The Devil You Know (13 page)

Eventually Rose started to pick it up. You got the address and square footage, went to the place, measured the dimensions, took photographs. Then you looked up ‘comps’, industry slang for comparable properties. You had to find out what properties in a similar area, of a similar type and size, had sold for over the past six

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months. Applasers had contacts in the area - realtors’ offices,

mortgage brokers - and they gave them this information.

It didn’t matter what your house was worth - what someone

would be willing to pay for it - only what the appraiser could prove.

Everything came down to those comps.

Of course, mortgage brokers and realtors were always desperate

for the deal to go through. They would call every day, asking for a ‘.juiced’ number. Push the value up, say it’s worth more, or lose our business.

This was illegal.

It was also ‘S.O.P.’, or standard practice.

If the appraiser listened, though, they took a risk with the bank. A

mortgage went south based on your false value, and you could be sued. Losing your licence was the least of it. You were then liable for millions.

All for a hundred and fifty dollars.

Good appraisers did more than measure and run comps, however.

They were attuned to neighbourhoods. They got a feel for housing,

for rent rolls, for values, and shysters.

Rose learned quickly.

She got promoted. After a’ while, they let her take photos on

Saturdays. She drove round houses in a banged-up secondhand Nissan belonging to her boss, snapped them, and got more money. The appraisers got used to her nagging and her questions.

On Saturday nights Rose was often in the office, reading reports

by lamplight, learning, soaking everything up.

‘Why don’t you buy something?’ she asked Keith one day, when

her courage was particularly high.

He made a dismissive gesture. ‘My credit’s not great. Down

payment is too big. And tenants are a pain. Who needs the

headache?’

Whomever she asked gave her the same answer: who wanted that

kind of hassle?

I do, Rose thought.

When she’d finished at Richmond Appraising, P,.ose would pore

over her school books. She liked history best, and now she’d started paying attention again. She had to; Sister Heloise watched her like a hawk. Her grades shot back up to normal. When the time came for SATs, Rose aced them.

Her parents were overjoyed. They expected her to get a

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scholarship, and so did Our Lady of Angels. The only problem was that Rose was falling asleep on her feet.

After Sunday Mass, she used to sleep all day.

And then Keith came to her with 22 Maple Leaf Drive.

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‘Good morning, class.’

‘Good morning, Madame LaTour,’ the class chorused brightly. ‘Good morning, Madame LaTour,’ Poppy muttered.

She was stuck in the acting class of Madame Marie LaTour, the famous fifty-year-old French doyenne of LA acting classes. Despite her un-chic uniform of a black dress which looked like a dyed potato sack and heavy brown brogues, Madame LaTour was the hottest ticket in Hollywood for rich teenagers. Her acting classes, priced exorbitantly high, had in the past produced more than a smattering of stars. Framed headshots adorned her corridors and outer office, the bigger stars in the more prominent positions. Madame was evidently proud not only of her two Oscar winners, but also of everybody you could see on the big and small screen - the soap stars and game-show hostesses amongst them.

Poppy grimaced. Mommy and Daddy had slashed her allowance to the bone, taken away her ride, and forced her into this. It was worse because she knew Mommy had to lean hard on all her social contacts just to get her in. Producers’ daughters and studio vicepresidents’ sons were in this class - that didn’t leave much room for the offspring of divorce lawyers.

Her parents, she knew, secretly longed to be in ‘the biz’. ‘The biz’ was films, or TV at a pinch - TV was looked down on, but that was where all the money was. Music, apparently, didn’t count. Certainly not with her parents. And the fact that Poppy was passionate about rock didn’t matter in the slightest.

‘Today, you ‘ave great opportunity.’ Madame LaTour’s voice was masculine and raspy and she had bristling white hairs sprouting from her upper lip. ‘You learn your craft in the cradle of the art. Of course, acting is more than a craft. Eet ees a joy, a calling … noble … powerful…’

Her audience was loving it. They sighed, with rapt attention.

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‘Through eemagination come performance!’ shouted,

Madame

making Poppy jump in her seat. She pounded a black stick on the

ground. ‘Today - you start the dream!’ The class applauded wildly. Oy vey, Poppy thought.

‘You become a cup of coffee!’

‘Hey, that’s brilliant,’ said the pasty boy in front of her with the P, olex. ‘I mean, that’s, like, super-inspired.’

Poppy stuck up her hand. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it.

‘Mademoiselle?’

‘Yeah, Mrs LaTour,’ Poppy said, in a not-deferential-enough tone of voice. Her fellow students turned round in their chairs to face the back of the room, and sent her a barrage of deadly stares. Poppy ignored them. ‘How can we act a cup of coffee? A cup of coffee is an inanimate object. We’re never going to be asked to act an inanimate object, I mean, not since I was a tree in the third grade -‘

Madame held up an imperious hand.

‘You become, you feel, the heat, the confinement … Are you een a paper cup, are you een a silver coffee pot?’ She waved ;er hands expansively. ‘The choice ees yours!’

The class started to hum and rock. Some of them shuddered made perking noises. Another one flung himself headlong to the carpet.

‘Breeliant!’ shouted Madame. ‘He ees speeling all over the floor!’ ‘Fuck me,’ Poppy muttered. ‘How long is this class?’

‘Eight weeks,’ whispered the pasty youth in front of her. ‘Isn’t it, like, awesome?’

‘Daddy,’ Poppy wheedled. She was wearing her best good-girl outfit, the silk shirt-dress with the small shoulder-pads, the strappy sandals, and her Gucci sunglasses perched on top of her head. ‘Honestly, I swear. I’ll be good at school. I got an A for my math paper last week. I’m taking those classes -‘

‘You’re not dropping out,’ her father said darkly.

‘No way’ said her mom.

‘I don’t want to. I totally love those classes! And I’m getting on really well with Jonathan Epstein,’ Poppy lied.

‘He’s a very nice boy,’ her mother said, softening slightly.

The phone rang in the next room and the maid entered the living room.

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‘Call for Miss Poppy.’

‘Who is t?’ her father asked, suspiciously.

‘He say his name is Rick Perez,’ the maid informed him.

Poppy felt the flush rise instantly to her cheek. Her hands started to sweat. ‘I have to take this call, Daddy.’

‘Who is this Rick? How do you know him?’

‘From acting class,’ Poppy said. ‘He’s my partner for our next assignment.’

Her mother noted the blush. ‘He’s not Jewish, with a name like that.’

‘Mo-om,’ Poppy protested.

Her father waved her away. Poppy hurried out to the hallway, forcing herself not to run.

‘Hello, this is Poppy,’ she said.

‘What’s up, baby?’ said the bassist’s voice. It had been two weeks since the gig and she had given up hope that he’d call. An indescribable thrill shot through her. Her nipples tautened under her virginal white cotton bra, and that heat curled a new fist in her belly.

‘You didn’t call,’ she said plaintively, then wanted to kick herself very hard in the shins.

‘I’ve been on the road. You know how it is.’

Wish I did, Poppy thought.

‘We got a gig tonight at the Whiskey. Want me to put you on the guest list?’

Poppy died a million deaths.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered miserably. Tm kind of grounded.’

He chuckled. ‘Tell me you’re sixteen, at least.’

‘Oh, definitely,’ Poppy lied. She was getting good at lying, she thought. Maybe she wasn’t such a shitty actress after all.

‘How about we meet for lunch tomorrow? You know Nathan’s? About one?’

Tomorrow was a school day. ‘No problem,’ Poppy said decisively. ‘See you then, OK?’

She went back in and faced her parents again. Now it was really

important! Poppy started to plead passionately.

‘You know, Daddy-‘

‘Give me one good reason why I’ should restart your allowance,’ her father snapped. ‘How do I know what you’ll do with it after the incident?’

‘Well - all the other kids in class have, like, the hot records and they see all the movies and there’s this cafeteria and I don’t have any

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money and…’ Poppy lowered her voice in horror - ‘I look like the poor kid in class.’

Her morn blanched visibly. Yes! Score one.

‘Jerry …’

‘On sufferance, Poppy.’ Her father smothered an equally horrified look, but Poppy wasn’t fooled. ‘And you can only have half.’ He pulled out his wallet and gave her two twenties. ‘That’s it, young lady.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ Poppy gave him a jaunty kiss on the cheek, and her father tried not to look pleased. Tll be upstairs studying my lines.’

She couldn’t concentrate in school the next day. Would lLick even be there? And would they miss her? If she was caught absent … it didn’t bear thinking about. Plus, she had no sexy clothes. She was going to have to go in her uniform. She almost didn’t want to do it, but she had no way to call him back.

And besides, Poppy secretly admitted to herself, she had to get real - there was no way in hell she wasn’t gonna meet that guy.

It was so exciting. Finally, a little colour in her boring, middle. class life. She had kept flashing back to the concert, the lights, th*e sweat, the crackle of sex ….

She grabbed a ride and headed over to La Brea at lunchtime’,’ casually walking out of the school grounds. Nobody stopped her she doubted anybody cared. One less JAP to worry about. That was all she was to this school. What the luck.

Poppy arrived at Nathan’s by twelve-forty and ordered a bunch of food she was too nervous to eat. She pushed the fries and sauce

around her plate and watched the clock. One … he didn’t come. One-fifteen, one-twenty - nothing.

Poppy was starting to feel embarrassed. She threw some money on the table and got up to leave when she saw him; standing in the doorway in a T-shirt and jeans, dark hair tumbling down his back, rock-star shades, looking about for her.

The girls were all staring at him, too.

She jumped up and waved. ‘Rick! Over here!’

He saw her and threaded his way through the crowd. Poppy was suddenly ashamed of her waving and her lack of make-up and her little pleated navy skirt and white school shirt. She wished the linoleum floor would open up and swallow her whole.

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‘Hey, bah?.’ He pushed up the sunglasses to reveal a pair of bloodshot eyes, which travelled lazily up and down her uniform. ‘Dig that skirt. That’s sexy.’ Perez leaned forwards and kissed her lightly on the mouth.

Poppy felt her knees buckle. She was overwhelmed with desire. He was so hot. Her peripheral vision noticed the girls in the diner staring at her. All probably wondering what a cool musician was doing with a schoolgirl. She felt geeky.

‘Already ate, huh?’ He was glancing down at her plate.

‘I didn’t think you’d come.’

‘Wouldn’t have missed it.’ He looked deep into her eyes, in a way

that made her want to dissolve. Poppy felt herself slick up. ‘Do you want something … I can get the waitress …’

‘Nothing on this menu. He grinned and tugged at her hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

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‘Get in,’ Perez said. He yanked open the sliding door of a beat-up blue van and Poppy jumped up on to the passenger seat. It smelled faintly of incense and weed, and there were empty bottles rolling around in the back. He walked around the other side, got in, and pulled away from the kerb.

‘Hi,’ he said, looking into her eyes.

Poppy felt a rush of joy. This was awesome. She was going on an adventure. Her life was finally interesting. It felt like being released

from prison. What a high!

..

‘Hi,’ she said, and she didn’t even blush.

He turned a knob on the ancient-looking radio and blasted KNAC. The strains of Metallica’s ‘Master of Puppets’ filled the va, blasting from the windows, and he gunned the accelerator. Poppy cranked her window down - it actually worked with a handle, it wasn’t even electric - and hastily tugged the scrunchie out of her hair, so it tumbled loose and golden, streaming in the blast of air that rushed past them.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘You’ll see.’ He drove lazily, one hand on the wheel, caressing it almost. Poppy was attracted to everything about him. She loved the

cool skull rings he wore all over his fingers. This guy was a badass. ‘So what’s it like, being in a band?’

He chuckled. ‘Lots of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll; no goddam money.’

Poppy hated the idea of the sex. All those bitches hanging around

him. She felt her first pang of jealousy.

‘Is that why you got into it?’

‘No, I wanted the money, too.’ He laughed loudly at his own joke, then glanced at her through those dark-fringed eyes. ‘Zach Mason writes awesome songs. I wanted to be in his band. It might

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go places. And anyway, what else am I gonna do? Be a bank teller? I’d rather shoot myself.’

Poppy was a bit embarrassed. She hoped he didn’t ask too many

questions. She was little Miss Suburban P,.ich.

‘But why don’t you have any money?’

‘No record deal.’ He shrugged. ‘Even if we got one, we’d likely get screwed. Most acts do.’

‘But you sold out your gig,’ Poppy persisted. There couldn’t be that much of a gap between the glamorous band onstage, with the glitter and the flash and the screaming girls and the hardcore security, and his real life - could there?