Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  Jumping to attention, Bobby said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  The private men’s room. Wow! He wondered what was wrong with Seymour, the usual attendant. He hadn’t missed a night since Bobby worked there.

  ‘Just take it easy, play it cool, an’ let ’em do what they want,’ Nichols said, lustfully eyeing a passing waitress.

  Oh God! He’s checking out Sharleen, thought Bobby.

  She sashayed by with a pert, ‘Good evening, Mr Kline,’ failing to notice Bobby.

  ‘Famous people – y’know, like singers, film stars; society folk. Well . . . they’re different,’ Nichols explained. ‘You gotta leave ’em alone, yet be right there if they want anything.’ He scratched inside his shirt, jangling a few gold chains. ‘Never stare. They don’t like that. And no autographs – even if it’s for your dying mother in Nebraska. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Kline.’

  ‘Oh, an’ if they do any drugs, just ignore it.’ Casually he added, ‘Of course, if they wanna score you can send ’em to me. No selling. One complaint, kid, an’ you’re out. I don’t care how many years you’ve worked here.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  For one brief second Bobby thought about telling Nichols he had once been a famous person himself. Minor league, of course, but he’d had his moments.

  Common sense told him to forget it. Firstly Nichols would never believe him. And secondly, what did he have to gain by letting everyone know he was a has-been?

  No. His secret was locked deep within him. Since leaving Nashville and Mr Rue he had not sung one note or written one word. Music was his past. It had to stay that way.

  The private men’s room – or Seymour’s Palace as it was known around the club – was a Deco fantasy of black granite floors, black marble washstands, shining urinals, and silver walls adorned with framed sepia photographs of Marilyn Monroe – caught at every stage of her career. Nichols handed Bobby a key to Seymour’s famous locked cupboard, and there he found atomizers of expensive aftershaves and colognes, the finest hair brushes and combs, a half-filled bottle of Courvoisier, a glassine envelope containing a white illegal substance – probably cocaine – and an assortment of mixed pills.

  Bobby shoved the cocaine and the pills to the back of the cupboard, took out what he needed as far as supplies were concerned, and locked up. He had never had much contact with Seymour, a short, dour black man in his fifties, who – the rest of the staff informed him – only enjoyed talking to his famous clientele.

  After setting up, Bobby made his way down to the kitchen, where the staff had an early dinner before the club opened.

  Rocket waved to him, so collecting a plate of pasta from an assistant chef he went to sit with his waiter friend.

  Rocket was an aspiring actor from the school of method acting. He was of Italian origin, in his early twenties, with long, greasy hair, and darting, inquisitive eyes. ‘I hear you got lucky tonight,’ he said in his flat, nasal voice. ‘Upstairs doin’ big time, huh?’

  That’s right.’

  ‘Shame you didn’t know about it earlier. If you’d known you could’ve come prepared.’ He dropped his tone to a low whisper. ‘You could’ve done us both a favour.’

  ‘I am prepared’, Bobby said.

  ‘Naw,’ Rocket explained, ‘you’re not gettin’ my drift. In the private John y’can really get a score goin’. They got big bucks, an’ they ain’t got nothin’ to do with ’em but buy. Why d’ya think Seymour never socializes? The creep is a fartin’ king up there. Makes a fortune.’ He looked furtively around before continuing. ‘Give me an hour – if I can get someone to cover for me I’ll try t’get everything you’re gonna need. Then we’ll split your take – fifty-fifty.’

  Bobby didn’t want to get into selling drugs. He was smart enough to know it only led to trouble. Besides, Nichols Kline had already warned him.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Like it’s too dangerous, man. I don’t wanna risk my job.’

  ‘You’ll risk your fartin’ job if you don’t give ’em what they want,’ Rocket said knowledgeably. ‘Hey – old Seymour’s lasted a long time up there, right? He gives those famous fuckers pronto service, an’ if you don’t – believe me – you’re out. They’re mean rich motherfuckers.’

  Bobby thought about Seymour’s locked cupboard. Maybe there was something in what Rocket had to say after all.

  ‘C’mon, Bobby, we gotta make a killin’,’ Rocket pleaded, sensing a weakness. ‘Maybe we only got tonight – so let’s go for it, huh?’

  * * *

  Working the private men’s room was a different world. Bobby was used to a crowded, never-ending line of noisy, sweat-soaked, hyper customers, who – if he was lucky – might leave anything from a ten-cent to a dollar tip. He was not used to a thin trickle of expensively clad movie stars, rock stars, sports stars, producers, clothes designers, investment bankers, occasional politicians, directors, and a mixed bag of other success stories.

  Remembering Nichols Kline’s words, he tried not to stare. But it was difficult when a fair amount of the faces were so very familiar. Most of them were in and out, some leaving no tip at all, while others threw down a ten or twenty as if it was nothing. Jefferson Lionacre, a famous black singing star, palmed him a hundred-dollar bill with a wink and an encouraging ‘Today the crapper – tomorrow the world.’

  Bobby wanted to shake his hand. What a title for a song! Only he wasn’t writing anymore.

  Why not? he asked himself. He had lost his sweet, childish voice, not his song-writing abilities. Why shouldn’t he go back to composing – if only for his own enjoyment? And not the country and western stuff Mr Leon Rue had made him write – but soul, sweet sweet soul music. His kind of music.

  Lately he’d been listening to a lot of James Brown and Aretha Franklin. The two of them certainly knew how to sell a song.

  Hey – if he set his mind to it he could write soul. Fresh melodies were always churning around in his head. Wasn’t it about time he did something about it?

  Okay, first he was going to move out. Next he would write a song. Just for himself.

  ‘Hey – you – fat boy.’

  His reverie was interrupted by a skinny, stoned rock and roll star wearing a tight lizard-skin jacket, orange pants, high-heeled boots and a spacy leer. ‘Where’s Seymour?’

  He’s not here tonight’, Bobby replied, humiliated at being called ‘fat boy’, although he knew it was true.

  ‘Sheeit, I kin see that,’ the rocker said, posturing in front of the full-length mirror. ‘Where is the old bum?’

  ‘Uh, I think he’s out sick’, Bobby replied, recognizing the rock and roller as Del Delgardo – lead singer with a group called The Nightmares.

  The rocker pouted his thick lips and adjusted his bulging crotch. ‘Did he leave you my stuff?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  Narrowing his eyes, Delgardo said, ‘Don’t give me dumb Sambo shit or your ass’ll be on the auction block. You goddamn spades always stick together.’ His voice developed a whiny quality. ‘I want my stuff. It’s paid for. And I want it fast.’

  For a moment Bobby thought about smashing the skinny asshole’s face in. But it wouldn’t achieve anything, he’d only get fired.

  Taking a deep breath he thought about the glassine envelope in Seymour’s locked cupboard. What did he do? Go for the hunch, or wait for this maniac to start screaming?

  Going for the hunch he unlocked the cupboard, reached inside, took out the envelope and shoved it at the jerk. ‘Is this it?’

  The rock and roller claimed what was his with a petulant snarl. ‘How come ya didn’t ask me to get down on my fuckin’ knees and beg? He then proceeded to lay out thin lines on the black marble and snort an inordinate amount.

  Bobby turned away. He’d only sampled drugs once. Two years of seeing what dope did to people was enough to warn him off forever.

  ‘Join me,’ Del commanded, suddenly becoming friendly.

  ‘No, thanks. It’s not my sc
ene.’

  ‘Do it!’ the rock star insisted.

  ‘I can’t, I’ll lose my job.’

  Del Delgardo reverted to his true self. ‘You’ll lose it if you don’t, you fat fuck.’

  Bobby wished someone would come in before he punched this jerk out. But the private men’s room remained private.

  ‘I said do it!’ Del repeated threateningly.

  Bobby wondered how the great Seymour would handle a situation like this. And then he was saved. A middle-aged man in a tuxedo walked in, attracting the rock star’s attention.

  ‘Hey, Marcus,’ Del greeted him. ‘You’re just in time; Come on in an’ join the fuckin’ feast!’

  To Bobby’s surprise, the affluent-looking man walked over to the stoned singer as if they were the best of friends, patted him warmly on his lizard-clad shoulder, extracted a small gold straw from his inside pocket, and elegantly snorted a line of the addictive white substance.

  Bobby heaved a sigh of relief. He was no longer needed. Crisis over. Discreetly he busied himself polishing the pristine marble sinks.

  ‘My album’s walkin’ out the stores – fuckin’ walkin’. Right, Marcus? Right?’ demanded Del.

  ‘Yes, indeed it is,’ replied the man, with a slight European accent.

  ‘I’m fuckin’ beatin’ the cock out of Mick. Right?’

  ‘We’re making money. That’s all that’s important, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Del unsurely. The most important thing to him was outselling Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones. Never mind the money.

  ‘Shall we return to our ladies?’ Marcus asked smoothly.

  Greedily Del Delgardo snorted his last line of coke. ‘Yeah, let’s do that. Why not?’ He took one final look at himself in the mirror, liked what he saw, and unsteadily accompanied the older man from the room.

  As soon as they were gone, Rocket darted furtively through the door. ‘You know who that was?’ he asked excitedly.

  ‘Del Delgardo. What a creep.’

  ‘Not him. The other guy.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Marcus Citroen. He owns Blue Cadillac Records. He’s power, man, with a capital P. Here—’ Rocket emptied out his pockets. ‘I got joints – pills – ammis – an’ some sleepers. It’s the best I can do for tonight. Let’s hope Seymour stays away for a while.’

  ‘How much I gotta charge?’ Bobby asked, not really wanting to become involved.

  ‘Jeeze!’ Rocket rolled his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Bobby. Where the hell you bin all your life?’

  * * *

  ‘I hear you met Marcus Citroen last night.’

  Sharleen was talking to him. She was actually acknowledging his existence!

  ‘Yeah,’ Boby mumbled. He didn’t know how to handle it. They were standing next to each other clocking in. It was the closest he’d ever been to her, and he hadn’t realized she was so petite, like a little doll. And pretty! Oh, was she pretty.

  ‘Listen.’ Sharleen leaned towards him speaking in an urgent whisper. ‘I can’t get near any VIPs. I’m stuck downstairs with the junk skunks. So do me a big favour, if he comes in tonight give him this for me. Please.’ Pressing a cassette into his hand, she gazed at him pleadingly.

  This was his golden opportunity. All he had to do was say, Sure. Go out with me, and I’ll pass him your tape. Real flip and cool, exactly like Rocket would do.

  Instead he just about managed a weak ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks, sweetie.’ Sharleen stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re a nice guy.’

  And then she was gone, and he’d lost his chance. Damn!

  Rocket appeared, grinning with anticipation. ‘Have I got us the works tonight! Primo, primo! – Seymour’s not back, is he?’

  Secretly Bobby hoped he was. Catering to the big shots was too much like hard work – he preferred the hustle and craziness of downstairs. And selling dope wasn’t to his liking either, although he had to admit he could use the money. After all, it wasn’t as if he were out on the street pushing to kids. As Rocket pointed out – these people had plenty of money, nobody was forcing them to buy.

  ‘You’re back upstairs again tonight, Bobby,’ announced Nichols Kline, looming up behind them, causing Rocket to jump guiltily. ‘You’re doing okay up there. No complaints.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Seymour?’ he ventured.

  ‘Don’t you worry about Seymour,’ Nichols replied lightly. ‘Just do your job, and stay out of everyone’s way.’

  ‘Yeah,’ crowed Rocket as soon as Nichols walked off. ‘Do your job, an’ stay in everyone’s pocket!’ He cackled hysterically.

  It turned out to be another crazy night, and when anyone asked, Bobby supplied them with what they wanted, soon learning that money was of no great concern to the rich and famous; they seemed to enjoy throwing it around.

  At closing time he looked for Rocket to pay him his share, but his waiter friend was nowhere to be found, and since he was in a hurry to get home, he left. Marcus Citroen hadn’t shown up, and Sharleen’s tape was still in his possession. He couldn’t wait to hear it.

  When he got home he played it on his portable tape machine – a souvenir from Nashville – and was mortified to discover she sounded terrible, straining to be heard above a far too loud backing group, her voice small and tinny.

  So . . . Sharleen wanted to be a singer. Well, at least they had music in common, and Bobby knew – just by listening to her – he could help her sound a lot better.

  With that comforting thought in mind he fell asleep, only to awake several hours later with agonizing cramps in his stomach.

  ‘Oh . . . Jesus!’ Moaning with acute pain he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where he promptly threw up.

  Relief was not forthcoming. The unremitting pain persisted, tearing at his gut like a constant jagged edge.

  Panic overcame him. Something bad was happening, and he didn’t know what to do. Gathering all the strength he could muster he staggered into Fanni and Ernest’s room, switching the light on and waking them both up.

  ‘What you-all doin’, boy?’ yelled Fanni, launching herself into a sitting position, huge bosom escaping from a cheap pink nightgown.

  ‘I’m sick,’ he gasped. ‘I got this terrible pain.’

  ‘What kinda pain?’ Fanni asked suspiciously.

  ‘He’s drunk,’ muttered Ernest, pulling the covers over his head.

  ‘The boy don’t drink,’ retorted Fanni, always ready for a fight.

  ‘That’s what you think, woman,’ replied Ernest knowingly.

  Bobby clutched his stomach. This was his punishment for selling dope. He’d known it was wrong. Why’d he let Rocket talk him into it?

  He felt the sweat break out all over his body, followed by a spiralling sensation of serious pain. And then, with an enormous thud, he fell to the floor, unconscious to the world.

  The last words he heard were Ernest saying, ‘Shee . . . it! I need my rest, woman. I don’ expect these kinda goin’s on in the middle of t’night. Do somethin’ about it, witch. Throw him outta here! I can’t stand lookin’ at his fat, lazy, no-good ass one more day!’

  Los Angeles

  Saturday, July 11, 1987

  Emerging from the shower, Kris found the delectable Cybil arranged across his bed, completely naked except for a blooming red rose placed strategically between her thighs.

  ‘Wanna pick a flower, ya lucky man?’ she drawled in a put-on street accent. ‘Twenny bucks for a trip to the Rose Parade, an’ you don’t even havta go to Pasadena!’

  Why was she tempting him like this? Feeling the heat rise he was aggravated. Retreating back to the bathroom he said, ‘Do me a favour, luv, put your knickers on an’ stop messin’ about.’

  ‘Oh, boy, you’d better have some good things in store for me tomorrow,’ she threatened.

  He closed the door. ‘I’m not coming out until you’re dressed.’

  ‘You veel regret zis da
y,’ she said in a heavy foreign accent. ‘I veel ’ave my beeg revenge.’

  One thing about Cybil, there was never a dull moment. She was good-natured and fun, a natural-born joker. She was also fancied by every straight male in America, yet it was his bed she was sharing. He had exclusive rights to the gorgeous blonde body, the Miss America face, and the cascades of shining hair.

  So why did he need Astrid – the mistress of his English mansion?

  Insurance. While Astrid was on the scene he couldn’t get too involved with Cybil. And vice versa. Kris had a natural-born aversion to marriage. The very word sent cold chills up his spine. To him being married equalled being trapped. He had sampled it once, and had no intention of getting caught a second time.

  Dressed in jeans and a casual shirt he peered into the bedroom. Cybil was gone, only her perfume lingered. Eau de Horny Blonde, he thought with a ribald laugh.

  Downstairs his live-in Scottish couple busied themselves with domestic tasks, jumping to attention when they saw him.

  ‘Welcome back, Mr Phoenix,’ said the plump and motherly Mabel. ‘Why don’t I make you a nice cup of tea?’

  Nodding, he wandered outside to inspect his property. Immediately his two golden labradors came bounding over to greet him. Bending down he petted them for a good ten minutes.

  His Bel Air mansion stood on two acres of impeccably kept grounds. Flowing lawns, sumptuous flower beds, lemon and orange trees, brilliant bougainvillaea, and the obligatory Hollywood swimming pool and tennis court. Not bad for an English lad who was chucked out of school at fifteen without two pennies to rub together.

  Several Mexican gardeners toiled diligently. He gave them a cheery wave. Being back in Los Angeles was a kick. The weather appealed to him. Having grown up in England with constant rain and fog, he appreciated warmth and sunshine. Besides, he enjoyed cultivating a healthy tan.

  Cybil came running out of the house in a minuscule bikini. The gardeners stopped work and stared. The dogs barked. Flashing Kris a winning smile she dived gracefully into the pool.