“Yeah, but…” there’s a 3% service charge from the banks, which in this case is nine hundred bucks.
He says, “You don’t want to lose money on the service charge, do you?”
I shake my head.
“All right,” he smiles. “You drive a hard bargain.”
He’s being nice. At this point, I’m not driving any bargain. He’s got the wheel.
What can I say? This is the first time I’ve sold a guitar this expensive. Goldenblond is now totally in control of this deal. I suspect that’s his usual state of being.
He says, “Let’s make it thirty-two. How does that sound? And I’ll pay by credit card. Right now.”
“Perfect!”
He pulls a wallet out from inside his suit jacket and hands me a black card with only gold numbers and the VISA symbol.
I say, “I should probably see your driver’s license?”
“Of course,” he hands it to me.
The photo looks like him and the name matches the one on the card:
JULIAN WHITTAKER.
Of course, when I swipe his card, I have to call the bank and put Goldenblond Julian on the phone to confirm his identity.
Even with the bank on the line and his driver’s license, the idea of letting a $30,000 guitar go out the door makes me way nervous. To my relief, Johnny and Karen return from lunch before Goldenblond gets off the phone.
Johnny says, “You’re selling the Gold Top?”
I nod enthusiastically, “For $32,000!”
“Far out,” he chuckles.
Karen arches an eyebrow and smiles, “Victory, maybe we need to let you run the shop full time. You have a knack for this.”
“Thanks,” I grin before running in the back to get the case for the Les Paul, which is exactly where I knew it was.
When I come back out, Goldenblond Julian is chatting with Karen and Johnny.
He’s saying, “… and your salesgirl made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Oh?” Karen asks.
“She promised to deliver the guitar directly to my house.”
“She did?” Karen smiles at me.
“I did?” I say, confused.
Goldenblond arches an eyebrow at me and extends his hand, “I’m usually not this rude, but I never asked your name?”
I shake his hand firmly, “Victory Payne.”
“Victory? That’s a fascinating name. Is it short for Victoria?”
I giggle against my will, “Sometimes people ask me that—”
(rude Kellan never asked me about my name)
“—but no, it’s simply Victory.”
He nods thoughtfully, “Victory Payne,” he smiles eloquently, “That is a fascinatingly poetic name. I sense it suits you well, I think.”
I nod dumbly.
We’re still shaking hands ten minutes later, or it seems like ten minutes. I tug my hand from his and he releases it.
Goldenblond nods to Johnny and Karen, “And now, I must bid you all arrivederci. I have to run.” He pulls a business card out of his wallet and hands it to Karen. “Call this number and speak to my assistant. She will make an appointment for your lovely salesgirl,” he winks at me, “to drop off the guitar. Sometime next week?” He glances between me and Karen.
Karen looks to me for approval.
“Yeah,” I smile, “Next week!”
Goldenblond winks at me, “I’ll make it worth your while.” Then he strides out the door.
“Worth your while?” Karen chuckles when Julian is gone. She glances at Johnny, “Victory has a new admirer.” She flutters to the door to spy on Goldenblond Julian. “His car is even nicer than his suit,” she says. “He looks a bit square to me, but you could do worse. He’s quite handsome,” Karen says girlishly.
Her excitement is catching and I patter up behind her. I can see Goldenblond merging into traffic on Sunset in a black Ferrari. The motor revs to a high dangerous whine then drops into second gear. It reminds me of the sound of dive bombing the whammy bar on a loud distorted electric guitar. The Ferrari makes its own kind of automotive music. I guess you could say Goldenblond has good taste in noisemakers.
I’m not sure about the rest of him.
Karen hands me Julian’s business card.
All it has printed on it is his name and a single 323 area code phone number. If I hadn’t seen his Ferrari and watched him drop $32,000 on a guitar, I’d think it was a fake business card.
My life gets more interesting by the hour.
At this rate, I’m going to win the lottery and fly a spaceship to the moon before dinner.
Chapter 31
VICTORY
A small boy dances to my left. He can’t be more than six years old. He’s got moves that put the late great Michael Jackson to shame. I’ve been calling him Junior Jackson in my head all evening because he’s that good.
He’s also my nemesis.
For the past two hours, I’ve been busking at the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica with all the other performers who come out to make money off the crowds, trying to score some extra cash which I desperately need.
Junior Jackson is stealing my thunder.
Apparently, the spectators prefer his dancing over my guitar playing.
I should’ve brought a battery powered amp. Too bad I don’t have one.
The unamplified classical guitar I’m playing is the one Johnny let me borrow for the night. I wanted something no frills, but the closest thing the shop has is this Contrares. Sure, it’s no frills in the sense that it doesn’t have a whammy bar or any of the fancy stuff you find on an electric. It’s just wood and nylon strings. It’s also worth $6,000. Yes, it’s the cheapest acoustic in the store. Johnny insisted I borrow it when I told him I was going busking. I just hope it doesn’t get damaged out here. The slightest nick will lower the value of the guitar.
Nothing to stress about.
So here I sit, on the drum throne I had to also borrow from the shop. It’s really just an adjustable stool, but no one likes the word stool since it also means poop. Of course, throne means toilet, so what’s the difference?
Anyway, I’m doing my very best to charm people into donating to the Get Victory Payne Off The Streets fund with my too quiet guitar playing.
So far, I’ve made all of $7.72 since I started playing at sundown.
Junior Jackson is to blame. I want to hate him, but I can’t. He’s too damn cute.
I’ve heard it said that in movies or TV, a performer never wants to share the stage with an animal or a kid because animals and kids always steal the show.
They were right.
Junior Jackson is living proof.
Junior showed up shortly after I did and has been charming everyone’s pants off all night. Even mine. Nobody wants to hear some chick play classical guitar. Everyone wants to watch Junior Jackson dance.
$7.72.
What a fortune.
At least I’ll have lunch money for tomorrow.
At the moment, Junior Jackson is busting moves to Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees. The entire crowd can see that Junior Jackson, based on the way he walks, is totally a ladies man of few words. Which isn’t a surprise, because I don’t think he’s finished kindergarten.
Junior Jackson doesn’t let that stop him from being a total charmer.
His parents run a large boom box and applaud between every song. Junior Jackson’s money hat sitting on the sidewalk is crammed full of cash, and the crowd drops more bills on the green mountain by the minute. I’m sure his parents have quit their day jobs and live entirely off the money Junior makes, or they soon will.
But hey, I’ve made $7.72.
I glance around at my surroundings.
Maybe this was the wrong choice of venue?
No, the Promenade is the perfect place for performers. It’s an outdoor shopping mall three blocks from the beach. Wall to wall shops, restaurants, and movie theaters line both sides of the permanently closed off streets. The road
way between the buildings has been converted to contain topiary shrubbery, fountains, vendor carts, newsstands, outdoor seating at most of the restaurants, and plenty of bench seating for everyone else. Every night of the week, the Promenade draws big crowds of locals and tourists with money to burn.
Unfortunately for me, I’m not the only street performer who has figured this out. They take up every bit of available space in sight.
To make matters worse, Junior Jackson is not the only child prodigy stealing my thunder.
To my right is a teenaged girl behind a keyboard wearing too much makeup and a fancy hairdo. She can’t be older than fifteen. She plays nothing but covers of Kelly Clarkson hits. For some songs, she accompanies herself on the keyboard, on others she stands up, sings to a karaoke track, and works the crowd like the Promenade is a 10,000 seat arena.
Everyone “Oohs” and “Aahs” at how good she is.
The man who wheeled in her P.A. earlier in the evening and is probably her dad cheers and claps loudly between every song. Sometimes he throws money into her keyboard case like he’s just another spectator.
The girl’s keyboard case is wide open and looks like an overturned Brinks truck. I’m surprised she doesn’t have her own security with all that cash spilling out. Her stack of professionally produced CDs for sale are going like hotcakes. All she needs to really ruin my money mojo is a dancing poodle in a pink tutu. Or she could team up with Junior Jackson. They’d be unstoppable.
Whatever.
My only complaint is that
(don’t sing)
her P.A. is turned up way too loud and I don’t have an amp. Nobody can hear my Contrares over her.
(never ever sing)
I’m sure Little Miss Clarkson is hoping to be discovered by some music executive, big time producer, or a power player from one of the big talent agencies nearby, just like everybody else. I can’t blame her. I just wish she’d be a little more courteous to the people who don’t
(never ever ever sing)
have as much money as she does. If someone hadn’t stolen my Fender and my Marshall, I could play so loud it would blow the makeup right off her face and knock her hairdo over. But I don’t
(sing)
have my amp anymore.
So I make do and try to tough it out.
I continue to play a variety of fingerstyle J.S. Bach pieces transcribed for the guitar by Andrés Segovia. They would sound great someplace quiet.
I heave a sigh of frustration. I set up in my spot before Little Miss Clarkson by at least an hour. I probably should’ve moved when I saw her wheeling in her P.A. with the help of her dad.
Too bad I’m not
(singsingsing)
some proud parent’s cute little show stealing pumpkin munchkin like Junior Jackson or Little Miss Clarkson.
At least I have a bunch of creeper stalker types who’ve made donations to my cause. So what if it was only an excuse to look down my shirt? Their money is as good as anyone’s.
All $7.72 of it.
Yeah, time for me to
(singsingsingsingsingsing)
move.
I latch up my guitar case and look for a quieter section of the Promenade. I should’ve done this sooner. Now the place is wall to wall people. I can barely find standing room anywhere, let alone a quiet place to set up.
The last thing I want to do is interfere with the other performers who set up early like I did. I pass them by with a sigh.
The magicians with their nearly naked assistants.
The comedy jugglers with their eggs and chainsaws and flaming swords.
The human statue guys with their golden tuxedos (there’s always more than one of them on the Promenade), and their matching top hats and sunglasses and metallic makeup. I love how they hold still until someone gets too close, then suddenly whir their hidden mouth whistles and robotically remove their top hats, holding their hats out for a donation like mute out-of-work C-3POs.
It’s a living.
The only place left for me to set up is near the Barnes & Noble at the corner of 3rd Street and Wilshire Boulevard. Not as much foot traffic as the middle of the outdoor mall, but better than nothing.
Too bad this end is where all the homeless street kids come to loiter, and they don’t tip for shit. They’re too busy begging the nicely dressed Promenade clientele for change so they can get drunk or high later.
Worse, I’m wearing an unzipped gray hoodie over my cutoff Whitesnake t-shirt and jeans. The nicely dressed Promenade clientele who do all the tipping look at me suspiciously, like I’m another vagrant teenager. Or should I say not looking, because they’re totally ignoring me.
Whatever.
I sigh.
I’m not going to give up just because I’m getting a snooty attitude. I may be broke and living out of my car, but I’m on a mission to make it in this town as a musician. That hasn’t wavered one bit.
So I keep playing.
Nickels and dimes dribble into my guitar case over the next hour. Even a few dollar bills. Too bad I’m not singing a sad mournful tune.
(Stop!!!)
That would really bring out the sympathy dollars. Oh well.
(never ever ever sing)
I don’t sing.
End of story.
I’ve almost finished playing my way through Segovia’s transcription of Bach’s Cello Suite in C. It’s soothing and I always enjoy playing it. When I finally finish, my hair is hanging in my face. I was so into it, I didn’t look up from my guitar for half an hour.
A few people clap and squat down to put money in my guitar case. I’ve got a nice little pile forming. Yay! Looks like at least fifty bucks! The night hasn’t been a total waste.
As my little crowd clears out, someone in the back is still clapping.
“Well, well, well,” Kellan says as he emerges from the crowd, “if it isn’t Viki Hendrix, in the flesh. Or should I say Sharon Isbin?”
Sharon Isbin is a badass babe who is world renowned for her classical guitar skills. I’m no Sharon Isbin on the classical guitar. I know Kellan’s just pulling my leg, but I can’t help but smile up at him, “What are you doing here?”
He’s as hot as the last time I saw him.
Unfortunately, the last thing I need in my life right now is more hot guys. Seriously. It’s been less then 24 hours since Scott betrayed me. Hot guys don’t fix broken hearts. They’re just bandaids.
But…Kellan is yummilicious. What’s the harm in chatting with him for a few minutes? We’re in a public place? What’s the worst he can do?
Then I see his fake-o date.
I smirk to myself.
I think he pulled her off the shelf in the doll aisle at Toys “R” Us and also bought the Dumb Slut clothing set to dress her up in. I mean, I’m sure she’s smart. Why would she be dumb? No, she’s not an idiot, not with her fake-o facial expression. She probably has a Ph.D in Slut-ology.
I was totally right about Kellan. He goes through women like I go through guitar strings. A new one every night.
Then I realize this action figure girl looks vaguely familiar.
Was she one of the Femme Flakes in the silver Porsche last night when Kellan walked me to my car? Ahh, who can tell, they’re all the same: short skirt, high heels, long legs, plastic boobs, plastic hair. Everything about her is expensive and designer.
She takes one look at me and chucks a look at me like I’m a garbage dumpster that smells. She radiates impatience.
Kellan doesn’t seem to notice her irritation. He asks me, “That was the Segovia transcription you were playing, wasn’t it?”
“You know it?” I’m shocked. He knows way too much about guitar. I repress the sudden urge to bash my Contrares over Femme Flakes’ head and ask Kellan if he wants to get coffee someplace and talk guitar. I don’t because: one, I don’t want to hurt Johnny’s guitar and two, I’m never that forward with guys. But something about Kellan always has me doing strange things. What is it about him? I mea
n, besides how hot he is?
Kellan pulls out his wallet and drops a twenty into my guitar case. “I haven’t heard someone play Bach like that since Christopher Parkening.”
Femme Flakes glares at Kellan like he should be spending that twenty on her. He doesn’t seem to notice.
I, on the other hand, am blushing like crazy because comparing me to Christopher Parkening is a huge compliment. Parkening is a legend on the classical guitar and he still teaches master classes at Pepperdine University up the coast in Malibu.
Considering Kellan knows a thing or two about guitar, his compliment is huge. I search his face for any trace of bullshit. None.
Yeah, I’m blushing like crazy.
Kellan asks, “How late are you gonna play tonight?”
“Till they kick me out,” I grin.
“You’re hardcore, Victory.”
I’m secretly pleased he uses my name.
Femme Flakes notices my smile and is none too happy. She whines, “Let’s go, Kellan. I want something to drink.”
What a brat.
Kellan arches an eyebrow at me, “Catch you around?”
Femme Flakes snarls at me, but Kellan doesn’t notice.
I shrug my shoulders at Kellan, not wanting to start a cat fight, “Sure.” I’m vaguely pained knowing that Kellan and I don’t have each other’s numbers. It’s not every day you bump into someone randomly in L.A. It’s a huge city.
Femme Flakes and Kellan are already fading into the crowd, her arms wrapped possessively around his elbow. She snuggles against him.
I hope you’re comfortable, bitch.
Whoa, where did that voice come from?
I’m not into Kellan.
And why am I glaring daggers at Femme Flakes’ back?
I’m not going to think about it.
I need to keep playing and make some more cash before the crowd fades away to nothing.
Chapter 32
KELLAN
My brain has officially melted.
It’s dripping out my ears onto my shoulders.
My eyes have glazed over.
I sit across from Savannah at one of the tall bar tables inside Monsoon Cafe having drinks, nodding a lot and pretending to listen to her ramble.
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 15
