juanita took the helm and made sure the media all got their moment. I was bored by question ten and marvelled at how many times a different journalist could ask the same question. Slim took it in good humour and even cracked some jokes that got them all grinning.

  All in all, it was going smoothly enough that my thoughts wandered to visiting Andreas Giannoukakis. He was next on my list to investigate and I wanted to get on to that today.

  ‘Last question,’ declared Juanita. ‘That young woman next to the pillar. Stand up, please, so we can see you.’

  ‘I’ll come a bit closer,’ said the girl.

  The nervous, breathy tone of voice should have alerted me; I am a body-language expert after all. But the truth is I’m sharper with visuals. It wasn’t until the figure came into line with the front row of chairs that alarm bells clanged.

  Fran Dickle was wearing a press pass and a hoodie for disguise but there was no hiding her erratic aura and rotund body. Her aura surged like the tide in a storm as she brought the microphone to her mouth.

  ‘Slim . . .’ she began.

  I sprang up to act as a deterrent to whatever she was planning, but when she saw me she panicked and hit the go button.

  She flung the microphone at me as I lunged to head her off. For an out-of-shape-looking girl, she stepped sideways like a footy pro. My lunge and grab fell on thin air and I went down with a crash, taking a table and water jug with me.

  Slim squealed like a big girl as Dickle secured him in a clinch.

  ‘Unhand him!’ shouted Juanita.

  By the time I’d rolled over and scrambled to my feet, Stuart had Dickle in a headlock and Slim was sobbing in Juanita’s arms. Cameras were rolling and flashing and clicking.

  I could see the headlines already: REHABBED R&B STAR STILL ROCKY. SLIM SLEDGE FIGHTING DEMONS. SLIM BREAKS DOWN—AGAIN. FAN ASSAULTED BY SLEDGE’S PROMOTER.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, Bon burst into the room brandishing a knife.

  A knife? Shit! What is he thinking?

  ‘Hey!’ I bellowed at full volume.

  All the camera attention swung to me and gave Bon the split second he needed to assess the situation and put the knife away.

  ‘Hey!’ I repeated, aware now that they were all watching me. ‘You need to leave. This is over. Go suck someone else’s blood.’ I hadn’t meant to say the latter; it just came out in the heat of the moment. But it set off a bunch of angry reactions and some eye-popping name-calling.

  Bon took over at that point, half lifting the collapsed Slim Sledge into his arms. There was something desperately sad about the grown man curled up and bawling like a little kid. But Bon’s expression didn’t show any sympathy. Lip curled, he kicked the door open and headed for the lift. We fell in behind him, Juanita bringing up the rear, madly trying to mend bridges with the offended journos.

  By the time we got up to the room and Stuart had bombed Slim out with a handful of Xanax, the fallout hit. Stuart, Juanita and I sat around the hotel computer watching #SlimSledge trend on Twitter.

  ‘Who the fuck gave her a press pass?’ said Stuart.

  ‘I don’t understand, I screened them all,’ said Juanita. ‘There was no Fran Dickle. She must have bought it from someone.’

  ‘Bought it?’ I said incredulously.

  Juanita and Stuart both rolled their eyes at me.

  ‘This is the music industry,’ said Stuart. ‘Fans will do anything!’

  I knew that in theory but I’d never seen it in action. ‘I’ll follow it up. See what I can find out.’

  Stuart’s phone rang.

  His side of the conversation went from disbelief to cajoling to terse in the space of a few sentences. When he hung up we waited.

  ‘Sydney venue just cancelled,’ he said.

  ‘They can’t do that,’ I said. ‘Isn’t the gig only a week away? Won’t it cost them a fortune?’

  ‘Not if they can establish he’s medically unfit to perform. That way they claim insurance instead and they’ll probably come out ahead in the long run.’

  ‘How do they prove he’s medically unfit?’ I asked.

  ‘Won’t be too hard,’ said Bon Ames. He’d been out on the balcony smoking but was now standing behind us, staring at the muted TV screen. ‘Crazy fucker like that.’

  ‘Turn it up,’ said Juanita.

  Stuart reached for the remote.

  ‘Comeback R&B star Slim Sledge showed he still had demons to slay at a press conference in Brisbane just a short time ago. When confronted by an overly enthusiastic fan, Slim appeared to become overcome with panic, crying in the arms of his publicist. It has prompted the concert-going community to question whether he is fit to be touring . . .’

  ‘Overly enthusiastic!’ said Juanita. ‘The girl is a piranha. I swear she was scraping his skin to get DNA samples.’ Her phone rang and she turned away to listen.

  Ugggh. DNA.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Stuart.

  ‘Keep calm, everyone,’ said Juanita. ‘I can resurrect this. I’ve just had a call from some producers I know. They’re shooting a music clip in Spring Hill tomorrow with a local hip-hop band. They’ve invited Slim to do a cameo and then the Sunday paper is going to do an article on it.’

  Stuart gave her a grateful, if wan, smile and turned to me. ‘Tara, any more cancellations and I’m bankrupt.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ I stood up. ‘You guys have got babysitting duty until tonight. I’ll go track down who gave Dickle the press pass, then I have to go and see a man. When does Slim’s manager get here anyway? I thought it was today.’

  Juanita and Stuart exchanged looks.

  ‘What?’

  There was a long silence that got even Bon Ames’s eyebrows kinking with curiosity.

  ‘This mustn’t go outside this room,’ said Stuart, lowering his voice.

  I nodded but Bon Ames just kept staring.

  Stuart must have taken that as agreement because he continued. ‘He doesn’t have a manager. His last one quit and he hasn’t been able to attract another.’ He rubbed his fingers together indicating money.

  ‘You mean he’s broke?’

  Juanita nodded. ‘Stony cold. The previous manager ripped him off and then his last trip to rehab cleaned him out of his cash flow.’

  I suddenly felt the weight of two careers on my back. ‘You mean if this tour fails, he’s . . . like . . . on the dole?’

  Stuart nodded gravely. ‘Or whatever the American equivalent is.’

  ‘There isn’t one,’ said Juanita.

  Another silence fell.

  ‘When did he tell you?’ I asked.

  ‘This morning when I was making arrangements to go to the airport.’

  Bon Ames gave a grunt that was a bit hard to decipher. It might have been in sympathy but I suspected it was more likely to mean I’m not surprised.

  ‘Well, I’d better get to work,’ I said.

  And quickly. Even in previous jobs, when my life had been under threat, I hadn’t felt this sense of responsibility.

  ‘Juanita, can you email me the press list from this morning so I can go through it?’ I added.

  ‘Right away,’ she said.

  Then her phone rang again and I took that as my cue to get the hell out of there.

  CHAPTER 11

  The first thing I did was find the concierge, but he couldn’t shed any light on Fran Dickle or who she might have bribed to get the press pass.

  ‘Though I regret the incident,’ he said primly, �
��this was handled by Mr Sledge’s publicist. We don’t run security details for our guests, though of course we know how to be discreet.’

  ‘Nothing discreet about that,’ I said, pointing to the fans chanting outside on the footpath.

  ‘The pitfalls of fame,’ he said and went back to his computer.

  I took the side exit and headed up the street until I found a café, where I ordered a hot chocolate and some more raisin toast.

  Fortified, I searched Google maps on my phone for Giannoukakis’s address. It was a short walk across a bridge to South Brisbane. I memorised the route then had a thought. Checking the notes Stuart had emailed me, I saw that Andreas’s niece, Sofia Zachariou, worked at a beauty salon in the city. Maybe talking to her as well would give me a better picture of the family’s feelings about Stuart and whether they were likely to actively sabotage Slim’s tour. The salon was called Finesse, and I found a phone number for it easily.

  I sat for a moment before I rang. Would contacting Sofia upset Stuart? Even if it did, I reasoned, he needed results and this might help. I dialled the number and asked the receptionist for an appointment for a pedicure with Sofia.

  ‘Sofia is booked out,’ she said.

  ‘Could you explain that I’m a friend of Stuart Cooper’s, just in town for a short while, and that he recommended I contact her?’

  ‘I’ll pass the message on but right now she’s with a client,’ said the receptionist firmly.

  I took a breath and counted to three then played the fame card. ‘Look, hon, I’m a manager on the Slim Sledge tour and I’m on a tight schedule. Do you think you could just check with her quickly?’

  ‘Slim Sledge! You mean, like, the singer?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’re his manager?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said baldly.

  ‘Please hold and I’ll be back in a minute.’

  The line switched to AM music and I had a bit of a grin while I waited.

  She returned quickly and out of breath. ‘Sofia can see you at three o’clock.’

  I checked the clock on the wall. ‘Fine. Thank you. My name is Tara.’

  ‘Just Tara?’

  ‘That’ll do.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she gushed. ‘We’ll see you then.’