Be Cool Read online

  There was a silence of about five seconds, the two dudes in their tailored suits eye to eye.

  Chili said, "I wasn't insulting your race." He said, "Why don't you have an ice-cold vodka with me, couple of anchovy olives in it?"

  Darryl said, "I guess I wouldn't mind." Coming in, looking around the room again, he said, "What happened, your gran'mama die, leave you her furniture?"

  THE PHONE RANG as he was preparing a couple of Lean Cuisines for his supper, the Chicken à l'Orange and the Chicken Piccata.

  "You're still alive."

  He recognized her voice, his old pal Elaine Levin, back at Tower Studios as head of production.

  "How'd you hear?"

  "It was on the news."

  "I mean my being there."

  "Four different people called to tell me. One of them was actually there, having lunch. She saw you going to the men's room."

  "The only reason I think I'm still alive. Elaine, I know what you're gonna say next."

  "Something about your bladder saving your life? I was surprised, because I didn't know you and Tommy Athens were friends."

  "We weren't. He wanted me to make a movie about him, from racketeer to record company exec. At first I didn't think much of the idea."

  "But now you see the titles over Tommy getting shot?"

  "Over Tommy having lunch with a girl who wants to make it as a singer. Tommy likes her, he's her big chance to do a record and he gets popped."

  "So how does she become a star?"

  "I don't know if she does. But listen, I want to send you a tape. Remember the girl with the dating service I told you about? Talks to lonely guys all day?"

  "Vaguely."

  "She's the singer, Linda Moon. She has an attitude you'll love."

  "But if Tommy was her big chance and he's dead—"

  "I'm not plotting, Elaine, I'm looking for a character. I'll see her perform sometime and I'll know more. But I want to know what you think of her. That's why I'm sending the tape."

  "Linda singing?"

  "Talking. You'll get an idea who she is."

  "A Star Is Born."

  "I don't know; maybe."

  "I love the way you work." Elaine paused and said, "Chil?"

  "What?"

  "I'm glad you're still alive."

  LINDA PHONED just after ten.

  Chili was watching a movie on TV, one he'd already seen about five times but would watch again any time it came on, the fucking Last of the Mohicans, man, Madeleine Stowe making it one of the best love stories he'd ever seen, terrific music too, right at the part where the tight-assed English officer is strung up to get burned alive and Hawkeye is running to get his long rifle from the old Mohican—

  "This is Linda. From the dating service?"

  "You still want to enhance my social life?"

  "We're on tonight, at the Martini, if you're interested. You know where it is?"

  "You can't miss it, a block from Paramount."

  She said, "I'll put you on the list, but you don't have to come if you don't want to," and hung up.

  4

  * * *

  LINDA WAS OUTSIDE the club's backstage door on El Centro smoking a cigarette, the side street dark under a cover of trees, rows of Cuban ficus. She could hear the band inside blasting away. They weren't bad. Vita came out and Roadkill was let loose on the Street until she closed the door again. Now Vita was lighting a jay, needing to get baked before she could turn herself into an International Chick. She said to Linda, "This movie producer, he gonna make it?"

  "I told him we're on at eleven and hung up."

  "Don't want to hear any excuses from the man." Vita drew on the joint and said in a squeaky voice, "You believe he's for real, huh?"

  "We'll see," Linda said. She had told Vita about the phone conversation but didn't want to talk about it now. She asked what Miss Saigon was doing.

  "Having her herb tea," Vita said. "Raji's trying to sell her on dancing go-go, so he can skim a quarter of what she makes. Add the poor girl to his string. I told him he better explain those places are titty bars. Raji goes, 'Not when little Minh Linh's dancing. She don't have enough to make it a titty bar.' " Vita looked toward the club entrance on the corner and said, "Shit, here he comes, disturbing our peace."

  Their manager Raji approaching in one of his dark outfits in the dark: a black silk blazer loose on him, nothing under it but a gold choker and pale-brown skin, black fandango pants with buttons down the sides, cream-colored wingtip cowboy boots he wore to bring him up to average size; Raji coming with his slouch strut, his shades, his black Kangol cap on backwards the way his hero Samuel L. Jackson wore his, Raji saying to Linda, "That cigarette's gonna kill your voice, girl," reaching toward Vita for the jay. Raji pinched it to his mouth and said, holding his breath, "Miss Saigon's gonna dance go-go four nights a week, steady work, have her G-string stuffed with green. I told her, get up there and say, 'Oh, I so hawny,' and, you know, writhe some with your body. Men'll be fighting each other to tip you." Raji said, "I can fix you ladies up too, put you into the best go-go clubs in L.A. Private parties extra, work when you want."

  "This is bad enough," Linda said.

  "Hey, you own those routines you're doing, they yours. You way better than the Spice Girls ever could be in their lives. I'm looking around for two more, a Latina chick and some other kind of ethnic chick, expand on the international aspect. Know what I'm saying? Go hip-hop. It's what the label wants and now I've got the songs almost done. We cut a CD and you come hip-hoppin out of the gate brand new as Chicks-O-Rama or the Chick Posse. Wear little cowboy hats like Dale Evans."

  Linda said, "Raj?"

  He was getting another hit off Vita's jay and Linda waited for him to look at her.

  "I don't do that darky street shit."

  For a moment she thought she had him, hoping he might even take a swing at her. But the moment passed, Raji shaking his head.

  "Getting desperate on me now, huh? Trying to get me to fire your ass when you know I'm a sweet man by nature, won't raise my hand, not even my voice to you. No, but I will remind you, the only way you going big time is with me, 'cause I'm in this with you, the kind of thing where we make it together or you don't make it. You understand what I'm saying? I can replace your ass, girl, but you can't replace me."

  Linda said, "Then do it."

  Raji smiled at her. "I like your ass." He turned to walk off, his last words, "Come on now, ladies, it's show time."

  Vita snuffed out her jay on white tree bark and stuck the roach in the pocket of her jeans, the jeans cut off at the crotch. They both wore shorts, tight ones, heels and bikini bras. Vita said, "Why you talk to the man like that? You want to quit, do it, go on home, but don't antagonize the man. That kind that act like they never bummed, they the ones pull dirty tricks. You never know what they liable to do."

  Vita waited.

  "Now you got nothing to say, huh?"

  Linda finished her cigarette and flicked it away.

  "I've said it. I'm not doing hip-hop."

  CHILI WAS on his way in, waiting for the doorman to find his name on the comp list, as Hy Gordon was coming out and they stopped to say hello. Hy Gordon, studio music supervisor on both Get Leo and Get Lost, had taken Chili to clubs around L.A. when they were looking for music to use in the movies. Hy said, "You're making a picture and you didn't call me?" Chili told him no, he was here to catch the Chicks, see what they were about.

  "You missed the act shows any promise," Hy said, "Roadkill with Derek Stones, they just finished. The Chicks only do covers, the Spice Girls. They're like cheerleaders, the white chick and the black chick can sing; either one could make it solo with a good band and some promotion. The Asian chick, I don't know, she's a half beat off most of the time, a little wobbly."

  "I know the white chick, Linda Moon."

  "Yeah, I think she could do blues, country, whatever she puts her mind to, ballads. And she's a knockout."

  Chili could hear the b
and in there and the girls' voices, sounding like they were happening, the number ending to applause and whistles. He said to Hy Gordon, "The crowd seems to like them."

  "They're drinking, having a good time. Why not? It's basically a girlie show." A car pulled up to the curb, a woman driving, and Hy said, "Good seeing you, Chil."

  IT WAS DARK in here and loud, the sound cranked way up, but he liked it, the heavy beat, the girls' funky moves as they belted the lyrics, each holding a mike. Linda there in the middle. As soon as he saw her he was glad he came. Man, those legs. The black chick was right there with her, having fun, and the Asian chick wasn't bad, a cute girl, but not in the same class as Linda and the black chick. Their moves were wired to the beat and they knew how to play their voices to go with the mood of the lyrics and the funk. In Chili's mind, though, Linda was the star. She had the talent, she had the cool expression on her face, like a good stripper who doesn't overdo it, just gives you enough of a come-on. The band took up the stage, filled it, four guys with spiked hair dyed golden blonde on guitar, bass, keyboard and drums. So the Chicks International did their numbers on the dance floor, a few times coming within ten feet of the small bar where Chili, on a stool shaped like a martini glass, sipped dark beer. He'd stare at Linda and catch her looking at him, glancing over, then throwing her pelvis his way on "Who Do You Think You Are," a pretty good song, Linda giving him the bumps till she turned and got in step with the black chick again. If she saw him on Charlie Rose she knew him, though she didn't smile or give him any kind of sign other than throwing the bumps. Maybe they were for him, maybe they weren't; it might be too dark to see him in his dark suit. They did twelve numbers.

  After seven or eight he'd had enough of that pounding beat and wanted it to be over so he could meet Linda and talk to her. He liked her hair and the way she'd run her hand through it on certain steps. She had a terrific figure, long legs that went all the way up to her white shorts and showed just a little cheek. She looked to be in good shape. They were finished now, getting a loud reaction from the crowd, guys cheering and whistling. She might have friends here. . . . But she did call him, wanting him to come. Now he saw her look his way and he raised his hand in the beam of light from the ceiling. She saw him, turned and headed for a door next to the stage.

  He was a little anxious now but in no hurry, taking time to look around, wondering how it could be so dark in here with all the colored lanterns hanging from the ceiling, spots beaming down circles of light on the bar and the tables against the back wall. In the lounge across the room where you came in, the main bar was made of old jet fighter wings joined together, an oval map of the world on display behind it. But now Linda was coming and he didn't have to wonder what airplane wings had to do with colored lights, or if the wings were a trend he hadn't heard of. Linda was wearing a T-shirt now.

  She put her hand on his shoulder getting up on the stool next to his, saying, "What do you think?"

  Like that, getting right into it. He said, "You want to know my favorites? 'Who Do You Think You Are' and 'I'm Giving You Everything.' Those're good songs."

  " 'I'm giving you everything,' " Linda said, "is the chorus. The song is 'Say You'll Be There.' Some are less embarrassing to do than others and that's as good as it gets. I won't do 'Mama,' if you know that one. I won't rap, point at the crowd or kick, do that Kung-Fu shit."

  "I thought you were great."

  "I could do the same thing topless and make two thousand a week with tips."

  The bartender came over. She asked for a beer, any kind, and waited as he bent down and got one from the cooler. Chili stared at her profile, watched her run her fingers through her hair, mussed from doing it while she danced. She picked up the bottle of beer and took a drink, leaving the glass on the bar.

  "Linda?"

  She turned her head to look at him, cheek against her shoulder in the white T-shirt, eyes calm, waiting.

  "Why don't you?"

  "Why don't I what?"

  "Dance topless."

  "I'm Baptist."

  Maybe putting him on and telling the truth at the same time. Like on the phone saying she was a fucking knockout. She was, even up close. The best thing about her features, she had what Chili believed was a perfect nose and felt he ought to tell her.

  "You have a perfect nose, Linda. You know it?"

  She turned to him again. "In what way?"

  "The shape, it's perfect."

  "You're a nose expert?"

  Chili said, "If what you're doing puts you in a shitty mood and you hate it anyway, why don't you quit?"

  "I signed a contract."

  "That's all that's keeping you?"

  "It's the guy I signed with, Raji, our manager. He goes, 'You quit me, girl, you find yourself in serious trouble.'

  "That's how he talks?"

  "Raji's a black dude. R-a-j-i. He goes by one name, like Prince."

  Chili said, "You want me to speak to him?"

  It stopped her and now she took her time.

  "You mean get me out of the contract?"

  "Yeah, tell him you quit. What I don't understand," Chili said, "if you knew you were gonna do covers why'd you sign with him?"

  "He saw me at a club, it was open-mike night, and gave me some shit about this group he's putting together. The guy's nothing but a pimp."

  "He has a company or what?"

  "Raji's part of Car-O-Sell Entertainment, Artists Management and Promotion. They handle Roadkill, the band that was on before us? And a few others. Raji does the managing, if you can call it that, and a guy who looks like a gangster, Nick Car, does the promoting."

  "He is a gangster," Chili said, "or was. Nick Carcaterra, never shut up. I knew him, I never worked with him."

  "I forgot," Linda said, "you used to be a crook."

  "Actually, I never thought of myself that way. I sold goods that fell off the back of trucks—dresses, fur coats, frozen orange juice. . . . Then I was a loan shark for a while, in Florida."

  "Maybe you could talk to him," Linda said, turning to look across the room. "He was over by the bar when we came off." Her tone changed then, sounding less sure of herself as she said, "But you don't know him."

  "You tell me the guy's a pimp, I probably know him better'n you do."

  "I didn't mean he really is a pimp. He could be, though, he handles strippers."

  "I know what you meant, the guy's dirty, unsavory. You want me to speak to him, I will. No problem."

  Linda didn't say anything, fishing a mashed pack of cigarettes out of her shorts. Chili took a kitchen match from his shirt pocket and scratched it lit with his thumbnail. Linda looked at him, then held her hair back as she leaned in to get the light. She turned her head to blow out a stream of smoke and straightened, staring across the room.

  "He's there now, with Miss Saigon."

  Chili looked over. "The big guy?"

  "That's Elliot, Raji's bodyguard. He's Samoan."

  Built like one of those giant Samoans you saw, this one going at least two-sixty in his tanktop, a do-rag down on his eyebrows, thick black hair to his huge shoulders. Chili said, "Elliot, uh?"

  "Raji's the other one," Linda said, "the dude."

  Putting his arm around the shoulders of the Asian chick, Raji a head taller than the girl, but a little kid next to the Samoan. He did have a confident way about him, his pose, letting you know he was the man.

  "I can see Raji standing on a street corner with the guys, shuffling around, bullshittin' each other, looking for a hustle. . . . What's he need a bodyguard for?"

  "I guess," Linda said, "'cause he's such an ass-hole. Elliot can raise one eyebrow, give you that look? He wants to be in the movies."

  "That's it, the one eyebrow?"

  "As far as I know."

  "You want to come," Chili said, "or wait here?" He watched Linda draw on her cigarette, anxious now.

  "He's gonna be bummed," Linda said. "I know he won't let me go without, you know, doing something. Vita's afraid of hi
m."

  "Vita?"

  "The black chick."

  Chili was laying cash on the bar for the tab. "Let's see what he says."

  "I mean it," Linda said. "It could screw up his big plans. He's having songs written, he's hiring a couple more ethnic chicks. . . . He's already signed with a label. But then Vita heard, this was some guy in the business, a friend of hers, the record company's having second thoughts about another girl group. And if she or I leave it could kill the deal."

  "I can understand that, you two're the show." Chili still watching Raji as he said it, getting to know him the way he stood with his arm hanging on the little Asian girl, his possession.

  "It isn't about me," Linda said, "it's a legal thing, some kind of option the record company has. If a member of a group leaves—it doesn't matter who it is—they can cancel the contract, call the whole deal off. Vita says they're looking for an excuse to cancel, so I have to stay put or I'm in trouble."

  Chili was looking across the room again. "They're leaving. Come on, we'll catch him outside."

  Linda put her hand on his arm. "You know you don't have to do this."

  He turned to her, a little surprised.

  "We want to find out what happens next, don't we?"

  "I forgot," Linda said, "you're using me. I'm an idea for a movie."

  Chili said, "We're using each other."

  5

  * * *

  THEY CAME OUT IN TIME to see Raji and Miss Saigon, his arm still around her, walking toward his Lincoln Town Car, parked on the street by the club's load-in door, Elliot waiting by the car.

  Chili said, "You wonder what Samoans eat to get that big. He looks solid, too. What he doesn't look like is an Elliot."

  They could be out for a stroll, Linda holding Chili's arm as they commented on the size of Samoans. His confidence gave her hope. You want me to speak to him? It was about to happen and she was nervous and felt the need to talk, telling Chili the panel truck belonged to the band. Telling him they were kids, a garage band, not very good—if he happened to notice. Raji would replace them before the Chicks ever cut a record. They were bringing their amps and instrument cases out through the load-in door, a giant illuminated martini glass on the wall above it. Linda watched their spiked hair turn to gold in the light and thought: A Crown of Gold. A misguided chick has her hair spiked hoping to please a worthless twit in a punk band, and he laughs at her. Begin it twangy, a wistful refrain, then when he makes fun of her pick it up and get a little grungy. She imagined playing the song for Chili, if it worked, and then telling him when the idea came to her. Remember that night outside the Martini Lounge? . . . She glanced at Chili.