Pearl’s tiny apartment housed a rumpled hodge-podge: dusty houseplants, Tiki head vase, paper daisies, red gingham curtains, a muddle of books and a ceramic Portuguese rooster crowing from its perch atop the fridge. Pearl claimed kinship to Flannery O’ Connor and displayed a large collection of family photos.

The Lost Angels tribe, still decked out in costumes after a round of hullabaloos—Halloween far more significant a holiday in Hollywood than Christmas—had convened at her place for a nightcap, strains of Edith Piaf emanating from Pearl’s ghetto blaster. Aptly turned out as a princess, Pearl sat in a cloud of white satin and organza furbelows. Feline Fiona had painted her face with orange and black stripes, employing Evinrude as a model. Evelyn was decked out as the consummate witch, replete with long, wonky nose and hair protruding from a bulbous chin mole. She passed a spliff around, revelers talking, or yelling simultaneously. The landlady above banged on her floor, Pearl’s ceiling.

Evelyn cackled. “Sounds like she rides a mean broom.”

Pearl turned down the music. “You guys! You’re gonna get me evicted.”

“Yeah, shut-up!” commanded Evelyn. She picked up an LA Weekly, Prince on the cover, and placing it over her face like a mask, pretended to pick his nose with her index finger, which caused Pearl’s guests to roar with laughter. “Or you will be banished to the barrens of Minnesota to listen to Purple Rain for the rest of your natural lives!”

Bradley the human condom laughed. “Is that a hex?”

Vampire Kaye vainly tried to squelch giggles. Soon they were snapping Polaroids, Evelyn etching designs onto the film as it developed. Kaye slurped her gin and tonic.

“Pearl! You look like one of those toilet paper covers. You know, those dolls people stick on their toilet tanks. Old ladies knit them up.”

“Gee, thanks,” replied Pearl above peals of laughter.

“Hey, yeah!” said Bradley. “I know what you’re talking about. Is there a name for those things?”

Kaye laughed. “Yeah, piss elegance.”

Bradley fell to one knee at Pearl’s feet. “She looks like a beautiful bride.”

“She’s the wedding cake.” Evelyn dipped a finger into Pearl’s organza icing and popped into it her mouth.

Pearl fluffed her stacks of tulle and played I Put A Spell On You.

“I love Screamin’ Jay Hawkins!” Kaye flung her cape over her shoulder invoking the showman they’d seen in concert earlier in the evening.

“The flaming coffin!” cried Bradley. “I loved the flaming coffin!”

“Well, you are a flamer,” said Evelyn.

He ignored the remark. “And the bone in his nose!” Bradley sweated profusely despite discarding most of his plastic costume. “What a brilliant performer! I had no idea.”

“Alice Cooper stole his shtick if you ask me.” Kaye rose, stretched, and repositioned her fake fangs. “Hey, I’m getting out of here before sunrise.”

Fiona drained her drink. Pearl asked her to stay a little longer. One by one their coworkers filed out. Fiona washed off her face paint as Pearl removed her tiara and crinolines with a sigh of relief. Bathrobe clad, she lit sandalwood incense, beeswax candles and settled in next to Fiona on the couch.

“Mmm. You smell good.”

“White Rabbit.” Pearl lifted her wrist to Fiona’s nose. “Rose essential oil, actually.”

They discussed Irving Azoff’s purging of thirty-nine acts from MCA’s roster, Pearl’s potential for promotion, and gender politics.

Fiona sighed. “There aren’t many female-friendly labels out there. Look at Lost Angels. The roster is almost completely made up of guys.”

Their bodies inched closer together. “Women are making inroads,” said Pearl. “I know some female executives.”

“Probably the same executives I naively targeted with my demo tape, thinking they might identify with a woman’s voice. So much for sisterhood.”

“They can’t do anything unless they’re in A&R.”

“Yeah, right, and the A&R people can’t do anything because they’re afraid of losing their jobs.”

Pearl sighed. “There are more independent labels than ever before in the history of popular music.”

“Okay. Airplay. How about that? A whole other Everest. All the program directors are male. They won’t play more than one ‘girl singer’ an hour.” Fiona emphasized the point by banging her Tecate down on Pearl’s prized black lacquer-and-mother-of pearl-inlay coffee table. Her eyes widened. “Sorry!” Fiona quickly placed the beer on a coaster. “But it’s true. The music business is a male preserve.”

“Look at you. You’re a sign of the times.”

“Yeah. Right. And it’s a real bitch. You have no idea how tough it is for a woman to have control over her career in this business.”

“Get a manager. Dennis is a great guy but you need a real manager.”

“Easier said than done. At least Dennis is in my corner. I need all the help I can get. I’m sorry. I’ll quit whining. At least I finally have a repertoire I’m proud of.”

“I’ll tell you a secret.” Pearl lowered her voice. “Leo’s going to offer you a recording contract. But you can’t say anything! He’s waiting till next quarter.”

“Wow! A recording contract! Alright! Maybe I won’t spend the rest of my life slogging over telephones.”

They toasted her good fortune, edging onto the middle cushion together, body heat registering. They discussed parents, how Fiona’s father, as much as she resented him, had always encouraged her.

“He said I can do anything a man can do. So put us to work weeding, mowing, cutting down trees, stacking wood. Took us hunting, fishing. Thought he coud turn me into Annie Oakley.”

“I think it affects your performance. I love the way you carry yourself.”

“Really?” Fiona shifted sideways, marveling at Pearl’s pert titties, wide cradle of hips, luscious bottom. “I love it when you bend over the Xerox machine.”

Pearl straightened up, turning to face Fiona, feigning shock. “You do?”

“Oh yeah. Casting your pearls before swine though.”

“My God! What can you see?”

“I can’t see anything. But it’s hard not to look.”

An instinctive smile slowly spread across Pearl’s lips. “Fiona! I didn’t know you cared.”

“Oh, you did so. Don’t be coy.”

Tittering, thighs touching, their shoulders met. Gnawing on a fingernail, Fiona could think of nothing to say, but mustered, “I find you very attractive.”

Pearl smiled. “I love your Canadian accent. It’s sexy.”

“Phsaw. Your drawl. Now, that’s a turn-on.” Fiona took her hand. “Pearl,” she said in a lazy voice, in imitation. “You don’t tell a platonic friend she’s sexy.”

Squirming, Pearl lifted her eyes to Fiona’s, scrutinizing, questioning. Fiona contemplated her choices. Our choices. She is not about to give anything away. Pearl’s willing, just won’t say it, much the way she picks at her food when people are watching but digs in when they’re not. Fiona bent her head toward her. They kissed. Fixing her eyes upon Pearl’s, Fiona took her hand and slipped it under her shirt onto her breast. Pearl gasped and capitulating, thrust her tongue into Fiona’s mouth.