Rock Star

by Jackie Collins

  ‘Why?’ Kris demanded. ‘There’s nothin’ wrong with the way we look.’

  ‘There’s nothing right with it either. On stage you resemble a raggle-taggle group of misfits. There has to be a sense of unity – a feeling you belong together.’

  ‘I’m not wearin’ no stupid stage costume,’ Buzz warned. ‘I wear me black gear, an’ that’s that.’

  ‘You could all wear black,’ Mr Terence suggested, diplomatically, careful never to say anything that might offend his favourite.

  ‘I’m better in red, man,’ argued Rasta. ‘I got enough black on me already, thank you very much.’

  ‘I have the answer,’ Mr Terence said triumphantly. ‘All-black outfits with red scarves.’ Naturally he had observed that Buzz usually wore a long, tatty scarf wound around his neck.

  ‘I don’t want some faggot outfit,’ Buzz said rudely. ‘I think we should go with whatever we got on at the time.’

  The Beatles look good,’ Ollie observed.

  ‘Bunch of wankers!’ Buzz sneered.

  Mr Terence inspected his nails, buffed to a pearly shine. ‘Next we have to talk about buying you decent equipment,’ he said. ‘And sending you out on tour, so you can acquire real experience.’

  ‘What about a recording contract?’ Kris asked, getting down to the nitty-gritty.

  ‘That’s not something that just happens,’ Mr Terence replied testily. It’s a goal we have to work towards. If I sent you into a studio now you’d be laughed out of the room.’ Pausing, he took another sip of coffee. ‘First you’ll develop original, fresh material, and if you can’t do that, we’ll buy you some. Then you’ll go out on the road and learn presentation and discipline. It’ll all be worthwhile. When I say you’re ready to go into a recording studio, that’s when we do it.’

  ‘What about our jobs?’ Ollie enquired seriously. ‘How can we tour and still work?’

  ‘You can’t. That’s obvious.’ Mr Terence was crisp and to the point. ‘I have decided not only to be your agent, but to manage you as well. As your agent I will receive ten per cent of your collective earnings. As your manager I shall require a further twenty-five per cent. And for that I take it upon myself to finance your climb to the top. I will purchase new equipment, a van for you to travel around the country in, clothes for you to wear on stage, and I will also advance you a reasonable living allowance.’

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Rasta. ‘That’s fuckin’ fabulous!’

  Kris shot him a warning look. We’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ agreed Buzz, catching on that enthusiasm could only lead to getting screwed.

  Mr Terence was perfectly calm. ‘Think away,’ he said. ‘You can let me know within a week.’

  ‘You’d be gettin’ thirty-five per cent of us,’ Kris said unsurely, calculating aloud. ‘Isn’t that a lot?’

  ‘Thirty-five per cent of nothing,’ Mr Terence pointed out. ‘And risking a goodly amount of my own money, not to mention my valuable time. Take it or leave it.’ He sighed, as if he couldn’t care less either way. ‘I think you have potential. Others might not.’

  A week later all four of them signed individual contracts tying them irrevocably to Mr Terry Terence for the next seven years. Kris had to have his mother sign for him as he was still a few days away from his twenty-first birthday.

  Avis came to Mr Terence’s office in her best yellow dress, a silly hat perched rakishly atop her greying hair. ‘I bought it for you, luv,’ she whispered to her son. ‘For luck. Two quid in Marks & Spencer.’

  Impulsively he hugged her. ‘Thanks, mum.’

  ‘Mrs Pierce! What a joy to see you after all these years,’ Mr Terence said, and in a low aside everyone in the office heard, ‘Nobody polishes silver the way you used to.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr T.’ Her voice was stiff and proper, unlike her usual raucous shout. She had never told anyone why she’d abruptly left Mr Terence’s employ over nine years ago. He had accused her of stealing a pair of gold cufflinks, and when one of his gentleman friends turned up with them two days later he merely said, ‘Found ’em, dear’, as if that was apology enough. She never went back.

  Now here she was, in his office, signing important contracts on behalf of her Kris. She’d sooner have given him a black eye for his stinking mistrust.

  After signing they went to the pub to celebrate, just mother and son. Mr Terence had wanted them to stay in the office and split a bottle of champagne, but Avis tugged on Kris’s sleeve and hoarsely whispered, ‘I’d be more comfortable down the pub, lad.’ So the pub it was.

  They sat there for two hours enjoying each other’s company and a few beers. It was one of the best times Kris had ever spent with her. She only mentioned Brian four times.

  ‘I’m goin’ to buy you a mink stole, mum,’ he promised, as they walked out into the cold night air. ‘You deserve it.’

  She laughed – her wonderfully familiar, bawdy cackle. ‘Cor luv us! You an’ who else – Prince bleedin’ Philip?’

  * * *

  The Wild Ones toured for a full year, covering the country. They travelled across England, Wales, and Scotland. Up north, down south, across to Ireland and back again. And all the time squashed together in a cramped Volkswagen bus with their equipment piled high around them. They took turns to drive, and on one-night stands slept in the back of the bus smelling like a bunch of clapped-out camels. They even took turns having girls in the bus. One little raver in the front, and another on her knees in the back. Some of them were barely in their teens. ‘Baby groupies,’ Buzz christened them. ‘Straight off the bottle an’ onto the rod!’

  Once in a while Mr Terence came to see them. He made full note of the enthusiastic audience reaction, listened carefully to their new material, made his criticisms and general observations, then left.

  ‘When are we coming to London?’ Kris always asked.

  ‘As soon as you’re ready. I’ll let you know,’ was Mr Terence’s unswerving reply.

  They were exhausted and burnt out. Where was the recognition Mr Terence had promised them? Where was their recording contract? Where was Fame, Fortune and the Good Life?

  To say they were disillusioned and fed-up would be putting it mildly.

  ‘We have seen the asshole of England,’ Kris observed solemnly, late one night as they sat in a roadside cafe outside Manchester, sharing a greasy plate of sausages and chips. ‘And it bleedin’ stinks.’

  ‘Write a song about it’, Buzz said, yawning. ‘Yer manage t’write about everything else.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, very pretty – ‘The Asshole of England’ by Kris Phoenix. I can see it now – a big hit. It’ll knock the Stones right off the charts!’

  Rasta began beating drum rhythms on the table, while Ollie made fake boom boom sounds.

  ‘I met a girl an’ ’er name was Sally. Kissed ’er on the cheek and fucked her in the alley,’ sang Buzz. ‘She looked so sweet, she looked so neat. An’ I didn’t know she lived in – ALL TOGETHER NOW – LET’S BLOODY HEAR IT—’

  ‘The asshole of England!’ They all screamed, hysterical with laughter.

  ‘Enough of that’, grumbled a fat counter-man in a filthy apron, looming over their table. ‘You’re makin’ too much noise.’

  ‘Sod it!’ sneered Buzz. ‘Can’t even have any fun anymore.’

  ‘What’s fun?’ Kris asked wearily.

  ‘Gettin’ your dick sucked in a bed instead of behind a bloody amplifier?’ Rasta suggested.

  ‘I dunno’, Kris sighed. ‘I’m tired. I just wan’ t’go back to London.’

  ‘Call the fag an’ tell ’im’, Buzz said. It’s about time ’e kept some of his bloody promises. If I ’ave to sleep with your hairy arse in me face one more night, I’m packin’ it in.’

  ‘You call him’, Kris countered. ‘You’re his blue-eyed boy.’

  Adopting an exaggerated pose and mincing voice, Buzz said, ‘Hmmm, do you really think so, dear?’

  ‘You’d make a horrible girl,’ O
llie remarked. ‘All white and pasty!’

  ‘Yeah, but you’d like t’fuck me, wouldn’tcha?’ Buzz joked. ‘You’d like ter give me one, wouldn’tcha, darlin’?’

  ‘Not bloody likely’, Ollie retorted indignantly.

  ‘Aw, c’mon, admit it,’ Buzz taunted. ‘Don’t be shy. We all know what goes on in them fancy music academies. I bet you’ve slipped it up an arse or two in yer time.’

  Ollie leaped to his feet, red-faced. ‘Don’t even joke about it, you fucking wanker.’

  Buzz narrowed his eyes. Hit a nerve, ’ave I?’

  ‘Shut up, you two,’ Kris said, flicking a greasy chip in his friend’s face.

  ‘Yeah, shut up,’ agreed Rasta, grabbing a handful of chips and throwing them at Ollie and Buzz.

  ‘’Ere we go!’ yelled Buzz, reaching for a sausage, which he proceeded to tear into pieces and pelt across the table.

  Kris responded with a squirt of tomato ketchup, and Ollie followed with the mustard. Within seconds they were yelling and screaming – letting out the tension – embroiled in an enthusiastic and enjoyable food fight.

  ‘That’s about enough of that, you yobbos, ENOUGH!’ commanded the fat counter-man, lumbering over.

  Ignoring him, they continued their fun.

  ‘Sling the buggers out, Bert,’ roared a heavy-set truck driver sitting nearby. ‘Fuckin’ bunch of pansies with their long ’air. Chuck ’em out. Me an’ my mates’ll help yer.’

  Bert had no say in the matter. The truck driver and his friends were only too happy to join in the fight. The trouble was they weren’t playing with food – fists were their weapons, and they launched into the unsuspecting boys with vicious gusto, taking them by surprise.

  ‘Let’s teach the fuckin’ girls a lesson,’ shouted the heavy-set driver, encouraging his troops into battle.

  ‘Aw . . . shit,’ groaned Kris, as one of the bullies grabbed him by his long hair and attempted to frog-march him to the door. He twisted free, kicking the much bigger man sharply in the balls.

  ‘Yer fuckin’ scummy bastard!’ roared the man, doubling over.

  Kris took quick stock. Five burly truck drivers and four skinny would-be rock stars. The odds weren’t good.

  ‘Let’s get the fuck outta here,’ he yelled.

  But he was too late. The fight was on.

  Bobby Mondella

  1972

  ‘Happy birthday, honey,’ Sharleen said with a captivating smile, placing a tempting chocolate cake in front of Bobby.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ agreed Rocket, hovering nearby. ‘How about this bein’ our year?’

  ‘Ain’t gonna fight with those sentiments,’ Bobby said – a new Bobby – a slimmed-down version of the former blimp. Bobby Mondella, at twenty-two, was tall, good-looking, and fit. Impossible to recognize as the fat boy who had been carried from Cousin Fanni’s house four years ago and rushed by ambulance to the emergency room, where he nearly died.

  * * *

  The two ambulance attendants almost had hernias on account of having to lift the stretcher with Bobby on. He had a burst appendix, and the surgeon who operated told him that another hour and there would have been no chance of saving him. As it was he hovered on the danger list for several days.

  ‘Cutting through your fat nearly cost you your life,’ the surgeon said bluntly when he came to remove the stitches. ‘You’d better get rid of the blubber or be prepared to check out early.’

  ‘Check out of the hospital?’ Bobby asked innocently.

  ‘No. Check out of life, young man.’

  Fanni came to visit a week after his operation. She brought Playboy magazine and three Hershey bars. Jerk off and get fat. The story of his life.

  ‘Did you call the Chainsaw?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Why? Was I ’spose to?’

  Groaning, he said, ‘I’ll lose my job. You should’ve called.’

  ‘They’ll understand.’

  They didn’t. When Bobby returned four weeks later, and already twenty pounds lighter, Nichols Kline was unsympathetic. ‘Your job’s taken, Mondella. Get lost,’ he’d said.

  Bobby hung around outside waiting for either Sharleen or Rocket. She arrived first and was about to walk right past, when he grabbed her arm and reminded her who he was.

  Eyes flashing angrily she said, ‘Where’s my tape?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Yeah? Exactly where, may I ask?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give it to Marcus Citroen?’

  ‘He never came in that night,’ Bobby explained. ‘And after that I was rushed to the hospital with a burst appendix. The truth is, I nearly died. I was real sick.’

  She couldn’t have cared less. ‘I want my tape back’, she said flatly.

  Shifting uncomfortably, he said, ‘Y’know somethin’? I played it – I’m sure it’s not the best you can do.’

  Indignantly she glared at him. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I used to be in the music business, when I was younger.’ Hesitating, he decided he had nothing to lose, and added, ‘I . . . uh . . . made some records, wrote a few songs.’

  ‘When you was twelve, sonny?’ Her voice dripped sarcasm.

  ‘I was very young – but it’s true – I swear it.’

  She was getting bored. ‘Sure, honey.’

  ‘I’ll write you a song’, he volunteered.

  ‘Oh, boy! I can’t wait.’

  ‘Listen, don’t fight it, I can help you sound much better on tape.’

  ‘Just bring it on back, sonny.’

  She was being stubborn, but he was sure that given half a chance he could convince her. ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I won’t be around. Nichols fired me. Let me drop it by your place in the morning.’

  Biting her lower lip she thought for a moment, then said, ‘What the heck,’ and produced a dog-eared card with SHARLEEN – CHANTEUSE printed on it. She scribbled an address and thrust it at him. ‘Ten o’clock. Don’t expect to stay.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he said hastily, watching her walk swiftly through the back entrance of the club.

  Another ten minutes and Rocket appeared. ‘Jeeze, Bobby! I never expected to see you again. Thought you’d scrammed with all the bread – yours an’ mine.’

  ‘Thanks for being so trusting.’

  With a nonchalant shrug Rocket said, ‘Ain’t the first time I bin ripped.’

  It was great to come across two people so thrilled to see him. Trusting they weren’t. He repeated his hospital story, adding that he’d been fired. ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘Clooneys,’ Rocket said without hesitation. ‘They’re hirin’ bouncers. Get your ass over there pronto.’ He flipped a cigarette from his pocket. ‘Do I get my money?’

  ‘I don’t have it on me.’ The truth was, Ernest had stolen every penny while he was in the hospital.

  ‘Hey, man, I guess I’ve waited four weeks, I’ll wait another day,’ Rocket said. ‘You can bring it by in the mornin’.’ Scratching his head, he added, ‘Just make sure you deduct the advance on rent you paid me – I got myself a new roommate. You’re out.’

  Great! Before he was even in. But he couldn’t blame the guy. After all, there’d been no guarantee he’d reappear. ‘I can’t make the morning,’ he said, thinking of his rendezvous with Sharleen.

  Rocket shrugged. ‘Lunch-time then. I’ll buy ya a hot dog an’ split a beer.’ Snatching Sharleen’s card from Bobby’s hand, he took a pencil from behind his ear and scrawled an address on the blank side. ‘Tomorra,’ Rocket said. ‘Try Clooneys. Ya look like a bouncer. Tell ’em you’re over twenny-five. They’ll buy it.’

  Rocket was right. They bought it, and Bobby had a new job throwing people out of one of the hottest singles bars on the West Side.

  When he got home he confronted Ernest about the missing money.

  Ernest was furious. ‘You accusin’ me, boy?’ he demanded belligerently.

  ‘I s
ure am,’ Bobby retorted. As he was shedding weight, so he was gaining in courage. It was about time he stood up to Ernest.

  ‘Well, I ain’t gonna take it,’ Ernest fumed. ‘No, sirree, I ain’t gonna take no more of your goddamn she . . . it.’

  ‘It wasn’t my money,’ Bobby tried to explain. ‘I was only—’

  ‘I’m not innerested in your bitchin’ an’ whinin’,’ Ernest interrupted, obese belly heaving with emotion. ‘You all’s jest a weight ’round your good cousin’s neck. That woman bin too damn good to you. Whyn’t y’git out. An’ do it now.’

  ‘If I had my money I would,’ Bobby retorted angrily. ‘You took the six thousand dollars I came here with. You spent it pretty good.’

  ‘I took it? You done got the goddman balls to say I, Ernest Crystal, took somethin’ wasn’t his?’ He started to yell. ‘Fuck you, boy. Fuck you.’

  Fanni arrived home, causing Ernest to shut up, and Bobby to go to his small room in the back. He made up his mind that if Rocket was prepared to wait for his money, he would take his first week’s paycheck and get the hell out. The sooner the better.

  The next morning, clad in his best pants and jacket, both now too big for him, he arrived on Sharleen’s doorstep, tape in hand. She lived in a basement off Tenth Avenue. The steps down were littered with garbage, lewd graffiti was scrawled all over the door, and there was no doorbell.

  He knocked tentatively. After a few minutes and no response, he knocked again. A large rat scuttled out of its corner hiding place and raced past him up the crumbling stone steps.

  ‘Comin’,’ yelled a muffled voice, and eventually the door was flung open.

  Standing there was Rocket, in grubby jockey shorts, with his lank hair all over the place. He had a disoriented look on his face. ‘Bobby,’ he said vaguely. ‘I thought you was goin’ to be here later.’

  For a moment Bobby was startled. But then he realized what he’d done. He’d made the stupid mistake of going to Rocket’s address instead of Sharleen’s. Both addresses were scribbled on the same card.

  ‘I s’pose you’d better c’min an’ visit the palace,’ Rocket mumbled, adding a loud burp.