“Dear God,” said Hammond, entering the red-lit, feather-draped room. “It’s like … I don’t know what it’s like. I love it.”
“It’s a bird whorehouse,” said Kit proudly.
“Ah,” said Richie. “That explains the flamingos.”
“Yeah, help me set them up.”
“I’ll get the lingerie!” said Holly, reaching for the bag that Hammond was now bringing in from the hallway.
Kit snapped pictures while they set up flamingos and draped garter belts around them. Nikki picked up a particularly stretchy bit of lace and on impulse snapped it like a rubber band at Burg’s face.
“Oook!” yelled Burg, pounding his chest in rage.
“Oh, it’s on!” said Richie, reaching for more lingerie ammunition. Laughing, Nikki dove for a garter belt and fired back. The fight might have escalated from there if Duncan had not appeared in the doorway.
“Lovely,” said Duncan. Kit glanced at him, and a sudden shift in mood spread across the room. It was if the parents had returned.
“Well,” said Hammond, clearing his throat and removing the garter from around his head, “we’ve all got to get up early in the morning. I suppose we should turn in.”
“Yes. Really lovely room, Kit,” said Holly, following Hammond to the door.
“See you in the morning,” said Nikki inanely, making her own exit, with Burg and Richie close on her heels.
“Anyone want breakfast?” asked Burg as they entered the elevator. “I’m starved.”
“Well, to tell the truth, I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours and I could use the sleep,” said Nikki, checking Trista’s phone; it was nearly three thirty AM. She had lost track of home time vs. Colombian time vs. German time, but she was very clear on the fact that she was tired.
“We generally sleep on the tour bus,” said Hammond. “It helps, really, since there’s nothing to do on the bus besides sleep and get in fights. Plus, Kit’s got an interview in the morning. There will be lots of lovely uninterrupted sleep on the bus while we’re waiting for him.”
“I’ll just take you back to the room,” said Holly with a wry smile, eyeing Nikki’s doubtful expression.
GERMANY VI
Green T-shirt Blues
December 27
“‘Kit Masters in Concert Debacle,’” read Richie, unfolding the morning paper.
“That wasn’t a debacle, that was a death trap,” Hammond put in.
“‘Has Kit returned to his old gig-ditching ways?’” Richie continued.
“He’s ditched before?” asked Nikki from her seat on the bus, and Holly nodded. She had been rousted from her bed mere moments before and then herded onto the double-decker tour bus. Nikki had tried to talk to Trista, but Trista had ducked straight into a limo with Kit, Brandt, and Angela. With nowhere else to go, Nikki had followed the band dutifully onto the bus. They were now going to the TV station, where Holly had promised that they would all be settling back down to sleep. Instead they were reading the review of last night’s show.
“Last tour he walked out on five shows. No reason. Or at least no good ones. It’s why people were a little leery of booking us this time,” answered Holly.
“‘The Masters management at Faustus Records cited unsafe machinery as the reason, but disappointed fans demand full-price refunds.’”
“That’s so unfair,” said Burg vehemently. “He’s been a rock this tour and the one time he walks out—with good reason—he gets absolutely pilloried.”
Nikki sighed. After talking to Ewart, the possibility of Kit or the band actually dying seemed small. On the other hand, the safety mechanisms didn’t seem to be common knowledge; someone may have intended death.
The bus slowed for a long turn into a parking lot and stopped, idling.
The television studio was an unimpressive cube of concrete populated by people in business suits. Kit’s limo door was being opened by station personnel and Trista was exiting as well. Suddenly Nikki was tired of waiting. She had important things to do; she could not be waiting on the vagaries of a rock star.
“Be right back, guys,” she said. And without waiting for their response, she galloped down the bus stairs and dashed over to the car.
“Nikki!” exclaimed Trista as Nikki appeared at her elbow. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to you,” said Nikki.
“We can’t talk now,” said Trista. “I have to prep Kit for his interview.”
Nikki glanced at Kit. He was shaking hands with a number of stuffed suits and as if feeling her gaze, he looked over his shoulder and flashed a brilliant smile, as if to say, ‘I know this is ridiculous, but I have to do it, try not to laugh.’ Nikki found herself smiling back.
“Trista, you and Nikki coming?” he asked, yelling a little across the top of the limo.
“Be right there!” chirped Trista, then turned to Nikki. “We’ll talk after I get his makeup done. You should go back to the bus.”
“I think I’ll go see what a TV interview looks like. I was invited, after all.” With a Mrs. Merrivel–like smile, Nikki brushed past Trista and followed Kit and his entourage into the building. Duncan was the last in, holding the door for everyone. He scrutinized them as they entered, as if his eyes were an X-ray machine.
“We need to talk,” said Duncan as she passed him. Nikki’s eyes flicked up to meet his, but he was looking out into the parking lot. She glanced away and nodded.
“After the interview,” she said, and he gave his own nod.
She followed the parade of people as they entered the offices. Kit, accompanied by Brandt and Angela, made the meet-and-greet rounds, while Trista made a beeline for the greenroom. After watching people fawn for a few minutes, Nikki followed her.
Trista settled into the greenroom, setting up her own stock of brushes and makeup. With nothing better to do, Nikki perched on the couch and looked around, only then noticing that one of the side tables held a chilling bottle of champagne.
“Should that be here?” asked Nikki, pointing to the champagne.
“Oh, for the love of…!” exclaimed Trista, clearly angry. “He was always so fond of champagne. Don’t they know he’s trying to stay sober? Can you find someone to give it to?” Nikki nodded and toted the champagne out into the corridor, looking for someone to direct her. She could see Kit’s entourage down the hall; secretaries and other worker bees were swarming forth from their cubicles to look at him.
“Hey,” she said, snagging the first passing drone. “Is there someplace I can put this? He doesn’t want it.” She jerked her head in Kit’s direction.
“Is it the wrong kind?” he asked, a worried crease forming between his eyebrows. “We got what was on the list.”
“List?” she asked.
The man produced a clipboard with a fax sheet on it; it was titled “Greenroom Requirements.” Scanning the list, Nikki saw that champagne had been added by hand just below M&M’s; Nikki spared a thought to wonder if someone had gone through to pick out the brown ones à la Van Halen.
“See? It’s on the list.”
“Why is it handwritten?” she asked. The man frowned, clearly confused by the language difference.
“It’s not typed,” she said, miming writing.
“Ah,” said the man, comprehension dawning. “Someone called to request.”
Nikki cocked her head to the right, her face remaining expressionless. “Do you know who? Who called?” she asked, saying the second sentence slightly louder and then feeling stupid about it.
“A woman,” said the man. “It is not the right kind?”
“No, it’s fine,” said Nikki, “but he doesn’t want it now,” she said. The German frowned, trying to wrap his brain around the concept of a rock star not wanting alcohol. “He might want it later, but not now,” she added, hoping to smooth things over.
“Ah,” said the man, as if he understood. “I will put it into icebox, yes?”
“Yes, perfect,” said Nikki, dro
pping the ice bucket into his hands and returning to the dressing room. Trista was lighting a small purple candle that smelled like lavender. Nikki raised her eyebrows.
“He likes the smell,” said Trista. “Lavender is very soothing.”
“Uh-huh,” said Nikki, not really listening. Someone had purposely requested alcohol for a recovering alcoholic. A woman—and that narrowed the pool of suspects a bit. Not that a man couldn’t have a female accomplice. Duncan entered and quickly surveyed the room, leaving the door open. He moved with the efficient smoothness of a professional. Outside the door, she could hear the swell of voices as Kit and his entourage got closer.
Angela, Duncan, and Kit all swept into the room accompanied by the most persistent autograph seekers among the office staff. Kit signed the proffered papers with a practiced hand, and just as easily Duncan shoved them out the door. Nikki admired the big man’s adroit manner of bullying individuals without actually making physical contact.
When the room had been cleared Kit flopped onto the couch next to Nikki and Angela took a seat in the makeup chair. The producer made ass-kissing noises until Duncan politely asked him to leave.
Nikki critically examined Angela; a woman had called to ask for the champagne to be added to the list, and Tracksuit could have been a woman. Beside her, Kit was playing with the zipper on his hoodie, running it up and down to his own internal rhythm, until it sounded like a DJ scratching.
Angela was twentysomething and tall in her high heels. Long and slender, she was the kind of woman whom other women love to hate. But Nikki was startled to realize that she didn’t. Like someone being shown how a magic trick worked, Nikki could spot all the tricks Angela was using to look like an alpha female. High heels, lacy undershirt peeking from the décolletage of her power suit, black-rimmed glasses to offset the sexiness, bleached hair pulled up into a French twist. Nikki had worn that very outfit at least twice to go undercover. She wondered what Angela looked like on a dateless Saturday night. She was willing to bet it was sweats, a ponytail, and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s all the way.
Angela was still on the phone, speaking halfway-decent French, but she was having trouble coming up with the French vocabulary to describe stage assembly parts. Angela flipped through her day planner and then covered the phone’s receiver with one hand.
“Does anyone know the French for ‘black nylon’? I’m on the phone with the supplier.” Everyone stared blankly at her, and Kit waved his hands as if warding off an oncoming plane.
“Tissu en nylon noir,” said Nikki.
“Uh-huh,” said Angela, narrowing her eyes at Nikki, and then went back to the phone. “Non, non. I need thirty meters of tissu en nylon noir.” While Angela harassed the supplier, Nikki became aware that she had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. Nikki smiled awkwardly; when was she going to learn to keep her mouth shut?
“Brilliant,” said Kit, looking impressed. “You’ll come in handy.”
“Everyone’s met Nikki, right?” asked Trista, clearing her throat somewhat reprovingly. “She’s going to be helping out for a few days, and then she’s going to fill in for me when my granddaughter’s born. I know she didn’t get properly introduced last night, but it was rather last-minute.” Nikki sighed in annoyance; they should have gone over her cover story together before Trista just blurted it out to the assembly.
“Hi,” said Nikki.
“But you’re American,” rumbled Duncan, as if he didn’t approve of multilinguists, and Nikki winced. One word and she’d managed to reveal herself.
“Who’s American?” asked Brandt, slipping through the door. “It is a mob scene out there! They love you, Kit!” Kit shrugged. Brandt scanned the room and seemed to see Nikki for the first time. “You must be the American; I know all these other bums here.” He stepped forward to shake her hand. “Brandt Dettling.”
“Nikki Lanier,” said Nikki, and shook his hand. His was a firm handshake—not firm enough to crush and not weak enough to insult her either. He added a raffish grin to the handshake, turning on the charm. “I’m going to be helping Trista for a few days.”
“Great! The more the merrier, as someone said.” But she could tell that he was disappointed; he’d wasted his smile on a mere makeup lady. “Well,” he said, turning back to the room. “Let’s get this show on the road. Kit, you’re not really going to wear that, are you?”
Kit was lighting a cigarette and stopped with the flame of his lighter still flickering.
“I’d been planning on it,” he said grimly, flicking the lighter closed.
“You look like you just got up!”
“I did,” said Kit, taking a drag. “When you schedule these things last-minute, you get last-minute fashion.”
“Would you two stop fussing?” clucked Trista, flapping her hands at Angela, who vacated the makeup chair but didn’t get off the phone. “You know I’d never let my boy go out looking less than his best.” She patted the canvas seat invitingly and Kit grinned his charming smile that probably made girls of all ages trip over their feet.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” said Kit. “I can’t imagine what we were thinking.” He stood up, stretching his hands over his head, before moving to the makeup chair, unlit cigarette still dangling from his lip. Trista started vigorously brushing his hair; Kit seemed unperturbed.
Angela handed Brandt a piece of paper, jabbing it at him to get his attention, since she was now arguing about the cost of an additional electrician. Brandt took the paper reluctantly and looked over it.
“The question list from the producer is in,” he said casually. “Usual stuff—who’re you sleeping with, how’s the sobriety going, new album.”
“The new album is off the list,” said Kit.
“Kit, we need to generate excitement for it now, so that when it drops we’ve got the kids waiting in line.”
“Brandt, what am I supposed to talk about? There is no new album. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in two months.”
“You’re just stressed out,” said Brandt. “You’ll come around in time.”
“Maybe,” said Kit. “And maybe I won’t, but I’m not going to talk about my writing with some German twat of a television host.”
There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, and then Brandt crumpled up the sheet with a loud crackling noise.
“Fine,” said Brandt, shooting the paper ball into the wastebasket with a surprising athleticism. “It’s off the list.”
Trista began applying cleanser and unzipped Kit’s hooded sweatshirt to reach his neck, tch-ing over the ratty KISS T-shirt underneath.
“I stole it from Richie.”
“Richie should invest in some new clothing,” said Brandt severely.
“It was either this or his Rainbow Brite shirt,” said Kit cheerfully as Trista applied moisturizer to his face.
“Well then I’m glad you went with Kiss, but you couldn’t find something without holes?” asked Trista, trying for a lighthearted note.
“In Richie’s bag? No.”
“She’s right, Kit, you’re moving onto the international stage here. You could at least dress the part,” said Brandt, looking vaguely around the room as if he’d misplaced something and rattling a few M&M’s in his hand. Kit’s face twitched in a paroxysm of annoyance, but his voice was relaxed when he spoke.
“I don’t tear down your suits, Brandt. Leave me my T-shirts.”
“No need to get all stroppy,” replied Brandt. “It’s your career, after all. I’m just trying to be helpful.” Brandt tossed the M&M’s in his mouth.
Nikki was certain that Kit would blow a gasket here, since he hadn’t actually been getting “stroppy”—whatever that was. Instead he picked up one of the lids from Trista’s bottles of goop and screwed it into his eye like a monocle.
“I would like to speaken to ze manager!” said Kit in a terrible German accent.
“I am ze manager,” Brandt responded, but half-reluctantly.
“Pleas
e to tell ze singer he must wearen ze pants!”
“He says you have to wear pants, old boy,” answered Brandt, smiling in spite of himself.
“But I am wearing pants!” exclaimed Kit, popping the monocle/lid out to speak in his own voice and then popping it back in to use his German accent. Brandt joined him for what was obviously the punch line of the joke.
“But they are not on your bottom!”
Brandt gave a chuckle that filled the room; Kit grinned and let Trista take the lid back.
“The rules never said we had to wear pants on our legs,” said Kit around Trista’s makeup sponge. “I really think we were unfairly treated. We should sue. Remember that old man’s face? I thought he was going to have an apoplexy.”
“He was a bit red in the face. That was a good night!” Brandt’s nostalgic smile held a trace of sadness.
“If I could remember more of it, I’m sure I would agree,” said Kit.
“Ten minutes,” said a headset-clad woman, popping her head in the door. Kit waved his acknowledgment as Trista finished, applying some powder. Smearing hair gel between her palms, she spiked his hair with expert fingers, giving his makeover the final touch. Nikki had to admit that in a matter of minutes, Trista had somehow managed to take Kit from frazzled and sleepless to trendily dirty.
Brandt and Angela disappeared shortly after Kit went onstage, leaving Trista and Nikki to watch the show from the greenroom. There was some banter from the host in German, which Nikki didn’t understand, and then Kit came out to massive cheers from the audience and the host switched to English.
“They’ll subtitle it later,” said Trista.
“The champagne’s on the fax sheet of dressing room requirements,” answered Nikki, following her own train of thought.
“What?” asked Trista.
“I gave the champagne that was in here to someone, and he showed me a faxed list of dressing room requirements. Someone called in and added it to the list.”
“This is the third time that’s happened!” Trista began to stack her brushes and bottles back into their purple Carrie Mae case, slamming them down harder than necessary.
Compact with the Devil: A Novel Page 10