Chameleon

Chapter 23

'Lenny Pepper

Hot Stuff!'

That's how the jingle went. And truer words were never spoken in Lenny's opinion. The fifteen year old nymphet who had shared his bed last night may have disagreed, but she knew better than to say so.

What the hell was her name anyway? Tracey? Trixie? Tanya? Who cares? By tomorrow she'll be history.

Lenny left her sleeping and padded into the bathroom to shower. His hair was waiting for him by the washbasin.

'Morning, Barnet,' he said, and patted it affectionately.

Lenny was one of those unfortunate people who didn't have a single hair on their entire body. There was a name for it, but Lenny could never remember what it was. It freaked some people out when they first saw it. The wig was just for promotional purposes. Hey, showbiz is all about image, right?

His first producer had once said to him: 'Lenny, you're a radio DJ. The listeners haven't a clue if you're bald, pin-striped or hairy as a werewolf!'

His first producer had been a jerk. There were signed photos to think of, personal appearance and, once, he had been first reserve for "I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here"! Besides, Lenny liked his wig. He thought it made him look like a fatter, whiter, Jimi Hendrix. Which was fine with Lenny, because for three years now he had been the heavy-metal guru of Avalon Radio, the fastest growing commercial station in the country. So they said.

The doorbell rang just as Lenny was towelling himself dry. It was bound to be Marjorie; the woman was never late. His playmate of the previous evening was still sleeping soundly, so Lenny grabbed a robe and shut the bedroom door behind him.

'Hi, Marj!' he greeted her jovially. 'Want some breakfast?'

'It's Marjorie, and I ate breakfast at breakfast time. It's now eleven-thirty.'

Marjorie bustled in. She was thin, bespectacled, late twenties and harassed as hell. She was loaded down with CD's and promotional material. She was Lenny's Personal Assistant, (he shared her with three other jocks, but he knew she liked him best), and just about ran his life for him.

Lenny busied himself making some freshly squeezed orange juice whilst Marjorie unloaded her packages and fired instructions at him, machine-gun fashion.

'We need to sort out the running order for tonight's show. You have a million new releases to review. They're all crap; I've heard them. Can you cover the Godzilla Brother's gig tomorrow night? Damien's pulled out because of his veins. Your tailor rang to say your shirts are ready. We need a new batch of autographed photos, and please, nothing disgusting this time.'

Lenny watched her bustling about like a miniature whirlwind. It was better than a Roadrunner cartoon!

'What's that?' he said, pointing to a package Marjorie had deposited on a table.

'Dunno,' she replied. 'It arrived for you at the station just before I left, so I brought it along.'

Lenny put down his orange juice and picked the parcel up. It was quite heavy. Lenny liked opening parcels. It reminded him of Christmas.

The bedroom door opened and Tracey/Trixie/Tanya walked in, quite naked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

'Got any Coco Pops?' she asked.

Lenny jerked his thumb towards the kitchen. 'In there,' he said.

'Thanks,' the girl replied, and wandered lethargically away.

Marjorie was peering at him accusingly over her spectacles.

'She's my niece,' Lenny explained, lamely.

'And I'm your Aunt Fanny!' Marjorie responded.

'Then let's keep it in the family, shall we, "Aunty"?' Lenny suggested.

'Just don't come running to me when you're all over the Sunday papers, Len, that's all.'

'I won't. And the name's Lenny, Marj.'

'Touche. Where do you want to start?'

'With this.' Lenny had finished unwrapping his parcel. It contained a CD and a pile of flyers.

'That sly old fox!' Lenny commented.

'Who?'

'Sidney Brass.'

'Hellfire Club? That Sidney Brass?'

'That's him. Seems he has a new discovery making their debut on Saturday.'

'So?'

'So, I think we ought to know about it, don't you, Marjorie?'

'Why? The place is a dump. A toilet for bikers and Brass is a moron whose knuckles scrape the ground when he walks.'

Lenny sighed. 'The Hellfire Club is one of the premier venues for alternative rock culture,' he corrected her. 'And Mr Brass is an entrepreneur of some standing in the music fraternity. Besides, bikers make up a large proportion of my listening figures, Marjorie!'

'You have a point there,' she agreed.

'Sidney and I are usually on good terms,' Lenny mused. 'But he's kept this one under wraps. Luckily the little darlings have shown some initiative and sent me a demo themselves.' He passed the flyers to Marjorie.

'Yuck!' she said.

The kitchen door opened and Tracey/Trixie/Tanya emerged, eating cereal from a bowl.

'You were out of Coco Pops,' she informed him. 'So I had Corn Flakes instead.' She ate her way into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind her.

Marjorie raised an eyebrow at Lenny, which was more than he could do, but didn't say a word.

'Let's play the CD,' Lenny suggested.

Ten minutes later, Lenny was on the phone to Sidney Brass to discuss the possibility of broadcasting Saturday's show live from the Hellfire Club.