Zip Gun Boogie (5 page)

5

I
t was on the top floor on the farthest corner from mine. I tapped politely on the door at five to seven. A heavyweight from the security firm opened the door. His name tag read ‘Don'.

‘Yes?' he said.

‘I'm here to see Ninotchka.'

‘And you are?'

‘Nick Sharman.'

‘Come in.'

I stepped through the door and into a hippy dream. The sitting room was twice as big as mine. The curtains were drawn and the lights dim. Where possible they'd been draped in gypsy scarves to diffuse them even further. The carpet had been covered with overlapping oriental rugs and brightly coloured cushions had been scattered over two big sofas and three armchairs. Joss sticks were burning in holders and the room was rich with the smell. The room had been personalised further with a big CD player, amp and speakers. It was playing muted rock. I recognised a track from
Exile on Main Street.
The room had three other doors. Don went over and tapped on one. I heard a woman's voice reply, and he opened the door, entered and closed it behind him. A moment later he re-appeared. ‘Come through, Mr Sharman,' he said, and the tone of his voice was a little warmer, but not much.

I walked across the rugs and through the door. Inside was part office, part dressing room, with clothes on rails and hanging from anywhere that would hold them. There was a desk in the centre of the room holding a bunch of papers, two telephones and a fax machine. Two office chairs were drawn up to the desk. Ninotchka was sitting on one speaking on the phone. ‘My date's here, must go, Mom. Call you tomorrow. Love you – 'bye,' she said and hung up. She spun round on the chair and looked at me. ‘Hi, Nick. How are you?'

‘Just fine.'

She looked me over. ‘Did you get that jacket downstairs?'

‘Yes.'

‘Roger's got one exactly the same. The trouble with shopping in hotels is that sooner or later everyone gets to dress exactly the same.'

‘I thought it looked pretty good.'

‘Hey, it looks fine, it's just…'

‘What?'

‘You look like a second-string record producer or the manager of a Mid-West heavy metal band that's just broken the top forty.'

‘Is that bad?'

‘Not at all, but you could look like the president of Columbia Records if you tried.'

‘Is that good?'

She ignored the question and jumped up. ‘What do you think of this?' she demanded, and did a twirl in front of me. She was wearing a simple cotton jersey dress, hooped in blue and white, with a short skirt. It clung so close that I guessed she was wearing very little else. She looked great.

‘Great,' I said.

‘That's what I want to say when I see you. “Great”, nothing else.'

‘Do you want me to go and change?' I asked, perhaps a little tetchily.

She came over, reached up and kissed me full on the lips. ‘Don't get mad,' she said. ‘You look good. I can just see more potential, you know what I mean? I didn't say it to hurt you. Do you forgive me?'

What could I say? Her perfume was light and spacey and I liked it a lot. ‘Sure.'

‘I tell you what, I found a great shop the other day opposite Harrods. I've been dying to find a man to try it out. We'll go shopping tomorrow afternoon. How does that suit you?'

‘I don't think…'

‘Don't argue. I love buying presents. You'll upset me if you don't let me get you something.'

‘I'm supposed to be working.'

‘You will be working, looking after me.'

‘Well…' I said.

‘Say you will.'

What the hell? ‘OK.'

‘Great. Where shall we eat tonight?'

I shrugged.

‘What's your favourite food?'

‘Thai, Chinese, Indonesian.'

‘Do you like Korean?'

‘I don't know, I never tried it.'

‘You'll love it. I'll get my jacket.' She went out of the room and I followed. She crossed to one of the other inside doors and went through. I waited in the sitting room with Don. He didn't speak. Nor did I.

She was back within a few seconds carrying a white jacket and a blue handbag that matched her dress. ‘Night off, Don,' she said.

He looked from her to me. ‘No, miss, I'm supposed to stay with you.'

‘I have someone. He'll see me home, won't you, Nick?'

‘Of course.'

‘I dunno, miss.'

‘Mr Sharman is very fierce. He'll keep the wolves at bay.'

Don looked at me and pulled a face. It wasn't my night for compliments for sure. ‘I think I can manage,' I said.

‘Chas will be driving,' said Ninotchka.

‘I shouldn't,' said Don.

Ninotchka switched on the charm, full blast. ‘I'll be all right, I promise.'

‘I don't know what Mr Lomax will say.'

‘You leave Mr Lomax to me.'

‘OK, miss, but…'

‘No buts, you go on home.'

‘I'm on 'til one. I'll wait until then.'

‘If you want, but I doubt that we'll be back.' I could see I was in for a long night.

‘I'll wait, miss.'

‘All right, Don. Help yourself to what you want. Have dinner.'

‘Thanks, miss.'

‘It's nothing. Coming, Nick?'

I nodded. I felt like the dog.

We went down to the foyer by lift. It was a much grander affair than the one from the car park, with a uniformed attendant, one of those old-fashioned wheels to operate it, and enough gilt inside the car to sink a ship.

As we entered the foyer a middle-aged man in a grey suit and holding a grey peaked cap jumped up from where he was sitting and made a bee-line for us. ‘The car's outside, Miss Ninotchka. Where are we off to tonight?'

‘All over,' she replied. ‘I feel in a party mood. Meet Nick, he's looking after me tonight.'

‘No Don?' asked Chas.

‘No. I've given him a holiday.'

Then it was Chas's turn to give me a good screw. This little firm certainly took their responsibilities seriously. He seemed to find me a little more reassuring than Don had. ‘All right, Miss Ninotchka, just as you like.'

I trailed after them outside to the black stretch limo that sat at the kerb. Chas smartly opened the rear door, and I followed Ninotchka into the back of the car. Chas got behind the wheel and Ninotchka touched a button that rolled down the glass divider between the driver's cab and the passenger compartment.

‘Remember that restaurant we went to the other night?'

‘Which one?'

‘The Korean.'

‘Sure.'

‘Let's go.'

Chas started the car, put it into gear and pulled slowly away. Ninotchka let the divider roll up again. She smiled at me and dipped her hand into her bag and came out with a DAT cassette. ‘I've just got the final mix of one of my songs on the album. Wanna hear it?'

‘Sure.'

She slid the tape into the player mounted in the bulk-head of the car. ‘It's an old Marc Bolan song,' she said. ‘See if you recognise it.'

The speakers clicked and the song started. I recognised it. It wasn't one of his best, but it was good. Ninotchka's voice was well up in the mix, there was a manic guitar break, and a steady, catchy, high-pitched riff from a Farfisa organ drove the song along. She laughed when the track finished. ‘That's great,' she said. ‘What do you think?'

‘Great,' I agreed.

‘Could be our new single,' she said.

‘It'll be a hit.'

‘I hope so. I used to know him.'

‘Who?'

‘Bolan.'

‘Did you?'

‘Yeah. He had a hit in the States with
Bang a Gong
and a whole bunch of us formed a glam-rock band in LA. The lead guitarist and I came over and found Marc. He was a funny little guy. Pretty as hell but
really
weird, but in a nice way, y'know?'

I nodded.

‘He took us out to dinner one night. It was a disaster. He always wore these little-girl shoes. He got them from Anello's. They were leather, with little heels and fastened with buttons. He told us that the English mod girls used to wear them in the sixties. He had about a hundred pairs, all colours. Trouble was, they had leather soles and heels. They were real slippy. We went to a restaurant on the King's Road. It was downstairs and Marc had had a bit to drink. The stairs were made of marble and he was walking behind me when he slipped and knocked me down, and I ended up on my ass in front of a whole restaurant full of people. I wasn't wearing
any
underwear. Boy, was I red! He was so mad he ran off and took the car, and I ended up in the middle of the street in the rain looking for a cab and crying my eyes out.'

‘What happened?' I asked.

‘I met a guy. We were together for three months. He picked me up in his car. Apparently Bolan, who's halfway home by this time, remembers me and gets his car turned around. He spent half the night driving round Chelsea looking for me.'

‘And?'

‘And I'm in bed with the guy I met.'

‘What happened to the lead guitarist?'

‘Met a guy too.'

‘The lead guitarist was a woman?'

‘No,' she said, and grinned. ‘Anyway, Bolan delivered a ton of flowers to our hotel the next morning. I phoned him up and he said, “I'll phone you right back, I'm writing my next hit. I'll write one for you in a minute”.'

‘Did he?'

‘Sure. We cracked the hundred with it about six months later. We were friends for years. I cried for a week when he died. He was coming over to visit. So doing that song on the album is just my way of letting him know I still care.' She pulled a mournful face, then looked through the window and her mood changed. ‘Hey, we're here.'

And we were. The restaurant was in Greek Street. Chas stopped the car outside, hopped out and opened the door for us. Ninotchka led the way in. The greeter ran across the room like he was on elastic. ‘Can we have a table?' asked Ninotchka. ‘We haven't booked.'

‘Of course, dear lady,' said the greeter who was a sixteen-stone Korean in a silk kimono. He started rapping out orders to the waiters who scuttled off to do as they were told. The greeter led us into the restaurant where the waiters were setting up a table next to an ornamental fountain. ‘Best table in the place,' said the greeter. ‘Private for conversation, but you can see who's in.' That had never been a priority in my book, but I nodded a thank you to him anyway.

We sat down like royalty and the waiters fussed around us. ‘They'll choose, I haven't got a clue what to order,' said Ninotchka. She told the waiter to bring a selection of food and she chose the wine. I was feeling more and more like a spare part.

We started with martini cocktails, which were nothing more than vermouth sluiced over ice then drained off and neat gin added. They tasted like freezing rocket fuel and had about the same effect. The food arrived with the wine just as we finished the aperitifs. We started with dumpling soup with side orders of beansprouts, cabbage, spinach, pickled cabbage and Chinese leaves. Some of the vegetables were cool on the tongue, and some were so hot as to produce tears. Next we got a beef dish with broccoli and hard-boiled eggs. Then ox tongue and a dip of seasoned sesame oil. And finally squid in sweet and sour sauce. Jesus, it was good. We pigged out completely. I asked Ninotchka if she was worried about her figure. She asked me if I was worried about it. I said no.

We finished with fresh fruit and coffee liqueurs. By that time it was about ten, and I knew as much about Ninotchka as her agent. She was good company, witty in a bitchy way, with a fund of scandalous stories about the rich and famous. She name-dropped outrageously. If she'd had an affair with the subject of a story she went as coy as hell. She often referred to herself in the third person, especially when talking about her singing or acting. She was as tough as an old boot, as shallow as a crispy pizza, as hard as a diamond, and as sexy as hell.

I liked her, but I reckoned Lomax had been dead right. She was a dangerous woman, but I was flattered at being with her and the glances we were getting from the other diners. Fame can be as addictive as any drug, and I was being fed a good taste. I loved it.

When we'd finished every scrap of food on the table, she asked: ‘Do you fancy a club?'

‘Sure.'

‘Great, I know just the place. It's right round the corner.'

I asked for the bill, but the greeter told me the meal was on the house. Ninotchka shrugged as if she expected nothing less. I took a mint for later.