She-Rox: A Rock & Roll Novel (6 page)

“An all-female band—haven’t done that one yet. It sounds like fun. So this number is how I ring you, then?”

“It is.”

“Sure you don’t want to come by?”

Raven kept putting her ear next to the phone. Fed up with her squirming, Eddie snapped, “Raven, quit it.”

“
Raven,
is that your bird?”

“No, Raven is a Katz.”

“Oh, that one of your band mate’s, then—tell her to come along.”

“
Yes, yes, tell him yes
,” Raven squirmed.

“Well, one of you wants to see me. Tell you what, come for just a few then, bring me an iced coffee with a shot, and all will be forgiven. I could use a bump.” Eddie didn’t answer. She was occupied watching Raven jump up and down on her bed. “Eddie, you’re beginning to give me a complex, here.”

“All right, okay, but only for a few. Then I have to come home. Don’t forget to leave my name at the gate.”

“They're calling me back into the studio now. Cheers.”

“
I can’t believe it,
” Raven cried. “
I’m going to meet Slade, Mr. Hottie, McAllister
.” Jumping off the bed and hitting the floor with both feet, she sobered and said, “Talk about your dear diary moment.” Grabbing her sweat pants, she then declared, “I gotta change.”

“Wait a second. I won’t do this unless you swear on your mother and her Indian heritage, the following: First and most importantly, Gretchen and Ginger are
never
to know about this.”

“Aw, Eddie, the one time I got something to rub in Gretchen’s face. That’s like taking me to a Hard Rock Café pool party and making wear a one piece designed in the sixties!”

“Yeah about that, you can’t get all dolled up either. We can’t show up looking like we’re the ad council for Slade’s fan club.”

“I can’t go in
this
.”

“Third, I absolutely
must
be home, in bed, before one o’clock in the morning, and fourth—

“There’s more?”

“—we’re going in your car. Oh, and we have to stop and get Slade an iced coffee. I promised.” Raven agreed to all the conditions and left the room. “We’re leaving in ten minutes,” Eddie yelled down the hall.

Her own food-stained t-shirt sent T.J.’s voice through her head. ‘
Have I taught you nothing? You should dress like you already have four platinum CD’s.’

Digging in her closet, Eddie found T.J.’s work of art: a strapless mini dress of yellow, tan and black animal print, with little butterflies embroidered across the bodice. She strapped on a high pair of multi-buckled black platforms and donned a silver choker, then judged her reflection in a mirror. “
I look like . . . like . . . Posh Spice.”

Raven showed up. “I thought you said no dress up?”

“I have damage control.”

“Does this mean no curfew?”

“No, that one stays. I really do have early class.”

The pair stopped at the Starbucks on Sunset and drove to the recording studio. Raven pulled onto the lot and stopped when she saw the night watchman. It was a different man than last night.

Eddie leaned over, saying, “Hi, we’re here to see Slade McAllister, my name is Eddie.”

Looking down his list, the watchman said, “I don’t have anybody with that name on my list -- sorry, girls.”

“Try Esther.”

“That works. He’s in building two, studio A.” The man hit the button, opening the gate.

“Raven, I know we look like a couple of ten dollar hookers, but promise me we’ll conduct ourselves like the master musicians we know we are. He is not “Slade the God,” he’s “Slade the Musician,” just like you and me. Don’t turn into a starry-eyed groupie, okay? It will destroy any credibility I have with these guys.”

“Homey don’t gotta play
that
game. I’ve got my
own
groupies.”

“Yeah, that’s why you were jumping up and down on my bed like a banshee.”

The two wandered down the hall of Studio “A,” hearing the sound of a distorted guitar, coming from the control room. Eddie also noticed that this studio was three times the size of Studio “B.” Taz was working the massive mixing console.

“Hey Eddie, c’mon in, have a seat,” he directed. The couch along the back wall was identical to the one in the studio next door, only this control room not only had a couch, but four other chairs around the room and a center table, with ash trays and trade magazines littered on it. It looked like a doctor’s reception room with cigarette smoke.

“Where’s Slade?” Eddie asked, “He told me to bring him coffee.”

“Just set it on the table. He’ll be back in a minute.”

She set the drink down, then went over to the console board and sat in one of the rolling chairs next to Taz. “What are you guys working on?”

“Well, we’ve got most of the tracks done. Slade has a couple more guitar leads he wants to record. Then we’ll do all the mixing.”

“So where is everybody?”

“Out,” Taz said as he continued working on the same guitar track.

Eventually there were voices in the hallway. A man with dark hair appeared with a female draped around his neck. Eddie recognized him immediately. It was Aiden Locke, Slade’s drummer. Behind him was another member of the band, Stevie Fritz, bassist, with his Flavor-of-the-Month, followed by Bruno, sans any female. And last was Slade, with his arm around the most striking blonde in the room. She had those pale blue eyes any man would happily spend his last unemployment check on, and female anatomy that could rival any professional stripper.

“
Eddie,
” Slade exclaimed, “you made it.” All eyes turned to look and Eddie made a mental note to thank T.J. for the dress. No one would ever guess she worked in a convalescent home. She pointed to the table and said, “I come bearing gifts, Slade.”

“Oh, and what might they be?”

“Your iced coffee and a
kat,
” Eddie said, pointing to Raven, tempting him with feline companionship, instead of the civilian he had clinging to his arm. “This is my bass player, Raven. She does gigs internationally.”

“You must be the Raven on the phone,” Slade smiled, “it’s nice to know Eddie has a friend. Last night, she nicked the shirt off poor Bruno’s back and gave me a mouthful.”

“I heard,” Raven said. “Apparently her level of musicality had been violated. Maybe she should have her own talk show.”

Eddie ignored the remark. “I’ve been listening to the playback of these tracks. What effects are you using on your guitar?”

“Oh, that’s the new Digi-Gear unit.” Slade brightened, only too happy to discuss big boy toys.

“I
thought so
. I would love one of those. Talk about crunch—it’s like weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Slade said, sitting in the chair next to hers.

“And you tuned down—it’s sick. Just the way I like it.”

There was a tight little circle of musicians talking shop, which meant the “girlfriends” needed to take a seat and chill out. But Slade’s girlfriend, Bebe, didn’t want to leave him with these
intruders
. The two Katz were chatting up Slade, Aiden and Stevie like beer drinking buddies.

Bebe exclaimed, “Hey, why don’t we all go around the corner to the Emerald Fox for a drink.”

“It’s getting late,” Eddie begged off, “you guys go ahead. We just stopped off to give Slade his coffee and I’ve got school tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, right, my coffee.” Slade went over and grabbed the plastic cup, and jabbing a straw in it, he looked to Bebe and said, “You girls go on over and we’ll meet you there later.” It was a command, not a suggestion. Slade fished out a wad of cash and handed it to Bebe. He pecked her cheek and rejoined his circle.

Bebe was Slade’s staple. Her role was to play the temporary Mrs. McAllister on an “as needed” basis. She was his L.A. “live in” who picked up the mail, paid the gardener and kept the refrigerator stocked. However, Bebe did work, as a yoga instructor at a very elite gym located in Beverly Hills with a high profile clientele, and on every other Friday night she could be found as Bebe Bemire, femme fatale mud wrestler, at the Hollywood Sports Bar. But when Slade was in Los Angeles she donned the proverbial apron and provided him with necessities such as clean socks, aspirin for a hangover, an ear to hear the most minimal of complaints, and a body to keep his bed warm. When Slade didn’t need her, she was to make herself invisible. It wasn’t a bad deal, really. Bebe got to live rent free in Slade’s beautiful home perched in the Hollywood Hills and hang out by his pool working on her permanent tan while an illegal immigrant mowed and maintained the lawns and flowerbeds. The best perk though was driving his Aston Martin. It gave her distinction driving around Mulholland or Beverly Hills. But to the insiders of the music industry, girls like Bebe were anywhere and everywhere.

The girlfriends left the studio and the conversation went from equipment, to musical tastes and the who’s who in rockdom. Noting the time, Eddie announced she had to leave.

“I can take you home,” Slade offered.

“No, that’s alright, Raven drove, so we’re okay.”

“Esther,” Slade said, “let me drive you home.”

The three walked out to the parking lot and as Slade waved goodbye to Raven, he pushed the button to unlock the door to his car. Eddie slipped into the dark leather seat of the midnight blue Aston Martin DBS. If she had ever been in a car labeled “sexy,” this would be it.

Sitting in the quiet of the expensive machine, Slade declared, “I’m happy to take you home. Besides, there is something I wanted to ask. I know we just met yesterday, well, it’s after midnight, so day before yesterday, but I feel like we’re friends, fellow musicians, right?”

Eddie was having flashbacks to when Ginger told her about the Todd Rivers’ Grammy debacle in her van. “Slade, if you ever want to talk, get my musical bent on anything, I can promise that you’ll never get anything but the naked truth from me, and I can only hope that you will, in turn, do the same for me. That’s what true friends do. They tell you when the girlfriend shows up to the gig and you’re entangled with another. Is that candid enough?”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” He paused. Eddie could see the wheels of his mind turning, his eyes darting in the dark of the car.

“What is it, Slade?”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but – you don’t like the tracks you heard in the studio tonight, do you.”

“Why would you say that? I was very careful.”

“Exactly, you were
careful
, what, to not step on my toes? You had no problem amending my previously released material last night.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Slade, please, I’m really sorry.”

“No, Eddie,” he stopped her. “One should never apologize for being truly passionate. But having said that, I did listened to you going on and on, extolling my guitar set up, my sound, Taz’s work on the tracks, but you never said a word about the music, my work, itself. And that’s what I really want to know. Did you like anything you heard?”

“Well,” Eddie began, “I did just promise you the truth. So, I’ll give you the dope, the dreadful, and the dead but only because you
asked
for it.” Slade nodded, looking her square in the face. “Taking a presumptive leap, I’m going to assume you don’t want the legacy of your music to be recorded tracks full of nothing but the same guitar tricks that every other guitarist pull out of their bag and play over and over again. The music industry has an overflowing supply of mindless drivel, and don’t get me wrong – I, by no means, think your writing is mindless, but
virtuosity is in short supply today and what’s worse, it’s not readily recognizable to our unsuspecting consumer-driven public.”