Devil You Know Page 6

  But her father was a man with a broken spirit, and Rose became obsessed with putting it back together again.

  Her grades went to pot. All the subjects she’d loved at school suddenly seemed like a big waste of time. English—who cared? History was the past. Geography … even math.… Rose just did not care. She was never likely to travel abroad, and as for math, today there were calculators and computers. None of this garbage mattered.

  What mattered was money.

  William Rothstein had taught her that.

  Rose thought about him every day. And not just him; about the soft carpets, the rich woods, the blond, twenty-something secretary. The toys that money bought him and his firm. And the power. The ability to take twenty years of someone’s hard work, expertise in their field, and a loyal customer-base, and just throw it away.

  Money had paid for that lawyers’ letter. Money had bought off the NYPD. Money greased the wheels at City Hall and got the press off your back. When Rothstein had said that to her, she had believed it.

  Fuck school, Rose thought bitterly, using language in her head her father would have belted her for if she’d ever said it aloud. What she needed was money. She wanted a place her father could not be thrown out of, and a home they owned themselves. A place with a garden in the back, where her father could grow his tomatoes.

  Well, she was going to get it. And she was going to get it from real estate.

  If that sniveling little shit Rothstein could do it, so could she.

  Five

  Poppy turned into the guesthouse’s drive and parked the car. She thanked all the rock ’n’ roll gods her parents owned this place, near Sunset, keeping it for their maid, somewhere she could stash her ride and not worry it would get stolen. Nobody was home except the housekeeper; she could see Conchita’s Mercedes station wagon in the garage, the one she sometimes got picked up from school in. Quickly she got out, before she could be seen, and ducked out into the base of the Hollywood Hills. Conchita probably wouldn’t rat her out, but why take the chance?

  The guesthouse was a spacious bungalow without much of a view, but with a fantastic little garden instead—Daddy had installed a small fountain, imported from Italy, to go with the bougainvillea and thick climbing roses over the fence. The scent of flowers was so intense there that it almost muffled the smell of gasoline fuel and smog. Of course, the best thing about the guesthouse from Poppy’s point of view was that it was close enough to the Strip to walk.

  Poppy clip-clipped her way two blocks south to where the Hyatt stood, tall and boringly functional. There were always cabs parked out front. She got into one and told him to take her down to the Rainbow.

  “But that’s only—”

  Poppy flung ten bucks at him. “I know, but I don’t wanna walk.”

  “You got it,” the guy said, pulling out.

  Poppy grinned. Like they said in Spinal Tap, money talked and bullshit walked.

  Excitement crackled through her. She’d made it. The late summer sun was sinking behind the glossy towers of Sunset Strip, and she could see a few hookers right over there, too close to the chichi hotels for the doormen to feel comfortable—the cops would be along in a second—and over there, the first knot of metal-heads, dudes in jeans and black leather jackets with mullets, or long straight hair down to their asses, and a few Mötley Crüe–style glamsters—the guys with lipstick had to travel in packs, or they’d get beaten up. The girls kicked ass, too. You had punk chicks and biker chicks and then you had the L.A. babes—dudettes, as KNAC called them—girls with sprayed-on black pants, low-slung studded belts, fingerless lace gloves, and platinum-blond hair teased up to the sky. The ones who couldn’t get implants got padded, push-up bras. Every chick had lip-liner, red talons, and tons of attitude.

  Poppy loved it. She couldn’t wait. She wondered who was playing tonight. Even the shittiest gig offered possibility; getting drunk, hanging out, flirting with the boys. Even better, flirting with the band. Poppy’s wet dreams all involved Jon Bon Jovi and Rick Savage, and sometimes even Ad Rock from the Beastie Boys. It was cooler to like Slayer, but Poppy didn’t care. Really hard metal made her ears bleed. But it was still cool to go to those gigs, too; you were part of the heavy metal brotherhood, and you got to piss off Debbie Gibson fans. Which had to be a good thing in anybody’s book.

  The cab screeched to a halt outside the club. Poppy stepped out and shook her long, carefully highlighted honey-blond hair.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “What’s up, sugar?”

  “Lookin’ fine…”

  Poppy pretended not to hear the calls of appreciation as she walked into the crowd, but she bit back a tiny smile. Somebody saw it, and a storm of wolf-whistles followed her up the line to get in.

  The bouncer on the door saw it and beckoned to her.

  Poppy raised one delicately arched brow and put her manicured nails over her boobs, which were looking even bigger in the push-up bra she had crammed them into, her low-cut top revealing generous amounts of cleavage. She pressed her hand to them, as if to say, Me?

  “Yeah, you, sweetcakes.”

  The bouncer looked her up and down, taking in the glorious tits, the pale eyes and tanned skin, the expensive highlights, the black miniskirt, the high-heeled ankle boots, and fishnet stockings. Together with that pretty face and soft teenage skin, she was a little slice of metal heaven. She looked like she belonged in a Cinderella video.

  The girl walked toward him in a confident way. Usually girls would come up deferentially, desperate for a pass or a ticket or just to avoid being thrown out. Not this kid. He didn’t have respect for her, of course; wasn’t his way with girls; he just liked the looks of her.

  “You’re on the list,” he said.

  Poppy rewarded him with a stunning smile, displaying perfectly white, straight teeth that were the result of eighteen months with the best orthodontist in Bel Air.

  “Hey, thanks,” she said.

  “Hey, fuck that, man.” One of the Hell’s Angel biker dudes at the front of the line growled with fury. “You didn’t even check her name. You don’t even know her name.”

  The bouncer stared him down. He worked out on Muscle Beach and he could take any drunk-ass biker.

  “Her name’s Baby,” he said.

  Poppy started to pull out her fake ID.

  “You don’t need that.” He winked at her, and Poppy smiled back. This was what made her feel sexy and alive, little tributes to her beauty like this. One of the dirty, unmade-up biker chicks started to call her a bitch. Poppy tossed her hair and walked into the club.

  Some people—her parents included—would call it crazy and dangerous for a girl to be out on the Sunset Strip alone. Especially a Bel Air Jewish princess like Poppy. But they were wrong, Poppy thought. It was all about the care and feeding of men’s egos. Once, Poppy had been in the front row at a Bad Brains gig and the mosh pit was so intense she thought she might get crushed. She’d turned a sweet smile on the guys behind her, and they had put their arms either side of her on the stage lip, creating a little pocket of protected space for her.

  The club was packed. Condensation literally dripped off the walls; kids packed in together, sweat on foreheads, jackets consigned to the cloakroom. The girls did better than the dudes; they could peel off layers of clothing. Maybe it was designed to have just that effect. Poppy’s eyes flickered over tonight’s crowd, seeing all the girls in just their lacy bras, some of them with marker pen marks across the creamy flesh. The adrenaline crackling through her kicked up a notch. Roadies were scurrying across the club stage, pulling away equipment, setting up other stuff. Plastic cups and other trash were scattered across the floor. Obviously one band had already left the stage, and another was coming on. That was OK—support bands usually sucked. Poppy walked up to the bar.

  “Hey, cutie,” the bartender said.

  He recognized Poppy. She was in here often enough, busting the legal drinking age, but hey, it was the Eighties, who didn’t? A
nyway, girls like her should be drunk. It gave you a better shot with them. Although a fox like this one had to have some big-ass metal-head boyfriend hanging around.

  “Jack and Diet Coke,” she said, with not quite enough bravado to pull it off.

  “Coming right up,” he agreed anyway.

  Poppy took a seat at the bar and sipped at her icy drink. Oh, man, this was heaven. All the sexy dudes with their long hair and muscles … not that she ever wanted to do anything with them. She was way too young. She was saving herself for something other than a one-night stand, even if they were cool and rock ’n’ roll.

  These boys were strictly eye-candy.

  But this was her scene. Her crowd, her people, her brotherhood. It might not have been the Sixties, but there was a vibe here that her parents and Tipper Gore and the PMRC, the suburban moms’ pressure group that agitated to ban metal stars and their R-rated lyrics, would never understand. To Poppy’s shame, her own mom had actually joined the PMRC. But it wasn’t all about Satan, it was all about fun. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. What the hell was wrong with that?

  She thought music beat the shit out of the film business. Poppy took another slug of the fiery spirit, cool to her mouth, but burning her throat. Mom would freak when she told her she wanted to quit her acting lessons. When would they get it? She wanted to be a rock star, not some boring old actress. Going to auditions and whining at an agent, no thanks. Poppy wanted to found an all-girl rock band and get out there, banging her blond hair all over the place and toting her ax around. Or maybe she’d be a bassist. Bassists were cool, because they had a lot less to play, so they could move all over the stage. Ideally, Poppy wanted to be a lead singer, but despite Mrs. Teischbaum’s singing lessons, she unfortunately had a voice only marginally better than a frog with a particularly hoarse croak.

  “And now…”

  The lights dimmed. A huge roar went up from the crowd, who were punching the air at the MC and making “devil” sounds.

  “Please welcome—Dark Angel!”

  *

  Dark Angel started to play.

  They had charged on to rapturous cheering, fists thrust skyward, a surge in the club to the lip of the stage, girls pressing forward, arms outstretched in supplication. The lights played on them, red and blue and gold, and the band blasted into the first tune.

  Poppy was enraptured. She gulped at her drink, mesmerized. She was too late to get a good position in the crowd, so she stayed where she was, where she had a good view. Oh, man. They were all gorgeous, and they rocked. They sounded nothing like the average hair band, but they weren’t hardcore thrash metal.

  They were new, and different, and … incredible.

  And they knew it, too. Look at the way the lead singer strutted over his tiny space as though he were headlining Madison Square Garden. The guitarists were flirting with the squealing chicks in the front row, and the bassist …

  He was tall and skinny and had cool rock-star pants with glitter on them, and a bandanna, and he stroked that bass suggestively, lovingly. He had almond eyes and flowing black hair, he was smooth-chested and Byronic, and she wanted him. Most of the other girls were creaming themselves over the singer, some over one of the guitarists. But Poppy liked that dark, mysterious look. She sat up on her stool and maneuvered herself under one of the small round lights over the bar, and over the heads of the crowd she looked right at him.

  And he saw her.

  His eyes flickered her way, up and across the blond hair, the push-up bra, the hand-span waist, the rock-chick outfit. Poppy felt a wave of heat pulse through her, centering in her belly. She was always being checked out by men, but never by men she fancied. The way the guy was assessing her felt as though his eyes were peeling off her clothes. She felt exposed, and it was hot.

  She couldn’t help it. She dropped her gaze.

  When she looked back up, the bassist was still staring at her. Like he’d been waiting for her to look at him again. He’d totally caught her.

  Poppy flushed crimson, not that anyone could see it in the club. Her lips parted.

  He grinned, and gave her a slow, deliberate wink.

  Poppy’s hand shot up to her mouth. The heat in her belly spread little tendrils all over her skin. Her nipples hardened into tiny little buds. She backed her stool out of the light, she couldn’t take it. He looked away, swinging his bass out over the crowd, running to the other side of the stage.

  The bartender behind her chuckled.

  “I guess he likes you,” he said. “Can’t blame him.”

  Poppy turned to him eagerly. “What’s that guy’s name?”

  “Ricardo Perez,” he said. “I think they call him Rick.”

  “Rick,” Poppy repeated, as though it were somehow magical and fascinating. She had to get to meet him.

  She took another, deeper slug of her Jack Daniel’s. The alcohol relaxed her, made her feel confident. Poppy gazed at the stage, lost in the music and the lights, staring at Rick, fantasizing, hoping he’d glance her way again.

  *

  By the time Dark Angel got off stage after their second encore, and the lights went up, she had found the backstage door. It wasn’t too hard … there was a gaggle of chicks thronging around it, pleading with a stone-faced bouncer, squealing and jumping up and down and touching up their hair and makeup.

  “Are you all waiting for autographs?” Poppy asked.

  A razor-thin platinum blonde with large fake boobs looked her over witheringly. “Yeah, that’s it … autographs,” she said derisively.

  The other girls tittered at Poppy for being so naïve.

  “Will they come out?” she asked the security guard.

  He looked down at her blankly. “Dunno.”

  “Come on, baby,” one of the bleach-blondes wheedled, jiggling her tits at him. “I was, like, totally meant to be on the list. You should let me back, it’s just a mix-up…”

  “Name?” the security guard said in a bored manner.

  “Trixie Campbell,” she pouted.

  He scanned a sheet of paper. “Your name’s not down, you can’t come in.”

  “Hey, come on…”

  The door was opened just a crack from inside. The girls all started to scream hysterically.

  “Zach! Zaaaaach! Pete! Carl! Rick! Jason! Aaaah! Aaaah!”

  The singer’s face poked out half an inch, grinning. The girls thrust bits of paper at him.

  “Sign this!”

  “Will you sign my boob?” Trixie said, pulling down her top to reveal a rock-hard pair in a black lace bra.

  Poppy was shocked, but tried not to show it.

  “Sure, honey,” the singer said. He was armed with a black marker pen and scrawled something on her flesh while she cooed and giggled. One of the guitarists started to do the same thing.

  “Pete, can I come back? Can I come back?” a fiery redhead pleaded abjectly. She wasn’t all that good-looking, too much ass for the minuscule skirt she was wearing.

  The guitarist shook his head. “It’s a bit crowded back there, sorry, OK?”

  Poppy blushed crimson and hung back, uncertainly. She felt out of her depth. She’d never tried to go backstage before, and she didn’t want to show her tits in public nor to beg for access. She hovered on the edge of the crowd, clutching her pen and the napkin she had brought for the bass player to sign. Now she knew why the girls had laughed at her—getting an autograph was just an excuse, a way to be able to speak to a rock star and say what you really meant, which was “Can I come backstage and hang out?”

  She’d wanted that too, but this was just humiliating. She wasn’t a sign-my-tits type of chick. Poppy was ashamed of herself; she wasn’t as rock ’n’ roll as she’d thought. Maybe she was just a nice Jewish girl and she should go home.

  Rick Perez stuck his head out the door. Poppy gasped; he was gorgeous, she thought, insanely gorgeous. Those slightly slanted eyes, that coal-black hair. He was wearing mascara, but that made him look more rock-star-ish, as
though he were in the New York Dolls. She flushed scarlet again, and this time the house lights were up. Now he was close, she felt incredibly embarrassed. She wanted to say something, but she felt rooted to the spot. Her hand with its sad little napkin hung limply at her side.

  “Rick!” the girls screamed. “Rick!”

  He signed a few cigarette packets and body parts, then his eyes skimmed the little knot of groupies and fell on Poppy.

  She could hardly breathe. He was looking right at her.

  Rick beckoned. Unmistakably, he was pointing straight at her and crooking his finger.

  Almost as one, the girls turned around and stared at Poppy. She stumbled forward through them, hoping her sweating palms wouldn’t dampen the napkin. Poppy tried to think of something to say, along the lines of “Could you sign this for me please,” but her tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  “Bitch,” Trixie said in a low voice, designed for Poppy to hear.

  She was standing right in front of him now with the whole crowd staring at her. Poppy’s blush seemed to have reached the very tips of her ears. She just couldn’t look up. He was tall, and she was standing right by his chest. She could feel him looking down at her.

  “Charlie.” He had a rough voice that sounded as though he smoked a lot of cigarettes and drank a lot of liquor. “This young lady’s with us.”

  “Sure, Rick,” the security guard said.

  “Hey!” the girls chorused.

  Poppy glanced up, openmouthed. The bassist stuck something on her left shoulder. It was made of cloth-like sticky paper, square and green, and said “Guest.”

  The security guard opened the door to let Poppy through.

  “Wait a minute!” the redhead squealed. “I’m with her! I’m her friend! I know her—”