Compact with the Devil: A Novel (12 page)

“Well … yeah,” said Kit. “Of course. But I have to; it’s in the rock and roll bylaws. Johnny Cash once painted an entire hotel room black. Aerosmith used to get long extension cords so they could leave the TVs plugged in when they threw them into the pool.” Nikki must have looked confused because he added the explanation moments later. “They explode that way. Then there’s Keith Moon’s birthday food fight extravaganza that ended up in an arrest, a car in the pool, a trip to the dentist, and twenty-four thousand dollars in damages. And those were 1967 dollars.”

“Yes, but”—Nikki frowned, trying to nail down her objection—“I’m pretty sure all those people were high.”

“I know,” said Kit, nodding. “That’s the problem. When I was using, I was always too high to do anything really artistic. And I don’t see why, just because I’m sober, I should be banned from juvenile and stupid behavior.”

“Uh,” said Nikki. It was strange and weird, but it did have a certain logic.

“Now, what do you want to glue?” asked Kit, holding out more boas.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said.

“Just pick someplace and start gluing,” he said. “You can’t really get it wrong.” He was smiling at her. It was a lopsided smile, but it seemed as if he was assuring her that everything was all right.

“Well,” said Nikki tentatively, “I would kind of like to try the fireplace. But that could take a lot of boas.”

“There’s more where these came from,” he said with a wink. Nikki smiled back and took her boa to the fireplace. It seemed very bad. Some interior decorator had spent a lot of time and
energy on this suite. The glue was not going to be easy to remove. She wondered what Z’ev would do in this situation. She was having a hard time picturing Z’ev getting himself into this mess in the first place. Maybe that was the problem with them anyway. She was always in these situations. Her life was one long situation, and where did Z’ev fit into that?

“I love it!” said Kit, popping up from the other side of the couch a few minutes later.

“Really?” she asked, concerned he was merely being polite.

“Yes,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. “It’s like the Vietcong conquered the fireplace.”

“I would need punji sticks for that,” she said, testing the tautness of one of the trip wires/boas.

Kit laughed, and she was about to turn the conversation, casually but purposefully, to Duncan when there was a scream and a crash from the other end of the room. Nikki dropped her boa and stood up. Burg was lying, legs up in the air, below the bar.

“Are you all right?” asked Kit, hurrying to help him up.

“No, I bloody well am not,” said Burg. “I just fell off the bar!”

“He was swinging from the glass rack again,” said Holly, not looking the least bit sympathetic.

“I’m an ape,” said Burg primly. “You can’t expect me not to swing.”

“Hm, well, aside from that,” said Kit, clearly ignoring Burg, “what do we think? Are we done?”

“It’s nice?” said Nikki tentatively. “It’s like a bird whorehouse.”

“Ook, ook! It’s not nice,” exclaimed Burg in some agitation. “It’s like Big Bird exploded. I’m going to need therapy.”

“You already need therapy,” said Holly.

“Yes, but now I’ll have something to talk about besides you.”

“Maybe you ought to talk about your monkey fixation,” said Nikki.

“What monkey fixation?” replied Burg.

“I don’t feel quite done,” said Kit, getting up and walking to the doorway. He looked around as if trying to gauge the impact it would have on a first-time visitor. A sudden sparkle leapt into his eye; walking swiftly to the phone he brushed aside the feathers and dialed the front desk.

“Yes, hello, this is Kit Masters in the penthouse. I need two dozen pink lawn flamingos and a box of lingerie.” He listened for a moment. “No, I don’t care about color. Whatever you can get is fine. Bird whorehouse,” he said to the other three as he hung up. “We’ll get them set up and then we’ll get out the camera.”

“I think the one over the bar is starting to come down,” said Nikki, pointing.

“Oh, ook,” said Burg. “I’m not going back up there.”

“Don’t worry,” said Nikki, laughing and hopping up onto the bar. She was surprised that she actually was having a good time. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t go Burg on us,” said Kit, hovering below her as she affixed the final piece.

“No worries,” said Nikki, preparing to get down, but Kit reached up and lifted her by the waist, helping her down from the bar. He was surprisingly strong and Nikki landed with a soft jolt and unusual feeling of breathlessness as she looked up at him. He started to speak, but whatever he’d been about to say was interrupted by a knock on the door. Kit ran to crack the door and peer out.

“We saw them carrying flamingos,” said a voice, “so we figured they had to be coming here.”

“That’s Hammond, the keyboardist,” whispered Holly to Nikki.

“Yes, tip them and I’ll let you in,” replied Kit, looking excited but still not opening the door to its full extent. There was the sound of rustling pockets.

“I’m not sure what we’ve got,” said a second voice.

“Richie, lead guitar.” Holly identified him as if narrating.

“What does one tip for flamingos?” asked Richie.

“Just give it to them,” said Kit impatiently.

There was a clink of coins and the sound of bellboys departing.

“Well?” asked Hammond. “They’ve gone. Now what have you done this time?”

Kit flung open the door and stood back.

“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.

“‘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, dropping 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.