‘I could come with you,’ he suggested.
‘Bobby, Bobby, don’t you trust me? Rocket trusts me, and he’s my boyfriend. If anyone should be concerned it should be him.’
‘He’s not here, Sharleen,’ Bobby pointed out. ‘And he doesn’t know.’
Spraying Arpèe liberally up and down her bare arms and across her cleavage, she said, ‘No. He’s not here and he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s out with one of those cute-assed Hollywood starlets. A nice little white girl with pink skin and blue eyes.’
‘You know he’s not’
‘How do I know?’ she sighed petulantly. ‘He ran off to L.A. fast enough, didn’t he?’
‘He’s working on a movie.’
Standing up, she surveyed the finished product in the mirror with a critical eye. ‘I’m working too,’ she said firmly, inspecting her body profile. This is a work date, and nothing else.’
He could see there was no way to argue with her. If she thought a ‘work date’ involved going to a man’s apartment at twelve o’clock at night – alone – that was her problem.
‘Help me find a cab, huh?’ She dazzled him with her smile.
Escorting her to the street, he hailed a taxi and saw her safely into it. ‘Call me if you need me,’ he said sternly.
‘I won’t need you, silly.’ Her silky hand touched his cheek. This is my big chance, Bobby. There’s no way I’m going to blow it. Please be happy for me.’
Watching the cab skid off down the street, he couldn’t help wishing Rocket would get back soon. The responsibility of baby-sitting Sharleen was starting to get to him. Two nights ago she had come home from the theatre where she was still in the chorus, a triumphant expression lighting her face. ‘Guess who was in tonight?’ she’d breathed excitedly. ‘Just start guessing because I want you to know.’
‘Stevie Wonder.’
‘Nope.’
‘Billy Dee Williams.’
‘Would I still be alive?’
‘The great Miss Diana Ross?’
‘Bobby. This is important. This is my future.’
‘Who?’
‘Marcus Citroen.’ She savoured the sound of his name. ‘Blue Cadillac Records. The Mister Citroen himself. And he sat in the front row an’ never took his eyes off me all night!’
‘Maybe he’s short-sighted.’
‘Bobby! Get serious. I had the stage manager deliver an envelope to his driver with my résumé and picture. Oh, Bobby! He called me from his car before I left the theatre, and invited me to a party at his apartment on Saturday night. And he said when the other guests leave we’ll talk about my career. Isn’t it fabulous?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘No. I am most certainly not. This is the break I’ve been wishing for all my life.’
There had been no talking her out of it. When he’d tried, she’d merely snapped at him, changing the subject. Sharleen was ecstatic, and in a way he couldn’t blame her. For eighteen months she’d stood by and watched both his and Rocket’s careers begin to warm up, while nothing – except the chorus
– happened for her. Rocket landed small roles in two movies, and then a Hollywood agent signed him, and within weeks he was on his way to Los Angeles to play the second male lead in an important film.
As for Bobby, his songs were in demand, and his musical arrangements, not to mention his piano backing. He was doing very nicely, and several of his songs had been in the top twenty, recorded by various artists. He’d given up both his outside jobs, and now spent his days composing.
Twice he’d managed to get Sharleen studio time, where she recorded demos of two of his songs. The songs sold, Sharleen didn’t. At least she had the tapes to console her. But she wanted much more than that.
Hey – what was he worrying about? She wasn’t his girlfriend, although he had spent the last five years wishing she was.
Falling asleep with the television on, he awoke in a cold sweat at four in the morning. He’d been having some kind of nightmare, but couldn’t remember what it was about. His mouth felt like sandpaper, and he was hot and covered in perspiration. Getting out of bed he padded silently into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. The loft consisted of a large living space with two screened-off bedrooms
– one at each end. Before going back to his area he decided to peek in on Sharleen, just to make sure she was safely home.
She wasn’t. Her bed was undisturbed.
Goddamn it! What was he supposed to do now?
Go back to sleep and mind your own business, an inner voice warned him.
But he couldn’t, and when Sharleen came in at five-thirty that morning he was pacing around the loft like a deranged father. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded, too angry to notice her bedraggled appearance and shaken expression.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said wearily, pushing past him and locking herself in the bathroom.
‘Just you listen to me—’ he began.
‘Shut up!’ she screamed from behind the closed door. ‘I don’t have to answer to you or anyone. Leave me the fuck alone!’
He did just that, and early that morning went off to a recording session at Soul On Soul records – a small record company rim by a female producer named Amerika Allen. She was using him quite often. Today they were recording one of his songs with Rufus T. Ram, a young soul singer.
Amerika greeted him warmly. She was a heavily built black woman of thirty-three, with an enormous bosom and a taste for flowing, African-style clothes. Hiya, Bobby Boy.’
He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hey – Amerika – my favourite lady. You are lookin’ hot!’
‘Charm! The man is learnin’ charm.’ Narrowing her eye she peered at him closely. ‘Thing is, Bobby, you all look like you had a haaard night. One of your little blonde chickies keep you up?’
‘Nope.’
Amerika grinned. She had the widest smile and the whitest teeth. ‘You can’t fool me, man. I can smeeell a sleepless night.’
He wasn’t about to tell her about Sharleen. Twice he had brought Sharleen to the studio and Amerika had not been exactly enthusiastic. ‘Pretty chick. Small voice,’ she’d said dismissively.
‘I wish you’d give her a chance,’ Bobby had pleaded.
‘Honey – not even for you. I only deal with genuine talent.’
‘C’mon, Sharleen’s got a great personality. She’d really come across on television.’
‘Sure, baby, she’ll come across all right, but not at this record company.’
End of story.
‘You bin holding out on me, Bobby’, Amerika said accusingly, putting a friendly arm around his shoulders as they walked into the studio.
‘I have?’
‘Yeah, baby. I’ve bin findin’ out things.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’ll buy you lunch, an’ then I can tell you all about it.’
‘Hey – tell me now – you got me curious.’
‘Be patient. Don’t you want a free tuna fish sandwich?’
Rufus T. Ram was six feet four inches tall, skinny, with wild Afro hair and a high-pitched, musical voice reminiscent of a young Smokey Robinson. He’d already had a couple of near hits with Soul On Soul.
The song Bobby had written and arranged was a slow, throbbing ballad, ‘Girl, I Want Your Body’. Rufus T. Ram sang it with a cheerful beat.
‘Wrong!’ announced Amerika after a couple, of run-throughs. ‘C’mon, Rufus, baby, you gotta get down, get dirty.
I wanna hear the hard-on in your voice.’
Rufus T. Ram nodded as if he understood exactly what she was saying. The only trouble was – he didn’t. The way he sang the song evoked images of a breezy walk in the park, a light musical stroll. It soon became clear that Rufus T. Ram and ‘Girl, I Want Your Body’ did not fit.
Amerika called an early lunch break. ‘We gotta talk,’ she said to Bobby, guiding him from the studio with a firm grip on his arm.
He really wanted to call Sh
arleen, but Amerika was on the move, hurrying him down the street to a small Italian restaurant she favoured.
‘I’m gonna treat you to more than tuna,’ she announced with a wide smile. ‘I think we both need a beeeg plate of nour-ishin’ spaghetti an’ meat balls to survive the afternoon.’
He agreed. Now that he was thin he didn’t mind indulging once in a while, and he liked Amerika, she had been good to him – ever since a musician friend had taken him to the Soul On Soul studios nine months ago and introduced them.
‘I gotta tell you, Bobby, your song is the greatest,’ she said, ordering a bottle of red wine, then reaching for a hot bread roll. ‘Only problem is – Rufus T. Ram can’t sing it.’
‘I know,’ he admitted.
‘So.’ Sitting back, she surveyed the crowded restaurant. ‘What we gonna do?’
‘Write him another song,’ Bobby suggested logically.
She looked surprised. ‘You can do that now?’
‘Huh?’
‘Well, c’mon, Mondella, I got a studio full of musicians. I need a steady line of product. Can we have another song an’ full arrangement ready to go right after lunch?’
Disbelievingly, he said, ‘Are you crazy?’
She selected a thin brown cigarillo from her oversized bag, reached for the book matches on the table, and lit up. ‘I want you to record the song.’
‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘Now I know you’re crazy.’
The waiter arrived with the wine and poured a small amount for Bobby to taste. He passed his glass to Amerika. She sipped and nodded a brisk okay. When the waiter left, she said, ‘Hmmm . . . “Sweet Little Bobby”, Honey, don’t you think it’s about time you jumped back to where you belong? On vinyl, baby. Makin’ hits.’
* * *
Sharleen was not in when he got home later that evening. She had left for the theatre. Scotch-taped to the refrigerator door was a scrawled note:
Sorry!
Love ya!
Don’t tell Rocket!!!
Don’t wait up.
S
Quickly he figured out her shorthand. ‘Sorry’ meant she didn’t want to discuss it. ‘Love ya’ was her salve to keep him at her feet. ‘Don’t tell Rocket’ meant exactly that. And ‘Don’t wait up’ translated into ‘I’ll be home very late’.
Luckily he wasn’t involved with her. This girl was out chasing ambition, and nothing was going to stop her.
Sharleen . . . Sometimes he wished he’d never set eyes on her, let alone joined up with her and Rocket to become the adventurous threesome.
Tonight even thoughts of Sharleen couldn’t bring him down, he was too goddamn high on life. Today he had sung for the first time in seven years, thanks to Amerika Allen. He, Bobby Mondella, had gotten up in that studio and sung the pants off Rufus T. Ram. Yeah. He had surprised everyone – including himself. He had a voice, and it was really something! Not the plaintive, high-pitched wail of Sweet Little Bobby but a low-down, raunchy throb. And if anyone could put real meaning into his lyrics – he could.
Amerika had been thrilled. ‘You got it, my man,’ she’d said, hugging and squeezing him. ‘You sure have got it! Some bitchin’ voice!’
What a day! Amerika hitting him with his hidden past was quite a surprise. It was a secret he thought nobody would ever discover. He’d never even confided in Rocket and only mentioned it to Sharleen once, and she hadn’t believed him, so he’d let it drop.
But Amerika knew. She’d done a touch of detective work and come up with an old 1963 album of his with a fat, smirking Sweet Little Bobby on the record sleeve.
‘First time I set eyes on you I figured I’d seen you before,’ she said. ‘An’ I got to thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’. Still couldn’t remember where. Then one day, ‘bout a week ago, I remembered. More than ten years back I was visiting Nashville with some friends, an’ I saw this cute little fat boy on a TV show. “What’s this black boy doin’ singin’ country?” I remember thinkin’.’
‘So how come all these years later you figured out it was me?’
‘Honey – you come walkin’ in here claimin’ no musical past. Hadda be something’ wrong somewhere. My bones told me you’d bin in music all your life. An’ then this one mornin’ I just woke up an’ knew you was once Sweet Little Bobby.’ She laughed triumphantly. ‘I got a memory like a camel stores water!’
‘I don’t get it. I look different. I sound different. How did you make the connection?’
‘Your eyes haven’t changed, baby. They just got a little older an’ a whole lot wiser. An’ now it’s time for you to get back to work – doin’ what I know you can do. An’ better than Rufus T. Ram.’
Amerika was very persuasive. She talked him into giving it a try, and it was almost as if he had all this stored-up vocal energy just waiting to burst through. And when he opened his mouth out came the voice – the new Bobby Mondella voice. And he was certain that finally he was on the road to where he wanted to go.
Right now he felt like celebrating. Putting Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell on the stereo, he went through his phone book and finally settled on a cute ball of blonde fluffiness who worked behind the cosmetics counter at Bonwit’s. Since Sharleen was going to be out late he decided he might as well take advantage of the empty apartment.
The blonde arrived in a backless summer dress with four-inch stiletto heels. Soon the dress was history, but the shoes remained. He satisfied his newfound lust for living, and she squealed. ‘I guess it’s true what they say about black men!’
Within fifteen minutes she was history. Picking up the phone he reached Rocket in L.A.
‘Everythin’ all right?’ Rocket asked anxiously.
No. You’d better get your ass back here. Sharleen is shacking up with Marcus Citroen. And it ain’t my problem.
‘Sure. How’s the movie goin’?’
‘Couldn’t be better. I’m like a piece of shit off the streets of New York, bringin’ back good memories to every fat-butt exile out here.’
‘Sounds exciting.’
‘Yeah, I guess it is. There’s some kinda love goddess ’round every corner, an’ tits an’ ass a man could kill for.’
‘So?’
Rocket made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. ‘So nothin’, man . . . With what I got stashed at home there’s no way I’d blow it. Let me speak to her.’
Shit! If he told Rocket the truth, Sharleen and he might break up. Which would leave the field clear for a certain Mr Bobby Mondella who had been waiting patiently in the background for five long years.
No. He couldn’t do that. Not to Sharleen.
‘She’s uh . . . getting back from the theatre late,’ he said vaguely. ‘One of her girlfriends is throwing a birthday party.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. Somebody’s house.’
‘What a kid, that Sharleen,’ Rocket said fondly. ‘Y’know what I’m gonna do? I think I’ll surprise her with a trip out here. Get her to meet my agent an’ that kinda jazz. She’d like that, wouldn’t she?’
‘You said you were coming back next week.’
‘The film’s runnin’ over. Besides, I told you – they like me here – they’re buildin’ up my part.’
‘Great.’
‘Yeah.’ He juggled the phone, reaching for a cigarette. ‘Hey – guess who I ran into last night?’
Bobby remembered Sharleen asking him the same question. ‘I’m no good at guessing games.’
‘This is really gonna blow your mind.’
‘Who?’
‘Nichols Kline. Can y’believe it?’
‘Our old boss? The manager from the Chainsaw?’
‘Ya think there’s another Nichols Kline around?’
The Chainsaw had closed down four years earlier, the result of a major drug bust.
‘What’s he doing in L.A.?’ Bobby asked curiously.
‘Pretty fine if you ask me. I ran into him at this rock and
roll party at the beach. He had a redhead on one arm, a brunette on the other, and more gold chains than a street hustler could rip off in a week. He’s a concert promoter now. Not bad, huh?’
‘Did he remember you?’
‘Do hookers take money? Of course he remembered me. I’m unforgettable, man. One of a kind. When they made me they threw away my mother!’
‘All right, all right, so he remembered you,’ Bobby said, anxious to tell his news.
He was too late, Rocket was ready to go. ‘I gotta hit the sheets, man. Gotta get some sleep. We’re shootin’ downtown tomorra. It’s just like bein’ home – rats, dirt, maniacs roamin’ the streets. My kinda town!’
‘Hey—’ Bobby said quickly. ‘I just wanted to tell you – I’m singin’.’
‘So are the fartin’ birds. All day long. California. It’s a whole different world. Listen, tell Shar to call me tomorra. Love ya both.’
After the phone call Bobby still didn’t feel like sleeping. He was up and speeding. Elated, restless, full of boundless energy. Sitting down at the used piano he’d bought with the first money he’d made as a songwriter, he played a few notes. And before long the notes became a tune, blending with the lyrics he made up as he went along.
He wrote a simple, soulful ditty full of his feelings for Sharleen.
The lady herself staggered home at five in the morning, glassy-eyed and obviously stoned.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked grimly, thinking, I’m beginning to sound like a broken record.
She was giggly and mellow, the pupils of her brown eyes dilated and starey. ‘Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,’ she sing-songed. ‘Handsome, handsome, Bobby boy!’
‘Sharleen.’ He gripped her by the shoulders. ‘What are you on?’
Gazing at him blankly, she said, ‘On?’
‘What did he give you?’
She started to giggle. ‘Ohhh . . . Bobby doesn’t wanna know that. Bobby’s a good lil’ black boy. He don’ wanna hear no naughty things!’ Hiccoughing and swaying, she began to fall.
He caught her in his arms, swept her up, and carried her to the bed she shared with Rocket.
She stared up at him, a goofy smile on her swollen lips.
‘You look terrible,’ he said sternly.
Rock Star Page 11
