The Devil You Know (39 page)

Poppy started to have a new-found respect for A & t men. Musicians liked to call the industry the enemy, but the enemy was the lack of talent out there. Nobody seemed to get it, that this was all about tunes.

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Poppy wanted to shake them all, the ]junked-out denizens of the Sunset Strip with their rock ‘n’ roll dreams, and scream, It’s all about the tunes!

Look at thrash. Only one band had survived out of the entire genre, only one act was still making money: Metallica. And that was because every headbanger in the world knew Metallica’s tunes by heart. Sometimes, when that band played, the crowd was so loud singing the songs that the group was almost irrelevant. Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth would never be able to match that. Ever. All the other bands had three or four hit songs at the most.

Poppy was desperate. She had to do this. It was her.joy, her bliss. What she wanted in life. But she couldn’t invent talent where none was to be found.

She found the answer in.a way she had never expected.

‘What you fixin’ to get, honey?’

Poppy looked at the waitress hungrily. The girl was a Texan, in her late thirties now, but still with the body of a cheerleader and big, teased blonde hair.

She was sitting in a late-night Southern restaurant, a cheap [51ce off Melrose. It served big steaks and lots of chilli; generally, the kihd of artery-busting cuisine she liked to stay away from.

But she had come in here ]just to hear a Southern twang. Poppy, was Jonesing on Congressman LeClerc. He wasn’t calling, and she’d headed to this place to stew in her memories. Was she nuts? Eating in a dump like this .just to remind herself of some salt-and-pepperhaired politician with a fancy suit?

‘Barbecue spare ribs,’ she said, ‘Jack Daniel’s and a Diet Coke.’ She handed over her ID; in LA they checked thirtyyear-olds. ‘Comin’ right up, sugar,’ the cheerleader said.

Poppy was suddenly starving. She hadn’t eaten since a low-fat Yoplait at lunchtime, and that was no kind of fuel for a depressing trip around LA’s dank nightspots, listening to band after band and singer after singer that stunk. The burgers and steaks were sizzling in

the kitchen, and they smelled good.

She missed LeClerc.

Of course, she wasn’t going to call him.

‘Here you go, honey.’ The girl put what looked like a bucket of JD and coke in front of Poppy. ‘Food’ll be right along in ]just a second now.’

She disappeared, and Poppy took a relaxing sip.

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‘Good evening, Los Angeles,” said a voice.

Poppy spluttered with dismay. Oh God. A mike was set up in a little stage area tight out front. She’d come in here to get away from acts that sucked. Now she was trapped with some diner crooner. She looked around for the waitress, wanting to cancel her order and get the hell out, just go home.

But the girl was nowhere in sight. Poppy drooped visibly. She felt defeated.

‘Got a couple new ones for y’all tonight,’ the voice said. It was male and husky, with that tich country twang she thought was so sexy. ‘My name’s Travis Jackson.’

And then he started to sing …

‘… Blue … I can’t stand the thought, another day …’

The song was a lament. His voice was soft, heartbroken, exquisite, like the strings of a bluegrass guitar, or a wail of Patsy Cline. Poppy glanced around, her food and booze forgotten. Couples had stopped eating; women had tears in their eyes. A lot of hand-holding was suddenly going on.

She focused on Travis Jackson. He wore beat-up, faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid shirt, and a bandanna. The shirt had short sleeves; the boy was muscled,, and covered in tattoos. He had a smattering of silky black hair visible at his collar, a square jaw, and five o’clock shadow. Plus a way of looking at women that made them melt inside.

Poppy felt her heart thud.

She was stating at Travis. He locked eyes on her, sang right to her. Gave her a wink.

Poppy felt her heart flutter.

But that was tight where she kept her wallet. She beckoned the waitress over. ‘What’s his story?’

‘Cute, ain’t he?’ The woman leaned low. ‘But honey, trust me - you’ll have to take a number and stand in line. We got women come eat here every day just to be in a room with him.’ Her blue-lined lids took in Poppy’s youth and slim figure in that Azzedine Alaia dress. ‘Hmm, but you got a shot, though.’

Poppy scrawled her number on a piece of paper and gave it to the woman in a twenty.

‘I really want to speak to him,’ she said. ‘Like, really. Give him the number, OK?’

‘Sure thing, sugar,’ said the waitress, eyes widening at the tip.

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Poppy threw some more money on the table to cover the bill, then stood up, leaning forwards so Travis would get a good look at her breasts. He continued singing, with that angelic voice, but he’d got a devilish look in his eyes.

Poppy blew him a kiss and headed towards the door. The waitress grabbed her sleeve.

‘One thing, honey, lemme warn ya. You’re from Call. You gotta know, these Southern boys.., they look real good and they sound real good. But they’ll break your heart.’

Poppy looked and saw the woman was talking from experience. Tll be careful,’ she said.

She took one final look at Travis Jackson. But she was thinking about Henry LeClerc.

Poppy went home, washed her hair, and carefully selected an outfit. It had to say money and class and record-industry nous. She picked out black Levis, Manolo Blahnik strappy heels, a Green Dragon roadcrew shirt, and an Armani black leather jacket. She made up in neutral tones, designed to make herself look gorgeous and sophisticated, but still young. There would be no point at all in tryingTo pretend she was something she wasn’t.

The phone rang at eleven-thirty. Poppy had no illusions; she was h

hot chick, one of the hottest. She’d known he wanted her. ‘Who’s this?’ Poppy asked. ‘You know who it is, ma’am.’

Damn, you are sexy, Poppy thought. Total confidence; the guy acted like he was the prize here and she was the huntress. Which was truer than he knew.

‘Travis,’ she said, breathily.

The smile in his voice was almost visible down the phone line.

‘Mm-hmm. And what’s your name, sugar?’

‘Poppy Allen,’ Poppy said.

‘Now ain’t that about right? Cause youlre just as pretty as a flower.’

Lord Almighty, Poppy thought, with an adrenaline rush of excitement, the man was perfect. He was a babe, hewas .talented, he had songs, and he was a pussy hound. And if anything sold records to men and to women, it was a guy that liked to fuck. Indelicate, yeah, but the way it was.

Girls wet their panties for guys who liked women. It was always

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the bad-boy womaniser they ,vent for. It had been that way since Errol Flynn, or Elvis Presley.

‘I’d love to meet you for a cup of coffee,’ Poppy said. ‘If you have the time.’

‘I always have the time for a girl as pretty as you,’ Jackson

answered. ‘Where you at, sugar?’

‘Third Street.’

‘You know the Rattlesnake Bar?’

‘Yeah.’ The Rattlesnake was a few blocks away; a dimly lit, cheap-but-charming little bar, decorated in a Southwestern theme. Poppy was duly impressed. The guy probably had a romantic hangout in every part of town.

Tll see you there in twenty minutes, honey.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Poppy said truthfully.

He was sitting up at the bar when she got there, nursing a beer and looking as masculine as a walking Y chromosome. The beach babes were staring at him, heads together, giggling in their little groups.

Travis stood up and touched the brim of his stetson. Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw the girls swooning.

‘Jack,’ he turned to the guy behind the bar, ‘get us a table, would ya?’

‘You got it, dude,’ the man said, and led them into a booth for

two right at the back, nice and secluded.

‘Regular?’ Poppy asked.

‘They know me here,’ Travis admitted. He grinned that bonemelting grin. ‘Glad you could make it. You’re a fine-lookin’ young lady. You know that, right?’

Poppy grinned back. ‘So I’m told. And you seem to have the votes in from the female contingent.’ She stuck her tongue out at a table of longhaired blondes who were fluttering their eyelashes at Travis, and they hastily looked away.

He laughed. ‘Cute. You the jealous type, baby?’

‘Actually, not at all,’ Poppy said. She took a deep breath; she had to be six years younger than this guy. ‘I have a proposition for you, and it’s not to do with sex.’

‘How disappointing,’ Travis said.

‘I’m interested in your music. I want you to hear me out. My name’s Poppy Allen, and I want to manage you.’

He stared at her a second, then burst out laughing.

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‘Who, sugar? You? You don’t look old enough to get a beer without givin’ the waiter a kiss.’

Poppy nodded quickly. ‘Hear me out, OK? If you don’t want to know, I’ll buy you that beer and leave you to your fan club.’

He smiled, but it was just polite. She could see he wanted to call a halt to the conversation. So she ploughed on.

‘I found Silver Bullet. You’ve heard of them?’

‘The rock band.’

‘That’s right. I signed them to Joel Stein at Dream Management. Then I was a tour accountant on the Green Dragon tour, saved that act a bundle.’ She opened her purse, pulled out her tour laminates and tossed them to Travis. ‘When I got back, they handed me Silver Bullet. The gifts didn’t even have a label, nothing. I signed them to a record deal, I set up the showcase, I changed their look, I designed the set. Just last month, they hit number one and had the cover of Rollin2 Stone, and Joel Stein, my boss at Dream, told me he was taking over the act.’

‘So what did you do?’ Jackson asked.

‘I quit,’ Poppy said simply. ‘And I started my own company. I want to manage you.’

‘I dunno,’ Travis said. ‘I ain’t a rock act, hon.’

‘Doesn’t matter. You’ve got songs. You’ve got the voice. Y

play cool. And you’re hot enough to fry eggs on.’

His grin turned rueful.

‘I wish the record company folks thought like you do.’

‘They will,’ Poppy said, confidently. ‘If you give me a shot. Look, I’ll be right upfront - Dream’s a big company, and everybody wants to take their calls. And I’m just one person. But people know me. I can get you seen. Sign a six-month contract with me. After that’ she shrugged - ‘if you want to split, I won’t stop you.’ He took a swig of his beer, thinking about it. ‘Get you folks something?’ said a waitress, brightly.

‘Jack and Diet Coke,’ Poppy said. Maybe this evening she’d get to finish one.

‘Are you two staying for dinner?’ the woman asked, perkily. Travis tipped his beer towards Poppy. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We are.’

‘I want to know how long you’ve been out there,’ Poppy asked.

He sighed. ‘Try eight years. I guess I’m just a damn fool. Been doin’ this since I was a kid. Getting that restaurant gig is about the

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best job I’ve ever had. Tips are good, and they feed you for free, and let me use the washroom in the back. They got an old shower there, place was an apartment once, I guess.’

‘A shower? Why don’t you do that at your place?’

‘Honey, my place is the back of my banged-up old Chew, outside,’ Travis said. ‘Or whichever lovely lady I happen to be crashin’ with that night.’

‘Well, the first thing I’ll do for you is rent you an apartment. Six

months, rent-free to you unless we get a record deal. If you’ll sign.’ She held her breath.

‘Miss,’ Travis Jackson said, ‘I’m all out of options. I was gonna sign with you anyway.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Partner.’

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‘Not interested,’ Clayton Roberts said. He pushed back his chair, to indicate the meeting was over.

Poppy didn’t move. ‘Excuse me? You were all over me when I worked at Dream. Remember? You said anything Silver Bullet needed …’

The banker smirked. ‘Anything Sillier Bullet needed, yes. I deal with multi-platinum acts, baby.’

‘Ms Allen,’ Poppy said, acidly.

He grinned at her lazily. ‘Whatever.’

‘I have a new act,’ Poppy began again. ‘Somebody I’m Xery excited about. I have experience ‘

He chuckled. ‘You’re twenty-three.’ ‘I still have years of experience. Rock music is a young person”s

game.

‘Baby,’ the banker said, being deliberately insulting, ‘you’re a fiery young chick, but you’re too young for me to write a loan to, and you’ve got no capital.’

‘What are you talking about? I own my own house.’

‘Not interested,’ Roberts told her.

Poppy finally stood up, defeated. ‘You’re going to want to do business with me some day, Clayton. And it’ll be too late then.’

‘Yeah… sure, honey.’ He opened the door for her. ‘Have a nice day.’

Poppy walked out on to the sunlit expanse 0fWilshire Boulevard, a red mist of rage seething in front of her eyes. Fuck him. Son of a bitch …

Clayton Roberts wasn’t the first banker to turn her down, just the most insulting. Just one of the guys who’d liked to press the flesh at record company junkets last year. The music business had its own bankers, guys that looked after the private accounts of rock stars and

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moguls, managers and promoters. They understood the needs of the

industry, the way things worked.

And how they’d all sucked up to Poppy last year, when she was a

prized lieutenant at Dream!

And how quickly they’d told her to get lost this week!

A real lesson.

Well, no matter, Poppy told herself. She was learning, and she was

doing it fast.

She found a cheap studio apartment near her own, in the Park la

Brea complex. Only $850 a month, and it came furnished. The complex was a nice one, Travis’s rental even came with access to a gym and a pool. That was important; she wanted him to keep lean, keep hot.

He was grateful, but gave Poppy the sense he’d be almost as happy