The Devil You Know (45 page)

Matrix and Wrecking Ball. Two heavy metal groups, ‘hair bands’ as they called them - longhaired boys with a taste for spandex, girls, and making money. Both had been poached by Poppy from previous management, and she had already booked them on bigger tours and supervised new videos that were getting play on MTV. Both bands loved their young, hot-chick manager, who was as hard and canny as any grizzled old veteran.

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To Dani, Poppy was a rising star herself. The public had its idols:

Def Leppard, Guns n’ Roses, Madonna, New Kids on the Block. You name it. But the record business had its own stars. Giants, moguls who wheeled and dealed and controlled millions of dollars, the fate of labels, of stadiums, of radio networks. DaM’s heroes weren’t Michael Jackson or Prince; they were David Geffen, Mutt Lange, Quincy Jones, Peter Mensch, Cliff Burnstein, Bill Graham and Michael Krebs. Women to look up to were in short supply. Who was there, really? Lisa Anderson in London? Sharon Osbourne? Rowena Gordon at Musica Records, for sure.

And Poppy Allen? Well, not yet. One star and two hot newcomers didn’t make her Q-Prime. But Poppy was making waves.

Dani was tired of going nowhere fast. She wanted to make waves

too.

‘And why should I hire you, exactly?’ Poppy Allen asked her.

l:uck it, Dani thought.

‘Because I have experience. Eight years of it. Because I’m so

bored and frustrated at RCA that I’m ripping my hair out. Because I want to work, and most of them just want to get to meet Travis Jackson so they can luck hiD.’ Her interviewer grinned. ‘And because I’m not someone who’s gonna be jealous of you because you’re twenty-three and skinny as hell and you’re making it. I’m not gonna give you a hard time when you ask me to get you coffee. And because I want to impress you so you promote me.’

‘The .job doesn’t pay that much,’ Poppy Allen said.

‘I don’t give a shit,’ Dani said, adding hastily, ‘Ms Allen.’ Poppy looked at the other woman. She was dumpy, wearing way too much black, and she had glasses with hip black frames, kind of a New York vibe, and she was older than the other candidates by a lot.

‘You’re hired,’ she said.

Dani was intense. And that was what Poppy was looking for.

Right now, however, she knew Dani was faking it. Her fixed

smile as she looked round Opium’s new home masked a kind of

horrified glare. Poppy smiled.

‘You’re thinking it’s not very fancy:’

‘Fancy? I’ve seen fancier crack dens,’ Dani said. ‘Man! Are you

shitting me?’

They were standing in a former warehouse in a back street off

Vine. The place had huge, grimy windows festooned with spiders’

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webs, a couple of abandoned orange crates used for packing, cigarette butts and broken glass on the gloomy floor, and a rank smell of old stale sweat and urine.

‘Who the luck is the landlord?’ Dani demanded. ‘You should sue, Ms Allen.’

‘It’s Poppy. You always swear like that?’

‘Army brat,’ Dani said succinctly.

Poppy liked her more and more. ‘Do me a favour. Just don’t say “luck” when record company presidents call up. They’re old fat farts and we don’t wanna be responsible for any heart attacks.’

‘You got it, Ms Allen. But you really need to cancel this lease.’ ‘It’s Poppy, and there is no lease.’

‘We’re going to run the office month to month?’

‘No. There’s no lease because there’s no landlord. I own the joint. Got it for sixty thousand bucks.’

Wow.’

Poppy looked at her assistant, who seemed to be literally biting her cheeks in order to keep silent.

‘You have to be polite to the record company, not to me. What were you thinking?’

‘That you only paid fifty-nine thousand, nine hundred and niety

dollars too much.’

Poppy laughed …..

‘Listen, lesson one, OK? The first rule of being in business is to keep the costs down. Hire only the staff you need, and limit expenses. Especially management. Now I own the building, there’s not going to be a rent, except what I charge myself for the tax deduction. And this place is going to be the fanciest joint in LA when we’re done.’ She grabbed Dani’s plump shoulders and gestured. ‘Big windows, once we’ve cleaned them. Lots of light. Lots of space, too. Ample electrical points, and there’s a bathroom over there, shower and everything. We’ll buy some lamps, some couches

and desks from a discounter’s … you’ll see, it’ll be awesome.’ ‘But there’re only two of us,’ Dani protested.

‘Right now there’s only two of us.’ Poppy winked. ‘Wait and see.

This is gonna be huge.’

Dani believed her.

‘Here.’ Poppy tossed her the phone. ‘First job: call an industrial cleaner and get them over here. This place stinks.’

It took two weeks for them to get Opium Management the way

they wanted it. But when they vcere finished, it was spectacular. The whole building was painted a dark red, and on the black door they hand-painted a giant poppy, hot-looking, with its cluster of dark seeds at the centre. The warehouse was disinfected and swept, and Poppy laid cheap, functional linoleum over the ground, but it was chocolate-brown, and it looked kind of designer under their creamcoloured furniture. Poppy invested about fifteen thousand more to bring the building up to date; it wiped out her early commissions from Travis’s first tour, but so what? She got cheap partitions of glass, telephones, two fax machines, computers, everything. Cream couches with chocolate brown throws and a modern kitchenette completed the place.

Dani loved it. ‘It looks like that apartment on The Real World. But it’s still too big.’

Poppy winked. ‘Nope. I rented half the space out already, to an indie production company and a fashion designer. We’re gonna give the Opium Building a reputation. Hot and happening. Like the company.’

Dani wanted to scoff. The Opium Building! Poppy Allen was an egomaniac!

But a little voice inside her head told her that this wasn’t true; that Poppy was a genius.

She was awfully glad to have this job.

Dani found her first month at Opium indescribably thrilling. Poppy’s energy was contagious. She worked so hard and so passionately, it was tiring just watching her.

Poppy was working the phones every day. Dani’s call sheet looked like it belonged to President Bush. There were record companies, tour promoters, press guys, radio, TV, MTV, Nashville, you name

it. She also took calls from wives, mistresses, and groupies.

‘Kind of sleazy, isn’t it?’

‘Just remember, we’re not here to run our acts’ personal lives. Their morality is their business.’ Poppy shook her head. ‘Just deliver the messages. Look, Dani. I’m a woman, and these boys are all … well … boys. Last thing they want is me spoiling the party.’

Dani got the message. Travis, Matrix and Wrecking Ball got theirs.

They started out with Travis’s platinum album hanging in pride of place in Poppy’s office. By the end of the month, Travis had three more, Matrix’s gold record had turned platinum, and Poppy even

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hung Wrecking Ball’s first silver disc up over Dani’s kldney-snapea desk.

‘That should be in your office,’ Dani said.

Poppy shook her head. ‘You’re part of this now.’ She grabbed the copy of Billboard that lay open by Dani’s phone and flicked to the Hot zoo, picking up a pencil.

‘Exactly what are you looking for?’ Dani asked.

‘Targets,’ Poppy said. ‘Targets.’

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‘Any messages?’

Poppy stood in front of the receptionist at the Four Seasons, New Orleans, and swayed gently, like a willow sapling in a strong wind. She was running on bare fumes; her gas had drained out about six hours ago.

It was the penultimate stop on the Travis Jackson tour. They had called it ‘Bluejeans Bluegrass’, and every stop had been a sell-out. Poppy had had to deal with more problems than Napoleon on his march into the Russian winter. There was an ineffective tour manager, a girl, whom she’d fired and who was now threatening to sue for sexism; there were two paternity suits from sweet young things not famed for the strength of their knicker elastic, as the English longhairs used to say; there were promoters who tried to rip her off, thinking she was as green as they came; there were predatory scouts from the really big agencies, offering her protg the moon; there were even roadies who demanded she blow them to stay backstage, because they were local help who thought she was just another eager groupie. That was right before they got fired, but it still left Poppy feeling weakened.

Travis was loyal, thankfully. She wondered if her presence on tour had tempted Savannah, the threesome of cute blonde sisters she’d booked as support. They were being managed by their father, and he was grossly incompetent. Poppy wanted them. She thought they were close; by the time they hit Dallas, she thought they’d be asking her if she had room in her stable for more.

Dallas. Oh man. Another 6 a.m. start. Sometimes Poppy thought it was hardly worth going to bed. But right now, she couldn’t see straight.

‘Actually, yes, ma’am.’

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Poppy held out a manicured hand. Please let it not be somebody needing to be bailed out.

She was handed a piece of paper. It said, ‘If you’re interested, I’m in 2oi. Enjoyed the show. H.L.’

The tiredness was suddenly gone from her brain, like somebody had brushed away thick cobwebs from a pane of glass. She grabbed her key and headed for the elevators.

Henry LeClerc. That was a blast from the past, Poppy told herself. It had been over a year since New York …

Over a year. Damn. She actually hadn’t had sex for a year. Hadn’t even really thought about it, she’d been so busy.

That’s not true, said a small, persistent voice in her head. You thought about it plenty. But you wanted Henry, and you were too goddam proud to call him.

And now he was here. The Honorable Gentleman from Louisiana. Paying her a visit when she came to his hometown.

Poppy punched the second-floor button. When the elevator doors hissed open, she hesitated until they slid shut on her again. Then, feeling utterly miserable, she hit eight. ” ,

Her room was small, unexciting. Travis had the penthouse sure, of course. One thing Poppy had learned from the masters was thlt acts noticed everything you did. Your room was charged to their promo bill, after all, and if managers indulged themselves with ensuite jacuzzis and room-service caviar, they noticed, and they didn’t like it.

Her bed was a twin, she had a nice bathroom, and a view of the wall of the next-door building. There was a basket of fruit; this was the Four Seasons, after all. There were also three dozen red roses. Poppy picked them up. The card just said ‘Henry’.

She dropped them in the wastebasket and headed for the shower.

Water sluiced over her, washing the grime and dirt of the night away. The best deodorant, the most fragrant Hermes perfume, nothing could stop the clinging smell of sweat, beer, and cigarettes from clinging to Poppy’s tailored Armani jeans and little black silk tees. She used Origins Mint wash, it made her feel clean; and always washed and conditioned her hair with custom-blended shampoos and conditioners from Vidal Sassoon.

Tonight her ritual did nothing for her. Her exhausted mind was racing. She wanted him so badly she felt she could faint.

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But he’d turned up, after no calls, no letters, no contact. For a motherfucking booty call. Poppy had spent a year trying not to think about Henry LeClerc, and now here he was, with an arrogant note with his room number on it and some shitty roses. Like that made everything OK.

I’m not going to call him, Poppy thought. I’m not. I’m not. She suddenly felt more tired than she had ever felt before. Bone weary. Her career was blossoming, and she loved it; but her love life . . that rock musician who’d dumped her after a sleazy motel luck, that boring record company executive, a couple of others who hadn’t lasted a month. And now Henry. She had thought there was a psychic connection, but he hadn’t even bothered to ring her.

Poppy ached for him. But she knew that if she called him she’d be no better than the girls who waited for Travis, buzzing like flies around the backstage door and most of them.just as dirty. Yeah, it was a double standard: Travis and his back-up band screwed everything that moved, and that was expected; even the roadies got laid. But she knew what the men thought of those chicks.

Whores. Sluts. At best, forgettable recreation for an hour or two. Was that what Henry LeClerc thought of her? The naive twenty something, falling for the soph, isticated older man? The JAP from LA bowled over by all that slick Southern champ? Maybe he thought she’d be flattered that he was here, that she’d at least remembered who he was.

How could she forget?

Her skin still recalled every second. She felt her nipples tighten,

betraying her, her groin stir, as though feathers had brushed across it. Poppy gazed longingly at the phone.

Then she climbed into bed and went to sleep.

When she woke up, the nasty buzzing of the phone had her feet on the floor and her covers tossed back in two seconds. On the road, you responded to phones like Pavlov’s dog to a bell. Poppy hastily dressed and zipped up her small, compact case. Everything was done in less than twenty minutes, including a quick shower.

She was ready before the rest of the crew. Poppy preferred to stay in control that way. She was calling Dani on her cell as she ran downstairs; often that was faster than waiting for a lift.

When she reached the front desk Poppy handed her key over, then qukly scanned the pigeon-holes behind reception. 201 was right there.

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‘I see Henry LeClerc checked out,’ she said, her heart thudding.

‘That’s right, ma’am.’ The suit behind the desk glanced at his

computer. ‘The Congressman checked out at ten past seven.’ Poppy nodded. ‘Did he leave me any message?’