THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (40 page)

'Rolling Stone,' the cameraman replied.

'Really?'

'Random Notes. You know that front section with pictures and gossip?'

'Uh-huh. Along with the record reviews, the only part of the magazine I read while browsing at the newsstand.'

'Say, you haven't seen any celebs arriving have you?' The cameraman gripped his SLR camera and looked resolutely about the crowded floor.

'No, but isn't that Joan Jett arriving?'

'Fuck yes.' The cameraman made a beeline for the leather-clad singer, slicing through the crowd like an ice-breaking ship through Arctic waters.

Up on stage, the Subway Slaves finished a mettlesome rendition of
Venus in Furs.
Multi-hued stage lights gyrated hypnotically as the audience clapped, whistled and cheered. A large screen mounted above the stage showed black and white footage of other bands who'd risen to prominence at CBGB in New York.

Michelle snuggled against Goldman. Her wide eyes moved this way and that as she was caught up in the sweeping energy of the performance. Goldman pulled her closer and couldn't imagine the magic between them ever ending, particularly at this exhilarating moment with her warm body flush against his.

'Let's move closer,' Michelle said.

As they made their way through the crowd, the band paused between songs, the couple were privy to passing snippets of conversation:

“... no way? You're gonna spend fifty grand producing the new Damaged Goods album? ...”

“... I heard Madonna Ciccone's demo tape yesterday. She just did a stint with Alvin Ailey's dance troupe ...”

“... come on, that's definitely the lead singer of Teen Tiger ...”

Up on stage, Danni Devlin took off a studded leather jacket. Queen of the black lace C-cup, the tops of her cupped breasts gleamed like oily knobs. Wearing black pumps, black fishnet stockings, black lace panties, a black suspender belt and the aforementioned brassiere, the shapely twenty-six year old shouldering a battered Stratocaster guitar was in a signature state of undress that young female fans increasingly sought to emulate, as a similar lack of attire in the front audience attested.

'This is a song I wrote last year in rehab,' Danni said, between breaths. 'A time when I was weak and desperate for mercy. It's called
Do What You Want 'Cos You Got Me
.' The well-rehearsed band broke into a power pop beat. Danni played a catchy rift of major and minor chords. Her bright red lips rakishly enunciated each lyric: “...
sex is my back room fix, the plague of my haemorrhaging heart, blacken me with your burning passion, I'm begging you to start ...”

The band's bass player wore knee-hugging boots and an over-sized T-shirt with 4PLAY BABY printed across its front. Her vacuous look gave hint of her being another casualty from the Summer of '76 – which was, of course, her chosen stage persona. The blood-flecked bandages about her wrists only furthered the impression.

"...
cuff me
,
I'm tied to your will, a servant of your need. Oh yeah, make me do it, baby, make me whimper and plead ..."

The Subway Slave's drummer wore skimpy latex shorts and a midnight blue bra. Magenta-streaked hair swirled about her pale shoulders as she attacked her drum kit, all the while her foot stamped the kick pedal on the bass drum. A lit cigarette poked from her mouth and her narrowed eyes spoke of an ongoing exertion to keep other band members in time.

Up on the screen, a Latino woman stroked the bushy triangle between her legs with a leather riding crop. The band broke into a frisky Tex-Mex beat. The lithe keyboardist jabbed at the keys of her synthesizer and bounced up and down like a crazed marionette. With spiked red hair, cutoff jeans, and a black fishnet singlet which did little to cover her pubescent-like breasts, she hardly looked out of place with the other girl players.

Like a masochist in pleasurable pain, Danni snarled into the microphone: "...
no one can do it like you ... NO ONE!”

Psychedelic artwork (circa San Francisco 1967) swirled on the screen above the band. Coagulating colours morphed into footage of a woman clasping her welted buttocks. Chrome handcuffs encircled her wrists, while a dragon tattoo rose up from the base of her spine like an Oriental creature come to life on human flesh.

"...
I'm all choked up cause the devil's got my hide, don't cast me loose, baby, cause it's one helluva slide ..." 

Rising decibel levels and the surging crowd proved too much for Michelle. She signalled to Goldman that she'd had enough. He nodded and escorted her to the back of the crowd. Onlookers at the edge of the throng were smoking and drinking, and because of the distance from the stage were able to hear each other without having to crane their necks or cup their ears.

Goldman and Michelle stopped near a makeshift bar at the back of the venue. Beer, spirits and alcohol-induced chatter flowed freely about them. Nearby was a stall for Subway Slaves cassettes, T-shirts, buttons and stickers. By the look of it fans had already bought much of the trademarked merchandise.

Michelle lit up a Salem menthol and nodded approvingly to the band's energetic beat. She was having a good time, Goldman could tell, which only made it easier for him to endure the concert, the music of which he found pretentious and banal. All the while he wanted to dash outside for a lungful of fresh air, conscious of the secondhand smoke soiling his skin and clothes.

The all-female band stopped with uncanny precision for the last break of the night.

'Hey dude.'

Goldman felt a hand on his shoulder and spun round.

Rick Sorenson. The fugitive chemist breathed a sigh of relief. Sorenson was arm in arm with a homely Puerto Rican woman who would have looked more in place at Sunday Mass than at a tour launch for a band that had recently supported The Damned on their west coast tour.

'Rick.'

'Scott, this is Pamela.'

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

'Pamela, this is Michelle.'

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

From out of the crowd, Thirteen and his girlfriend materialized beside Sorenson. For the most part they looked like a young celebrity couple riding their faces about town. Up-and-coming hipsters who'd readily give themselves to the bulb-flashing attention of the paparazzi. Thirteen wore silver-capped alligator skin boots, scalloped leather pants and a Celia Perry skull and barbed-wire print shirt. Again his hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Holly was attired in glossy white pumps and red and white cha cha pants. Her unstrapped breasts jutted beneath a sleeveless V-neck, which depicted a garish print of Christ looking skyward. KILL YOUR IDOL captioned underneath. An Eldorado Spanish belt encircled her emaciated waist, while a clutter of gold and silver chains, sporting metal crucifixes and dollar signs, hung from around her swanlike neck. A wool/silk jacket was draped across her arm and a diamond stud sparkled like a minuscule star on one side of her nose.

'We're ready to do business, dude.' Rick Sorenson could only smile at the prospect. 'You did bring it with you?' he asked with sudden concern.

Goldman nodded.

Sorenson brightened with enthusiasm. 'Honestly dude, the market potential of your product is mind-boggling. Why just warehouse dance parties alone ...' He checked his runaway exclamation as Frank and Sandy joined the group. With two SLR cameras about her neck, Sandy clasped Frank's hand and swayed to a Lou Reed song playing through the sound system.

Goldman began with his side of introductions, followed by Sorenson with his side. Thirteen eyeballed ex-model Sandy with unmasked interest. Holly lit a cigarette and stared at the yellow flame of her Cartier lighter, her mind trampled by a cocktail mix of drugs. She soon snapped back and noticed the object of Thirteen's attention.

'Come on, let's go.' She tugged petulantly at her boyfriend's sleeve.

'Yeah, let's split,' Sorenson agreed. 'There's only the last set which will be more of the same.' He grabbed his Puerto Rican girlfriend's hand. 'We're leaving, Scott.' He patted Goldman reverently on the shoulder. 'I'll see you at Thirteen's, right?'

Goldman nodded with feigned enthusiasm. 'Sure, no problem.'

A hesitant smile flitted across Pamela's honey brown face as she pressed against Sorenson's shoulder.

'Do you remember how to get there?' Sorenson asked.

'We've got your telephone number in any case,' Michelle said. Thirteen stared at her, as if not liking her having his number. However his attention snapped back to Sandy, taking in her delicate features and figure-hugging clothes.

Frank bristled and stepped forward as Holly yanked the arm of her dawdling boyfriend. Thirteen ripped his arm free. After giving Sandy one last look over, he marched off into the bustling crowd.

'What a creep.' Sandy curled her lip in disgust.

'Damn right,' Frank said in an Australian accent more pronounced than Goldman's.

'Hey Scott, what are you doing with someone like that?'

'It's all right, mate. He's just a strung-out friend of Sorenson's. He's not normally like that ... he must be high or something.' Goldman turned to Michelle. He was embarrassed and didn't want to get drawn into an awkward conversation about Sorenson and his associates.

'Okay Scott.' Michelle tapped her finger playfully against his nose. 'I know you want to see Rick about that job offer with a sports nutrition company.'

Goldman lifted his eyebrows and nodded, as if this were indeed the reason for him associating with Sorenson and his questionable friends. How he loved Michelle and the way she covered for him. He wanted to lace her cheek with a bouquet of short kisses. They worked well together. They were a natural team. There didn't seem anything they couldn't overcome; though he sensed this special quality could be sorely tested in coming weeks. But maybe not. Maybe things would work out much as planned. With Michelle Eastman by his side, he was becoming an incurable optimist. Their electrifying romance seemed above worldly concerns, above the snarl and grind of the human jungle.

'You're getting so staid in your old age,' Sandy joshed.

Michelle poked out her tongue and looked at her ex-model friend with a clowning visage.

'Well, I gotta snap more pics for
Rockaway
magazine,' Sandy said. 'So Frank and I are entrenched till the bitter end.' She pinched Frank's ass. 'Right champ?' Frank winked and held up his thumb, his eyes glassy from straight shots of liquor.

'You do remember how to get back in?' Sandy adjusted the weighty cameras about her neck.

Scott and Michelle nodded in unison, grateful to have her hillside home at their disposal.

'Well don't bring back that creep with you, or any of his kind, okay?' Sandy said, putting a firm boundary in place.

'No, no ...' Michelle shook her head and rolled her eyes. 'No way, babe.'

Sandy looked intently at her friend, before saying: 'All right then,
adios
darlings.' She blew a kiss and skipped off into the crowd, Frank in tow.

'Hey curly, can you light me up?'

Goldman turned and was presented with an attractive Anglo-Asian girl in razor-slashed jeans and a Day Glo bikini top. A pink scorpion tattooed on one of her breasts. She jabbed a cigarette lighter at the chemist. 'I can't do it ... I'm too out of it.' She giggled and nodded toward the unlit cigarette between her fingers. She stumbled to one side, verifying her purport as one with temporarily impaired motor-nerve function. Splashings of Chanel, as cloying as Scottish mist, assailed Goldman's nostrils. The girl was a long way from sober, anyone could see that.

'Yeah, sure.' He grabbed the proffered lighter, flicked it alight and held it towards her dumb child face. With considerable effort, she brought the cigarette to her lips. Clinking metal bracelets slid down her wrists. She tottered as if on a swaying ship deck. Finally, she ignited her cherished cigarette.

'Thanks curly.' Without further word, she staggered off toward a girl with spiked hair and tattooed arms. The back pockets of her jeans were made of clear plastic and the white skin of her butt showed freely. 'Hey, you're lighter,' Goldman called after her, all the while admiring the view. But the girl was oblivious to much as she meandered back to her biker-chic mate, who stood manlike by the subdued lighting of the mixing desk.

Goldman read what was captioned on the side of the disposable lighter: I'VE GOT AN ABOVE AVERAGE QI. What a head case, he thought, taking a last look at the girl and pocketing her lighter.

'Come on, babe,' Michelle said. 'Let's see Rick and be done with it.'

Goldman nodded and they headed for the stairs. He glanced back at the screen above the stage: a naked girl in a leather cap stroked another woman’s breast with a feather.

A card game was underway in Thirteen's house. Fresh and stale beers stood about the table as card players studied and arranged newly dealt cards. Cigarette smoke hung over the table like smog. The air was thick with tension. There'd been an organized meet the day before with an up and coming Chicano gang, the Black Scorpions. Threats against Fast Cash Boys hadn't been taken lightly. A drug turf war seemed in the making.

Goldman and Sorenson sat about the living room coffee table. Sorenson was studying the formula Goldman wanted to sell him.

'So what's this 7-21 in step six?' he asked.

'7-21 is a classified reactive agent,' Goldman said from his side of the table. 'A precursor that can bond atoms of differing descriptors to an amphetamine molecule. It was made at Silverwood Centre in the late sixties and is used in a lot of amphetamine-based formulas developed there.'

'So this 7-21 isn't available from chemical supply houses?'

'Correct.'

'Great, Goldman, that's fucking great!' Sorenson's face flushed with anger. 'So what's the
point
of me trying to make this?'

'Rick, please.' Goldman held up his hand and chuckled dryly. 'For God's sake, calm down. If you look at the appendage on the last page, you'll see I've listed the chemical composition of 7-21.You'll also see it's not hard to make.'

Sorenson flicked impatiently to the back pages of the formula. Thirteen dropped into a nearby seat, wearing a suede Apache-style jacket and a concerned expression.