Rock Star (50 page)

One

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Three

JOLT
!

Later there was American football on TV and a catered dinner for two from Trader Vic’s. Cybil watched the football with him, daintily gnawing on a spare-rib as she sat cross-legged on the bed wearing nothing but a man-sized sweatshirt.

At midnight the phone rang. Usually he let the service deal with all calls, but this time he picked it up. The first thing he heard was the faint crackle of long-distance, and then a desperate plea. ‘Kris, Kris, is that you? Uh . . . this is Mikki, remember me? Look, I don’t want to bother you, I really don’t. But . . . Kris . . . you’ve got to help Buzz . . . you’ve got to help him . . .
Please.
We’re desperate.’

*    *    *

British Airways’ six o’clock evening flight got him into London’s Heathrow Airport at noon the next day. BA’s Mike Baverstock met him at the plane and whisked him through passport control and customs with no problem. There was a time when they always used to stop him and search for drugs. But that was back in the bad old days when The Wild Ones first ran riot and he wasn’t considered a respectable elder statesman of rock.

He hadn’t warned Astrid of his imminent arrival. Better to surprise her, keep her on edge.

A chauffeured Rolls took him straight to his country mansion; Astrid was out with the dogs. He unpacked his one carry-on bag and made a few calls. Mikki had promised to get Buzz over to the house that evening. He wondered if he’d come. He’d bleedin’ better.

‘Dinner for four, luv. An’ I fancy a roast,’ he informed Astrid, when she entered the house.

‘Kris! What are you doing here?’ she shrieked as his two Alsatians jumped all over him. ‘God! I bet I look awful!’ Astrid’s idea of awful was jeans and a sweater with no makeup, her long flaxen hair in a ponytail. She looked pretty good to him, and refreshingly healthy.

‘I live here. Remember?’

Throwing her arms around him she said, ‘How could I ever forget? Welcome home.’

They spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. He felt like a sailor with a wife in every port. Only fortunately they weren’t wives, and there were only two ports.

Astrid had never met Buzz, and as the evening approached she became more than apprehensive.

‘Stay cool,’ Kris warned. ‘He’s likely to insult you
an’
me. That’s his way. The thing is, I don’t mind – I just want to see him back on his feet. Understand?’

She’d read plenty about the notorious Buzz Darke. ‘He’s not going to smash up our dining room, is he?’ she asked nervously.

‘Don’t worry. All you gotta do is take Mikki off somewhere after dinner. I want to be alone with him.’

‘What’s Mikki like?’

‘Listen, I haven’t seen either of them in four years. She used to be just another rich groupie out on a slumming trip. Get the picture?’

Astrid nodded. She wasn’t looking forward to the evening ahead.

‘Let’s just hope she gets him here,’ Kris said. ‘She sounded pretty frantic on the phone. I told her to pretend she bumped into me on the street an’ I insisted they come for dinner.’

‘So,’ Astrid said. ‘You flew all the way back here just to help a friend. That’s if he even turns up.’

‘Don’t go makin’ a big deal out of it. I owe him. We’re mates – or at least we were.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re unbelievable!’

‘Listen, luv, it could’ve bin
me. I
was the lucky one. If things were reversed I reckon he’d do the same thing.’

Buzz and Mikki arrived two and a half hours late, just when Kris was beginning to give up. They came in a taxi, with no money between the two of them, looking like a couple of tramps: Kris paid.

Buzz walked around the house. ‘Fuckin’ rollin’ in it, ain’tcha?’ he sneered, adding sardonically, ‘can yer spare a few bob while yer at it?’

His appearance was devastating. Whitish grey skin drawn tightly over bony features. Sunken dead eyes. Badly dyed black hair curling over the collar of a decrepit leather jacket, and long, skinny legs encased in jeans with well-worn snake-skin boots rounding out the ensemble. A joint seemed to have affixed itself permanently to his mouth, and he dragged on it without benefit of hands.

Mikki had turned into a plump, untidy woman with frizzed yellowish hair. She was not yet thirty, but her lined skin and weary eyes made her seem ten years older. She had on a stained green sweater, and baggy khaki pants.

Kris remembered the pretty Mikki he’d once known, and wondered where she’d gone.

Both of them headed straight for the booze. Buzz favoured straight vodka, while Mikki settled for red wine which she immediately spilled down the front of her sweater. It didn’t seem to bother her.

‘Well,’ Kris said, pouring himself an Old Kentucky. ‘It’s great to see you two.’

‘Congratulate us,’ Buzz said, throwing himself into a chair. ‘We got married this morning. She’s not just fat, y’know, she’s pregnant. Fucking stupid cow.’

‘You’re kiddin?’

Mikki nodded. ‘It’s true, Kris. We suddenly became respectable in our old age.’

‘Shit! Let’s break open the champagne.’

‘Shit!’ Buzz mimicked. ‘It’s not like yer can’t afford it.’

The evening dragged along, with Buzz making crack after crack about selling out and recording crap and going for commerciality above all else. Half way through the meal he vanished into the bathroom and didn’t come back for twenty minutes.

‘You’ve got to find him a job, Kris,’ Mikki pleaded, when he was gone. ‘
You
know how good he can be. He’s sensational, and all he can get is backing work on the occasional lousy session. It’s criminal. And I’m frightened he’s going to do something . . .’ Lowering her red-rimmed eyes she whispered, ‘Y’know, like Sharleen . . .’

‘Jesus, Mikki. I can’t get him shit while he’s strung out.’

She gulped her wine, talking too fast, pressing out of desperation. ‘He’s coming off dope. Honestly. All he needs is a chance.’

Kris had heard that The Orange Dragons, Blue Cadillac’s hot new group, were due to do six concerts in England next month and were looking for an opening act. Put Buzz together with a good keyboard player and backing – and if he was on top of it, he’d be perfect for the gig.

‘Why don’t I see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Only you’ve got to promise me you’ll make sure he dries out.’

‘Oh, yes, Kris. I can promise that. Honestly. You can trust me.’

‘Someone from Blue Cadillac Records will be in touch. I’m goin’ to give you a cheque – get him in a fucking clinic to clean up, and
don’t
tell him I had anything to do with it. Okay?’

Later, on the phone long distance, he said, ‘Hawk, I want you to arrange something for me.’

‘What?’

He told the Hawk exactly what needed doing.

An hour later he got a call back. ‘It will all be taken care of.’

‘That’s great. I’m pleased.’

‘One thing, Kris.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Marcus Citroen’s fund-raiser. He
can
depend on you, can’t he?’

Rafealla

1987

Coolly Rafealla stared at the man sitting behind the ornate antique desk. Marcus Citroen. He’d held her future, in his hands and he’d delivered. How strangely fate had intertwined their lives over the years.

‘Well, my dear’, Marcus said triumphantly, ‘I told you I could do it for you, and now, I am delighted to inform you that your single, ‘Perfume Nights’, will be number one next week in
six
different countries, including the only two that really matter – England and America.’

Standing up, she walked over to the window and gazed out. Marcus Citroen’s London office overlooked Hyde Park. It was a crisp February day, and the wind was blowing. People were huddled up in overcoats and scarves as they scurried by.

Sometimes, on days like this, she really missed Rio. But what had she actually given up?

Nothing . . . Nothing . . .

*    *    *

Carnival came and went. Marcus Citroen came and went. Much to Tinto’s chagrin, Rafealla refused to meet with him. ‘You’re very foolish,’ he scolded. ‘He could make you into a big international star.

‘And what about Luiz?’ she responded tartly. ‘We’re a team. We do things together or not at all. ’

‘Ah, but, Rafealla, maybe you should think of your future. ’

Stubbornly she stood her ground. ‘Luiz
is
my future. ’

Tinto shrugged. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not.’ He didn’t know how to tell her that while she was in England, Luiz had been seen out with the very rich Vivienne Riccardo – or, as she was known by her adoring public, the queen of the television soaps.

‘You can stuff your negativity,’ Rafealla said gaily. And plan on a wedding. ’

Tinto couldn’t conceal his surprise. ‘When?’

‘Soon. ’

‘How soon?’

‘You’ll be the first to know. ’

Luiz had been a little quiet since she’d returned from England. She had thought the new album was all finished, but most nights he spent at the studio. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she suggested.

‘You’ll be bored,’ he replied. ‘It’s all technical details.’

‘I’m bored staying at home,’ she protested mildly.

Playfully he kissed her. Ah, my spoiled little English
carioca
is bored. Just be patient, my darling. Luiz is working for both of us. ’

‘I am
not
English. I am
not
spoiled. And hurry up with all this work. ’

She knew the album was important to him. He’d produced it, and written four of the songs. Naturally he was concerned about every detail. When it was finally out in the stores he could relax.

She was anxious to ask him about his wife again. The old woman dying in a nursing home somewhere. But it seemed like such a crass thing to do, so she remained silent, waiting until he chose to speak of it. It must be painful enough for him – why should she add to his burden?

One night he failed to come home at all. She reached out upon waking, and he wasn’t there. ‘Luiz?’ she called out. Then she got up and padded around the apartment. Jon Jon had already left for school, and Constanza – their daily maid – was cleaning the kitchen floor.

‘Meester no here,’ said the surly Constanza.

‘He must have slept at the studio,’ Rafealla explained, wondering, why she felt the need to make excuses to the maid.

There was no reply when she rang the studio. Feeling foolish, she phoned Tinto at home. ‘Luiz is missing,’ she said half jokingly. ‘Have you any idea where he might be?’

Tinto wanted to say, ‘Try Vivienne Riccardo’s satin sheets.’ The whole town was talking about Luiz’s blatant affair with the glamorous older actress, and yet no one dared tell Rafealla – including him. He hesitated. ‘Er . . . I don’t know—’ he began.

‘Give me the telephone,’ commanded his wife, Maria, snatching the instrument from him. ‘Rafealla, dear,’ she said firmly, ‘we meet today for lunch. We talk. There are things you should know.’ Tinto groaned.

Before they could meet, before they could talk, the news hit the airwaves. Luiz Oliveira and Vivienne Riccardo were secretly married that morning.

*    *    *

‘I love London,’ Rafealla murmured.

Marcus rose from his desk and stood next to her. ‘Is that all you have to say? I have just told you your record will be number one across the world. Don’t you understand what that means?’

Turning to look at him she said, Does it mean I’m a star?’

‘Yes.’

‘Famous?’

‘Yes.’

‘Rich?’

‘Eventually. With me to guide you.’
With me to guide you.
It was not the first time he had said those words to her. Not the first time . . .

*    *    *

‘I want to meet with Marcus Citroen, Tinto.’

‘You’re too late. He’s returned to America.’

‘Call him. ’

‘With all due respect, Raffi, he probably won’t even remember his former interest. ’

She raised an eyebrow and said mockingly, ‘What an agent! Such enthusiasm!’

‘I can try.’

‘Do it.’

Marcus Citroen did remember her. He suggested she fly to America and cut a demo record. Tinto was ecstatic.

‘Forget it,’ Rafealla said. ‘Ask him to come back here.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Tinto argued. ‘It is obvious to me you have no idea how important this man is.’

‘Yes, I do know. Ask him anyway.’ Instinct told her Marcus Citroen would do as she wished.

A week of silence. Then Phoebe, Mr Citroen’s personal secretary, called to inform Tinto that Mr Citroen did indeed have further business in Rio, and would be returning in ten days’ time.

Rafealla merely nodded when a jubilant Tinto told her. He was full of plans, deciding how to approach the great man, and what strategy they would employ to get the best deal.

‘No,’ Rafealla said evenly. ‘I want to see him alone. ’

Tinto shook his head, puzzled. Rafealla was a strange and wonderful girl – and he didn’t understand her at all. When Luiz married Vivienne Riccardo, he – along with Maria and everyone else – had expected her to go to pieces – explode – have hysterics – do something. No. Not Rafealla. She was calm as could be. A shrug. A philosophical ‘Luiz must do what he has to do.’ And that was that.

Privately she told Tinto she would never work with Luiz again, and to cancel all their bookings.

‘But what about the new album?’ he’d asked worriedly. ‘Surely you will do promotional appearances?’

A flat ‘No.’ And then she’d requested the meeting with Marcus Citroen.

Now it was arranged, and she was saying she didn’t want him to come. Peculiar girl. He didn’t argue. Rafealla had her own way of doing things.