Chapter Ten
St. James looked up at the gleaming glass façade of Park Inn Alexanderplatz. It had been a long time since he’d stayed in a four-star hotel, or even a two-star hotel. Serafin was rolling in dough to put his reporters up in places like this. St. James saw European editions of In Crowd at every newsstand.
The liveried doorman beneath the broad portico frowned as St. James walked toward the main entrance. St. James looked like a refugee from Nashville, wearing a grimy leather-fringed jacket, his dirty brown hair down to his shoulders, the shades, the floppy hat, and carrying a guitar case. He counted on being mistaken for a rock star, the only positive explanation for his appearance.
The cavernous lobby was chock-a-block with tourists, business people, and a football team. St. James looked around and located a sign for Spagos, the restaurant in which he was supposed to meet Connie Cosgrove. St. James had read Cosgrove’s stories in In Crowd. She interviewed musicians and wrote music reviews. Every review had a food reference. “They offered up a spicy bouillabaisse of Southern-fried blues …”
Spago was a big, loud room with hardwood floors and a blue plastic ceiling. As St. James paused at the maître d’s station, he noted many tables filled with business men and women shouting at each other, into hand-held devices, or simply into the air. The aroma of food made St. James’ stomach search for something to surround. The maître d’, a blond young man in jacket, tie, and severely styled hair, popped up behind the rosewood station.
“Sir?”
Must look English, St. James thought. “Ian St. James. I’m supposed to meet Connie Cosgrove here.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take you to her table. Would you like me to put your guitar in a safe place while you are dining?”
St. James scrutinized the young man. The guitar was all he had. But this was the Park Inn Alexanderplatz. And the young man was German. “All right, thank you.”
The maître d’ took the guitar case and set it beneath his station, out of sight. He picked up a menu resembling the Rosetta Stone and led the way back through the vast sea of chattering wheeler-dealers to a square table in the rear where a young woman bent over her laptop pecking away.
She looked up as St. James arrived. The waiter pulled out a chair.
“Ian St. James. Lovely to meet you,” St. James said.
An angel’s face framed by a halo of gold hair; heart-shaped lips, impossibly young. She proffered a purple-nailed hand. “Well hello! I’m very excited about this. I’ve always been a big Banshees fan.”
St. James took the menu from the waiter, who clicked his heels and walked away.
“Jawohl, mein obersturmbanfuhrer,” St. James muttered.
Connie giggled. “They are a bit formal. By the way. I really liked your first record.”
“Bless you, darling.” St. James’ stomach rumbled like the start of the Baja 1000. She must have heard that.
“When are you going to put out another record?”
A crimson tide of shame and humiliation crept from St. James’ collar as he recalled his last disastrous gig at the Whiskey in Los Angeles, where he had forgotten the words to songs, stumbled off the stage, and landed on his face. A young writer named Rulon Wexler made his bones maliciously detailing the whole thing for Rolling Stone: “Shit-faced and oblivious, St. James finished his set by crawling to the men’s room.”
No producer would touch St. James after that. Not even Dre.
Thank Christ it happened before the Internet or cell phones.
St. James put the menu down and smiled with sealed lips. A tiny crease appeared on Connie’s perfect brow rendering her even more adorable. She’d noticed his discomfort.
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, innit? If I play my cards right with this story, I might get another grab at the brass ring. What do you know about the Banshees?”
“I’ve read everything In Crowd has done, including two interviews with Paddy MacGowan, plus everything else that’s available. There’s a book called Praise the Lord and Pass the Stratocaster that deals with the whole satanic thing in some detail. Allegations of ritual sacrifice, self-mutilation, heavy shit. They pretty much said it was a good thing the band died in a plane crash or there would have been hell to pay. Oh, I’m sorry. Real classy, Connie. I mean, it’s hard to realize I’m sitting here with Oaian St. James’ son.”
St. James shrugged. “I didn’t know him. I have no memories of him. I watch old films of the band and try to imagine him as me father. Never could. Just a figure behind the drum kit. I ’eard every nasty rumor there is about me dad at school. They used to call me ‘Spawn of Satan.’”
Connie’s emerald eyes peered into his soul. Everything else disappeared. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. Spawn of Satan, that’s me.”
“It’s a miracle you turned out as well as you did.”
St. James barked, “I suppose you could say that! What’s good here? I’m a starving artist.”
“Everything is good. By the way, Richard is comping you while you’re working on the story. I checked with the desk, and at the moment there are no vacancies.”
“That’s all right, Luv. This place ain’t my stoyle.”
“One thing I’ve always wondered,” Connie said.
St. James looked at her expectantly.
“Why did they call themselves the Banshees? A banshee is by definition a female spirit.”
St. James shrugged. “Fuck if I know. I once asked Freddie Mercury why they called the band Queen, and he curled up regally and said, ‘I don’t know, darling, it was just the most awful name we could come up with.”
The waiter came. St. James ordered Sauerbraten and a 20 oz. stein of Hacker-Pschorr. Connie, who offered a tantalizing hint of cleavage in her black and pink sweater, ordered chicken salad and cranberry juice.
Connie reached across the table and laid one elegant finger on the back of St. James’ hand, sending an electric thrill up his arm. “Here’s what I’d like—let’s go to the club at the sound check and try to talk to the band. Ideally, you will ask that man posing as Oaian by what right does he presume to trade on your loss?”
“Like I said, I hardly knew Oaian.”
“Whatever you feel comfortable with, but introduce yourself. I will have my trusty little vid cam. Later, we’ll see the show, and I’ll write a review. Your job, as I understand it, is to provide me with background detail and try to get them to admit they’re a hoax and who put ’em up to it. You don’t have a conflict do you?”
“I’m all yours.”