Glitter Baby (20 page)

She hung up the phone, and it rang again. One of the roadies had been busted for drugs. This time she was prepared for Stu’s yelling.

“For chrissake, don’t you know how to handle anything?” He grabbed his jacket. “Take care of things here while I get the son of a bitch out of jail. And I’m telling you right now…Those motherfucking Austrian police had better speak English.” He pitched another clipboard at her. “Here’s the schedule and the assignments. Get those stage passes stamped for the VIPs and call Munich to make sure they’ve taken care of transportation from the airport. We were short on limos the last time. And check on the charter from Rome. Make them give us a backup.” He was still hurling instructions as he walked out the door.

She fielded eight more phone calls and spent a half hour with the airlines before she noticed that she hadn’t taken off her coat. Parker Dayton asked if she’d had enough yet. She gritted her teeth and told him she was having a terrific time, but as soon as he left the suite, she sagged into her chair. Parker was leaving the tour in three days to go back to New York. That’s how long she had to last. Three days.

She took a few minutes between phone calls to study the promotional kit, and when the lead guitarist for Neon Lynx walked in, she recognized him as Peter Zabel. He was in his early twenties, with a small, compact body and curly, shoulder-length black hair. Two earrings decorated his right lobe, one an enormous diamond and the other a long white feather. He asked her to put a call through to his broker in New York. He was worried about his Anaconda Copper.

After he got off the phone, he slouched down on the couch and propped his boots up on the coffee table. They
had three-inch Lucite heels with embedded goldfish. “I’m the only one in the band who looks to the future,” he said suddenly. “The other guys think this is going to last forever, but I know it doesn’t happen that way, so I’m building a portfolio.”

“Probably a good idea.” She reached for the backstage passes and began to stamp them.

“Damned straight it’s a good idea. What’s your name anyway?”

She hesitated. “Fleur.”

“You look familiar. You a dyke?”

“Not at the moment.” She slammed the stamp down on the VIP pass. Whom did she think she was kidding? Three days was forever.

Peter got up and headed for the door. Suddenly he stopped and turned back. “I know where I saw you. You used to be a model or something. My kid brother had your poster up in his room, and you were in that movie I saw. Fleur…what’s it?”

“Savagar,” she made herself say. “Fleur Savagar.”

“Yeah. That’s right.” He didn’t seem impressed. He tugged on the white feather earring. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but if you’d had a portfolio, you would of had something to fall back on after you was washed up.”

“I’ll remember that for the future.” The door shut behind him, and she realized that she was smiling for the first time in weeks. Around this crew anyway, the Glitter Baby was yesterday’s news. She felt as if she had more air to breathe.

The tour was opening that night at a sports arena north of Vienna, and once Stu came back with the errant roadie, she didn’t have a minute to think. First there was a ticket mix-up, and then the one-hour warning calls to the band. She had to be in the lobby early to double-check transportation and take care of tips. Then she had to make a second set of phone calls to the band members telling them the
limos were ready. Stu yelled at her about everything, but he seemed to yell at everybody except the band, so she tried to ignore it. As far as she could tell, there were only two cardinal rules: keep the band happy, and double-check everything.

As the members of Neon Lynx wandered into the lobby, she identified each one. Peter Zabel she’d met. Kyle Light, the bass player, wasn’t hard to spot. He had thin blond hair, dead eyes, and a wasted look. Frank LaPorte, the drummer, was a belligerent redhead with a Budweiser can in his hand. Simon Kale, the keyboard player, was the fiercest-looking black man she’d ever seen, with a shaved and oiled head, silver chains draping an overdeveloped chest, and something that looked suspiciously like a machete hanging from his belt.

“Where’s that freakin’ Barry?” Stu called out. “Fleur, go up and get that son of a bitch down here. And don’t do anything to upset him, for chrissake.”

Fleur reluctantly headed for the elevator and the penthouse suite of lead singer Barry Noy. The promotional kit billed him as the new Mick Jagger. He was twenty-four, and his photographs showed him with long, sandy-colored hair and fleshy lips permanently set in a sneer. From bits and pieces of conversations, she’d gathered that Barry was “difficult,” but she didn’t let herself think too hard about what that might mean.

She knocked at the door of his suite, and when there was no answer, she tried the knob. It was unlocked. “Barry?”

He was stretched out on the couch, his forearm thrown across his eyes and his sandy hair dangling over the couch pillows toward the carpet. He wore the same satin trousers as the other members of the band, except his were Day-Glo orange with a red sequined star strategically placed over the crotch.

“Barry? Stu sent me up to get you. The limos are here, and we’re ready to go.”

“I can’t play tonight.”

“Uh…Why’s that?”

“I’m depressed.” He gave a protracted sigh. “I swear I have never been so depressed in my entire fucking life. I can’t sing when I’m depressed.”

Fleur glanced at her watch, a man’s gold Rolex Stu had loaned her that afternoon. She had five minutes. Five minutes and two and a half days. “What are you depressed about?”

For the first time he looked at her. “Who are you?”

“Fleur. The new road secretary.”

“Oh yeah, Peter told me about you. You used to be a big movie star or something.” He threw his arm back over his eyes. “I’m telling you, life is really shit. I mean I am
really
hot now. I can have any woman I want, but that bitch Kissy has me wrapped around her finger. I bet I called New York a hundred times today, but either I couldn’t get through or she never answered the phone.”

“Maybe she was out.”

“Yeah. She was out all right. Out with some stud.”

She had four minutes. “Would any woman in her right mind go out with another man when she could have you?” she said, even as she was thinking that any woman in her right mind would go out with a penguin before she’d go out with him. “I’ll bet your timing was bad. The time zones are confusing. Why don’t you try her after the concert? It’ll be early morning in New York. You’re sure to get her then.”

He seemed interested. “You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.” Three and a half minutes. If they had to wait for the elevator, she’d be in trouble. “I’ll even put through the call for you.”

“You’ll come here after the concert and help me get the call through?”

“Sure.”

He grinned. “Hey, that’s great. Hey, I think I’m going to like you.”

“Good. I’m sure I’m going to like you.”
In a pig’s eye, you degenerate.
Three minutes. “Let’s go downstairs.”

Barry propositioned her in the elevator between the ninth and tenth floors. When she refused him, he turned sullen, so she told him she thought she might have a venereal disease. That seemed to make him happy, and she delivered him to the lobby with thirty seconds to spare.

They arrived at
the ice hockey arena. The stage had been erected at one end of the rink, and hundreds of fans pushed against the wooden barricades. Ignoring the opening band, they called out for Barry and the group. Stu threw a clipboard at Fleur and told her to double-check everything. By the time she went backstage to watch the show, the crowd’s screams had grown deafening. Just as she put in the pink rubber earplugs the stage manager handed her, the rink went dark. A voice bellowed over the loudspeaker, introducing the band in German. The screams turned into a solid wall of sound, and four spotlights hit the stage like atomic blasts. The beams of light collided and Neon Lynx ran forward.

The crowd exploded. Barry leaped into the air, his hair flying. He thrust his hips so the red sequined star on his crotch caught fire. Frank LaPorte twirled his drumsticks, and Simon Kale slammed the keyboard. Fleur watched as a young girl, not more than twelve or thirteen, fainted over the barricade. The crowd pressed against her, and no one paid attention.

The music was raucous and visceral, blatantly sexual, and Barry Noy played the crowd for all he was worth. As
the song ended, the crowd surged the barricades, and she could see that the guards were getting nervous. The spotlights flashed blue and red in crisscrossing swords of light, and the band went into its next number.

She was afraid somebody would get killed. One of the roadies came up to stand beside her. “Is it always like this?” she asked.

“Naw. Guess it’s because we’re used to the States. Freakin’ crowd’s dead tonight.”

After the show she stood with Stu in the underground garage that had been roped off by the Viennese police and counted limos. The band came out, all five of them soaked with sweat. Barry grabbed her by the arm. “Got to talk to you.”

As he pulled her toward the lead limo, she started to protest. Stu glared at her, and she remembered rule number one. Keep the band happy. Translated that meant keep Barry Noy happy.

She piled into the limousine, and he pulled her down on the seat beside him. She heard the clink of chains, and Simon Kale climbed in with them. She remembered how he’d twirled that dangerous machete on stage, and she regarded him warily. He lit a cigarillo and turned to stare out the window.

The limousine drove from the garage into a crowd of screaming fans. Suddenly a young girl broke through the police barricade and rushed toward the car, pulling up her shirt as she ran to expose bare pubescent breasts. A policeman caught her. Barry paid no attention.

“So how did you think I was tonight?” He took a slug from a can of Bud.

“You were great, Barry,” she replied, with all the sincerity she could muster. “Just great.”

“You didn’t think I was off tonight? Friggin’ crowd was dead.”

“Oh no. You weren’t off at all. You were terrific.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He drained the beer and crumpled
the can in his fist. “I wish Kissy could have been here. She wouldn’t come to Europe with me. What does that tell you about the kind of ditzy broad she is?”

“It tells me a lot, Barry.”

A snort came from the other side of the limo.

“What does Kissy do?” she asked.

“She says she’s an actress, but I’ve never seen her on television or anything. Shit, I’m getting depressed again.”

If there was anything she didn’t need, it was a depressed Barry Noy. “That’s probably it, then. Actresses trying to get work can’t afford to leave town whenever they want. They might miss their big break.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Hey, I’m sorry about your VD and everything.”

Simon Kale looked over at her, and she thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes.

“Thanks,” she said sadly. “I’m doing my best to cope.”

She should have been prepared for the pandemonium of the hotel lobby, but she wasn’t. The hotel had orders not to give out any information, but there were women everywhere. As the members of the band made their way toward the heavily guarded elevators, she saw Peter Zabel reach out and grab the arm of a buxom redhead. Frank LaPorte inspected a freckled blonde, then gestured toward both her and her bubble-gum-chewing companion. Only Simon Kale ignored the crowd of women.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered.

Stu heard her. “We’re all hoping they don’t speak English. That way we won’t have to talk to them, too.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“It’s rock and roll, kid. Rockers are kings as long as they can stay on top.” Stu put his arm around a frizzy-haired blonde and headed toward the elevators. Before he got in, he called back to her. “Stick close to Barry. He told me he likes you. And check the IDs on those girls who went
with Frank. They looked young to me, and I don’t want any more trouble with the police. Then get hold of that freakin’ Kissy and make sure she meets us in Munich tomorrow. Tell her we’ll pay her two fifty a week.”

“Hey, that’s fifty more than I’m getting!”

“You’re expendable, kid.” The elevator doors slid shut.

She slumped against a pillar. The world of rock and roll.

It was one o’clock in the morning, and she was exhausted. She was going to forget about Frank and his groupies. They probably deserved each other. She was going to forget about Barry and his stupid Kissy, and she was going to bed. In the morning she’d tell Parker he’d been right about her. She couldn’t handle the job.

But when the doors closed on the elevator, she found herself punching in the floor of Frank LaPorte’s suite.

The two girls with him checked out, so she said a polite good-night and left them. She took the elevator up another floor to Barry’s suite. As she dragged her body down the hallway, she thought of the beautiful hotel room waiting for her. Hot water, clean sheets, and heat.

The guard let her in, and she was relieved to see that everybody still had clothes on. The three girls, none of whom looked particularly happy, were playing cards. Barry was stretched out on the couch watching television. His face lit up when he saw her. “Hey, Fleur, I was just getting ready to call your room. I thought you forgot.” He grabbed his wallet from the coffee table and riffled through it for a scrap of paper he shoved toward her. “Here’s Kissy’s number. How ’bout calling her from your room. I gotta get some sleep. And take two of those bimbos with you when you leave.”

She clenched her teeth. “Any two in particular?”

“I don’t know. Whichever ones speak English, I guess.”

Fifteen minutes later, Fleur let herself into her own hotel room. She undressed and stared wistfully at her bed, then picked up the telephone. As she waited for the call to go through, she glanced at the scrap of paper in her hand. Kissy Sue Christie. Lord.

A voice answered on the fifth ring. It was distinctly Southern and very angry. “Barry, I swear to God…”

“It’s not Barry,” Fleur said quickly. “Miss Christie?”

“Yes.”

“This is Fleur, the new road secretary for Neon Lynx.”

“Did Barry get you to call me?”

“Actually…”

“Never mind. Just deliver a message.” In a soft, breathy voice that oozed generations of ladylike Southern breeding, Kissy Sue Christie reeled off a list of instructions, the majority of which concerned Barry Noy and his anatomy. The contrast between her voice and the obscene instructions was too much for Fleur, and she laughed. The sound echoed in her ears, rusty and unfamiliar, like a nearly forgotten song.

“Am I amusin’ you?” the voice asked with a Southern chill.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s really late, and I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. And…you’re saying everything I’ve been thinking all day. The man is—”

“—toad spit,” Kissy Sue concluded.

Fleur laughed again, then got hold of herself. “I apologize for calling so late. I was under orders.”

“It’s okay. What’s Stu offering now to get me to come over? Last time it was two hundred a week.”

“It’s up to two fifty now.”

“No kidding. Shoot, I’d love to go to Europe, too. I even have some vacation time coming up. The only places I’ve seen outside South Carolina are New York and Atlantic City, but to tell you the truth, Fleur, I’d swear off men completely before I ever went to bed with Barry Noy again.”

Fleur settled back on the bed and thought it over. “You know, Kissy, there just might be a way…”

Fleur’s wake-up call came at six-thirty the next morning. She waited for the familiar heaviness to settle over her, but
it didn’t come. She’d barely had four hours of sleep, but it had been deep and restful. No pitching and tossing. No sudden heart pounding. No dreams about the people she used to love. She felt…

Competent.

She settled back into the pillows and tried the idea on for size. She had a terrible job. The people were awful—spoiled, rude, and blatantly immoral—but she’d survived her first day and done a good job. Better than good. She’d done a
great
job. They hadn’t thrown anything at her she hadn’t been able to handle, including Barry Noy. She was going to show Parker Dayton…

She stopped herself. She didn’t care about Parker Dayton. She didn’t care about Alexi, or Belinda, or anybody. The only person’s opinion she cared about was her own.

The band’s arrival in Munich was hectic beyond belief, and Stu coped by yelling at her. This time she yelled back, which made him pout and say he didn’t know what she was getting so mad about. The next two nights’ concerts were a repeat of the concert in Vienna, with girls fainting over the barricades and a crowd of groupies waiting in the hotel lobby.

Right before the last concert, Fleur sent a limousine to the airport to pick up the long-awaited Miss Christie, but to her dismay, it came back empty. She told Barry the plane had been delayed and then spent the next two hours while the band performed trying fruitlessly to track Kissy down. Finally she had to tell Stu, who yelled at her and said that she could personally explain the screw-up to Barry. After the concert.

Barry took it just about as she expected.

She calmed him down with some half-baked promises she probably couldn’t keep and dragged herself to her hotel room. On the way, she passed Simon Kale in the hallway.
He wore gray slacks and an open-collared black silk shirt with a single gold chain at the neck. It was the most conservative outfit she’d seen on anyone other than Parker since she’d joined the Neon Lynx circus, but she suspected he had a switchblade tucked in one of his pockets.

She fell asleep within seconds of hitting the pillow, only to be awakened an hour later by a phone call from the hotel manager telling her the guests were complaining about the noise coming from the fifteenth floor. “I have not been able to reach Herr Stu Kaplan, madam, so you must put a stop to it.”

She had a fairly good idea of what was in store for her when she stepped into the elevator and found Herr Stu Kaplan passed out with an empty V.O. bottle and half his Fu Manchu shaved off.

It took thirty minutes of begging and cajoling for her to get the party crowd in the suite thinned down to twenty-five, which was, she decided, the best she could do. She stepped over Frank LaPorte as she carried the telephone into a closet to call the lobby and tell them to put guards back on the elevators. When she came out, she saw that Barry had left with some of the women, and she decided it was safe to return to her room. But she was wide-awake now, tomorrow was a layover day, and she deserved a little fun—or at least a drink before she turned in.

After a short struggle with a cork, she poured several inches of champagne into a glass. Peter called her over to talk about OPEC, much to the disgust of the girls who were clamoring for his attention. Just as she began her second glass of champagne, she heard a furious pounding on the door. Groaning, she set down her glass and walked across the suite. “Party’s over,” she called through the door crack.

“Let me in!” The voice was female and vaguely desperate.

“I can’t,” Fleur told the crack. “Fire regulations.”

“Fleur, is that you?”

“How did you—” Fleur suddenly realized the voice had
a strong Southern accent. She released the lock and pulled open the door.

Kissy Sue Christie tumbled into the room.

She looked like a rumpled sugarplum. She had short licorice curls, a candy apple mouth, and big gumdrop eyes. She wore black leather pants and an electric pink camisole with a broken strap. Except for a generous spill of breasts, everything about her was tiny. It was also vaguely lopsided, since she was missing one high-heeled shoe, but even lopsided, Kissy Sue Christie looked exactly the way Fleur had always wanted to look.

Kissy threw the bolt on the door and began her own inspection. “Fleur Savagar,” she said. “I had the strangest feeling over the telephone it was you, even though you didn’t tell me your last name. I’m mildly psychic.” She checked the lock. “There’s this Lufthansa pilot I’m trying desperately to avoid. I would have been here earlier, but I was unexpectedly delayed.” She gazed around the suite. “Tell me I’m a lucky girl and Barry’s not here.”

“You’re a lucky girl.”

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that he was electrocuted tonight or otherwise stricken?”

“Neither of us could be that lucky.” Fleur suddenly remembered her duties. “Where’s your luggage? I’ll phone down and have somebody take you to your room.”

“Actually,” Kissy said, “my room is already occupied.” She tugged on the broken pink camisole strap. “Is there someplace we could talk? And I wouldn’t look unfavorably on the offer of a drink.”

Fleur scooped up her champagne bottle, two glasses, and Kissy. She had an urge to tuck Kissy in her pocket.

The only unoccupied space was the bathroom, so she locked them both in and took a seat on the floor. While she poured the champagne, Kissy kicked off her remaining shoe. “To tell you God’s honest truth, I think I made a mistake letting him escort me to my room.”

Fleur took a wild stab. “The Lufthansa pilot?”

Kissy nodded. “It started as a mild flirtation, but I guess it got a little out of hand.” She sipped delicately at her champagne, then licked her top lip with the tip of her pink tongue. “I know this is going to sound strange to you, but like I said, I’m mildly psychic, and I have this strong feeling we’re going to be friends. I might as well tell you from the start—I have a little bitty problem with promiscuity.”