Sucker bet - James Swain [68]
“Great,” Nigel said.
Silver kept talking all the way to the stretch limousine parked in front of the hotel. The limo was pink, as was the driver’s uniform, a Miami Beach fashion statement if there ever was one. The driver was a mean-looking black man with a shaved head.
Candy got in, her bare legs sticking to the leather seat. She felt cheap, but Nigel seemed to be having a good time, and that was all she cared about. Silver sat opposite them and glanced discreetly out the window as Candy got comfortable.
“Where are we going?” Candy asked.
“The Virgin record store,” Silver said. “Nigel’s going to sign autographs.”
“You mean the Virgin store on Collins?”
Silver nodded enthusiastically. “There’s already a huge crowd. This baby’s going to go platinum in six weeks. Mark my words. Six weeks.”
Candy looked at Nigel. They had gone shopping in the Virgin store three nights ago. It was two blocks from the hotel. Sensing her confusion, he explained. “I can’t just show up, my dear. My fans would not tolerate it. I must appear in an impossibly expensive car being driven by a menacing-looking fellow who may or may not be a homicidal maniac.”
“It’s in the contract,” Silver explained.
Candy looked at the driver, then at Nigel. “Is he?”
“Is he what?”
“A homicidal maniac?”
“He’s an actor,” Silver said. “We hired him because he fits the bill.”
Candy fell back in her seat.
“Oh, wow” was all she could think to say.
The line outside the Virgin store stretched around the block, the faithful done up in leather and chains and motorcycle boots. They would have looked real tough if not for the gray hair and potbellies. The driver got out and opened their door.
“It’s show time,” Silver declared.
He walked Nigel and Candy to the front door, where they were greeted by the gushing store manager and a handful of employees. Introductions were made. Nigel shook everyone’s hand while clutching Candy to his side. Candy played along, smiling and giggling and showing plenty of leg.
“I saw you at Shea Stadium in 1980,” the store manager said. His name tag said Trip. A forty-year-old hippie who looked like he smoked his breakfast. “Greatest concert I’ve ever seen. You went through three drum kits and two cases of beer.”
“I was sick that night,” Nigel said.
“You were?”
Nigel nodded. “Had to take it easy.”
Trip laughed. So did Silver and the driver. Candy didn’t get it but laughed anyway, because that was what you did around a celebrity.
The store was a high-ceilinged monster with the personality of an airplane hangar. Trip escorted them to the back. A large area had been cleared. Sitting on a table were stacks of CDs and DVDs. Hanging behind the table, a giant poster of Nigel’s famous Rolling Stone cover, his naked upper torso swathed in rusty chains, his eyes gleaming like a maniac’s. Candy had always thought it was the ugliest picture she’d ever seen.
“Ohhh,” she purred into Nigel’s ear.
“Does it turn you on?” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
A devilish gleam spread across his face. He got behind the table and took the chair. A pen was produced. He took it in his right fist, poised for the onslaught.
“Ready?” Trip said.
“Bring on the mob,” Nigel replied.
Trip clapped his hands like a dance instructor, and the employees opened up the store. The crowd came in a little faster than Candy would have liked, and she got behind Nigel and stayed there as he chatted and signed autographs. She’d seen her share of celebrities, and Nigel was a class act. He was friendly and didn’t mind pumping the flesh.
Soon the store was mobbed. No one was leaving, and Candy found herself staring at a big white sheet on the other side of the room. It was covering something fairly large, and at first she thought it was a car. Only, it was too small to be a car.
A voice came over the store’s PA. Nigel lifted his head. Trip was standing by the sheet, mike in hand.
“Folks, we have a real treat for you this afternoon. Through the generosity of Polyester Records and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in beautiful Cleveland, Ohio, we have flown