Rock Star (46 page)

She waited, patiently. She said nothing. It was her way of testing him, and he knew it.

Nova baby
, he wanted to say.
I don’t give a damn about your past, it doesn’t matter to me. What I do care about is the hold Marcus has had on you all this time. How come you didn’t break out when I gave you the chance two years ago? What made you keep on doing the things he forced you to do?

Why, baby?

Why?

The
why
stood between them like a brick wall.

He had to get out of the apartment for a while, go for a walk, grab a beer, anything.

‘Hey – will you be okay?’ he asked solicitously. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

She nodded.

He left, and went straight over to Luiz and Rafealla’s. They were delighted to see him.

‘We’ve missed you,’ Rafealla said. ‘Where have you been?’

He shrugged. ‘Nowhere. I’ve got a friend stayin’ with me from the States.’

‘A lady friend?’ Rafealla asked playfully.

‘Yeah.’

‘Anything serious?’

Making light of it, he said, ‘Let’s put it this way – I’m not gettin’ married.’

He didn’t stay long, he was too restless. He couldn’t help thinking of Nova lying in his bed, waiting for him to make a move, to show her his support.

So she was a whore once upon a time. Did it really matter?

No. But what she did with Marcus mattered.

They had to talk. Decisively he headed home.

The apartment was dark when he let himself in, the flicker of the television from the bedroom providing the only light. The sound on the TV was loud, too loud.

He knew something was wrong a moment too late, for as soon as he sensed danger, he was grabbed from behind, his arms twisted in an immovable lock, and the struggle began.

Bobby was strong, six feet two inches of powerful muscle. But there was more than one man behind him – two, maybe three. He could hear them grunting, smell their lousy breath.

Thoughts flashed through his head. Nova. Was she all right? If they’d hurt her he’d fucking kill them.

They were trying to propel him forward – kicking, thrashing. A heavy object crashed down on his head, his skull exploded, lights flashed. So it was true – you did see stars.

Jesus, blood was trickling down his face, and so was something else. He could smell liquor.

What the fuck did they want? They were half dragging him now, across the thick pile carpet, over towards the balcony.

Terror swept over him.

They were going to throw him over the fucking balcony.

They were going to kill him.

Jesus!

JESUS
!

He screamed, but it was too late. He was falling . . . falling in space . . . falling . . .

It was all over.

Los Angeles

Saturday, July 11, 1987

The parade of Rolls-Royces, Mercedes, chauffeur-driven limousines, and other expensive automobiles arriving at the Citroen beach estate was impressive. Each car was stopped at the point of entry while the occupants were identified and checked off a master list. Then a numbered sticker was attached to the windshield, and the driver was allowed to take his party up to the main house, where they were dropped off. After that the chauffeur drove the car back to an allocated parking lot five minutes away. When the guests were ready to leave, their car would be summoned by number.

Several parking valets were in charge of this operation, making sure that everything ran smoothly and there were no traffic jams.

The guests then went through a second security procedure as they entered the reception hall of the main house. Their names were double-checked on another list, and then they were escorted outside to the tented tennis court area, where the party really began.

Hawkins Lamont circulated in his immaculate dinner suit with the white silk jacket – specially tailored for him in Hong Kong. Cybil Wilde was by his side, not really dressed for the occasion, but it didn’t matter. Cybil was so stunningly pretty that nobody noticed what she was wearing. Hawkihs had no objections to squiring her for the cocktail hour – she made a delightful accessory.

‘Take her out there, for chrissakes’, Kris had grumbled. ‘She’s gettin’ on my nerves.’

Hawkins obliged. That was what a personal manager was for, wasn’t it? To take care of all the things the star couldn’t be bothered to deal with himself. Including girlfriends.

With a wry smile Hawkins wondered if perhaps Kris might like him to make love to her too. He would not oblige on that score. Hawkins liked to be seen with pretty girls. He even liked to watch them play together. But he didn’t care to take them to bed. He’d lost interest in sex when he discovered business. Money, it turned out, was the greatest satisfaction of all.

‘This is
fantastic
!’ Cybil enthused. ‘Have you
seen
who’s here! I think I’ve spotted my favourite Italian movie star.’

‘Yes, it’s quite a group,’ agreed Hawkins. ‘Leave it to Nova and they turn out in force.’

‘Did these people
really
pay one hundred thousand dollars a couple?’ Cybil gasped.

‘It’s only money,’ Hawkins replied sensibly. ‘They can afford it. And if the Governor ever makes it to the White House, he’ll owe them all a seat at his dinner table.’

‘Wow! I’d love to meet him. Then he can owe
me
a seat too!’

‘I’m sure Governor Highland wouldn’t mind meeting you,’ Hawkins replied, knowing full well the Governor would adore to be introduced to a luscious California blonde who was just his type – breathing. ‘Come,’ He offered his arm. ‘Let us go and find the gentleman.’

*    *    *

Alone at last, Kris brooded about Cyndi Lou Planter, the moonfaced English journalist, and her dumb questions. Why did he let reporters bother him? Why did he waste his time burdening himself with negative thoughts?

Kris Phoenix was at the top. Naturally everyone wanted to drag him down. It was only human nature . . .

*    *    *

Maxwell Sicily passed among the illustrious guests, his tray held aloft, bearing small squares of pizza covered in smoked salmon and golden caviar – the chic L.A. snack. Bejewelled fingers grabbed. Thick hairy wrists wrapped with ten-thousand-dollar watches propelled bony hands in the right direction.

He hadn’t even gotten half-way round before his tray was empty. With a purposeful step he returned to the supply bar and picked up a fresh load of hors d’oeuvres. This time he was given tiny crab-cakes with a dipping sauce.

‘How delicious!’ exclaimed a fat woman in a pink satin ballgown, grabbing two. She stuffed one in her mouth, dipping the second one in the red, zesty sauce. Maxwell observed a splodge of the stuff fall upon her ample bosom as the crab-cake vanished into her mouth. Too bad.

He moved away, listening to fragments of conversation, checking out the lavish jewellery. Why did party guests treat waiters as if they didn’t exist? Hands grabbed, eyes rarely met, and a thank you was out of the question. Fucking rich parasites.

Fortunately he didn’t have to do this for a living. Thank God he was smarter than everyone at this party put together.

Maxwell Sicily was one of life’s winners. By the end of the night he was going to be richer than all of them.

*    *    *

Marcus Citroen’s voice on the phone was commanding. ‘Rafealla?’

‘Yes, Marcus.’

‘I wish to see you after the concert.’

‘Surely you’ll be busy with your guests?’

‘Kris Phoenix will appear after you. And then there’ll be speeches and the auction. We’ll have plenty of time. When you finish, you will return to your room. Get rid of the publicity girl and anyone else hanging around. I will see you then. Alone. Do you understand?’

A feeling of dread swept over her. But there was a price, and she had promised to pay it. ‘Yes, Marcus.’

*    *    *

Racing down San Vicente towards the beach, Speed glanced at the clock on the dashboard. He was running late. Jeeze! His freakin’ luck.

He put his foot down hard, and the sleek limousine surged forward, overtaking a yellow Porsche with a blonde driving. He slowed down just long enough to check her out in his rear-view mirror.

Hot! A blonde in a Porsche. His kind of babe!

He hit the accelerator again, and the big limo sped down the highway.

If only I could make it with a fox the way I make it with a car, Speed daydreamed, any broad would be in freakin’ sex heaven! Take Sugarbush, his ex-wife. That barracuda didn’t break balls, she crushed them in a blender and drank ’em for freakin’ breakfast!

Sugarbush. What a flashy cooze-machine
she
was, with her zoomer tits and bright red hair – pussy hair too, because she dyed it down there. Every guy who eyeballed her – and they all did – tried to give her a roll:

The trouble was – she let ’em. Which is why he’d dumped her one steamy Vegas night with ten thousand winnings in his pocket and a stacked blonde on each arm.

Unfortunately the bucks didn’t last, nor did the blondes.

Thinking of his ex always jerked his blood pressure way up. Sugarbush was something else – she gave
hookers
a bad name.

Jamming his foot down, he shot through an amber light.

A police vehicle swept out of a side street, settled in behind him, and began to flash its lights.

Holy shit! What was this? Rent-a-cop city? They were freakin’ everywhere.

Reluctantly he pulled over to the side.

*    *    *

Bobby Mondella paced around the room. He had a headache, a throbbing, skull-shattering ache driving him crazy. Damn Nova Citroen. Damn her! She thought she could walk back into his life as if everything was still the same. As if Rio had never happened.

Well, she was wrong. He was no longer her own personal sex-machine. As far as he was concerned, he couldn’t care less if he never spoke to her again.

*    *    *

Vicki made sure they were each settled in their rooms, the three celebrities. Big deal. A famous person was no different from anyone else. They went to the bathroom, didn’t they? Just like the masses.

Vicki was not awe-struck by any means. She’d had a few famous ones in her time. Well, not exactly
world-wide
famous – more like an L.A. disc jockey with pimples on his ass and a rubber fetish. Also a very rich Hollywood realtor who claimed to know absolutely everybody. Oh yeah, and she’d once had a Senator from the East who was staying at a local Holiday Inn. At least he’d
said
he was a Senator. He’d made her get down on her knees and pledge allegiance to the flag, and then he’d made her pledge allegiance to something he obviously considered far more important.

Men! What a bunch! And yet she had to admit she loved ’em – they were so goddamn
easy!
Tom was the perfect example. She’d had
his
balls in an uproar with just one glance.

She looked around, making sure nobody was observing her as she slid into the unoccupied guest suite. Opening the closet, she checked that everything was in position – the empty Vuitton bag she had placed there yesterday, and Maxwell’s small holdall, pushed out of sight. Everything was in place.

With a quick glance in the mirror, she made a few adjustments to her personal appearance. Oh, was she going to be happy to shed the godawful maid’s uniform she’d been forced to wear for six long weeks.

Quickly she undid a few buttons, hiked the skirt shorter, fluffed out her hair, and applied a liberal amount of jammy red lipstick.

‘That’s better, sweetie-bird,’ she murmured to herself.

It was almost show time, the props were all in place and she couldn’t wait.

*    *    *

Marcus Citroen caught the eye of his wife as she moved graciously among her guests. An impressive woman, Nova Citroen. Elegant, assured, the perfect partner. He’d made the right choice when he’d picked her, although it had meant taking a very calculated risk, and it could have backfired – badly.

In all their years of marriage there had only been one dangerous period, a time he preferred to forget. But he had dealt with it, just as he’d dealt with everything else in his life. Expertly.

Marcus Citroen knew exactly when to be ruthless. Nobody crossed him. Nobody dared.

Kris Phoenix

1986

The girl on the television commercial had big blue eyes, a wide smile complete with all-American teeth, a pert nose, cascades of pale honey-gold hair, and a sensational body.

‘I want to meet her,’ Kris Phoenix said. ‘Find out who she is.’

That didn’t take much doing. She was Cybil Wilde – a hot new model, with a Christie Brinkley/Cheryl Tiegs future.

She was in New York. Kris was in L.A.

‘Fly her in,’ Kris said.

She said ‘Thank you, but no thank you.’

‘I want her for the cover of my new album,’ Kris said.

He was told she was very expensive. Three times the price of an ordinary model.

‘Fuck it. Pay her,’ Kris said.

A photo shoot was arranged, and Cybil Wilde flew into L.A. Kris made sure there was a limousine to meet her at the airport, filled with white roses. And a note from him asking her to join him for dinner. He also made sure the record company paid.

She had her mother phone him to make an excuse. Her mother! It turned out she was a California girl who’d migrated to New York, and her family still lived quite comfortably in Encino.

Kris decided he wanted her before they even met. Astrid was settled in England – she hated America and what she referred to as the rock and roll circus. He was perfectly happy with Astrid, but he needed a woman in America, and from the moment he spotted Cybil in her TV commercial – which incidentally was for yoghurt – he knew she was the right girl.

One of his minions was put in charge of compiling a dossier on her. The night before the photo shoot he sat in bed and studied it.

T
HE
C
YBIL
W
ILDE
F
ACT
S
HEET
Age:
18
Height: 5´
9”
Measurements:
36, 22, 36
Hair colour:
Honey-blonde
Weight:
120 pounds
Eye colour:
Cornflower blue