“Any ideas?”
“I’ve gotta guess that they’ve scheduled some rehearsals before the big event. Maybe we can intercept something.”
Bernardini smiled, then nodded. “And you have a way to attempt this?”
Polata motioned toward the door. “Let’s go upstairs to my office.”
***
The guard nodded as Spotswood entered the penthouse access elevator in the lobby. Ed, without Niki, nodded as he arrived at his destination. Christie answered the door thirty seconds after he knocked, asking: “Jonathan?”before opening it, despite the fact there was a peephole. She ushered him into the living room past a small cart of pots and bottles and mugs, motioning to it. He poured a cup of coffee then sat on the couch across from the one she occupied.
She looked bedraggled - small bags under her eyes, makeup fresh but absently applied. And there was the same weariness, the same resignation he’d seen on her face the previous morning.
“Well, at least one of us got some sleep last night,” she began, staring at him, brushing her hair back with both hands. Pulling it up and capturing it with a scrunchy, the ponytail crooked atop her head.
“You look a little tired,” he replied, taking a sip.
“I’ll bet I didn’t get an hour’s worth of sleep,” she sighed. “Too much excitement, too much pressure.” She paused. “Too much insanity.”
“Insanity?”
“We have to do something for him, Jonathan.”
“Him?” he asked. “Who?”
“Him, her,” she moaned, rubbing her eyes and looking out the wall of windows. “Billi. Whoever she is, whatever she is. She needs help. She’s not well. She needs a lot of help.”
“What’s the problem now?”
“What’s the problem?” she shot back. “What’s the problem?” she repeated, standing and leaning against the windows, facing him. “She’s-out-of-her-god-damned-mind, Jon-a-than. She-is-crazy. She-is-insane!’
“Okay, okay. I get the message.”
She rubbed her eyes again then walked to the tray, pouring a large cup of grapefruit juice and sitting next to him. “I’m sorry. I’m… it’s just… it’s so god damned insane.”
He placed his hand on her knee. She recoiled then eased back toward him, his hand already in retreat. She set down her drink and reached after it. Squeezed it hard.
“Tell me.” He paused. “Off the record.”
She sank back into the cushions. “It’s not a pretty story.”
“It’s not always a pretty world.”
The problems started long before Christie had indicated in their earlier discussions. They started after Blair returned from a trip to Cannes with a couple of his buddies from the Resistors days. They’d gone to watch an international competition for best new pop group of the year or something, sponsored by the fruit juice company that had subsidized Resistors last tour. Everyone was going to be there: Indestructo Pillbox, The Relationship, Sears Robots, The Flashlights. Even Red Balloons, the-then next big thing, the quintet from Leningrad. Christie was invited, even urged to go, but she passed to stay with her mother. Blair understood and left for a long weekend.
The long weekend lasted forty-six days. She never discovered how long the others stayed. Blair was very vague about what he’d done, who he’d seen, where he’d stayed. Instead, he wanted to know why she’d remained in America, why she’d rather be with her mother if she was so in love with him. Ask her that, Tuthankamen whispered in his ear. Ask her that.
He’d seem normal, at least normal for Blair, for days, weeks at a time. The rehearsals went well, the preparations for the tour smooth. The group in synch, none of the usual posturing interfering with their daily routines. But then the voices came back. “Broadcast from the frigging pyramids in Egypt, Jonathan!” Instructing him to tell Polanski this, Lera that, what to wear, what to eat. Not to have sex with Christie anymore, not until the time was right. Until the voices told him so.
“Oh, man. I’m sorry, Chris.”
The first leg of the tour went off like a fire hydrant uncorked on a city street corner. Spotswood knew that. He was there for ten days, seven dates. Everything was fine. Blair was even making noises like he wanted to sleep with her again. And then came the break, the three week break. That’s when he went around the corner.
“Build a house in Jackson Hole, become a little junior Wexford? Fine,” she sighed, taking a sip of her juice. “Wear your costumes and your makeup every day, concert or not? Fine. But then the crap with the radio transmissions got worse. As soon as we got back together. You know? This is radio station K.H.U.F.U. broadcasting today into the mind of Billy Blair, calling you to a new dimension of reality. This is Pharaoh Ramses, call me The Third for short, coming at you on a hot, blistering day here in Giza. He was nuts! Rarely on stage. Said he couldn’t hear them then. Too much noise. You figure it out.”
“Nuts,” he agreed. Blair was really nuts.
“So three days later we were back in Los Angeles, visiting Dr. Harry,
world champion pinball player and psychiatrist. Administrator of guidance to those too famous or too rich to administer to themselves. I spent three hours with him, Billy two and a half.”
Finally, he agreed to a vacation, but it had to be to Paris then London. To examine ancient art, to examine ancient writing, to examine the artifacts and antiques plundered from Egypt by the invasion forces of both France and England. Four days in Paris. They never made the second leg.
“For three months I didn’t hear a thing from him. Then he started with the late-night phone calls. He was distant, quiet, philosophical. I figured he had a dariole problem or something. He swore he was clean as a sheet.”
She stepped to the television hutch, popping a vid into the player. A jittery shot of the reconstructed Eiffel Tower occupied the screen.
“We had so much fun those first couple of days over there.”
The picture on the screen switched, showing Christie mimicking a tall, black statue in what looked to be a huge park. Then of Blair imitating it, then Christie again.
She gazed at the screen. “Look,” she half-laughed, pointing. “See that guy there, buying a newspaper? Billy had this theme, this story he kept adding to, about the spies who were following us, tracking us, trying to steal the songs for our next album out of our heads before we recorded them. Look,” she said again. “The guy standing at the metro stop. He was another one. And this guy, this guy here on the left, the one with the umbrella? Billy was sure they were all with the CIA or MI5 or DST. It was wonderful.” She paused. “But I think that was the last time he was sane.” She hesitated. “Everything was fine, and we’re walking down this street near the Pompidou Center, and I stop at this little stand some girl has set up on the street, and I see this cigarette lighter, you know, with a picture of Presley on it? And it says Viva, Elvis or something, so I figure I’ll get it for Mick. You know how much he loves Presley stuff.”
“Go on.”
“So I buy it. It’s a trinket, costs a euro. Then all the way back to the hotel it’s Why did you buy that? Why did you buy that? You’re supposed to be in love with me, not a picture on a fucking cigarette lighter. Why did you buy it? I guess at that point I knew something bad was going on with him.”
“When did you find out?” Spotswood asked. “I mean about the surgery.”
“Well, I don’t know. Strange, small things he’d say on the phone. Questions he’d ask me. Strange stuff.”
“Like what?”
She shook her head.
“So you got together, Billi says Slight wardrobe change, folks, and that’s it?”
“Essentially. I’d already signed the contract.” She paused. “They’d already paid me the down payment.” Another hesitation. “Not that it would have changed anything. They can’t put it back on him. It’s a one way street. Like Mick said, If I can do men’s deodorant commercials, Billi’s certainly entitled to peddle feminine hygiene products.”
Spotsw
ood tried but couldn’t contain his laughter. She reached to her purse, pulled out a cigarette and lit it.
“I thought you quit?” he said.
“I did,” she replied, blowing a stream of smoke out the side of her mouth. “But sometimes I just get that urge to be elegant and sophisticated.”
“At least you’re lightening up a bit.”
“God, Jonathan. That was terrible.”
“Now I’m really smokin’.”
“Speakin’ of smokin’,” she said, stubbing it out in an ashtray. “Not a bad concert, huh?”
“You guys were terrific.”
“Not a bad concert, huh?” she asked again.
“You should have seen it from where I saw it.”He hesitated. “So, you were going to tell me about how he’s... she’s gotten worse?”
“Okay, but... all I can tell you is what he told me. Can’t say it’s true because it’s just… ”
“Go ahead.”
“Right. Now she says Claude wants her virginity, but would I like it instead?” She shook her head. “I haven’t seen him in ages and now he wants me to make love to him, he wants me to make love to him as a her.” She shook her head again and stared at Spotswood. “And if you ever tell anyone that story, I’ll personally remove your tongue from your mouth.” She paused. “Okay. We had our fling but it’s all over.” She absently tossed her ponytail. “He couldn’t understand that I just didn’t feel anything for him, for her. I mean, if I can help her, do something when she’s in trouble, that’s one thing. But it’s over. Do you understand, Jonathan?”
“Sure.”
The telephone rang. Christie answered. “Hold on, Mom,” she said, setting it down then walking toward one of the bedrooms. “Jonathan, would you hang that up for me when I yell? I won’t be long.”
In a moment she did, and he began to place it in its cradle. Hearing Christie’s voice coming through, happy and hopeful, not a care in the world.
He poured another cup then sat in a chair near the television, watching the silent screen version of the travels of Christie and Billy. There was the Arc de Triomphe. Another spy buying a newspaper. A big building with French flags all around it. Christie buying a creampuff. Christie eating a creampuff. Blair eating a creampuff. A gendarme directing traffic around the Arc de Triomphe. Blair directing traffic around the Arc de Triomphe. Another spy sitting in a cafe. A movie house advertising: Le film premier de Madonna - Recherchez Susan Desesperement.
Hearing a knock at the door, he stepped across and peered through the peephole. It was Denny, so he opened it.
“Good morning!” she grinned as she eased past him then glanced about. “I’m back on the clock, Sir. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“I was just about to leave,” he replied as Christie came back into the room, followed by Blair.”Don’t pay any attention to Billi,” she advised as she stepped into the room. “She’s just not well.”
“Oh, hi Jip,” Billi said as they approached. “And, uh, I’m sorry. I forgot your name.”
“Denny.”
“Yes, Denny,” she nodded. Blair wore a green haltered blouse and a short, white denim skirt - just an ordinary girl in an ordinary hotel room in Las Vegas - her hair pulled up in a high ponytail, the influence of Christie apparent. Makeup was perfect, movements were perfect. Everything was perfect.
“You guys want something to drink?” Blair asked., walking to the telephone. “Name it.”
They all declined.
“Hello?” Blair said into the phone as her summons was answered. “Could you please send up two, no, make it four bottles of Dom Perignon, in their own ice buckets? And, uh, something to eat? Snack foods… I don’t give a shit! The best you’ve got… For, oh, I don’t know,” she continued, looking around the room. “For twelve.”
“Billi,” Christie sighed. “Just because it’s free it doesn’t mean you have to take advantage.”
“Fuck advantage.”
“It’s just not right.”
“Look. I talked to Jerry a little bit ago, and he said we ought to have lunch. He’s got some people coming up. You know… Eric, Joey, Choke.”
“No, Billi!” Christie barked. “I don’t want those people in my room. Especially Stevie.”
“Come on, would you? They’re okay.”
“Not Stevie. He’s called here twice already. I don’t know what kind of shit is going on with him, but I don’t like it and he’s not coming up here!”
“Come on, sweetheart. It’s the boys, you know?”
“Not Stevie.”
“Choke’s… he was just drunk last night. But alright, we’ll go somewhere else if you’re gonna be such an insensitive bitch.”
“Don’t talk to me that way.”
“Who gives a shit,” Blair said to no one in particular. Then she sat down on the floor to watch the television close-up.
The other three walked to the corner near the sitting room, Spotswood explaining the orders Reynolds had given his bodyguard.
“Well,” Christie said, extending her hand. “I guess another apology is in order.” Denny grasped it. “Will you please be understanding enough to accept it?”
“Sure.”
“Seems like I’m making a new career out of apologizing to people,” the singer frowned. “I’m really not such a… ” she whispered, glancing at Blair. “I’m really not.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t say anything about St. Honore around Billi that you don’t want repeated,” Christie warned. “She and him have a rather… Billi thinks he’s close to God.”
“With the amount of control he demands to exercise over people, that doesn’t surprise me,” Denny responded, looking to Spotswood. “I’ll watch what I say.”
“Chris! Chris!” Blair yelled. “Can you hear them? Can you hear them now?”
“No, Billi. I can’t.”
“Can you hear them, Jip?” she asked, jumping to her feet and walking to join them. “Can you hear them?”
“What?”
“The voices, Jip. The voices. They’re as clear as a bell!” She placed her arm through his, pulling him close. “Chris always says she can’t hear them when I know she can,” she continued, looking at her. “But I know you wouldn’t lie to me. You can hear them, can’t you?”
“I’m sorry Billi. I don’t understand.”
“Well, neither do I!” she laughed. “Now they’re speaking in French!” She looked at both of them, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Chris, you can understand them. You speak French.”
“I didn’t know that,” Spotswood said.
“Just a little,” she replied.
“The two of them do that, Jip,” Billi continued, as if about to reveal a secret. Much like a child might. “Chris and Claude. From the day the two of them met. They decide they want to talk behind my back, behind my back while I’m facing them!” She adjusted her blouse from the sides, bending a bit and shaking her chest. “You know, Jip,” she said, taking his arm again. “You know how women bitch about their tits this, their tits that, like they’re the biggest pain in the ass in the world?”
“I guess.”
“They are sometimes!” she laughed again, then walked back to the television, pulling a chair in front of it watch the last time she was a he.
A loud rap at the door announced lunch. Two waiters rolled in two ice buckets each, another two a huge table filled with enough food to feed a Cub Scout pack.
“Oh, this is great, guys,” Blair smiled as she approached them. “Need us to sign?”
“No, mademoiselle,” the leader responded. “Il est compris.”
“Yeah. But do you want me to sign for it?”
“No,” he repeated. “It is taken care of.” One of the other waiters giggled and turned away. “However, if it would not be… how you say this? An imposition? Perhaps, for Ramon, un autographe?”
“Ramon wants an autograph, huh?” Blair smiled, walking to the boy and draping her arm around his s
houlder. “Is that all you want, Ramon?” The other three waiters laughed. The chubby blond boy blushed. “You can tell Billi what you want, honey,” she purred, moving her hand down his back, rubbing his rump. The waiters laughed again.
“Leave the kid alone,” Christie recommended.
“I’m just having a little fun, Chris. For Christ’s sake! Lighten up, huh?”
Christie placed her hands on her hips. “The whole world is turning into just one, massive practical joke for you, isn’t it?”
Blair reached to one of the buckets, removed a bottle and handed it to the head waiter. “Would you mind opening this?”
“Mais bien sur.”
“Don’t call me Sir.”
“Pardon. Oui, mademoiselle.” He picked up a towel and placed it over his wrist, the cage around the cork disengaging with ease. He then tightened it over the neck, removing it. “Voila!”
“Hand it to me,” Blair said. The waiter complied. She examined the label, then held the bottle up to admire it. She then swung her arm back, the champagne sailing toward the inside wall, smashing against it, glass and bubbles flying from the explosion. Spotswood recoiled.
“Now all of you!” Blair screamed. “Get the fuck out of here!” And they did, each saying: “Oui, mademoiselle.”
Denny grasped a few of the towels hanging beside the buckets and walked to the point of impact, bending down to pat the carpet, soak up the mess, pick up the chards of glass sitting in a semicircle - a small collection of star tantrum remnants.
“Denny, don’t bother,” Christie said.
“Denny, don’t bother,” Blair repeated.
“Denny, don’t bother,” Spotswood sighed.
“And you!” Christie yelled, pointing at her former boyfriend. “What kind of shit is that! This is my suite, not yours.” She placed her hands on her hips again. “You want to do that kind of shit, do it in your own room.”
“You want to do that kind of shit,” Blair responded, placing her hands on her own hips, “do it in your own room.”
Weekend at Prism Page 31
