He had known that any party involving the Misfits would get out of hand. In fact, that's why he had arranged that they only make a very brief appearance, even though it was their own celebration party for their first Gold Album. He had sent them off in a taxi to a club where they had fans and they wouldn't cause too much trouble (he hoped). Even if they were showered in adulations, they got bored if all they had to talk to were other industry execs. Not that he found the company fascinating himself, but money had never just fallen into his lap (as much as he tried).
He should have known that life would never give him a break, however, when his beeper went off in the middle of a very good pitch to a potential investor. He exited as graciously as he could—he gave out his number to very few people and the ones who had it didn't use it unless it was an emergency.
"Excuse me," Eric said. "But urgent business has come up. I do so hope we can talk again soon."
He hoped the other man would assume that Eric had lots of contacts and that he wasn't desperate for money and that's why he was leaving the party. Not because Eric had three lunatics for a band and was a combination babysitter, nursemaid, personal assistant AND manager.
And his doctor wondered how he got so stressed.
He slipped into his private office and picked up the line. It had been a call from one of the maids in the Gabor residence—it was good to have a friend there, he had found, since two-thirds of his band lived there.
"Mr. Raymond," came the voice, a young blonde thing that just needed flowers and a charming smile every now and then to be happy. "I think you should know that Mistress Gabor is in one of her moods and wants to go back to her album party—"
"Thank you, sweetheart. I'll be right over. Try to keep her from leaving."
He hung up the phone and sighed. Both leaving the party and Pizzazz making her re-entry (with entourage) would mean no more fundraising tonight. But if the guests could walk out with no injuries, they might talk to him tomorrow.
Maybe.
He heard the smashing before he even entered the mansion. He also heard the muffled shrieks. The door was opened for him after a long delay—It was hard to hear the doorbell over the din inside. Stepping through the entryway, he found Stormer and Roxy in the living room, standing around listening to the muffled yells and thumps and crashes upstairs. If they weren't joining in with her, it meant that the tantrum was a personal, Pizzazz problem. Just because it was one girl didn't make it easier, but it did mean less girls throwing things at him. He had learned to count small blessings.
"What happened?" He asked the other two, looking up the stairwell and wondering if he should go up right away or wait until the noises died down.
Roxy shrugged. "Same as usual. She wanted to come home to show her old man her album tonight before hitting the club, and he decided to go to a meeting instead."
Eric rolled his eyes. Harvey Gabor caused just as much trouble for him as his daughter. But while Harvey never seemed to calculate the amount of Pizzazz's temper, he also wasn't the one who had to risk life and limb to calm her down.
This is why I buy Armani, he thought to himself. At least I'll look good when she kills me.
"It really seemed to upset her," Stormer added.
There was another crash.
"Never would have guessed," Eric remarked sarcastically. "Just be ready."
Be ready for what none of them knew, but he went up the stairs two at a time.
Counting to three before opening the door, Eric was surprised that the damage wasn't as bad as he expected. He had no idea what the room was used for originally, he admitted, but most of the mess came from overturned tables and couches rather than actual broken items. He did see a smashed vase, several holes in the wall and, looking near Pizzazz herself, a trampled Misfits album. The one they had been promoting tonight.
Pizzazz seemed to be in the middle of deciding what to destroy next when he opened to door and she just looked at him for a few seconds before the assault started. Even though he was expecting it, it didn't make it any easier.
"What are you doing here, Eric?!" She shrieked, picking up nearby objects to throw at him. Luckily, right now it was couch cushions.
"Get a hold of yourself, Pizzazz!" he pleaded, shielding himself with upraised arms. "You're on top of the world! You should be out with your public!"
"Don't try to tell me what to do!"
She had found heavier objects and now he had to focus more on dodging.
"You think I'm happy being Gold, Eric? I should be Platinum! Then I'd have everyone screaming—begging for me!"
Would have it killed you, Harvey, to at least have told her "good job"? Eric thought to himself, barely ducking a heavy vase.
She panted, glaring at him with rage. Rage not his fault, but directed at him nonetheless. In cases like this, it was often best to put on his best front of bravado.
He stood up, brushing himself off with more control than he felt.
"There's only so much I can do, Pizzazz, when I have to spend my time cleaning up your messes. Records don't promote themselves," he spoke in his smoothest tone. He stepped deliberately towards her, planting his feet where they landed and crunching or kicking anything out of the way. "So why don't you stop this foolishness and grow up?" He said it with a sneer. He didn't give sympathy. Life was tough—you dealt. By hook or by crook you did something—not whine.
She came up to him and shouted in his face.
"Who do you think you are, telling me to grow up? You're only here because of my good graces! Now get outta my way, I have a party to liven up!"
"The party's over, Pizzazz. They all went home."
"YOU-!" and she shoved him to the ground and stomped out of the room. He could hear her ordering the other two into the van, probably intending to both smash up some bar and get smashed themselves.
Total damages: $36,000.
Eric Raymond was often unreasonable, he knew this. But he'd never say it out loud. Because if you never admit it, sometimes those around you didn't notice. But the Misfits seemed to think everything he requested pushed the envelope of decent requests, even if it was "show up for practice on time and let's lay this track". Pizzazz was always the worst one, of course. Stormer, despite her name, gave him the least amount of trouble and Roxy was easy to bribe. But Pizzazz couldn't be bought and was a consummate drama queen, who knew when her appearance—and lack thereof—would make the most impression. They waited for an hour and a half, the three of them. He used the time to record their background vocals, though they'd probably have to re-do it all anyway once Pizzazz finally arrived. She was the driving force behind all their songs. She was the energy, and something electric happened when she was there. It amped up those around her.
But he wasn't about to send home Roxy and Stormer without working on something. He told them to take a break. Eric telephoned himself to see if the Princess was at home. He might be able to wheedle a royal visit.
He got through to a maid at first, and was made to play ring around the rosy with different levels of staff while she decided if she wanted to talk with him or not.
Doing his best not to show his annoyance, he effused, "Pizzazz! I'm so glad I caught you before you left!"
"Can it, Eric. What do you want?"
"Nothing more than your lovely presence, my dear."
She gave him a condescending laugh. "Well, of course you do. But I don't feel like it today."
"Pizzazz," he was annoyed now. "Come to the studio right now!"
"Who do ya think you are, my father? Tough luck, Eric."
And she hung up on him.
He slammed the receiver down and buzzed his secretary to dismiss the other Misfits. There were some situations he couldn't fix.
He found out later that her father had sent his regrets about missing her birthday, but he had been in Budapest. She held her own two-day celebration.
That cost Eric $50,000.
"Eeeeriiiiiiiiiiiiiiic!"
More than anything, it was the amount of whine in the middle of his name that she managed that grated on his nerves.
This time it was backstage, after some kind of charity gala that the Holograms were also appearing at. There actually hadn't been a plan in the works this time; Eric's bank account could only hire Zipper so many times before he had to replenish –and that wasn't counting the lawyer's fees he had to pay to clean up Zipper's and the Misfits' (and his own) messes. But knowing that he could make his next house payment was little comfort when faced with the wrath of Pizzazz. But he didn't know what was bothering her tonight. Their set went well, in fact by all accounts the audience gave them the best response out of all the entertainers. But he still had to dodge a flying compact when he went to congratulate them afterward.
"Why I am stuck here when I should be somewhere that appreciates talent?!"
He looked towards Roxy, who pointedly turned away and reapplied her make-up, not about to break ranks for him. His eyes pleaded with Stormer, who was the softest of the bunch and might sympathize with him. She did have a weakness for suffering creatures.
Like me, he tried to project into her mind.
She quickly mouthed "Rio" before turning to look in the mirror herself.
Aha, there it is, he thought. Rejected again.
Pizzazz by all rights should not have expected Rio to ever give in to her advances. He was inextricably linked to the Holograms through both Jerrica Benton, his girlfriend, and whatever was going on between him and Jem. But Pizzazz wanted his approval, for some reason. Approval from that opinionated, inflexible, authoritative…Rio was a lot like Pizzazz's father. He sighed. She needed a therapist, not a rock band.
He clapped his hands together and rubbed them excitedly, ignoring the general atmosphere in the room.
"How about I take you girls out to celebrate your wonderful performance?"
Pizzazz gave a shake of her hair and checked her face from different angles.
"As long as it's not cheap," she said as she stalked out the door, followed by her two ladies-in-waiting.
That cost him $1,500.
It would have cost less, he reflected, if Pizzazz hadn't decided that she wanted to get blind drunk on the champagne. Expensive and low alcoholic content. It was exactly the way his life went.
Luckily for him, once she had just gotten drunk enough to move beyond anger and into depression, he was able to convince the Misfits that it was time to call it a night and called a taxi for them. Stormer they dropped at her small house, while he and Roxy continued on with Pizzazz to the Gabor mansion. Handling a drunk Pizzazz was apparently part of his duties, as Roxy told him the general direction of both the bathroom and Pizzazz's room before she disappeared herself to parts unknown.
There were also no night servants, or they were all avoiding him, because no one came when he called for help.
He draped Pizzazz's arm around his shoulders and grabbed as best he could around her waist and started up the stairs, taking it one step at a time.
"C'mon, thatta girl," he encouraged. "Let's get you in bed."
"Shut up, Eric."
He did, and they got to her room without further incident. She could barely stay upright, and it was all he could to support her to her bed. He looked at her, half-on and half off the furniture, and let out an irritated sigh as he bent over and undid the straps on her stilettos. He slid them off her feet and looked at the rest of her outfit, but decided that if he tried to remove anything more he'd have a lawsuit on his hands by morning.
Instead, he lifted her fully on to the bed and pulled some covers over her, getting the feeling that this wasn't an action Pizzazz had ever experienced with someone who wasn't hired help.
As he was leaning over her to fix the blanket, she opened her eyes and looked both at him and through him. There was an odd spark in them as they tried to focus on him, and he recognized that it was the look she had when she wanted to show her father something. It's one of the few times she possess a child-like expression.
But then she realized that it wasn't her father; only Eric. The eyes changed, though it wasn't to complete disappointment. There was still something warm in them.
"Eric…" she started. She reached up and touched his hair, freezing him in place, before she went back to sleep.
Eric Raymond went back to his house before the night got any stranger.
He was glad tomorrow was his day off.
What he didn't know was it wasn't Pizzazz's.
The thumping at his door was loud, obnoxious and punctuated by screams of "Open up!" and attempts to actually break down his door. It was Pizzazz doing the yelling, and when he finally opened the door (after getting dressed enough that he could run somewhere to hide if need be), he was surprised to find her completely without her two flunkies.
"'Bout time, Eric," she said snidely as he stared at her in the doorway. "Get enough beauty sleep?"
He passed a hand over his face in an attempt to both clam down and wake up.
"Pizzazz. I'm off today. This is the day where you get to go do whatever you want with Stormer and Roxy and I get to have a heart attack tomorrow. But today I get to sleep."
"Stuff it, Eric," she shoved him aside and made her way into his house. She was dressed in her Misfits gear, looking bright eyed and crackling with electricity.
"Won't you come in," he muttered to himself, following her inside. He didn't shut the door, he hoped to convince her to leave soon.
"I'm bored," she said, flopping onto a couch. "And I have a splitting headache and it's all your fault."
"MY fault!"
"Because of your stupid idea to take us out to dinner. So now my head hurts and it's my shopping day, so you should be a gentleman and help me out!"
"Why don't you get a maid, or the other Misfits to help you?"
She tossed her head angrily.
"You think I wanna spend all my time with those drips? I want you to take me out. Now get dressed."
If he listened to her, it was very likely that'd she spend the first few hours actually shopping and then somewhere he'd lose control of her and there would be another chunk of profits gone.
So, Eric instead grabbed her hands and yanked her into a standing position and started pushing her out the door.
"Pizzazz, darling, I'd do anything for you-during business hours."
"Eric!"
"Some of us have to work for a living, and after we work we want to enjoy what's left. I'm sure you can find something to do. Now, why don't you go outside and play, hmm?"
He got her to the doorjamb and she pushed out her arms to prevent herself from leaving.
"Eric! Don't you dare shut me out! Who do you think you are, my father?!"
He looked down at her, this talented woman. This rich woman. She could have the world at her feet-she had much of it, actually—and all she could do was scream for attention from anyone who would listen. Anyone male who would listen. What she couldn't get from her father she got from other sources, and she hated it as much as she desired it and they both knew it.
"I'm not your father," he said sternly, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. It froze her and he was able to push her out the door.
"And don't forget it."
He slammed it shut.
And then she rammed it open again.
She grabbed a nearby statue and tried to throw it at him, screaming, "ERIC RAYMOND, YOU LOUSY—"
But she never was able to finish, because he rushed up and grabbed her hands, forcing her to put down the art piece. He was also kissing her hard on the mouth, and she was too shocked to respond.
Even when she had set it down, he didn't stop. Just continued holding her, one hand behind her head and one on her waist, until they both sank onto the floor to their knees.
He stopped and looked at her, pressing their foreheads together, but neither of them held a tender expression or any sort of feeling except the stillness that happens during a lull in an argument.
"Where is he this time?" he asked in a normal tone, stroking her hair.
"Austria," she said. "Last night, but I wasn't told until this morning."
He nodded and helped her to her feet.
"Eric, I need to screw something up or I'll explode," she said, flexing her hands like claws.
His decision was made in an instant, grabbing her hands again and dragging her with him towards the stairs.
"Eric, what are you doing?! Let go!"
"Come with me," was the order.
"You can't tell me what to do, I told you before, you're not—"
And he kissed her again, longer, harder, letting himself get a little more excited than perhaps he ought.
She could feel it, in the way he moved and touched her—brought her closer. He broke it, panting slightly.
"I know," he said, giving her a wicked grin.
She grinned back, wrapping her arms around his neck and surprising him with a kiss of her own.
He knew, and she knew-and it didn't actually fix anything—but that day, his total costs were exactly
zero.