Free Star Risk - 04 The Dog From Hell by Chris Bunch Page A

credits per month, plus all expenses.
    "Steep, very steep," Arn said.
    M'chel shrugged.
    "What's your client's life worth?"
    Arn couldn't come up with any answer but a nod of concession.
    "I'll have my team in place within a week," she said. "I need to study the situation. One of the women in the meeting was IDed as the group historian. I'll need her full cooperation. And Folger's as well."
    "Your timing is perfect," Arn said. "The group will be going on the road in two weeks."
    "On the road?"
    "Sorry. That's an archaic term for touring."
    Once the contract was signed and a retainer check cleared her new bank, M'chel started doing her homework.
    She rapidly discovered that the anonymous voice was right. Lollypop had all the best friends money could buy, and not one more.
    There was good reason�not that M'chel got much help learning the negatives from the group's PR man, a fat sycophant named Sonlev, to whom everything was wonderful (and if it wasn't, he paid no attention). The true history of Lollypop came from Yalt, the band's historian, a mousy little man with dozens of downloads on Lollypop, and Dimet, president of the group's fan club, a heavyset woman with a tendency toward a mustache who insisted on using what M'chel thought might be youth slang. Lollypop was, to her, "the ginchiest," which Riss assumed indicated some sort of approval.
    Lollypop was actually named Miki Gubitosi, and started life as a minor star named Little Miki, all ringlets and flounces.
    M'chel had enough morbid curiosity to dig out one of her recorded songs, a sentimental wallow called "My Heart and Family," that made Riss's teeth ache.
    When Little Miki had the temerity to reach adolescence and developed breasts and an attitude, her career was history. She, in turn, dropped her family, who'd vampired her into stardom, and vanished into the jungle of her home planet's runaways.
    Those had their own music, which, as far as Riss could tell, was judged solely on how badly it disgusted adults.
    Miki ended up as part of the Berserkers, which was successful enough to get a booking agent, a manager, and a recording contract.
    Success of a sort came, but then the Berserkers peaked. Railing on about how everything sucks has, after all, a limited audience.
    A normal group would have broken up at this point, but Little Miki, now calling herself Mik the Murderer, was unbelievably ambitious, having tasted a bit of fame, and wanting it back.
    Either she was contacted by Music Associates, or she went to them. No one knew.
    But suddenly the Berserkers were released from all contracts and were free agents.
    Riss, very cautiously, asked how that had happened, feeling that toes must have been stepped on.
    Even she knew that the music industry's contracts were, for the talent, as ironbound as slavery.
    Main gave her the explanation: They knew some "hard boys," from their days on the street, who didn't mind "reasoning" with people.
    Credits for these goons changed hands�"Not ours, 'course," Main said. "Folger was one of the thugs who went out and worked on people's kneecaps. I'd guess that Arn and his partner put up the geetus for the goon show."
    And then the Berserkers were signed by Music Associates.
    The contract also wasn't for the usual fifteen to twenty percent managers charged. Their flat fee was forty percent, plus additional points for the choreographers, costumers, songwriters, and such.
    Riss couldn't find out how much the Berserkers themselves got, but estimated around twenty percent.
    "But it don't matter," Main said. "They do everything for us, from taking care of our houses to� to making sure we're happy."
    Their material changed radically. Now all was mooning about lost lovers and new infatuations, prime interests to the subteen set.
    The songs, Riss thought, truly sucked, being simplistic in both their lyrics and chord changes.
    The group now made millions, both with recorded logs and in their tours. That figured, Riss thought cynically. Pop music