Lovers and Gamblers (46 page)

‘No,’ said Edna flatly.

‘Why not?’ persisted Melanie. ‘Aren’t you bored? We’ve been stuck in this hotel for two days. I’m going out of my head, and fat chance
I’ve
got of getting taken anywhere without you and Al.’

‘Too bad.’

Melanie wasn’t sure she had heard Edna correctly. ‘Huh?’

‘I said too bad,’ snapped Edna. ‘I don’t care if you are bored.
I don’t care, Melanie
. You’re a selfish bitch. Yes – I said it – a bitch.’

‘Edna!’

‘Don’t Edna me. I wish I’d never let you talk me into this trip. If I hadn’t come here, none of this would have happened. I blame you, I really do, so don’t come whining to me because you’re bored.’

‘Thank you very much. I love you too.’

‘Just go away and leave me alone.’

‘A pleasure!’ Melanie flounced from the room, turning at the door to give a parting shot. ‘Fine thanks I get for making you look halfway decent instead of the frump you usually are.’

Edna ignored her. She didn’t care what she looked like. She just wanted Evan back.

* * *

The press were on to something. More of them than usual were at the Community Centre, milling around, getting in everyone’s way. With ‘Bad Black Alice’ being number one with a bullet, interest in Al was at its peak. The rock papers had all sent representatives in the hope of getting an exclusive interview.

Bernie had organized an informal party after the show just to keep the press happy. He hoped to persuade Al to give a mass interview – with maybe a promise of some exclusives for the more important papers the next day.

A thin girl from
Rolling Stone
kept on cornering him. ‘Word’s out Al’s son’s been abducted. True or false?’ she asked.

‘False,’ sweated Bernie. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Word’s around.’

Yeah. Fucking word would be around. All they needed was the rumour to make the papers to put the idea into those two freaks’ heads that they could get
money
for returning little Evan safe and sound.

The crowds were packing in. Al arrived in the company of Sutch. The photographers leapt forward.

What the fuck was he doing with
that
one? Bernie groaned. Out of the three Promises she was the wild one. Her husband was in jail on a drug bust, and she never set foot on stage unless she was out of her head on coke. The other two were angels in comparison to Sutch. Rosa, the lead singer, stuck with her mafioso boyfriend and kept to herself. Nellie was just a sweet little girl whom everyone loved.

Al strode into his dressing-room, swigged from the bottle of Jack Daniels set out and waiting for him.

‘Any news?’ he asked Bernie.

‘Paul’s on the phone now.’

‘Security good?’

‘The best.’

‘It better be. One more fuckup and I walk.’

Bernie scratched absently under an armpit. ‘If you could make a press conference tonight – after the show. I set up a party. Booze. Food. I think you should do it.’

‘If I feel like it,’ allowed Al.

If he felt like it. Who the fuck did he think he was all of a sudden? You never played superstar with the press if you wanted to stay up there. You kissed ass and sucked cock – metaphorically speaking, of course – although certain stars were not averse to doing the real thing if it kept their name in lights.

Rosa appeared at the door of the dressing-room. She ignored Al as she always did except when on stage.

‘Where’s Nellie?’ she directed at Bernie.

‘I don’t know. Where is she?’

‘
I’m
asking
you.
Didn’t a car go to fetch her?’ Rosa had taken to staying at different hotels on the tour and making her own travel arrangements. Her ‘boyfriend’ preferred it that way.

‘Yeah, of course. Didn’t she arrive with Sutch…?’ Bernie trailed off, remembering that Sutch had arrived with Al.

Rosa twitched her head angrily. ‘Find her, Bernie, we go on in twenty minutes. She’s probably sittin’ in the hotel waitin’ for Sutch.’

‘I’ll call the hotel. No panic.’

‘Sure, man, no panic. Only we don’t go on unless there’s three of us.’ She swept off.

Al had started to apply his make-up. Dark pancake base. Slight kohl emphasis on the eyes. He swigged continually from the liquor bottle.

Suddenly Bernie got that feeling. It slipped in under his gut, a nagging ache that warned him of trouble. Sweet shit… What the fuck… They’d soon be in LA. Couldn’t be soon enough for him.

* * *

Two days on the road and already Evan was feeling tired. Of course he was enjoying it, having a wonderful time. But didn’t either Plum or Glory ever think of taking a bath? And greasy hot dogs washed down with Coca Cola did not seem to be a very
balanced
diet. And when they were hitching, the two girls seemed prepared to climb into anything that stopped. What if a maniac stopped? A maniac all set to rape and murder all three of them. He had read dreadful things about what happened to hitch-hikers.

His arm still hurt. His bruises still hurt. And the novelty of being squashed in a sleeping bag alongside Glory was wearing off. She snored, and she never washed, and she was always stoned.

Also he noticed in panic in the mirror in a men’s room that his spots were getting worse. Soon his face would be one large red patch.

‘Why don’t we stay in a hotel tonight?’ he suggested.

‘
Come on,
’ laughed Plum. ‘Are you
serious
, man?’

‘Why not?’ he persisted. ‘We can afford it.’

‘We can?’ questioned Plum. ‘I’m holdin’ the bankroll, man, and we are almost busted.’

‘But what about my two hundred dollars and the other money we had?’

‘S’nearly gone.’ Plum was unconcerned by this fact.

‘How can it have?’

Plum fixed him with a mean look. ‘You want a written account? We
spent
it, man – like
used
it, y’know. Sleeping bags, food, an’ how do you think Glory’s bin payin’ f’all the goodies she’s scored?’

He didn’t argue further. But he thought with a certain longing of a warm bed, a juicy steak, and a hot bath.

They were riding in the back of a truck and Glory, asleep in a huddle, suddenly awoke. ‘Where are we?’ she asked, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

‘Who knows?’ snapped Plum. ‘I’m gettin’ a big heavy question session ’bout where all the bread’s gone.’

‘Yeah?’ Glory was not really interested. She was reaching in her jeans’ pocket and digging out some pills. She stuffed several in her own mouth and then offered the remaining few to her friends. Plum shook her head. Evan took two, swallowed them. Without water they stuck in his throat, but he knew they would eventually dissolve and then he would feel better – much better.

* * *

‘You motha fucker!’ screamed Rosa at Al. ‘You stinkin’ motha-fucking sonofabitch!’

Bernie had called the hotel to locate Nellie. The car was still out front waiting for her. There was no answer from her room. An assistant manager at the hotel had been dispatched to her room with a pass key. He had found her on the bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood. She was still alive, but barely. At the same time that Bernie was being informed on the phone an ambulance was rushing to the hotel.

Within five minutes Nellie was receiving emergency treatment on her way to the hospital.

Bernie had broken the news to Rosa who had gone mad with fury. She had stormed into Al’s dressing-room and started screaming at him.

Assorted news media gathered in a fascinated group outside the door.

‘Pig!’ screamed Rosa. ‘If it wasn’t for you… You white piece of shit! You hear me, prick –
you hear me!
’

‘The whole of Tucson hears you!’ intervened Bernie. ‘Please, Rosa, it’s not Al’s fault.’

She shook free. ‘Don’t give me
that
shit. Ever since the day that mothafucker crept into her bed, she ain’t been the same girl. She
loves
him – this piece of white crap – she
loves
him. The kid lived for a look – a smile. I could
kill
him.’ She sprang suddenly, like a pouncing tiger, all red sequin dress and clawing fingers.

Bernie dragged her off Al, who just sat there staring at himself in the mirror.

‘Enough,’ said Bernie, holding her against his massive bulk.

She went limp in his arms. ‘Get me a car to the hospital,’ she muttered, ‘and get me out of the sight of that mothafucking prick.’

Bernie half carried her from the room and back to her dressing-room.

Sutch had her head cradled on the dressing table and was sobbing. Make-up ran in colourful rivers down her face.

‘I’ll arrange a car,’ said Bernie. He didn’t feel too good himself. Nellie had been everyone’s favourite. ‘What about the show?’

‘Fuck the show!’ spat Rosa. ‘Let superprick do it on his own. I ain’t never sharing a stage with him again as long as I live!’

* * *

A little more scotch. Gargle. Spit out. Got to do the show alone. So what? Why not? He was the star, for chrissakes. He was the one they had all piled in to see. Al King. Number one with a bullet. Number fucking one.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Paul.

‘Sure,’ laughed Al. Why shouldn’t he laugh?

It wasn’t
his
fault some silly little girl had slit her wrists. It
wasn’t
his fault – no matter what anyone said. So he had given her one. So what? If all the girls he had ever given one to slit their wrists… He laughed. Jesus! What a sight. There wouldn’t be room for them in all the hospitals!

He went to swig from the scotch bottle again but it was empty. Empty! Would you believe that? A star with an empty bottle.

‘Hey, Paul – bring another bottle.’

‘You’ve had enough, you’re going on in five minutes.’

‘Don’t tell me I’ve had enough.’

‘You’ve drunk the
whole bottle
yourself, goddammit.’

And another half bottle with Sutch. And two fine joints. And a touch of coke to keep him in peak condition. And some pretty good fucking. Just like old times. Why hadn’t he discovered Sutch earlier?

‘More, Paul,’ he demanded, and he stood up and the room swayed. But that was OK. The room had rhythm – just like him. He laughed aloud. Paul’s worried face swam before him.

‘Point me to the stage,’ he demanded. ‘Wait a minute – gotta piss.’ He unzipped his fly and let out a stream of urine in the general direction of the wall.

‘Al!’ Paul turned to Bernie. ‘He’ll never make it. We’ll have to cancel the show.’

‘Cancel and we got ourselves a riot,’ pointed out Bernie.

‘The show muss go on…’ slurred Al.

‘Let’s get him on and let’s get it over with,’ said Paul quickly.

Bernie shrugged. What the fuck… It wasn’t his funeral.

* * *

Evan awoke stiff and uncomfortable. He wriggled out of the sleeping bag and surveyed his surroundings.

The girls had got them all invited to a party in an empty house. When the party had finished they had stayed on, utilizing the bare floorboards as a home for the night. Some party. A lot of drugged people swopping partners. Evan had huddled miserably in a corner. He did not want to join in. He did not feel like one of them.

Glory had jeered at him – ‘Poor little baby mommy’s boy,’ she had taunted. ‘Frightened to show his pee pee!’

Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to have decided to travel to Los Angeles with them. His parents never taunted him – never. They were a pain – but from what he had heard all parents were the same.

He prowled around the empty, depressing house, and his thoughts turned to bacon and eggs, sizzling sausages, and hot coffee. His stomach grumbled with hunger. He had eleven dollars. If he didn’t wake the girls, that would be enough to buy himself a decent breakfast. He glanced at his watch. It was only eight a.m. and the girls never stirred until ten at the earliest – wherever they were sleeping.

He pulled on his jeans and crept from the house. He didn’t even know what town he was in, but he set resolutely off, and within two blocks spotted a drug store.

He took a stool at the counter, and was just about to study the menu when the headline of the newspaper on the rack caught his eye. ‘AL KING SENSATION’ it screamed in heavy black newsprint.

* * *

The show was a near-miss disaster. Somehow Al managed to stagger his way through it. A performance punctuated with raging expletives, half-forgotten lyrics, and general sloppiness.

The screaming fans prevented themselves from seeing the real truth. But the press were there with their pencils sharpened.

The worst point was when Al fell. Sprawled happily in front of thousands of people, gave them the V sign, and staggered back on to his feet. There was almost a moment when Paul thought Al might repeat his bizarre performance in the dressing-room, and pee all over the audience with the famous King Cock. But he restrained himself, albeit reluctantly.

Once off stage he was wrapped in towels and rushed to the hotel where Paul had a doctor waiting to see him. The doctor examined him and pronounced him on the verge of a complete breakdown.

‘Bullshit!’ screamed Al. ‘Bring on the girls!’

The doctor injected him with a sedative and warned Paul that he should have complete rest for at least a month. ‘Impossible,’ Paul muttered under his breath. He knew Al was as strong as a horse. But there had been a lot of additional strain. The bomb. The riot. Edna’s arrival. Evan’s disappearance. Nellie’s suicide attempt. He wished that Linda was around to discuss things with. She had a habit of always coming up with the right decision.

Maybe he
should
cancel a few of the concerts. Give Al a rest. After all, going on like he had tonight was going to do him no good at all. And they did have to replace The Promises. Even if Nellie recovered – and it was touch and go at the moment – she wouldn’t be able to work again for months. Besides, Rosa had threatened never to appear with Al again.

Maybe if he cancelled all the gigs before Los Angeles that would give Al a break – enough to get himself together. He could always do the cancelled gigs later – something could be worked out. Yeah – that might be the answer. With the single at number one it wouldn’t do Al any harm – and Jesus – the state he was in, it could only do him good.