The kid said, “There isn’t?”
He said to the kid, “I see they have Yul Brynner in the sidewalk outside.”
Part of Hollywood’s famous Walk of Fame, the names of 1,800 show-biz celebrities inlaid in stars.
The kid said, “Who’s Yul Brynner?”
Chili said to the bartender, a young guy who looked normal, “How come there’s no sign out in front?” The bartender said it was down temporarily while they reinforced the building against earthquakes. Chili asked him how come there weren’t any barstools? The bartender said it was a stand-up kind of place: A and R guys from the record companies didn’t like to sit down, they’d catch a group and then come back upstairs to have their conversation, where you could hear yourself think. He told Chili Guns N’ Roses had been signed out of here. Chili said no shit and asked if Nicki was around. There were “Nicki” posters by the entrance. The bartender said she was downstairs but wouldn’t be on for a couple hours yet.
“You in records?”
“Movies,” Chili said.
He had never made it with Nicki or even tried, but she still ought to remember him. The idea, get her to ask him to drop by the house, say hello to Michael and he’d take it from there. Get next to him. Look at me, Michael. See what happens.
Chili went downstairs to an empty room with a bar and a few tables, hearing a band tuning up, hitting chords. It reminded him of bands at Momo’s cranking up, doing sound checks, setting those dials just right, then blasting off loud enough to blow out the windows and he’d wonder what all that precision adjusting was for. Maybe they said they were reinforcing the place against earthquakes, but it was to keep the rockers from shaking the walls down, and that’s why they played in the basement here: the bandstand through an archway in a separate room that was like a cave in there and maybe would hold a hundred people standing up.
There were four guys, three with guitars and a guy on the drums. He didn’t see Nicki anywhere, just these four skinny guys, typical rock-and-roll ass-holes with all the hair, bare arms tricked out with tattoos and metal bracelets, all of them with that typical
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bored way they had. Looking over at him now standing in the archway, but too cool to show any interest. Some dickhead in a suit. Chili stared back at them thinking, Oh, is that right? Any you assholes want to be in the movies? No chance. They were turned toward each other now, one of them, with wild blond hair sticking out in every direction, talking as the others listened. Now the blond-haired one was looking over this way again, saying, “Chil?” The middle one.
Christ, it was Nicole, Nicki. They all looked like girls—that’s why he thought she was a guy.
“Nicki? How you doing?”
He should’ve spotted her, the skinny white arms, no tattoos. Nicki handed her guitar that had a big bull’s-eye painted on it to one of the guys and was coming over now, Nicki in black jeans that were like tights on her and, Christ, big work boots, smiling at him. Chili put his arms out as she raised hers, high, and saw dark hair under there in the sleeveless T-shirt, Nicki saying, “Chili, Jesus!” glad to see him and it was a nice surprise, knowing she meant it. Now she was in his arms, that slender body tight against him, arms around his neck giving him a hug, hanging on, while he kept thinking of her armpits, the dark tufts under there like a guy’s, though she certainly felt like a girl. Nicki let go but kept grinning at him, saying, “I don’t believe this.” Then saying over her shoulder to the guys, “I was right, it’s Chili, from Miami. He’s a fucking gangster!”
The way they were looking at him now—he did-n’t mind her saying it.
“That’s your new band, huh? They as good as the one you used to have?”
Nicki said, “What, at Momo’s? Come on, that was techno-disco pussy rock. These guys play.” She took him by the arm over to a table, telling how she met them in the parking lot of the Guitar Center, standing there with their Marshall stacks, and could-n’t believe her luck ’cause these kids could play speed riffs as good as— “You know the kind Van Halen did on ‘Eruption’ and every metal freak in the world copied? . . . No, you don’t. What am I talking about? Eight years ago you were still into Dion and the Belmonts, all that doo-wop shit.”
“ ‘I’m just a lonely teenager,’ ” Chili said.
“Right, and ‘I Wonder Why.’ Who do you listen to now?”
“Guns N’ Roses, different ones.” He had to think fast. “Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin . . .”
“You’re lying. Aerosmith, that’s who I was listening to in Miami, way back when. I’ll bet you’re a Deadhead, you dig that California acid Muzak.”
“Let’s have a cigarette,” Chili said, sitting at the table with her now. “I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”
“You kidding? You’re the only guy at Momo’s didn’t try to jump me.”
“It crossed my mind a few times.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t make a big deal about it, like Tommy. I had to beat him off with a stick.” She reached across the table to put her hand on his. “What’re you doing here anyway?”
“I’m making a movie.”
“Come on—”
“And you live with a movie star.”
“Michael, yeah.” She didn’t sound too happy about it. She didn’t sound unhappy either. Glancing
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at her watch, Nicki said, “He’s gonna stop by. You
want to meet him?”
Just like that.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind.”
“Michael won’t stay for the performance, too many people. Crowds scare the shit out of him, like he’s afraid he’ll get mobbed.”
“Sure, the guy’s a star. Not only that, he can act.”
“I know,” Nicki said, “he’s incredible. His new one, Elba? It isn’t out yet—I caught some of the dailies when they were shooting. You see Michael, he is Napoleon. He doesn’t play him, I mean he is this fucking military genius, man, this little guy . . .” She drew on her cigarette looking toward the bandstand. “I have to get back.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“At a performance. I was with a metal group, Roadkill? They’re still around. They try to sound like Metallica, straight-ahead rock with a lot of head banging. I had to fucking sing and throw my hair at the same time, only it was shorter then so I had to wear extensions. I remember thinking— this was about a year and a half ago—if only I was a light-skinned black chick I could make it on my voice, not have to do this shit.”
“Michael saw you perform . . .”
“I guess he was in a particular mode at the time.” Nicki tapped her cigarette over the ashtray, maybe giving it some thought. “Sees me up there thrashing, this chick in geekwear, shitkickers, hair under my arms . . . He still won’t let me shave. I guess I fill some need. He works, I work and in between we kick back. We do drugs, but not all the time. I wouldn’t call either of us toxic. We play tennis, we have a screening room, a satellite dish, twelve TV sets, seventeen phones, a houseman, maids, a laundress, gardeners, a guy who comes twice a week to check out the cars . . . But where am I really? Down in a basement with a sticky floor and three guys barely out of Hollywood High. I feel like I’m their mother.”
“Why don’t you get married?”
“You mean to Michael? I don’t think I would even if he asked me.”
“Why not?”
“What’s the point? It’s not like, wow, I’d be making it, something I’ve always wanted. You get married, then what? All it does is fuck up your life, especially marrying an actor. Look at Madonna . . . No, don’t. I don’t have all that underwear going for me. I’m a rock-androll singer and that’s it, man, nothing else.” She looked off toward the bandstand. “Listen, I have to go. But when Michael comes, I’ll introduce you.”