Rock Star (33 page)

Placing her key in the lock she heard the muted sounds of Manhattan Transfer – one of her favourite groups. As she entered the apartment the record changed to Lou Reed’s ‘Take a Walk on the Wild Side’.

Funny, Eddie never played records. He never lit candles either, and the living room was alive with small black votive candles in stylish Art Deco holders.

She immediately knew he had someone there, and her stomach turned.

Resolutely she marched towards the bedroom, determined to confront the woman face to face.

Just get out. What are you pushing it for?

Why should I?

Because he isn’t worth it.

She burst into the bedroom, and felt sick.

The woman wasn’t a woman. The woman was a man with silky pale hair, a boyish face and a hairless, naked body.

‘Excuse me,’ the creature said tartly. ‘Might we have a touch of privacy?’

Eddie did not say one word.

Bobby Mondella

1981

Bobby Mondella arrived at the wedding of Nichols Kline to Pammy Booser in a metallic gold Mercedes limousine, with tinted, bullet-proof windows, and three personal bodyguards in close attendance.

Hey – he’d figured it out. When you’re a star – go for it. Live the life. His public expected it – indeed, they loved it. And so did he.

He wore a black shark-skin suit, with a Russian-style silk shirt, and a long, masculine-cut sable coat thrown casually over his shoulders. Accompanying him was Zella Raven, a six-foot black performance artist with a
Playboy
centrefold body, and a marine crew-cut. Zella wore thin strips of rubber and thigh-high boots.

The photographers and television crews went crazy as their feet hit the ground outside the private Pacific Palisades home where the wedding was to take place. They paused – in perfect synch – to allow exactly eight seconds of frantic picture-taking. Then they were on the move, flanked by bodyguards, the crowd of star-watchers cheering hoarsely.

That’s why Bobby liked taking Zella to public events. She had the routine down pat, never put a foot wrong. She had the right image, and it
really
steamed up Nova when he was seen out with her. The claws emerged with a vengeance.

Nova Citroen. The woman had him under her spell. But he was gradually breaking away, and he’d finally decided that if she didn’t want to go for some kind of commitment, it was over. He was a
star,
for crissakes. A superstar. Not the fledgling, uncertain twenty-seven-year-old she had first come on to. It was about time she realized that.

Bobby Mondella. Sex symbol. Thirty-one. Rich. Handsome. Powerful.

Yeah – powerful. Because with great fame came the power to do whatever you damned well pleased. He said ‘Jump’ and people jumped. He told a joke – and everyone broke up. He demanded pizza at four in the morning and there it was. He pointed out a woman – any woman – and she was usually obtainable.

Hey – hey – hey – he could have anything and anyone he wanted. Except Nova. She might share his bed on occasion, but she belonged to Marcus Citroen, and up until now she had exhibited no signs of moving on.

Bobby knew it was because as far as she was concerned they
both
belonged to Marcus. She was married to the man, and he was under contract to him.

A breakable contract. He had been meeting with Nichols Kline’s lawyers for months trying to work out a way to go. After all, Nichols Hit City were offering him a better deal than he’d ever had with Blue Cadillac. With Blue Cadillac he was the singer they’d discovered and made into something. With Nichols Hit City he had no history – he was a world-famous superstar, and the contract they were tempting him with reflected that.

‘There’s no contract can’t be broken,’ said Arnie Torterelli, one of Nichols’s business associates. ‘You want out of Blue Cadillac – you got it. Leave everything to our lawyers. They’ll spring you. No fuckin’ problem.’

Now the day was drawing near, and Bobby was ready to fly.

All he had to do was hope Nova would fly with him.

*    *    *

The turnout for Nichols Kline’s marriage to Pammy Booser was eclectic – a mixed group of guests ranging from bank presidents and captains of industry to rock stars, well-endowed starlets, and representatives of life in the Hollywood fast lane. Neither marital candidate appeared to have any family. Nichols’s best man was a long-time old friend of his from Miami, Carmine Sicily, a stooped, gaunt man in his late fifties, with sinister slit eyes and grey hair. Bobby remembered seeing him in the Chainsaw with Nichols all those years ago. He had the sort of face it wasn’t easy to forget.

‘Get your eyes on that dude,’ Zella whispered to Bobby as they watched Nichols and Carmine make the walk to take up their position in front of the Justice of the Peace who was to perform the non-religious marriage ceremony in the garden of Arnie Torterelli’s house. ‘He’s a
major
Miami drug king. And I mean Mister Big.’

Bobby nodded, although he didn’t believe her. Zella liked to think she knew everything about everybody. Sometimes she was wrong.

Looks-wise Zella Raven was sensational. Conversatio-wise she did not grab his attention. In his entire life there had only been two women he’d seriously wanted. Sharleen and now Nova.

Unfortunately he’d never been more than friends with Sharleen, and although Nova and he were lovers, up until now she remained elusive, running the relationship on her terms.

No more. The choice would soon be hers.

Pammy Booser appeared on the arm of Arnie Torterelli. She tottered on stiletto heels, her white lace dress a Fredericks-of-Hollywood dream come true. Behind her trailed a gaggle of over-age girls-about-town – all with their eyes open for the main chance.

‘No style,’ muttered Zella. Sometimes she was right on.

Pammy Booser and Nichols Kline were pronounced man and wife, and the wedding party progressed.

Married for the first time at nearly fifty, Nichols proceeded to get well and truly drunk. The many guests had now taken over the tented reception area of Arnie Torterelli’s large house. Seated at round tables, they dined on lobster cocktail, and veal in a rich cream sauce. Bobby found himself at the top table, with Arnie’s large wife on one side and Zella on the other. Beside Zella sat Arnie himself, and then Pammy, with a proud and flushed Nichols next to her. Her maid-of-honour, a fading beauty with stoned eyes and slack lips, kept Nichols’s other side warm, while the sinister-looking Carmine Sicily patted her on the knee with less than fatherly intent. Rounding out the table of twelve was a sexy female singer with enormous breasts and a voice to match, her manager husband, and Kris Phoenix, star of Nichols Hit City’s premier recording group, The Wild Ones. He was with a girl called Mikki.

Zella was more than pleased to be seated beside Kris Phoenix, but she couldn’t wait to inform Bobby that Mikki was an infamous super-groupie. ‘I’m real surprised she hasn’t given
you
a whirl,’ Zella drawled.

‘Maybe tonight I’ll get lucky,’ Bobby commented dryly, motioning for the waiter to refill his glass of bourbon.

‘Over my dead tits an’ ass, baby!’ joked Zella, threateningly.

After dinner there was dancing. And in between there were speeches. Arnie made a lengthy speech, followed by his wife, and then Carmine Sicily – whose ponderous voice nearly sent everyone to sleep. Pammy stood up next – cloying insincerity at its very best. And finally Nichols – a drunk, sentimental, and genuinely happy man. ‘To my lovely bride,’ he said, raising his glass in a final toast.

Both Bobby and Kris Phoenix observed Pammy surreptitiously grope Carmine Sicily under the table. They caught each other watching and laughed.

Kris leaned across and shook Bobby’s hand. ‘S’good t’meet you, mate. I’m a fan.’

Bobby smiled. ‘Hey – that’s fine t’know, because it’s mutual. I really like your songs, in fact I wish I’d written some of them myself.’

Pleased and flattered, Kris said, ‘Yeah? Which ones?’

‘“Skinny Little Slider” is a big favourite. Oh yeah, and “Lone-some Mornin’”. I’m into those words, man. Shades of early Otis Redding.’

‘I wish,’ Kris said ruefully.

‘No – I mean it.’

Kris couldn’t hide his delight. This was the kind of recognition he really appreciated. ‘Yeah?’

‘You got it, man, you got the talent.’

‘That’s somethin’, comin’ from you.’

As soon as Zella and Mikki went off to find the ladies’ room, Kris moved over next to Bobby. Soon they were talking in earnest, about writing and songs, early influences and the magic of the late, great Sam Cooke and other legends. By the time the girls returned they were too interested in each other to stop.

‘Wonderful!’ sighed Zella, turning her attention to Arnie, who, if he could shake his plump wife, would be hers forever.

Mikki spotted Del Delgardo across the room, and sidled over.

Pammy hit the dance area with Carmine. His bony hands dug into not-so-firm flesh beneath tight white lace.

Nichols danced with every one of Pammy’s sad-sack girlfriends, including her maid-of-honour, who whispered in his ear that if he was ever lonely, unhappy, or merely horny, he should call her, as she had the perfect cure for such maladies.

Looking around, Bobby decided if he ever got married it would be a strictly private affair. Then again, who needed marriage anyway?

‘You ever bin’ married?’ he asked Kris.

Kris grinned. ‘Once, mate. Once was enough. Y’can take it, an’ shove it.
That’s
what I think of the whole bleedin’ institution.’

Bobby laughed. ‘Right on!’

They cemented their newfound friendship with a conspiratorial wink in each other’s direction.

Kris Phoenix

1981

To everyone’s great surprise Michelle Hanley-Bogart became a fixture in Kris’s life. It happened after Chicago. And by the time the tour reached New York City, where The Wild Ones were due to play two sold-out performances in Madison Square Garden, they were inseparable.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Buzz complained jealously. ‘She’s a friggin’ slag. She’s gotta bead on everyone’s friggin’ dick except the Pope. An’ if ’
e
sang, she’d ‘ave ‘im too!’

‘Very funny,’ Kris replied. ‘You’re just pissed because she doesn’t want to know about you.’

‘Yeah. Fuckin’ her must be like doin’ it with the rock ’n’ roll hall of friggin’ fame. You’re welcome, mate. She could suck the chrome right off the bumper of a 1958 Cadillac!’

In New York Mikki introduced Kris to her disparate circle of friends. They included a tall gay clothes designer of international repute, a wild-eyed cabaret singer with spider eyelashes who snorted cocaine for breakfast, a decadent European princess who lent her name to a line of expensive cosmetics, and China Wallineska – Mikki’s best friend – a short girl with a wiry mass of frizzy hair and generous curves. China was an artist, and lived untidily in a Greenwich Village loft.

‘She gives great parties,’ Mikki informed Kris. ‘And if she likes you – she’ll paint you.’

‘What makes you think I’d fancy being painted?’ he asked warily.

‘Because it’s an honour,’ Mikki replied, adding casually, ‘China’s quite famous, you know. Kind of an Andy Warhol for the eighties.’

Madison Square Garden was the thrill of a lifetime. Their latest single, ‘Dirty Bits’, was number one, and the album of the same name was just entering the stores in huge amounts. Nichols Hit City were doing the job. Kris couldn’t help being pleased with their distribution and sales, but deep down he wished The Wild Ones were with one of the giants. Blue Cadillac for instance.

When he mentioned his thoughts to Doktor Head, the man laughed. ‘You can’t get any higher than number one,’ he said. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘
I
think it’s the difference between driving a Ferrari or a Ford,’ Mikki joined in. ‘They both get you there, but only one gets you there in style.’

‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Kris agreed. ‘Exactly what I was tryin’ to say.’

Doktor Head glared at Mikki. He’d had enough trouble with her when, at the tender age of sixteen, she’d attached herself to Michael Hollywood. They’d had five months together, breaking up a few weeks before his death.

At sixteen she’d been a pain. At twenty-four she was impossible. There was nothing worse than a rich groupie with connections.

‘I know Marcus Citroen, the President of Blue Cadillac, very well,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Why don’t I set up a meeting?’

‘No,’ Doktor Head replied, vehemently. ‘Any setting up I can do myself.’

‘Hey, listen, if she
knows
Marcus Citroen—’ Kris began. ‘As a matter of fact I met him myself once.’

‘Forget it,’ Doktor Head snapped, grimacing wildly. ‘You think I just came over on the banana boat? I can get to Marcus anytime I want. Right now we’re with Hit City. Our record’s number one, and we are staying
right
where we are.’ He glared at Mikki, who glared back. ‘And another thing, don’t forget you promised to show your ugly face at Nichols’s wedding tomorrow. I’ve booked you on a Pan Am flight first thing in the morning.’

‘Mikki too?’

‘Considering you’re joined at the hip,’ he said sarcastically, ‘would I do anything else?’

‘How about Buzz?’

‘He won’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ask
him.
’

‘Are you coming?’

‘It’s a twenty-four-hour trip. Do you really need me to hold your hand, or can I stay here and take care of business?’

‘You can go fly a fuckin’ kite for all I care.’

*    *    *

On the plane Mikki started. She had been leading up to it for some time.

‘How come you let your manager tell you what to do?’

Kris shrugged. ‘It’s what a manager’s for, ennit?’

‘A manager is supposed to do what
you
want him to do.’

‘It’s not just me. There’s the rest of the group.’

‘Oh, yes, I forgot,’ she said sneeringly. ‘Everything you make has to be split four ways.
Very
smart.’