Glitter Baby

Light, the bass player, wasn’t hard to spot. He had thin blond hair, dead eyes, and a wasted look. Frank LaPorte, the drummer, was a belligerent redhead with a Budweiser can in his hand. Simon Kale, the keyboard player, was the fiercest-looking black man she’d ever seen, with a shaved and oiled head, silver chains draping an overdeveloped chest, and something that looked suspiciously like a machete hanging from his belt.

“Where’s that freakin’ Barry?” Stu called out. “Fleur, go up and get that son of a bitch down here. And don’t do anything to upset him, for chrissake.”

Fleur reluctantly headed for the elevator and the penthouse suite of lead singer Barry Noy. The promotional kit billed him as the new Mick Jagger. He was twenty-four, and his photographs showed him with long, sandy-colored hair and fleshy lips permanently set in a sneer. From bits and pieces of conversations, she’d gathered that Barry was “difficult,” but she didn’t let herself think too hard about what that might mean.

She knocked at the door of his suite, and when there was no answer, she tried the knob. It was unlocked. “Barry?”

He was stretched out on the couch, his forearm thrown across his eyes and his sandy hair dangling over the couch pillows toward the carpet. He wore the same satin trousers as the other members of the band, except his were Day-Glo orange with a red sequined star strategically placed over the crotch.

“Barry? Stu sent me up to get you. The limos are here, and we’re ready to go.”

“I can’t play tonight.”

“Uh…Why’s that?”

“I’m depressed.” He gave a protracted sigh. “I swear I have never been so depressed in my entire fucking life. I can’t sing when I’m depressed.”

Fleur glanced at her watch, a man’s gold Rolex Stu had loaned her that afternoon. She had five minutes. Five minutes and two and a half days. “What are you depressed about?”

For the first time he looked at her. “Who are you?”

“Fleur. The new road secretary.”

“Oh yeah, Peter told me about you. You used to be a big movie star or something.” He threw his arm back over his eyes. “I’m telling you, life is really shit. I mean I am really hot now. I can have any woman I want, but that bitch Kissy has me wrapped around her finger. I bet I called New York a hundred times today, but either I couldn’t get through or she never answered the phone.”

“Maybe she was out.”

“Yeah. She was out all right. Out with some stud.”

She had four minutes. “Would any woman in her right mind go out with another man when she could have you?” she said, even as she was thinking that any woman in her right mind would go out with a penguin before she’d go out with him. “I’ll bet your timing was bad. The time zones are confusing. Why don’t you try her after the concert? It’ll be early morning in New York. You’re sure to get her then.”

He seemed interested. “You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.” Three and a half minutes. If they had to wait for the elevator, she’d be in trouble. “I’ll even put through the call for you.”

“You’ll come here after the concert and help me get the call through?”

“Sure.”

He grinned. “Hey, that’s great. Hey, I think I’m going to like you.”

“Good. I’m sure I’m going to like you.” In a pig’s eye, you degenerate. Three minutes. “Let’s go downstairs.”

Barry propositioned her in the elevator between the ninth and tenth floors. When she refused him, he turned sullen, so she told him she thought she might have a venereal disease. That seemed to make him happy, and she delivered him to the lobby with thirty seconds to spare.

Chapter 17

They arrived at the ice hockey arena. The stage had been erected at one end of the rink, and hundreds of fans pushed against the wooden barricades. Ignoring the opening band, they called out for Barry and the group. Stu threw a clipboard at Fleur and told her to double-check everything. By the time she went backstage to watch the show, the crowd’s screams had grown deafening. Just as she put in the pink rubber earplugs the stage manager handed her, the rink went dark. A voice bellowed over the loudspeaker, introducing the band in German. The screams turned into a solid wall of sound, and four spotlights hit the stage like atomic blasts. The beams of light collided and Neon Lynx ran forward.

The crowd exploded. Barry leaped into the air, his hair flying. He thrust his hips so the red sequined star on his crotch caught fire. Frank LaPorte twirled his drumsticks, and Simon Kale slammed the keyboard. Fleur watched as a young girl, not more than twelve or thirteen, fainted over the barricade. The crowd pressed against her, and no one paid attention.

The music was raucous and visceral, blatantly sexual, and Barry Noy played the crowd for all he was worth. As the song ended, the crowd surged the barricades, and she could see that the guards were getting nervous. The spotlights flashed blue and red in crisscrossing swords of light, and the band went into its next number.

She was afraid somebody would get killed. One of the roadies came up to stand beside her. “Is it always like this?” she asked.

“Naw. Guess it’s because we’re used to the States. Freakin’ crowd’s dead tonight.”

After the show she stood with Stu in the underground garage that had been roped off by the Viennese police and counted limos. The band came out, all five of them soaked with sweat. Barry grabbed her by the arm. “Got to talk to you.”

As he pulled her toward the lead limo, she started to protest. Stu glared at her, and she remembered rule number one. Keep the band happy. Translated that meant keep Barry Noy happy.

She piled into the limousine, and he pulled her down on the seat beside him. She heard the clink of chains, and Simon Kale climbed in with them. She remembered how he’d twirled that dangerous machete on stage, and she regarded him warily. He lit a cigarillo and turned to stare out the window.

The limousine drove from the garage into a crowd of screaming fans. Suddenly a young girl broke through the police barricade and rushed toward the car, pulling up her shirt as she ran to expose bare pubescent breasts. A policeman caught her. Barry paid no attention.

“So how did you think I was tonight?” He took a slug from a can of Bud.

“You were great, Barry,” she replied, with all the sincerity she could muster. “Just great.”

“You didn’t think I was off tonight? Friggin’ crowd was dead.”

“Oh no. You weren’t off at all. You were terrific.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He drained the beer and crumpled the can in his fist. “I wish Kissy could have been here. She wouldn’t come to Europe with me. What does that tell you about the kind of ditzy broad she is?”

“It tells me a lot, Barry.”

A snort came from the other side of the limo.

“What does Kissy do?” she asked.

“She says she’s an actress, but I’ve never seen her on television or anything. Shit, I’m getting depressed again.”

If there was anything she didn’t need, it was a depressed Barry Noy. “That’s probably it, then. Actresses trying to get work can’t afford to leave town whenever they want. They might miss their big break.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. Hey, I’m sorry about your VD and everything.”

Simon Kale looked over at her, and she thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes.

“Thanks,” she said sadly. “I’m doing my best to cope.”

She should have been prepared for the pandemonium of the hotel lobby, but she wasn’t. The hotel had orders not to give out any information, but there were women everywhere. As the members of the band made their way toward the heavily guarded elevators, she saw Peter Zabel reach out and grab the arm of a buxom redhead. Frank LaPorte inspected a freckled blonde, then gestured toward both her and her bubble-gum-chewing companion. Only Simon Kale ignored the crowd of women.