Born of Greed

by Baroni, J. T.

  “That’s good. Now apply that Neosporin. Make sure it goes inside where all the bad germs are hiding.” He tried adding some humor to the situation to ease her mind. She trembled slightly as she opened the tube.

  She applied the antiseptic cream as instructed, and he squeezed the cut together. “Excellent job, Nurse Fontana. Now, put those butterflies on it.”

  Amber positioned ten of the adhesive strips along the incision. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Trotter joked, as she wiped off the excess ointment and blood.

  She chuckled. “No. You’re my very first patient.”

  “You’re a very fast learner, then. Now, cover the butterflies with gauze and adhesive tape, and we’re all done.”

  Trotter looked at the finished bandage, which Amber had made a bit oversized. “Just like a professional nurse.”

  “Now let’s take a look at your face,” Amber said in a more confident voice.

  “This one isn’t as bad,” she said, wiping the small incision clean with an alcohol swab from the first aid kit. “A regular sized Band-aid will cover this.”

  Trotter stared deep into her angel blue eyes as she inspected the small cut. She looked back at him, smiled, and gave him a little wink.

  She applied a dab of the ointment, and then covered the tiny nick with a Band-aid. “All done. I’ll send you my bill,” she said with a grin.

  “You saved my life,” Trotter joked back.

  “No, you saved me. Ohh! Just thinking of that scumbag touching me like he did gives me the shivers.”

  They both looked up when they heard a noise. Amy shuffled into the kitchen. She went to the refrigerator for a bottle of tomato juice. Her appearance was a fright; disheveled hair, smeared mascara and red, puffy eyes. She sat down at the table and looked at Amber and Trotter. Then she tried to focus her gaze on the clock. “Is that nine…a.m.? Or…p.m.?” she asked, while lighting a smoke.

  “It’s nine p.m., you drunk,” Amber informed her twin.

  Amy then did a double take at Trotter. “What the fuck did you do…cut yourself shaving?” She amused herself.

  “No, Amy,” Amber snapped at the sloppy image of herself. “While you were comatose, your ex-boyfriend Micky came over, as you’d planned. Remember? To record When Angels Fly. Remember? Probably not! As usual though, he was the one that was flying high. Then he tried to rape me. When Jack pulled him off me, Micky pulled a knife and cut Jack.”

  Amy looked at Trotter. “Oh Christ! Tell me you didn’t hurt him.” Trotter grinned. “I didn’t hurt him too bad. I might’ve broken his arm…but just a little bit…in two places.”

  “It was self-defense,” Amber interrupted. “Look at Jack’s side, Amy.”

  Trotter pulled his sweatshirt up and Amy looked at the over-sized bandage. “Whoa! Did the hospital file a fucking police report?” she disgustingly asked.

  “There was no hospital. I bandaged him up,” Amber said with pride in her voice.

  “What about the song? Did you record the melody?”

  “Yes, it’s on the hard drive. However, I don’t want the Freaks to do it. We’ll hire another band to cut it.”

  “You can’t do that. Do you want a copyright infringement fight on our hands?” Amy threw her hands up in the air.

  “We can change enough of the chord structure to make it a new melody. It’s my lyrics, Amy. I’ll do what I want with them. What did I get for ‘One Little Kiss?’ Peanuts! Maybe I’ll sell this one to The Beach Queens,” Amber said in a matter of fact tone.

  “Those fucking dykes can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Go ahead and sell it to them. That will surely kill your fucking song.”

  “Their last song made the top ten,” Amber informed her twin, “and Variety said they’re teaming up with that new rap group, ‘The Ghetto Gangstas’ to produce a hip hop song.”

  “That East Coast shit’ll never make it here in California,” Amy argued.

  “I’m not going to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed person,” Amber shot back, grinning.

  “Screw you, Amber.” Amy finished her tomato juice. “Do you want to know why Micky tried to rape you?”

  “No, but I imagine you’ll tell me any way,” Amber answered, irritated.

  “Rape…to Micky, is like an aphrodisiac, we used it as foreplay. Something you know nothing about. You see…when a man and a woman make love—”

  “Go to hell,” Amber screamed, cutting her sister short in what she knew was going to be a pathetic explanation of the birds and the bees. A drunken version, nonetheless. She stood up and stormed out to the pool area.

  Amy looked at Trotter. “You should’ve let Micky rape her. That little virgin needs a good fucking. Maybe that would straighten her out.”

  Trotter looked back in disbelief. “What? There’s going to be a day when you realize what all she’s done for you, but then it’ll be too late. You are the one that needs straightened out.”

  Amy had no response. Instead, she simply rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders, stood, grabbed her tomato juice, and went back to her room.

  Trotter went to the pool area and found Amber sitting at the table. Obviously, she had been crying, but had stopped on his account. He was not sure of what to say, but he wanted to comfort her. “Someday she’ll be sorry for treating you so badly. Or maybe she’ll grow up.”

  “Not that ungrateful little bitch. She’ll never change, nor will she ever appreciate what anybody’s done for her.” Amber wiped her eyes. “I had a long day and I want to go home. Would you walk me to my car, Jack?”

  “But of course, my lady,” Trotter said in a British accent, attempting to put a smile on her face. He felt safe with her, knowing the chance of a sexual encounter would never materialize between them. Amy referred to Amber as a virgin, and a lesbian. He reasoned there must be a logical explanation why she chose never to be intimate with a man. In addition, Amber made it clear to him she was not a lesbian but he also sensed she was attracted to him. Similar to the way he was attracted to her. Trotter enjoyed being with her. He admired her for her beautiful innocence and he liked engaging in intelligent conversation with her. Amber was different with him from other women. Most of them treated him like a slab of meat. They just want to seduce that hard-bodied marine with the pronounced bulge, the way Brandy and Judy Sloan always do. Trotter also felt sympathy for her. Amy had no reason to slap Amber around like a red headed stepchild.

  His tactic worked, she smiled. “Oh, Jack. You always know how to make me feel better.”

  “Trottson, Jack Trottson. At your service, ma’am. I was hired by the Queen of Mean to keep you safe and happy,” more British accent.

  She laughed. “The Queen of Mean. You sure got that right. And you know what else?”

  “No, my Princess…please do inform me.”

  “I feel as though I’m bulletproof when you’re around.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” They both laughed.

  They were standing by her Porsche, now. “Goodnight Jack Trottson.”

  “Goodnight, my lady,” he said, sounding like Sean Connery as he opened her car door, then he bowed as if she was royalty.

  She got in, smiled and waved goodbye, then drove off. Trotter got in his Mustang. He did not know what to think of the situation. As usual, he was so sexually frustrated. Moreover, to complicate matters, he felt himself falling in love with Amber. He so desperately wanted to kiss her lips, and caress her soft, delicate and perfect body. And he desired to…

  The Moonlite Drive-In nightmare and Sheila’s Bistro haunted him on his ride home. The echoes resonated louder than usual.

  * * * *

  Two weeks later, on a Thursday morning, the bus had a full tank of gas, ready to roll the 1,250-mile trek to Dallas. On board were Trotter, Amy, Amber, and their beautician, Jonny. A twenty-something heavyset man that swung both ways by his own admission. His philosophy was, an orgasm is an orgasm, no matter where or who it comes from.

  Jonny had
fried his hair from all the years of acid trips, self-perms, and hairdo experiments he and his gay friends tried on each other. So now, he simply wore his thin, black hair short on top, and pulled into a small ponytail in the back. Although he had no moustache to speak of, he did have a short goatee. At first glance, one was suspect to his sexuality. However, after hearing him talk and watching his limp wristed hand gestures, it was obvious Jonny no doubtedly idolized Liberace and Elton John.

  If there was one thing Trotter absolutely detested, it was homosexuals. Especially the males. Lesbians intrigued him. He made it very clear to Jonny to stay away. “A man is sick in the head if he wants to suck another man’s dick.” he stated matter of factly to the beautician. Nevertheless, that did not stop Jonny from fantasizing about Trotter.

  Amy stayed in her room at the back of the bus for most of the trip. Amber and Trotter played cards and talked to pass the time. Jonny read fashion magazines and played hand held video games, while sneaking glances at Trotter. An hour from their destination, Jonny worked on Amber’s makeup and hair. “There you go, Amber. I made you into Fontaine, again.” Jonny proudly exclaimed in his feminine voice. Trotter cringed at Jonny’s mannerisms and found himself somewhat jealous because the fag actually got to touch Amber.

  A large crowd of teenage boys and girls were waiting when the bus pulled in Friday afternoon. It was time for Amber to earn her pay. Trotter exited first. Amber, looking like her twin with the fake beauty mark in place, followed behind Trotter. The kids screamed, “Fontaine,” or “I love you.” They all held something they wanted autographed, such as CDs or teen magazines. Dressed in her promotional Classic Leather black leather vest, Amber worked the loud and pushy crowd for half an hour before entering the Dallas Cowboys Stadium.

  The roadies had the equipment and lights rigged up and were trying them out. Now that the crowd knew Fontaine was inside, they could do a sound check. The head roadie told Amber, “We are wired for sound, Girl!”

  Amber grabbed the microphone. “Test, one, two. Test, one, two.” One hundred and twenty decibels of her voice echoed throughout the arena. She then lip-synched one verse from the hit song, “One Little Kiss” while the roadies tweaked the lights and made small adjustments to the sound. Everything was finalized, and ready to deliver the fifty-dollar ticket price for the evening of entertainment to fifty thousand fans. Many of whom were already standing in line. They began screaming with excitement when they heard the sound check.

  On their way to the dressing room, Amber told Trotter, “I hope she’s not drunk or stoned. She damned well better be able to do this concert; I am not bailing her out anymore.”

  Amber and Trotter walked past dozens of security personnel and vendors setting up T-shirt and CD stands on the way to the dressing rooms. They found Amy’s room, and Amber walked right in without knocking. Jonny was holding Amy’s long blonde hair out of the way while Amy had her head bent over the table, snorting a long line of cocaine. “Jesus Christ!” Amy exclaimed, “Can’t you fucking knock first?”

  Amy then gave a pissed off glare at Jonny. “Didn’t I tell you to lock that God damned door?”

  Amber interrupted, “Don’t go flying too high, Amy! I am not doing this concert!”

  “Sorry, Fontaine. I thought I’d locked it. My bad,” Jonny apologized.

  Amy finished the line. “Put this away, Jonny. Don’t worry, Amber. I’m fine. As a matter of fact, I’m much better now.”

  She dipped two fingers in a glass of water, tilted her head back, and let a couple droplets run off her fingers into her nostrils, and then she inhaled very deeply through her nose. “Relax; we have four hours till show time. Is everything set up?”

  “Yes,” Amber snapped angrily.

  “Good! Jonny…that gives you plenty of time to give me a manicure.”

  “Ohh goody. I just love doing your nails, Fontaine,” Jonny excitedly announced.

  Trotter turned his head and rolled his eyes. How he wanted to punch that fag and then throw up. He was not having a good time and he wondered what the rest of the evening held in store.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I like the little way the line runs up the back of the stockings.

  No, no, no, no don’t take them off.”

  David Lee Roth/Van Halen

  At ten till seven, the crowd chanted in unison, “Fontaine! Fontaine! Fontaine!” Growing louder with every passing minute.

  “Cut me one small line, Jonny,” Amy told the gay beautician.

  “No!” Amber loudly objected. “You can wait until after the concert. Then I don’t care if you OD. Get your ass out there and give those kids what they paid for. Where’s your vest, for Christ’s sake?”

  It was nowhere to be found. “Here,” Amber disgustedly said, as she took off her vest and gave it to her twin.

  Jonny helped Amy put Amber’s vest on, and then he made final adjustments to her hair. “You look absolutely marvelous. Now go knock 'em dead, Girl!”

  Trotter and four rent-a-cops escorted Fontaine through the mob of thousands of screaming young kids to the stage. So many of them tried to touch her. The sound crew had a loop of the “One Little Kiss” instrumental playing at half volume. Amy did her sexy catwalk strut to the mic. The crowd, especially the boys, went wild. The security guards had their hands full keeping the fans behind the velvet rope and off the stage.

  “Hello…Dallas!” Amy shouted into the mic, as she scanned the crowd. Waving to them all. “What do you want to hear?” She put her hand behind her ear.

  In unison, the crowd hollered, “One Little Kiss! One Little Kiss!”

  “Okay! Dallas! Let’s…party!” Then she waited for the loop to hit the crescendo, and she belted out verse one. In between verses, she would take a deep nasal inhale, and swallow.

  Trotter felt that the security team had the crowd under control, and took advantage of the situation to find a bathroom. The smell of marijuana drifted out of the Men’s room as he went in. Three boys were in a circle, passing a joint. One of them spotted Trotter in his Security jacket and flicked the hand rolled cigarette into the toilet. Then they quickly exited as Trotter gave them the eyeball. The sounds of someone vomiting came from a closed stall. Trotter saw an empty pint of bourbon lying on the floor next to a teenage boy kneeling at the commode. The nauseating smell of vomit reached Trotter as he used the urinal. He held his breath until he finished.

  Back out in the main corridor, he saw hundreds of today’s youth staggering about. Most had blood shot eyes. The ones that saw him quickly turned their heads and got out of his way. He towered over the kids. A young girl was throwing up in a garbage can, while her boyfriend wobbled at her side. Trotter shook his head in disgust and disbelief at the sights. This was his first experience of being at any concert. It was not a pretty scene. Most of the young girls were dressed like Fontaine, while the boys tried to look cool and acted tough.

  Trotter made his way back to the dressing room and knocked. Amber unlocked the door and let him in. “Jack! What are you doing back here?”

  “The security team is experienced, and they’re doing a fine job. I checked them out. I had to use the Men’s room and decided to make sure you were alright.”

  “Oh. I’ll be fine back here.” She pointed to a monitor displaying Fontaine at the mic. “I can see what goes on from here.”

  “I couldn’t stand the loudness of it all, either. And America’s teens are pathetic,” Trotter explained.

  Amber opened Jonny’s hair bag. “Here. Jonny can’t take the noise, either.” She handed him a pair of earplugs. “You probably should be close to Amy in case something goes wrong.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Trotter said. “Thanks for the ear plugs.” He went back on the floor and stood in the corner of the stage. The wound on his side was still in the healing process, so he kept his arm over the bandages, preventing any of the pushy kids from accidentally bumping into him and reopening the gash. The earplugs did the trick.

 
; Fontaine sung or lip-synched for an hour and a half, took a fifteen-minute break, and then got back on stage for another hour and a half. She was exhausted after three hours of singing and dancing under the hot lights.

  Trotter escorted her back to her dressing room. Jonny, the faithful little suck ass that he was, had a giant Tanqueray and tonic ready for her. Amy plopped her ass down in a chair, took a few gulps, and then slowly dragged the ice-cold tumbler across her forehead. She lit a Virginia Slim, and said while exhaling, “One down and seventeen more of these Motherfuckers to go.”

  Trotter was wondering if he could survive that many more concerts when Amber spoke, “Ticket sales alone brought in two and a half million. That’s a very tidy sum for three hours of work.”

  A few more swallows. “Yeah, but it is hard work,” Amy protested.

  “I can remember when you would’ve kissed the label’s ass to do a concert tour, but now that you got it, all you do is bitch and complain.”

  “That was years ago,” spoken between gulps.

  “Whatever.” Amber knew there was no point in arguing with her sister.

  Amy finished her drink. “Here’s your vest. Make sure your beauty mark is on the right cheek. Go sign some autographs while I get on the bus. I can’t stand this town.”

  “The mole goes on the left cheek, Amy.” Amber toyed with her sister’s words.

  Amy responded, “The left cheek is the right cheek, smart ass.”

  To which Amber shot back. “Here, kiss this cheek!” She stuck her ass toward her sister.

  “Lead the way, Jack. The Queen of Mean has spoken.”

  * * * *

  Sixteen hours after leaving Dallas, the motor home pulled back into Santa Monica around four o’clock in the afternoon. Driving late at night, the driver made excellent time. The elaborate bus was capable of cruising at ninety miles per hour with ease, especially through the cool desert air on the flat highways. Of course, the bus came equipped with a fuzz buster and a CB radio, alerting Fred to any police radar traps. The elderly driver was the only person who stayed awake on the trip home.