Susan Phillips - Glitter Baby

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.

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.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered.

Stu heard her. “We’re all hoping they don’t speak English. That way we won’t have to talk to them, too.”

“That’s disgusting!”

“It’s rock and roll, kid. Rockers are kings as long as they can stay on top.” Stu put his arm around a frizzy-haired blonde and headed toward the elevators. Before he got in, he called back to her. “Stick close to Barry. He told me he likes you. And check the IDs on those girls who went with Frank. They looked young to me, and I don’t want any more trouble with the police. Then get hold of that freakin’ Kissy and make sure she meets us in Munich tomorrow. Tell her we’ll pay her two fifty a week.”

“Hey, that’s fifty more than I’m getting!”

“You’re expendable, kid.” The elevator doors slid shut.

She slumped against a pillar. The world of rock and roll.

It was one o’clock in the morning, and she was exhausted. She was going to forget about Frank and his groupies. They probably deserved each other. She was going to forget about Barry and his stupid Kissy, and she was going to bed. In the morning she’d tell Parker he’d been right about her. She couldn’t handle the job.

But when the doors closed on the elevator, she found herself punching in the floor of Frank LaPorte’s suite.

The two girls with him checked out, so she said a polite good-night and left them. She took the elevator up another floor to Barry’s suite. As she dragged her body down the hallway, she thought of the beautiful hotel room waiting for her. Hot water, clean sheets, and heat.

The guard let her in, and she was relieved to see that everybody still had clothes on. The three girls, none of whom looked particularly happy, were playing cards. Barry was stretched out on the couch watching television. His face lit up when he saw her. “Hey, Fleur, I was just getting ready to call your room. I thought you forgot.” He grabbed his wallet from the coffee table and riffled through it for a scrap of paper he shoved toward her. “Here’s Kissy’s number. How ’bout calling her from your room. I gotta get some sleep. And take two of those bimbos with you when you leave.”

She clenched her teeth. “Any two in particular?”

“I don’t know. Whichever ones speak English, I guess.”

Fifteen minutes later, Fleur let herself into her own hotel room. She undressed and stared wistfully at her bed, then picked up the telephone. As she waited for the call to go through, she glanced at the scrap of paper in her hand. Kissy Sue Christie. Lord.

A voice answered on the fifth ring. It was distinctly Southern and very angry. “Barry, I swear to God…”

“It’s not Barry,” Fleur said quickly. “Miss Christie?”

“Yes.”

“This is Fleur, the new road secretary for Neon Lynx.”

“Did Barry get you to call me?”

“Actually…”

“Never mind. Just deliver a message.” In a soft, breathy voice that oozed generations of ladylike Southern breeding, Kissy Sue Christie reeled off a list of instructions, the majority of which concerned Barry Noy and his anatomy. The contrast between her voice and the obscene instructions was too much for Fleur, and she laughed. The sound echoed in her ears, rusty and unfamiliar, like a nearly forgotten song.

“Am I amusin’ you?” the voice asked with a Southern chill.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s really late, and I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. And…you’re saying everything I’ve been thinking all day. The man is-”

“-toad spit,” Kissy Sue concluded.

Fleur laughed again, then got hold of herself. “I apologize for calling so late. I was under orders.”

“It’s okay. What’s Stu offering now to get me to come over? Last time it was two hundred a week.”

“It’s up to two fifty now.”

“No kidding. Shoot, I’d love to go to Europe, too. I even have some vacation time coming up. The only places I’ve seen outside South Carolina are New York and Atlantic City, but to tell you the truth, Fleur, I’d swear off men completely before I ever went to bed with Barry Noy again.”

Fleur settled back on the bed and thought it over. “You know, Kissy, there just might be a way…”

Fleur’s wake-up call came at six-thirty the next morning. She waited for the familiar heaviness to settle over her, but it didn’t come. She’d barely had four hours of sleep, but it had been deep and restful. No pitching and tossing. No sudden heart pounding. No dreams about the people she used to love. She felt…

Competent.

She settled back into the pillows and tried the idea on for size. She had a terrible job. The people were awful-spoiled, rude, and blatantly immoral-but she’d survived her first day and done a good job. Better than good. She’d done a great job. They hadn’t thrown anything at her she hadn’t been able to handle, including Barry Noy. She was going to show Parker Dayton…