No. She had to try and achieve something on her own before committing herself to marriage again.
Every day she woke up with a renewed sense of determination and vigour, until one day it came to her. What was she good at? What did she honestly love to do?
Jorge’, she said, very quietly. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to try a career as a singer.’
He was barely awake. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A singer,’ she repeated slowly. ‘As in entertainer.’
He struggled to sit up. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Perfectly fine.’
Deciding to humour her, he said, ‘If it amuses you, my darling, you can do whatever you wish.’
She frowned. ‘I wasn’t asking your permission.’
‘I realize that. I was merely giving you my blessing.’
Sometimes Jorge turned into that rare commodity, an understanding man. It hadn’t always been that way – he had mellowed as the years passed.
The months that followed were exciting. Now that she’d made up her mind to do something, there was no way she could be swayed. A singing career was the perfect choice – in a way it brought her closer to her father. He’d been one of the most famous operatic tenors in the world, and maybe she’d inherited some of his talent, although opera wasn’t her style – she was drawn more towards the soft, lilting sounds of samba, infused with a mellow jazz influence.
Her father had been an avid collector of blues and jazz records – his particular favourites were Billie Holliday, Dinah Washington and Sarah Vaughn. Rafealla had inherited his collection, and had always been attracted to the rich, melancholy sounds of their voices. She didn’t care for the heavy metal, rock or punk influences of today, finding them too hard-edged. The Brazilian flavour, combined with soothing jazz and blues, suited her nicely. And it also fitted her low, smoky voice to perfection.
Jorge wanted to help her, but she’d told him up front she did not require his assistance. If she was going to achieve anything it had to be on her own or not at all, so reluctantly he stood back, allowing her to do things her way.
At twenty-three, Rafealla embarked on a career. She was determined to succeed.
Bobby Mondella
1983
They were sitting around in Nichols Kline’s Century City penthouse office, when Bobby reached over and poured himself another bourbon.
‘You’re drinkin’ too much,’ Nichols said bluntly. He was the only one who dared talk that way. Everyone else kissed ass.
‘Gee. Sue me,’ Bobby said sarcastically.
‘Take a look in the mirror,’ Nichols insisted. ‘You got sleepin’ bags under your bloodshot eyes a boy scout group could camp out in.’
‘Very funny, man.’
‘And you’re gettin’ a gut.’
‘Tough shit. Nobody said I had t’be perfect.’
Nichols leaned back in his custom-made leather chair. ‘For the Leibovitz photo session you’ve got to be. The cover of Rolling Stone still means plenty.’
‘Big fuckin’ deal. I don’t need it,’ Bobby replied confidently.
Bobby Mondella, Nichols decided, was beginning to believe his own publicity. ‘A cover on Rolling Stone you always need, and don’t you forget it.’
‘Yeah, where’s it written?’ Bobby challenged
‘In small print. On your ass.’
‘You’re turnin’ into a comedian, Nichols.’
‘An’ you’re turnin’ into an asshole.’
It occurred to Bobby that he didn’t have to take this kind of disrespectful shit, not from anyone. It was bad enough that Nova was still giving him the run-around – why should he let Nichols get away with talking down to him?
‘Hey—’ he said threateningly. ‘You want me to split from Hit City – keep on needlin’ me an’ you got it, man. I can walk into Warners, Motown, any place I want. They’d get down on their fuckin’ knees to have me.’
‘Really?’ Nichols asked snidely.
‘You’d better believe it.’
‘You can’t walk, Bobby’, Nichols said, his tone hardening. ‘You belong to Hit City. You can’t walk anywhere,’ He paused, allowing his words to sink in. ‘Which reminds me – Carmine’s comin’ to town for his goddaughter’s twenty-first birthday party and he’s requested you sing.’
Bobby frowned. ‘What are you talkin’ about?’
‘Sing. Entertain. Make nice to his friends.’
‘Are you shittin’ me? I gave up weddin’s and bar mitzvahs a long time ago.’
‘This is a favour. A very personal favour for Carmine. He owns most of the company, you know. So I suggest you take it seriously.’
Bobby walked to the window and stared out at the view. He could see the apartment building he used to live in. The same apartment where Nova first came on to him. ‘Why’s that?’ he asked, not really interested in Nichols’s reply, because he had no intention of singing at anyone’s twenty-first birthday.
Nichols pressed his fingers together, forming a dome. ‘Have you ever studied your contract? Like I mean looked into the small print? I’m sure you’re aware that when Hit City bought you out of Blue Cadillac you signed yourself into a new deal – right?’
Bobby nodded.
‘A dynamite deal with everything you ever wanted, huh?’
‘What is this – rerun time?’
‘No. Just a reminder. Hit City is owned by Arnie Torterelli, Carmine Sicily, and a syndicate of investors. I have a piece of the action – naturally.’
‘So, what the fuck are you gettin’ at, Nichols? Don’t be shy. Spit it out.’
‘Check your contract. If Carmine or Arnie don’t want you to work for ten years, there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Because this contract is unbreakable. There’s no gettin’ out, unless we say so.’ A meaningful pause. ‘If I was you, I wouldn’t make Carmine mad. Keep things nice an’ smooth, know what I mean, Bobby?’
He didn’t answer. Instead he studied Nichols Kline, sitting behind his desk so full of his own importance, and tried to decide whether the jerk-off was actually threatening him.
No. He was too big to be threatened by anyone.
‘The party is next Saturday,’ Nichols said mildly. ‘How about it?’
* * *
It started with one simple twenty-first birthday party. A favour. For Carmine Sicily. He did it, why not? It was better than getting into a hassle.
And then there was Arnie Torterelli’s parents’ wedding anniversary in Florida. They made it very easy for him. A private jet, the whole bit.
A week in Las Vegas at the Mirage Hotel he fought against. ‘I’m not a Vegas performer,’ he said. ‘Get Lionel Ritchie or Jefferson Lionacre.’
‘They want you,’ Nichols insisted. They’ll pay whatever we ask.’ And then the ominous words, ‘It’s a favour for Carmine. He’s promised you’ll do it, you can’t let him down.’
Bobby felt like he was living two lives. On one hand he was this enormous superstar. And on the other – every time the word ‘favour’ was whispered, he was expected to jump.
Nichols Kline had turned out to be right. His contract was unbreakable. Professionally he was completely in their hands. When he consulted a sharp, independent lawyer, the man said, ‘There’s only one way you can break this contract. Kill yourself.’
Very funny.
He raged at himself for having been so stupid. Money and artistic control had led him into the biggest trap of his life. The favour trap. He was their pet superstar, wheeled out for weddings, birthdays and anniversaries.
He hadn’t seen Nova in months and he missed her. Not that she cared – if she had she would have contacted him. When he’d told her goodbye at their last meeting she’d obviously taken him at his word. For compensation he moved Zella Raven into his house. Zella, the amazon. It was better than sleeping with a different girl every night. It was better than being alone.
Hey – he was a star – what did anything matter? As long as he had lo
ts of money to throw around, an entourage of ‘yes’ people, plenty of booze and the more than occasional snort of cocaine – what did anything matter?
Bobby Mondella was a superstar. That was the bottom line. And the bottom line was all that counted.
Los Angeles
Saturday, July 11, 1987
‘I don’t know why I couldn’t go to the press conference with you’, Cybil complained. ‘You know, Kris, sometimes you act like you’re ashamed of me.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘It’s true. You never include me in anything that’s important to you.’
‘Sure I do.’
‘Like what?’ she demanded belligerently.
‘The Song for Food gig. I took you with me.’
‘Big deal. The world was at that.’
It was a very special session.’
‘I know. So special that I got completely left out. I was hanging around like some kind of—’ she gulped, hardly able to say the word – ‘groupie.’
‘C’mon, luv.’ He touched her hair. ‘Nobody would mistake you for a groupie.’
She had been saving the next bit of information, knowing it would aggravate him. ‘Well, Del Delgardo did.’
‘Did what?’
‘Thought I was a groupie. I was so humiliated.’
She’d aroused his interest. ‘When?’
‘At the Song for Food recording session.’
‘What did the bastard do?’
‘He came on . . . you know.’
She was just trying to get him going. Why wasn’t he falling for it? ‘You’re probably imagining it,’ he said dismissing her accusation.
‘Kris,’ she replied in a hurt voice. ‘I do know a come-on when I see one. He asked me back to his house for a party, like I was just some cheap little bimbo standing around waiting for him to notice me. When I told him I was with you, he laughed.’
‘Laughed, did he?’
‘Don’t you care?’
‘I’ve got more important things on my mind right now.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like gettin’ this bleedin’ gig over an’ done with, an’ gettin’ the hell out of here.’
* * *
As the start of the evening’s gala drew closer, things were heating up. The chefs were busily preparing hundreds of tantalizing appetizers for the early part of the event, and screaming at any waiter they could catch. The tables were set with pale pink cloths, fine silverware, and an assortment of glasses. Waiters and busboys were diligently placing the centrepiece flower arrangements, decorated with pale lilac long-stemmed candles.
Soon the guests would be arriving, and gathering on the tented tennis court, where they would sip cocktails and nibble on fine hors d’oeuvres before sitting down to dinner.
‘You!’ One of the chefs caught Maxwell’s attention with an authoritative snap of his fingers. ‘Take this tray over to the guest house for Bobby Mondella. Make it quick.’
‘Where’s the guest house?’ Maxwell asked blankly, although he knew perfectly well.
‘Ask someone else,’ yelled the chef. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
Maxwell took the tray. On it was a covered dish, under which was a plain omelette, with an accompanying order of crisp french fries. Balancing it on one hand he headed in the wrong direction. A uniformed guard stopped him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Delivering an order for Bobby Mondella.’
The guard said, ‘Wait a minute,’ and consulted a special map. ‘The big guest house. Take one of those golf carts over there. Follow the main path all the way past the swimming pool and you can’t miss it.’
Thanks,’ said Maxwell, thinking that a golf cart in his possession was exactly what he needed. Placing the tray on the passenger seat, he got behind the wheel. This was probably going to be the last errand he would ever have to run.
* * *
Trudie was dying to ask Rafealla what the deal was, only she didn’t quite dare. It wasn’t like they were girlfriends or anything. Rafealla was the star, and Trudie merely publicity. They had common ground – only it didn’t include the true scam on Marcus Citroen.
Trudie would give anything to know the real story. She’d worked at Blue Cadillac for five years and heard the most outrageous stories about her boss. Maybe Rafealla could enlighten her.
‘Uh . . . how long have you known Marcus Citroen?’ she asked on the ride back from the press room. It was worth a shot.
Rafealla blanked her with a look, ignoring the question, asking instead, ‘Are you pleased with how everything went in there?’ talking about the press conference.
‘Considering you weren’t prepared, I thought you were brilliant,’ Trudie replied. ‘Especially the way you handled that English bitch – Cyndi Lou whatshername.’
‘Thank you. I’ve come up against her before. There’s no point in answering her questions, she’s already decided what she’s going to write.’
‘One of the guys was telling me she gave Kris Phoenix a hard time. Do you know him?’
An innocent enough question. Did she know him? No, she didn’t know him at all. But she did have his son. God! What a secret to live with. Her secret, for she had never told another soul.
She wondered if they would come face to face tonight, and shivered. ‘I’m hungry,’ she said. Do you think we can get something to eat before the concert?’
Rafealla had a disconcerting habit of not answering direct questions. Trudie was becoming quite used to it. ‘In this place? Are you kidding me? I think we can get anything we damn well please.’
‘What the fuck took ya so long?’ Speed demanded, a nervous tic dominating the left side of his face.
The lawyer stared at him coldly! Clients like this he could do without. His fee would most certainly be exorbitant.
‘I got here as soon as I could.’
Don’t jerk me around, ya took ya freakin’ time.’
‘I’m here. You’re out. That’s good enough, isn’t it?’
‘Fuckin’ lawyers,’ Speed mumbled under his breath as they both left the police station.
* * *
He’d rehearsed. He’d run the gauntlet of the press, and now he just wanted to take it easy before performing.
‘Sara, babe,’ he said. ‘I’d just like to be on my own for a while. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ she said brightly, although of course she did. It hurt her when he shut himself away. She was happy to be in his company twenty-four hours a day. Why couldn’t he feel the same?
‘Shall I come back in an hour?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, that’ll be fine.’
‘Maybe I should wait until your omelette arrives.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘There’s a small table next to the door with a bowl of flowers on it. If you walk over, be careful—’
‘I said I can handle it,’ he interrupted, aggravated by her fussing.
‘I know, I know.’
‘Then get the hell out.’ His tone was joking, but she knew him well enough to exit fast.
He felt her absence by the silence. People didn’t have to speak when they were in a room with him, he always knew they were there by the sound of their breathing.
Getting up, he made a tour of the room, leading with his hands. Once, Sara had suggested he use a white stick. ‘Never!’ he’d told her vehemently, also rejecting the idea of a seeing-eye dog. Not that he disliked animals, it was just that he had to be responsible for his own safety, there could be no props to hang onto.
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the food he’d ordered.
‘Come in,’ he said, groping his way to the couch.
Her perfume reached him first, the rich, sensual, unmistakable Nova Citroen musk.
He’d known instinctively that once he’d got rid of Sara, she would come.
‘Hello, Nova,’ he said quietly.
* * *
‘What’s you name, honey?’
The sud
den influx of able-bodied men to Novaroen had Vicki in hot demand. For weeks all she’d seen were Mexican gardeners, a few gay house-men, plus Tom and his merry band of security heavies. Now the place was crawling with out-of-work actors, male models and the like, all doing double duty as waiters. And a good-looking bunch they were too. The barmen weren’t bad either.
Vicki decided if a girl wasn’t working she could have a real peachy time.
‘Don’t you worry ’bout my name, sailor,’ she said sassily, fixing the waiter who was coming on to her with a flirtatious look. He had a yellow cowlick of hair and a body that would have fitted nicely into Chippendales. ‘Just get on with what you’re supposed to be doing.’
‘Talkin’ of gettin’ it on,’ he winked suggestively.
‘Forget it,’ she replied, shortly.
‘You can’t blame a guy for tryin’.’
Maybe she didn’t look as bad as she thought. Tom certainly had the idea she was Marilyn Monroe back in business.
Moving right along she walked back towards the main house, where Mrs Ivors – the Joan Crawford housekeeper – waited impatiently.
‘Go over to the guest house,’ Mrs Ivors ordered. ‘And stay there until further notice. If any of the celebrity guests need anything at all, see they get it. I may as well warn you, Mrs Citroen will fire anyone who is caught not doing their job tonight. That is official. Do you understand?’
Vicki bobbed her head. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll make sure I do my job real good!’
* * *
Marcus Citroen could be the most charming man in the world when he wanted to be – smooth, knowledgeable, a man of taste and money. Most women found him attractive, even though he was not good looking in the conventional sense. With his bald, egg-shaped head, dark-hued skin, and hooded eyes, he had the look of a Middle Eastern potentate. Power was his main attraction. It radiated from him, drawing people toward him like a magnet – especially women. And Marcus was used to women being available at his command. Like Sharleen, who’d needed him to guide her career. From the very beginning she’d understood the game. And he’d made her a star. It wasn’t as if he’d used her and not done as he’d promised.
Rafealla was something else. She was an obsessive challenge, and he looked forward to breaking her in.
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