importance. No, this guy was no ordinary creep. This guy was an extraordinary creep.
“I’ve seen you around,” the tangerine-Lurch said. “You come here a lot, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I told him, turning back to my Coke to signal that the conversation was at an end. Instead of taking the hint, he just stood there smiling at me. I started to get an uncomfortable feeling. I didn’t like the way that this guy was looking at me. I thought of Derek, and then pushed the thought away. No. This guy seemed weird, but harmless. Probably just some kind of burnout, the kind of freak that you see everywhere in Hollywood clubs, just some creepy old dude who used to be a child actor or something. Or he could have been in the entertainment industry—a journalist, club promoter, or something. Otherwise he wouldn’t have even made it past the bouncers. But I was in a club packed with people. This creep couldn’t try anything.
“I like your look,” the freak was saying. “I like it a lot. You got balls, you know what I mean? The platinum-blond hair . . . the tight pants . . . the makeup. Very cool. And you have this look in your eyes that says, ‘I can beat the crap out of truck driver.’ ”
This made me laugh. I looked up to him again, and said, “What exactly do you want?”
He straightened up, took a deep breath, and announced, “My name is Kim Fowley.”
I stared back at him. He was standing there, rocking back on his heels, as if everything had just been explained because he’d uttered his name. I still had no idea who this creep was. After an awkward moment’s silence, I said, “Well, good for you. Am I supposed to know you, or something?”
Actually, the name did sound vaguely familiar. Not that I was about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I think I’d heard Rodney mention it once or twice, but beyond some vague connection with the music industry, I really didn’t have a clue who this guy was. I was getting intrigued, though. What exactly did he want? He smiled at me again, and called for someone to join us over the thunderous sound of the club’s PA. “Joan! Joan, come over here!”
A girl walked over to us. She was around my age, really pretty, with brown- and blond-streaked hair, dark eyes that seemed to radiate right out of her face. She walked over from the edge of the dance floor and stood next to Kim Fowley. She seemed real shy, and was hiding her face behind that long dark hair.
“I’d like you to meet Cherie,” he said. I was about to ask him just how the hell he knew my name, but he cut me off. “Cherie—I’d like you to meet Joan Jett.”
Now I was impressed. Starstruck, almost. I had heard Joan Jett’s name around the scene for what seemed like forever. Rodney Bingenheimer used to talk about her in the hushed, reverential tones he reserved for the most important faces on the scene. “That girl is going places,” he would say. I had seen her at the English Disco: she was a young, stunning Suzi Quatro look-alike. This was before Suzi had really blown up in a big way in America, and even though she was from the United States, she was still mostly successful in Europe. But, to the kids from the glam-rock scene, Suzi was a goddess. We all wanted to look like her, sound like her, be like her.
Joan smiled and put her hand out toward me, saying hi. She seemed friendly enough, and her presence relaxed me a little. If Joan was involved with this Fowley guy, then he couldn’t be all bad, could he?
“Tell me, Cherie . . . can you sing? Or play an instrument?” Kim asked.
I pursed my lips. This question had thrown me for a loop. I looked around for Paul or Marie, wondering if this was some kind of setup. Nobody was paying attention to us, though. I shrugged and said, “I can’t play an instrument. Why?”
“Have you ever heard of the Runaways?” Joan asked me.
“Sure. They’re a new group,
“I’ve seen you around,” the tangerine-Lurch said. “You come here a lot, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I told him, turning back to my Coke to signal that the conversation was at an end. Instead of taking the hint, he just stood there smiling at me. I started to get an uncomfortable feeling. I didn’t like the way that this guy was looking at me. I thought of Derek, and then pushed the thought away. No. This guy seemed weird, but harmless. Probably just some kind of burnout, the kind of freak that you see everywhere in Hollywood clubs, just some creepy old dude who used to be a child actor or something. Or he could have been in the entertainment industry—a journalist, club promoter, or something. Otherwise he wouldn’t have even made it past the bouncers. But I was in a club packed with people. This creep couldn’t try anything.
“I like your look,” the freak was saying. “I like it a lot. You got balls, you know what I mean? The platinum-blond hair . . . the tight pants . . . the makeup. Very cool. And you have this look in your eyes that says, ‘I can beat the crap out of truck driver.’ ”
This made me laugh. I looked up to him again, and said, “What exactly do you want?”
He straightened up, took a deep breath, and announced, “My name is Kim Fowley.”
I stared back at him. He was standing there, rocking back on his heels, as if everything had just been explained because he’d uttered his name. I still had no idea who this creep was. After an awkward moment’s silence, I said, “Well, good for you. Am I supposed to know you, or something?”
Actually, the name did sound vaguely familiar. Not that I was about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I think I’d heard Rodney mention it once or twice, but beyond some vague connection with the music industry, I really didn’t have a clue who this guy was. I was getting intrigued, though. What exactly did he want? He smiled at me again, and called for someone to join us over the thunderous sound of the club’s PA. “Joan! Joan, come over here!”
A girl walked over to us. She was around my age, really pretty, with brown- and blond-streaked hair, dark eyes that seemed to radiate right out of her face. She walked over from the edge of the dance floor and stood next to Kim Fowley. She seemed real shy, and was hiding her face behind that long dark hair.
“I’d like you to meet Cherie,” he said. I was about to ask him just how the hell he knew my name, but he cut me off. “Cherie—I’d like you to meet Joan Jett.”
Now I was impressed. Starstruck, almost. I had heard Joan Jett’s name around the scene for what seemed like forever. Rodney Bingenheimer used to talk about her in the hushed, reverential tones he reserved for the most important faces on the scene. “That girl is going places,” he would say. I had seen her at the English Disco: she was a young, stunning Suzi Quatro look-alike. This was before Suzi had really blown up in a big way in America, and even though she was from the United States, she was still mostly successful in Europe. But, to the kids from the glam-rock scene, Suzi was a goddess. We all wanted to look like her, sound like her, be like her.
Joan smiled and put her hand out toward me, saying hi. She seemed friendly enough, and her presence relaxed me a little. If Joan was involved with this Fowley guy, then he couldn’t be all bad, could he?
“Tell me, Cherie . . . can you sing? Or play an instrument?” Kim asked.
I pursed my lips. This question had thrown me for a loop. I looked around for Paul or Marie, wondering if this was some kind of setup. Nobody was paying attention to us, though. I shrugged and said, “I can’t play an instrument. Why?”
“Have you ever heard of the Runaways?” Joan asked me.
“Sure. They’re a new group,
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