“Ariel? Hi, there.”
The voice caught her as she was returning to her seat at the table and her bandmates were in their own conversations with other reporters. A hand touched her elbow. She looked to her left, at a smiling, heavy-set young man wearing a white ball cap with DJ on the front in gold glitter.
“How ya doin’? Okay if I set up and get a couple’a questions in? Your manager passed me through, I’m clean.” His smile never quit. His wide shoulders strained against a white nylon jacket that was really a couple of sizes too small; he stood about five feet seven and had big front teeth. The cap was pushed down low and tight on his head, with a huge curved bill. His hair was a sandy color on the sides and his deepset eyes were light brown. He had a bulbous nose that could round a corner before his Pumas did. “Just be a minute,” he told her. He was already setting up a tripod for a video camera next to the table. A black camera bag lay at his sneakered feet. “Go ahead, siddown.” Somebody else behind him told him to hurry up, and he shot a dark glance at the guy and said, “We’re all pros here, right? You shoulda got here early.” Then he switched his smile back on for Ariel, and he reached in to help her with her chair.
“DJ Talk It Up,” he said when Ariel was sitting. “A.K.A. Dominic Jankowski, but don’t let that get out. Pleased to meet ’cha.” He offered his hand and she shook it; he was wearing a ring on every finger. “Lemme get this thing ready, we’ll be off and runnin’.” He was attaching the camera to the tripod, which had seen heavy use and suffered some mishaps. One of the banged-up legs looked to be secured by a thick winding of duct tape. “I didn’t mean to cause nobody no worry when I made that call,” he explained as he worked. “I just believe in goin’ for what you want. Got to, all this competition out here. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she said.
“You are a talented person,” he said, throwing another smile at her. “I saw your videos. Got a fan-fuckin’-tastic one of you on YouTube doin’ the snake song. You wrote that?”
“I did.”
“I like what that says. Very beautiful. Okay, we’re ready.” The camera was positioned on her face. “Just…lemme…get this little fuck turned on.” The switch was fighting his finger.
Ariel shifted in her seat. The next two people behind him were trying to get her attention, waving cameras at her. “Can I ask what this is for?”
“My website, Rock Da Net Dot Com. Didn’t you check it out?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s where DJ Talk It Up lives, my lady. Where he fries the night wires, talkin’ it up. There ya go.” The red light came on. “In business.”
“Talking up exactly what?”
“Ariel!” DJ Talk It Up spoke to her as if they were dear friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. “Talkin’ about you. And your band. And every other band I think is shootin’ straight for the stars. We’re recordin’ now, this’ll be for my Sunday night show.” He came around to peer into the lens over her shoulder, his cheek next to hers. She thought he was wearing a cologne that smelled like Band-Aids. “DJ Talk It Up on da Sunday night, yo yo yo!” He slung the fozzie finger. “We’re down here in San Diego at da Casbah, talkin’ to Ariel Collier, she be da dream girl of Da Five, check ’em out on this clip right here.” He straightened up and adjusted his cap. “I’ll edit the clip in, you’ll like it. You from up Boston way?”
“Manchester.”
“Philly,” he said, with a heart thump that went into a peace sign.
“Detroit,” said Nomad, who suddenly came up beside the DJ. “Can whip Philly’s ass.”
“Hey, my man!” DJ Talk It Up gave a crooked grin and balled up his fist to bump knuckles, but he only punched air. “Mr. Nomad, lookin’ mean!” He dropped his ghetto-by-way-of-bad-acting-lessons accent. “We’re recording here, see the light?”
“Rock Da Net Dot Com,” Ariel said, lifting her eyebrows.
“Excuse me, I’m with the Globe magazine.” A bearded man in a dark blue coat and open-necked shirt leaned in, a camera ready. His voice was a little testy. “Do I have to make an appointment to ask a few simple questions, or should—”
“Don’t push me!” DJ Talk It Up spun on him with a ferocity that even made Nomad step back. “I’m standin’ here, don’t push me!”
“I’m a professional, don’t you raise your—”
“Get your motherfuckin’ ass to the back of the line, dickweed! I’ve been waitin’ here for hours!”
“What the hell is this about?” True shouldered the Globe reporter, or freelancer or whatever he was, to one side. “Anybody causes any trouble in here, they’re going out. Are you causing trouble?” He directed this question to the Globe man.
“Sir, I am waiting my turn. That is all. This individual is wasting the hour that we professionals have been given to—”
“Bite my dick,” said DJ Talk It Up.
The upshot of all this was that the Globe spun toward the door, True walked away rubbing his temples because he had a ferocious headache, and after the crimson heat receded from DJ Talk It Up’s face he said this video would go over great on the website, his fans would go crazier than shithouse rats.
The interview went on for about seven more minutes, during which Nomad learned that DJ Talk It Up recorded the podcast in his aunt’s basement in L.A., where he was staying until his new crib in Westwood was redecorated. DJ Talk It Up said he’d just put the finishing touch on track number finito for his new CD, his own style of music he called grindhop, and both Dizzy D at Walkaround Records and Jasper Jack at Mutha’s Angry Boy were interested, and he’d used lots of samples from bands like Insane Clown Posse to make his statement. Maybe Ariel and Nomad would like copies? He could bring them to the Cobra Club tomorrow night.
“I don’t really have a lot of time to—” Nomad began, but Ariel said, “Sure, I’ll listen to your music.”
DJ Talk It Up smiled. “Okay,” he replied. “Yeah. Great. I’ll get it, like, cleaned up.” He stood silently for a few seconds, staring at her. Nomad thought the dude was zoning out. Or maybe he was in love. Then the DJ’s smile widened and he said, “I guess that does it.” He turned off the camera. “Hey,” he said before either of them could turn to the next person waiting. “Ariel, can I ask a big favor? I might have some more questions for you. Could you—and you might say no, and I’d understand—work me a backstage pass? Since I’m coming anyway. I could shoot some more video.” His grin showed the big front teeth. “Swear to God I won’t bring my fucking Uzi.”
“No can do,” Nomad said. “And you know, that’s not very funny.”
DJ Talk It Up smiled broadly at Nomad, but his eyes were vacant. “Sorry, man,” he amended. “Us Philly guys, we don’t got no class.”
“I can get you a pre-show pass,” Ariel told him, as Nomad looked on in astonishment. “You can come back before our set. Will that do?”
“Like honey on money,” he answered, which Nomad thought must’ve been something this guy had heard in a ’70s black exploitation flick, something like Super Fly Goes To Hell Up In Harlem.
When DJ Talk It Up had packed his camera and taken his tripod and gone, Nomad asked Ariel if she had lost her mind today, if she didn’t smell the whiff of bozo like he did, and if they wanted a loser like that anywhere near the Cobra Club, much less backstage.