Finally she returned to her bedroom with her masseuse, hairdresser, manicurist, and a top makeup artist – an English girl called Tracy – the only one allowed to touch the precious Nova Citroen skin.
‘This is all so boring,’ she informed her diligent entourage. ‘However, I enjoy raising money. And the Governor is such a worthy cause, don’t you think?’
Little did any of them suspect that twenty years ago Nova Citroen had been one of the highest-paid call girls in her native Germany.
* * *
Vicki Foxe had a way of moving around that enabled her to go wherever she wanted. The uniform helped. The dreary brown and white maid’s uniform that Mrs Citroen insisted every female employee wear.
The old broad probably doesn’t want any competition, Vicki thought smugly. Man, without the uniform, and with all her makeup and shit in place, Vicki Foxe could give competition to any of those big fancy movie stars. Not that the new ones were so big and fancy anymore – mere shadows of what they used to be like in the good old days. Not that Vicki had been around then, but she knew. There were no Marilyn Monroes and Lana Turners today.
Vicki Foxe had arrived in Hollywood at sixteen, a runaway from Chicago, with sixty bucks in her pocket and two great assets – her incredibly large breasts.
The sixty dollars didn’t get her very far at all, but the assets got her a job as a topless waitress and go-go dancer, and from there she graduated to nude modelling. Hooking came next, and by the time she was twenty-five she was scoring fairly big bucks, until she met a small-time hood who was married, generous, and wanted her all to himself. He set her up in an apartment on Ventura Boulevard and paid all the bills. She sat at home filing her nails, eating chocolates, and watching soap operas all day. Four years passed quickly, and then her boyfriend got himself arrested down in Florida on an armed robbery charge arid was promptly sent to jail. Vicki, a little older, a little plumper, went back to hooking, but her heart wasn’t in it, and when Maxwell Sicily – who had shared a jail cell with her former lover – contacted her, she was ready for a touch of excitement. At thirty she was all set for action. She was also undeniably attracted to Maxwell Sicily, so she accepted his plan without question. Now she was playing dress-up and loving every minute. After all, what was the whole scam anyway? Just taking from the rich and giving to Vicki and Maxwell. Nobody gave a shit when the rich got ripped off. So what? They had insurance and all that crap. Stealing from them was nothing, it wasn’t like a real bad crime.
Entering Marcus Citroen’s private study, she carried a feather duster lest she was stopped. Nobody bothered her, the rest of the staff were all too busy worrying about the evening’s big event.
Vicki never worried, she just went for it and did what she had to do.
* * *
Marcus Citroen employed three personal secretaries – each one more loyal than the next. He made it a strict rule that they were not to fraternize out of office hours – the penalty for breaking that rule was immediate dismissal.
The three women (Marcus did not believe in male secretaries) vied with each other for their boss’s attention. They told him absolutely everything that went on below boardroom level at Blue Cadillac Records, and therefore – between the three of them – he knew every piece of gossip, who was sleeping with whom, and other non-business-related facts which might not have reached him through normal channels. Keeping people at each other’s throats was one of Marcus’s specialities. He was the master at it. And knowing everything helped.
His three secretaries were all spinster-type women in their fifties. Marcus did not wish them to be bedded by anyone who might work for him. He demanded complete loyalty, and got it. They loathed each other. It suited him fine.
‘Mr Lamont is here,’ announced Phoebe, his senior secretary, on the intercom.
‘Send him right in,’ said Marcus. Certain people he kept waiting. Hawkins Lamont was not one of them.
The man in white entered Marcus’s spectacular office, which looked more like an antique-filled living room than the workplace of a record magnate. He went straight to the humidor on the ornate walnut desk, and selected a thick Havana cigar.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ the Hawk asked, confidently sitting himself down in a plush leather chair across the desk.
Amused, Marcus said, ‘Go ahead.’
At fifty-nine Marcus Citroen radiated power. An inch under six feet tall, and forty pounds overweight, his impeccable English tailoring covered a multitude of flaws. Mostly bald, his head was egg-shaped and olive-hued, the same colour as his face. He had a thin upper lip, an obscenely thick lower one, a prominent nose, and mysteriously hooded eyes with indolent drooping lids. Originally from Beirut, he had lived in America for over forty years, and been a citizen for thirty. He was enormously rich, extremely powerful – and in the business he had chosen to excel in, universally feared. A somewhat different figure from the young man who had arrived in New York in 1948 aged twenty, with barely one hundred dollars to his name, but a heart already as hard as steel. Marcus Citroen had seen too much of life ever to change. He’d grown up in wartime Europe, and knew everything about the darker side of man’s nature. He’d seen his wealthy father reduced to poverty. His beautiful mother become a whore, his brother the plaything to a group of perverts.
Marcus desired money. He desired power. And he came to America to seek both out.
He’d succeeded.
‘Well,’ the Hawk said. Kris Phoenix is delivered. Bobby Mondella will be there. Has Rafealla arrived?’
‘She’s here,’ Marcus confirmed. ‘At L’Ermitage.’ Fixing the Hawk with an intent stare, he leaned back, placed the tips of his elegantly manicured fingers together, and said, ‘And so the game begins, my friend.’
The Hawk puffed on his cigar. He’d known Marcus for over fifteen years, and yet – deep down – he felt he didn’t really know him at all. Nobody did. The man did not encourage intimate friendships, although the Hawk considered himself as close as anyone could get. He laughed dryly, almost nervously. ‘What game?’ he asked, his curiosity aroused; for Marcus had been obsessive about the three stars being there – especially Rafealla.
Marcus’ expression was inscrutable. ‘Any game I wish to play,’ he said slowly. ‘Any game at all.’
Kris Phoenix
1970–1972
For two years The Wild Ones played their collective asses off with nothing to show for it except an increasingly appreciative cult audience and as many girls as they could manage. Which wasn’t bad, but it certainly didn’t mean as much as getting a manager, an agent, a recording contract, money, and maybe the smallest speck of recognition from an industry which chose to totally ignore them.
Whenever they could get a booking they appeared at clubs all around the suburbs of London. Small clubs, big barns, local hops, anywhere they could get a chance to be seen. Sometimes they landed a gig at a wedding or a birthday party. It was all experience. Only none of it paid the rent, so they continued with their daytime jobs. Kris packed window cleaning in, and along with Buzz got himself a stint as a lifeguard/attendant at a local indoor swimming baths. They were both strong swimmers, and the work was not unduly taxing, although the smell of chlorine and the hordes of screaming school kids drove the two of them crazy. Buzz made out with every fanciable female who ventured into the place, even though he was still living with Flower. Kris found he was becoming more choosy – just because they were under twenty-five and moved didn’t mean he automatically had to get a leg-over. They were never short of female company. Show a girl a guitar and the little darlings almost came on the spot
Rasta Stanley, their black drummer, worked at a small radio station as a general gofer. It was a useful gig, enabling him to smuggle out all the new record albums, which Kris taped before Rasta smuggled them back in again.
Ollie Stoltz, bassist and keyboards, had a job in a library.
During their year together they’d become a tight-knit foursome. Kris was the driving force.
Buzz, the moody one, with a bizarre, off-centre black humour. Rasta, the easygoing comedian. And Ollie, serious, studious, kind to animals and old ladies.
The Wild Ones. They had their own look. Kris – so alive and sexy, with his raunchy strut, shock of dirty-blond hair, and intense, ice-blue eyes.
Buzz – quite the opposite, with his emaciated satanic demeanour.
Ollie – an innocent face, John Lennon glasses, shoulder-length brown curls and a cherub’s smile.
Rasta – a ball of energy and cheeky good looks.
Girls loved them. Girls came to dance and stayed to stare.
When they were up on stage playing, everything fitted together nicely. Rasta on drums, Ollie handling bass and keyboards, Kris and Buzz exchanging guitar solos – swapping back and forth from lead to backup with swift, practised precision.
They covered every big hit, taking turns as vocalist, although it soon became obvious that Kris was the favourite when it came to singing. On guitar he was an original, doing anything he felt like, but on vocals he played it safe – a touch of Rod Stewart, a pinch of Mick Jagger, shades of American soul and a rock and roll swagger.
He could do a perfect ‘Jumping Jack Flash’, a moody ‘Gasoline Alley’, a hot and raunchy ‘Ain’t Too Proud to Beg’ and a touching ‘Your Song’.
‘The trouble is,’ Buzz announced one day as they stood idly by the side of the steamy indoor swimming pool watching a bunch of kids being taught to swim, ‘we’re not doin’ anythin’ different. Y’know what I mean?’
Kris knew exactly what he meant, only it wasn’t his fault. The audience wanted to hear familiar songs, and that’s all they wanted to hear.
We should be writin’ our own stuff,’ Buzz said reflectively. ‘’Stead of churnin’ out other people’s hits. We gotta get Ollie t’come up with somethin’ – he’d be good at it.’
Kris nodded. He didn’t feel like saying anything, but he’d been working on a few ideas of his own, and had several songs he was anxious to try but. He’d held back because he didn’t want the others putting him down.
Buzz eyed a buxom brunette emerging from the girls’ changing room. ‘Nice pair of bristols,’ he remarked casually. ‘I bet she’s a right little raver.’
‘When have you ever seen a pair you didn’t like?’ Kris retorted.
‘We gotta ’ave original material’, Buzz repeated. ‘It’s the only way we’re goin’ t’get bleedin’ noticed.’
‘I know that,’ Kris replied. ‘As a matter of fact I—’ He didn’t finish his sentence, because out of the corner of his eye he noticed a swimmer in trouble. Without hesitation he made a racing dive into the pool, and headed for the struggling man, who was flailing around in the deep end in an advanced state of panic.
Manoeuvring himself behind the victim he grabbed him under the arms and began to swim to the side of the pool and safety.
Only it wasn’t so easy. The man really thought it was all over, and with arms and legs thrashing in every direction he fought for survival, not realizing – in his panic – that Kris was trying to save him.
Together they sank beneath the water, whereupon the man suddenly changed tactics, clinging on to Kris for dear life, wrapping his legs around him in a death hold, dragging him to title bottom of the pool where they hovered in a state of battle as Kris desperately tried to free himself from the man’s fierce grip of unadulterated fear.
Without the intervention of Buzz it might have been all over. Buzz didn’t hesitate. He dived in like a Kamikaze pilot, prying the man off Kris with lethal force, grabbing him around the neck.
With a sudden wild burst the three of them surfaced, and between them Buzz and Kris managed to drag the man to the side of the pool, where helping hands hauled him out. Kris immediately went to work pumping water out of the poor old sod.
‘Fuck!’ exclaimed Buzz. ‘This gig deserves danger money.’
‘Really . . . you’re both so brave!’ cooed the brunette he had observed earlier, now in a wet bathing suit with very sympathetic nipples on red alert.
The victim gasped and tried to sit up. A group of school children burst into applause.
Kris peered at the man he had rescued. He looked familiar, even in his half-drowned state. ‘Mr Terence?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Oh . . . my . . . God. I owe you . . . my life,’ the man spluttered. ‘I had a cramp – an unimaginable pain. I couldn’t move. I was—’
‘Mr Terence?’ Kris repeated, definitely recognizing him as the show business agent whose house his mother used to clean.
Terry Terence gazed up at the cocky-looking twenty-year-old with the bulging crotch and crooked grin. Maybe he’d died and gone to heaven. Ah . . . he’d always liked them young.
‘Yes,’ he replied dreamily. Do I know you?’
* * *
Mr Terry Terence no longer lived in his house on Carlton Hill. He had moved to a rather grand apartment on Abbey Road, quite near the famous Abbey Road studios where The Beatles made all their records.
Later that day, when Kris and Buzz turned up for tea, they were greeted by a lanky, effeminate-looking man with watery spaniel eyes and a low cultured voice. ‘Do come in,’ he said softly. ‘I’m Justin, Mr Terry’s companion. He’s resting right now, but his instructions were to wake him as soon as you arrived.’ Justin extended a limp, white hand. ‘My deepest thanks for your bravery. You know, Mr Terry suffered a heart attack six months ago, and the doctor advised him to take more exercise. He started walking, soon got bored with that. Then tennis – much too strenuous. Finally he settled on swimming – the perfect answer.’
‘Yeah, it was nearly the answer all right,’ joked Buzz morbidly, peering at an Andy Warhol poster of a series of soup cans.
‘How’s he feeling?’ Kris asked, checking out the photo frames – searching for the old signed picture of Johnnie Ray he remembered from his childhood.
‘Thankful to be alive,’ Justin said crisply. ‘Usually he swims at the Grosvenor House pool, but today, for some unknown reason, he decided to venture locally.’ Justin made a clucking sound. ‘Life! How blithely we tread the path of fate!’
Buzz threw Kris a look as much to say Who is this wacko?
‘Maybe we should come back another day,’ Kris suggested. ‘Y’know, if he’s restin’ an’ all.’
‘Not at all,’ Justin said quickly. ‘He’d be most upset. I’ll wake him now.’ He hurried from the room.
‘Talk about light on yer feet!’ Buzz said.
Kris zeroed in on the old photo of Johnnie Ray – different frame, same picture. ‘Look at this,’ he said triumphantly, picking it up.
‘Who is it?’ demanded Buzz.
‘Johnnie Ray.’
‘Who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?’
‘A big singer in the fifties. My mum loved him.’
‘Hey – get a load of this, Buzz said, picking up a picture of The Beatles. The fab four themselves. An’ they signed it – all of ’em.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. This old fart must really know people.’
‘I told you, didn’t I?’
Mr Terry Terence entered the room resplendent in black pyjamas worn under a scarlet dressing gown elaborately embroidered with gold, and matching slippers. He was a middle-aged man, rather plump, with bland features, a ruddy complexion, and a puff of dyed brown hair. He bore a passing resemblance to Liberace.
‘Well, boys,’ he said. ‘How am I ever going to repay you?’ And that was how The Wild Ones acquired their first agent and manager.
* * *
Right from the beginning Mr Terry Terence had eyes for Buzz. He took one look at the moody, unsmiling twenty-one-year-old with the agile body, pale complexion and ragged black hair, and it was love at first sight. Although he was careful to conceal the way he felt, it soon became common knowledge and a great joke among the boys. That’s what Mr Terry Terence called them once he took them in hand: the boys – his boys. He was going to mould them into stars – or so
he said – and after a year of trailing around the clubs getting nowhere, they were only too happy to put themselves in his experienced hands.
First he attended a couple of their local gigs, after which he sat the four of them down in his office and told them exactly what they were doing wrong.
‘You’re a copycat group,’ he told them. ‘Bleating out other people’s hits – any bunch of musicians can get together and do that.’
‘I told ’em,’ Buzz said in his best know-all voice.
Kris shot him a disgusted look. ‘It’s what the kids want to hear,’ he said stubbornly. ‘We’d love to do original stuff.’
Mr Terence sipped from a cup of strong black coffee. ‘Naturally. They’re used to hearing familiar songs. Only you must understand, it’s not going to get you anywhere. We have to have original material. Can any of you compose and write lyrics?’
Tentatively Ollie raised his hand. ‘I write music,’ he said. ‘Lousy on lyrics, but I’m quite into creating a melody.’
Kris was surprised. It was the first he’d heard of it.
‘Anyone else?’ asked Mr Terence, anxious eyes lingering on Buzz as usual.
‘Uh . . . yeah . . . I got some stuff,’ responded Buzz with an embarrassed shrug. ‘’Course, it probably stinks – sod it – what the hell . . .’ He trailed off.
Kris had always thought he and Buzz were pretty close – and now this revelation. Shit! He’d better make his own announcement soon or he’d be left out. ‘I’ve put together quite a bit of material,’ he said quickly.
Now it was Buzz’s turn to look surprised. He raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘You ’ave?’
Rasta laughed, always one to break the tension. ‘Seems like you’ve all bin at it in secret. Someone should’ve told me, I’d ’ave given up wankin’ an’ done somethin’ useful with me right hand!’
‘It’s never too late,’ said Mr Terence fussily, ignoring their ribald laughter. ‘The more original material the better.’
‘Right on,’ agreed Buzz.
‘Next, we have to work on your image,’ Mr Terence continued, adjusting the knot on his old school tie.
Rock Star Page 8
