Hot Shot (7 page)

"He's entertaining guests."

"How about setting up an appointment for me on Monday, then? Would you do that?"

"Of course not. He'd be quite angry—"

"You know, you're really starting to piss me off." His mouth tightened with irritation and his hand flattened on the leather sample case. "I don't know whether I'm going to show you this or not, even if that's the only way I can get to your old man. I'm just not comfortable with who you are."

His brashness dumfounded her. "
You're
not comfortable with who
I
am?"

"I mean, it's bad enough that I have to come to a reactionary company like FBT with my hat in my hands."

Heresy was being uttered in Joel Faulconer's library. It should have made her furious, but instead it gave her a strange thrill of excitement. She beat the emotion away and paid penance for her disloyalty. "FBT is one of the most progressive and influential corporations in the world," she said, sounding nearly as pompous as her father.

"If it's so progressive, how come I can't get anybody in the whole, deadhead organization to talk to me?"

"Mr. Gamble, your obvious lack of credentials might explain the difficulty." Along with your leather jacket, she thought. And your motorcycle boots and long hair. And those jeans that show off far too much.

"Credentials are crap." He picked up his sample case and, looking edgy and restless, ran his hand through his hair. "Listen, I've got to sleep on this. You're sending me mixed signals, and I'm still not sure about you. I'll tell you what. If I decide you're okay, I'll meet you in the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts tomorrow around noon. If I don't show, you'll know I changed my mind." And he began to walk toward the library door.

She stared in astonishment at the back of his leather jacket. "I'm not going to meet you anywhere."

He stopped walking and slowly turned to her, one corner of his mouth lifting in an engaging grin. "Sure you are, Suzie. You wouldn't miss it for the world. And you know why? Because underneath that pretty upper-class poker face of yours, you think I'm sexy as hell. And guess what? I think you are, too."

She stood without moving as the door closed behind him. The skin on her scalp felt as if it were burning. The mounds of her breasts were hot. No one had ever called her sexy. No one—not even Cal, her lover.

And then she was filled with self-disgust for having been taken in—even for a moment—

by macho swagger. Did Sam Gamble actually imagine she would meet him tomorrow? A feeling of satisfaction shot through her as she pictured him arriving at the Palace of Fine Arts only to discover that he had been stood up.

With her posture so erect she might have been wearing a whalebone corset from another century, she returned to her guests. For the rest of the evening, she determinedly ignored the faint echo of a long ago chant ringing in her head.

All my balloons for free. Come and follow me.

When Sam Gamble got home, he saw that the lights in the garage were still on. That wasn't unusual. Sometimes the lights didn't go off until five or six in the morning. He set the sample case on the kitchen table. It was an old table—gray Formica with curved chrome legs. There was a sad-looking spider plant hanging in the window. An empty can of Pringles sat on the counter next to an ugly ceramic cookie jar. He lifted the jar's lid and tossed in the small electronic device that he had used to trigger those fancy iron gates at Falcon Hill. She had been so shaken up, she hadn't even asked him how he'd gotten past them.

Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened the door and propped one hand on the top as he bent down to look inside.

"Shit. The spaghetti's gone." He pulled out a can of Coke instead and opened it. After he took a swig, he picked up the sample case and walked outside to the garage.

A man was standing at a lighted workbench with his back to the door. He didn't turn as Sam came in.

"I just met the most incredible woman I've ever met in my life." Sam sprawled down on a dirty floral couch. "You should have seen her. She looks like that actress I was telling you about who did that play on PBS a couple of weeks ago—Mary Streep or somebody

—except she's prettier. And cool. Christ, is she cool. Snooty on the surface. High-class.

But there was something about her eyes… I don't know. She pulled this bitch routine, so I knew it wouldn't do any good to show it to her right then. But I wanted to. Damn, I really wanted to blow her mind."

Breathing in the pleasant smell of hot solder, Sam lay back on the couch and propped the can of Coke on his chest. "I never saw anybody move like she does. She's
still
, you know what I mean? A still person, even when she's in motion. You can't imagine her ever raising her voice, even though I could tell I was really pissing her off."

He sipped his Coke for a while and then got up and wandered over to the workbench. "I have to talk to her old man—show him what we've got—but every time I try to get to him, somebody stands in my way. I think if I could catch her interest—get her on my side

—she might arrange a meeting. I hate the idea of selling out to FBT, but we don't seem to have any other choice. I don't know. She might not show up. I'll have to think about it."

He watched the other man's hands—the precision of his touch, the sureness of his movements—and shook his head in admiration. "You're a genius, you know that, Yank.

An honest-to-shit genius."

And then he threw his arm around the man's shoulders and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek.

The man named Yank jerked around indignantly, splashing a trail of hot solder on the surface of the workbench. "What the heck's wrong with you?" He hunched his shoulder to his cheek, wiping off the kiss. "Why the heck did you do that?"

"Because I love you," Sam said with a grin. "Because you're a goddamned genius."

"Well, heck, you don't have to kiss me." Again, he wiped at his cheek with his shoulder.

Finally, calming, he looked around the garage, studying it as if he'd been gone for a very long time. "When did you get back? I didn't hear you come in."

Sam's grin broadened. "I just got here, Yank. Just this second."

Chapter 4

Conti Dove, born Constantine Dovido, was dumb, sweet, and sexy as hell: A few months earlier a girl had told him that he looked like John Travolta, and he had been talking to Paige about it ever since. Conti had dark hair and a Jersey accent, but as far as Paige could see, the resemblance ended there.

Paige almost loved Conti. He treated her well and he wasn't astute enough to see what a fake she was.

"Does that feel good, doll?" he asked, using his fingers on her like he used them on the strings of his Gibson.

"Uhm, yes. Oh, yes." She moaned and writhed, putting on a top-notch, first-class, all-star performance so Conti would never suspect that his hot little mama could barely stand to have him touch her.

Nothing was specifically wrong with Conti's lovemaking. He pushed all the right buttons and didn't fall asleep the minute he was done. It was just that Paige found sex to be a drag. She did it, of course, because everybody did, and she liked being held. But most of the time she didn't enjoy it very much. Sometimes she really hated it.

When she was sixteen, she had been raped by a college boy she had met at a rock concert in Golden Gate Park. She had never told anybody about it. Either people would feel sorry for her or they'd say she had it coming.

While she waited for Conti's lovemaking to be over, she clutched his bare arms, cupping the biceps he had developed so spectacularly by working out with the weights they kept in the corner of their bedroom. The bedroom was as clean as she could make it because she hated dirt, but it was painfully ugly. It had a cracked ceiling, mismatched furniture, and a double mattress on the floor. Paige wouldn't sleep on the mattress unless Conti was beside her, because she was always afraid a mouse would run over her head and get tangled in her hair.

"Tell me how good it feels," he crooned in her ear. "Tell me it's good."

"It's good, Conti. It's good."

"Doll… doll… God, I love you. I love you so much." He pushed himself inside her and began pumping away to the rhythm of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction" that kept playing over and over in her head.

It was the song that the Doves did best. Paige sang backup, Jason was on bass, Benny at the drums. Mike played the keyboard while Conti sang lead, banging his Gibson and thrusting his hips to the rhythm.

I can't… get no… satis… faction

Conti dug his fingers into her buttocks, tilting them higher to receive him, plunging deeper. She let her mind slip away from what was happening, to a beautiful, pure place—

a country garden with hollyhocks and larkspur and an old iron pump in the center. She imagined the sound of birds and the scent of honeysuckle. She saw herself lying back on a homemade quilt under a shady old tree. And at her side a plump, rosy-cheeked baby kicked happily and batted the air with its fists. Her baby. The baby she had lost when she'd had her abortion.

I can't… get no…

I can't… get no…

Conti let out a low, strangled moan and buried his mouth in her neck. As he shuddered, he seemed so vulnerable to her that she felt a foolish need to protect him. She stroked his back, giving him a sad kind of comfort. How many men had shuddered over her like this?

More than a dozen. A lot more. Her friend Roxie said a girl wasn't really promiscuous until she'd hit triple digits, but Paige had felt promiscuous ever since she'd been raped.

When Conti had calmed, he drew back and gazed down at her. "I love you so much, doll."

Tears glistened in his eyes, and to her surprise she felt her own eyes fill. "I love you, too,"

she replied, even though she knew she didn't. But it seemed unspeakably cruel to say anything else.

Their bedroom romp had made them late, and they had to hurry. All five members of the Doves waited tables at a club called Taffy Too, named after the original owner's dog, who presumably had been Taffy One. They received no salary and only half their tips, but the Doves put up with it because the owner let them play a one-hour set at eleven o'clock each evening.

Taffy's was a third-rate club located in the heart of one of San Francisco's less picturesque neighborhoods, but occasionally some big shots slumming it would end up sitting at a front table. Conti thought the Doves might get discovered that way. In Paige's more depressed moments she thought that perhaps Conti was the only member of the Doves talented enough to perform any place better than Taffy Too's, but generally she repressed such thoughts. She might not be the world's best singer, but somehow she was going to make a success of herself and rub it in her father's face.

They had almost reached the alley that led to the back entrance of Taffy's when Conti lifted his arm and yelled out, "Yo, Ben, my man!"

Paige winced at the loudness of Conti's voice. Benny Smith, their drummer, approached.

He was small and thin, with a short Afro and light brown skin.

"Hey, Conti. What's happenin'?"

Conti slid his hand up under her hair and wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck like a high school jock with his cheerleader girlfriend. "Nothin' much. You hear anything more about that dude from Dee-troit Mike was telling us about?"

"Dude's disappeared," Benny replied. "But I hear some dudes from Azday Records showed up at Bonzo's last night."

"No kidding? Maybe they'll come over to Taffy's."

Paige didn't think that was too likely. Unlike Taffy's, Bonzo's was a semirespectable club that booked better acts. She listened as Benny and Conti continued to trade rumors, acting as if each day held a golden key that would open the door to their success. She no longer remembered what that sort of optimism felt like.

They had a thinner crowd at Taffy's that night than normal, so the latecomers who arrived in the middle of the Doves' third Stones number were even more noticeable. Paige, wearing a cheap blue sateen jumpsuit with flashy metal studs, was beating her tambourine against her thigh when the two men took their place at the front table. One of the men was in his early fifties, the other younger. They both looked prosperous. Their suits bore the unmistakable sheen of silk and she caught the glint of expensive watches at their wrists.

Benny nearly knocked over his drums when he spotted them. As they finished "Heart of Stone," he whispered, "Those are the dudes from Azday records. I recognize the old guy

—he's Mo Geller. Come on, everybody. Don't fuck up! This is it!"

Conti looked over at her, a panicked expression on his face. She felt surprisingly calm, given the importance of the event, and she gave him a reassuring smile. Benny hit the downbeat and the band kicked in. As she felt the beat of the song, she whipped her head to the side, letting her hair fly. It caught the lights so that it looked as if shimmering golden flames were leaping up from her head. She shook it again. Conti turned toward her as he sang. A wildness seemed to hit him, and he laughed at her—a sexual dare. She caught his mood as he picked up the beat. His hips moved and she laughed back at him—

then stuck out her lip in a sexy, taunting pout. He came over to her, not missing a beat of the music, and leaned into her. She whipped him with her hair. They did a frenzied, dirty dance while the other band members called out encouragement. When the number ended, they got more applause than they had received in months.

The two men stayed through the rest of the set, and afterward bought them all drinks.

"You kids generate a lot of excitement," Mo Geller said, clinking the ice cubes in his glass. "Got any material of your own?"

Benny assured him that they did, and the Doves took the stage again, performing two songs that their bass player had written. When they were done, Mo handed them one of his cards. "It's early to be talking about a contract, but I'm definitely impressed. We'll be in touch."

All of the Doves went to Conti and Paige's place afterward to celebrate. They smoked grass, told stupid jokes, and drank cheap wine. Conti started to talk about how much all of them meant to him and dissolved into sentimental tears. They were giddy and silly, high on pot and their first brush with success. By the time dawn lightened the sky, the men had curled into various corners of the apartment and fallen asleep. Paige, however, was sitting wide awake in a chair by the window.