P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 02 - Exile on Slain Street (2 page)

“You wanted groupie types, I assumed. You got ‘em. I’m just doing my job.” I set down my folder and started flipping through the papers inside. These women had more than stalker problems. Most people who appeared on reality television had some sort of fame addiction, but the women who wanted to be on
Atomic Love 2
were extraordinary. One of them had been arrested for assault with a high-heeled shoe. Another had to be escorted from a hotel where Marilyn Manson was staying because he discovered her hiding in his closet.

Just by researching the finalists for this show, I felt like I was taking Psych 101 at UC Santa Cruz all over again. And these were the candidates that the network’s shrinks actually allowed. Apparently I was looking at the cream of the crop, the sanest of the sane.

Kevin took his feet off the table, leaned forward, and stared at me, almost like a standoff. “What?” I finally asked.

“We have to keep some of these girls,” he explained. “Can we just get rid of one or two?”

I closed the folder and held it up to make perfectly clear just how thick it was. “There’s an assault charge. With a high-heeled shoe. And Marilyn Manson wanted one of them arrested. Usually people are scared of Marilyn Manson, not the other way around. And, besides, this isn’t television, where I can look at paper records and say, ‘Bingo! That one’s nuts!’ Most of these women seem nuts. My recommendation is simple. Get rid of these women, call in alternates, and bring their files to me.”

“There are no alternates.” Kevin sighed. “The casting pool is drying up.” Then his dark eyes widened and sparkled with an idea. “What if we had you there? On the set?”

“I’m not a bodyguard by trade, but sure. Can I carry a gun?”

“That’s not what I had in mind,” he replied. Then he paused. “Can I have you undercover?”

I did not like the sound of that. Even though I had played guitar onstage to packed clubs, I most definitely was not an actress.

While I was mulling it over, Kevin didn’t take his eyes off my face. He seemed like the type who could be persuasive when he wanted something. “Hear me out,” he said. “We are on the hook for the ratings, more than ever. The network thinks the dating shows are cooling off, and we have to make the most of it. Otherwise, they won’t pick up our next show.”

“Do ratings trump personal safety?” I asked.

Kevin had an answer to that. “The charges you’re talking about are minor, and we need the catfights. We seriously don’t want this to turn into
Granny’s Got a Boyfriend
.” He rolled his eyes. “Lame!”

“Actually,
Granny’s Got a Boyfriend
sounds slightly amusing,” I replied. “Don’t you just edit everything together to get what you want anyway? Like pro wrestling?”

Kevin’s face darkened. He didn’t like that I suggested reality television wasn’t “real.” “Look, we don’t need to have a debate over entertainment quality here. We just bring out what’s already there. If you have boring people on your show, the show will be boring. People know fake. Some of these people know what they are doing and where they want to take their stories, and that’s fine with me. But it’s not total fiction, okay?”

“There are millions of people who want to be on TV out there,” I said. “And I’m sure most of them don’t have police records.”

Kevin shook his head. “We need big personalities for a show like this.”

Pulling back his sports coat, Kevin touched a cigar that he had in his pocket, like he really couldn’t wait to get this meeting done and get started on it. With his thick, black hair and impressive bulk, I could imagine him relaxing on the patio of Enrico’s in North Beach, boldly breaking San Francisco’s strict no-smoking rules. “If we have a bodyguard there, the girls won’t be natural. They’ll assume you want to arrest them.”

“There’s no way the girls are ‘natural’ with all those cameras around,” I told him.

Kevin shrugged. “You’d be surprised. They’re used to cameras. Half of them have done porn.”

“Actually, a quarter.” I looked down at the stack of files, trying to forget the names of any of the pornos I had encountered during my research.

“Just a quarter?” Kevin asked. His face fell.

“Sorry to disappoint you there,” I told him.

Rolling his eyes, Kevin continued, “People get comfortable around cameras and producers. They start thinking of us like we’re furniture. But, you, on there as an authority figure, ready to stop fights? No. We have to push situations right to the breaking point, or they just won’t read on camera. Your job would be that of the mole. If there’s a problem, you go in, get information and relay it to us.”

“And what about Patrick?”

“Well, Patrick isn’t going to know anything about you. That keeps him natural.”

“What? So let’s say I actually do this, and the stalker makes it onto the show. What do I do if there’s a problem? Or he’s in danger?”

The look on Kevin’s face indicated he had no idea why I would be concerned. “I’m sure we can bring in the police if it gets that bad. Hell, we put the Marin County Sherriff’s Department on speed dial when we taped the first
Atomic Love
. I know the sheriff personally.”

“I really don’t think I could do this,” I said. “First, look at me. I am not one of those girls.” I pointed at my outfit, which was a black peasant blouse matched with purple corduroy pants. Then I pointed at my face. I have long red hair and green eyes, and people tend to look at me twice, but I don’t have the exaggerated Barbie doll features and curves required by major record labels and reality-television shows.

Kevin appraised what he could see of me above the table and seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Every season, we pick girls who are, as you say, ‘not one of those girls.’ And they may not win, but they always get in the finals. The audience identifies with your type. Problem solved. We give you an identity, and you run with it.” He took his cigar out like the meeting was over.

Although Kevin tried to seem relaxed and nonchalant, I could sense an urgency in his voice: an urgency that I could use to my advantage. Maybe I could get a little more than my usual fee in return for going undercover. “Well, what’s in it for me? This would be a long-term commitment. My band might have to cancel gigs.”

“Oh, we’ll pay you well,” Kevin assured me. He put the cigar back into his coat and threw out a figure that made my spine tingle: a figure I’d never heard from any other client in my brief history as a private investigator. I knew that the actual contestants on the show were making a pittance, but the money I would earn would let my band make the most of that deal with Comet Records. Maybe we could enjoy an equipment upgrade before we went on tour. Maybe we could even sleep in clean hotels when we were on the road, not in sleeping bags in the van or on fans’ floors. I thought of all our day jobs and how many more rehearsals we could have if we could dial back the hours we spent making money.

Plus, I thought I could handle the
Atomic Love 2
assignment. When I was onstage, I had thousands of eyes on me at once. Television couldn’t be any different, and it had to be easier than performing in front of a live audience. Not all audiences are adoring. I was once arrested for drunk and disorderly after telling an audience member exactly where he could shove that request for a Matchbox Twenty song. When he responded with something ugly about my mother, I asked him how he’d like the taste of my boot on his tongue, and it just went downhill from there.

Even though I was tempted, I kept my face straight. I wasn’t going to say “yes” just yet. There was a downside: It could be negative publicity for the Marquee Idols if their lead guitarist showed up as a reality-show bimbo. And it never hurt to negotiate for more cash. “Still, this could come at a cost to my band,” I said.

“Eh,” Kevin shrugged. “We can reveal who you really are at the reunion show and let you guys play. Promotion covered.”

He didn’t get it, so I tried to clarify the matter for him. “I am not sure that our fans would be into the show.”

What I was trying to say finally dawned on him. “Oh. I never understood that whole ‘indie’ thing. Lemme guess, your bandmates would be embarrassed if you were on the show?”

“Not necessarily. Our lead singer loved the first season.” That was true. Wayne, the Marquee Idols’ frontman, couldn’t afford a DVR, but he used an old VCR with a timer to catch all the episodes. According to him,
Atomic Love
was “television to get stoned by.” Then again, for Wayne, most television was “television to get stoned by.”

Kevin kept going. “We can work out a deal. It’s not like the network would give you free advertising or even mention you by name, but I think we can still help you, at least indirectly. I’ve done my research, and I’ve heard your band. No offense, but you guys aren’t the most marketable band in the world. Your sound isn’t poppy enough, and emo is kind of big right now.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumbled. Emo and teenage boys wearing too much eyeliner.

“But, the network could use your music as background for its clip shows. You’re signed with that label… something about spaceships…”

“Comet Records,” I filled in.

Kevin nodded. “The network has a deal going with Comet Records where it can use their tracks, and the bands got royalties. It’s a good deal for the bands, actually. They make money but don’t look like complete sellouts, and it gives those clip shows some cred.”

“You could get our music on the network?” I asked. As far as I was concerned, this guy finally had something big to offer.

He snapped his fingers like it was nothing. “Yeah. The clip shows and documentaries use music from Asphalt, Highbrow/Lowbrow, the Critters, Lorem Ipsum, Inverted Jenny, all that stuff…”

“All that stuff” included bands whose success I could only dream of.

“And one last thing,” Kevin added. “We’ll give you half the money up front. Now, how can you say no?” He held out his arms, like he wanted to give me a big hug and bring me into the fold.

“I am warming up to the idea.” I said. “I’ll call you.”

Chapter Three:
Casting

I
checked my bank account and called Kevin back an hour later to accept the job. We the Marquee Idols had celebrated far too much after signing with Comet Records, and all those nights out had depleted my funds. Once I gave my assent, I found out that Kevin and his production staff didn’t waste any time. Production on
Atomic Love 2
was starting in Marin County the next day, and they had to get me briefed and in there as soon as possible. Kevin himself drove by my apartment and dropped off a DVD featuring the audition footage for all of Patrick’s aspiring girlfriends, along with a copy of the first season of
Atomic Love
.

I invited everyone in the Marquee Idols over to my apartment in South Park to watch the footage. Harold Cho, my landlord, sidekick and self-anointed spiritual advisor, was joining in on the fun and let us use his television and DVD player. I was a little nervous about how Harold would handle
Atomic Love
since he was a senior citizen, but he seemed enthusiastic. He was setting up bowls of chips and icing beers by the time my bandmates arrived.

Wayne came first, already as high as a kite. I figured that he got stoned early because Harold, who was over 60, couldn’t handle the smoke. He promptly lay down on the floor for a catnap before I played the DVD.

Muriel, the bassist and my best friend, and Shane, our drummer, showed up soon after. “I have something for you,” Muriel said, handing me a rolled-up cardboard tube. “You are going to love this.”

“Thank you!” I popped open the end of the tube and rolled it out. It was a poster for the Nuclear Kings, circa the late ‘90s, taken with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. The band name was in a brick-red, bold font, stamped against the sky. Their singer, Sean Morgan, stood in the middle, his long, curly hair fanning out in a manner intended to remind everyone that he had musical ties to Eddie Vedder and Chris Cornell. Off to one side stood Patrick Price, who was sporting a sneaky grin.

If Sean was the serious one, Patrick was the band’s court jester and chick magnet. Unlike Sean, Patrick kept his hair neat and combed back, and he didn’t hide his buff biceps under a flannel shirt. He went with a tight, black, short-sleeved tee that showed off his tattoos of various Chinese characters. Of course, the picture was over a decade old, but he still looked good enough to warrant his own reality dating show.

Patrick seemed to accept the exploitation of the music industry for what it was. Sean Morgan didn’t take the disillusionment as well. A few years after the band had a number-one record, he drove his motorcycle off a cliff in Santa Barbara.

Muriel leaned over to look at the poster as I rolled it out. “I loved those guys when I was in junior high school.” She laughed. “I thought they spoke for me!”

I thought the Nuclear Kings spoke for me, too. They had an anthem called “Lemmings” that was brilliant. Unfortunately, it became so popular that people flocked to buy the band’s records, which negated the entire point.

“You know they were from Gardenia, right?” Muriel asked. “Hey, where’s the beer?” Harold tossed her a cold one as he situated himself on his orange, ‘70s-style sofa. Then Muriel pulled out a ring of keys, which had a silver bottle opener on it, from her pocket. She popped off the cap and said, “They were the legend of my high school. You have no idea how many of those girls claimed to bang members of that band — your guy, most of all!”

“He’s not my guy,” I told her, wincing at the word “bang.” Muriel was not known for her tact.

Shane was already on the sofa, stretched out so that he took more than his fair share of the space. He was more interested in the chips Harold set out than the beer. “You’re going to have to protect Patrick Price from Muriel’s clutches. We were on our way here, and Muriel said that, if she had your job, she might not be able to — ahem — focus on it.”

I kept looking at the poster. I thought Patrick Price was handsome, but I wasn’t going to let my bandmates have the satisfaction of knowing that. “And that’s why I have my job and Muriel has hers.”