Chapter One "You came all the way from Central Park West to the Village to return a book?" Artemis Stephanos didn't mean to sound skeptical, but her young cousin, Fredricka Dovas, known as Flicka, was not a person of impulse. "Flicka, this could have waited until after your honeymoon." Flicka unzipped her leather jacket and pulled a book out, "On the Road," by Jack Kerouac. "I didn't want you to worry." Her voice quivered slightly and she shifted from foot to foot, her gaze moving around the apartment. Artie accepted the book and tossed it on the regency sofa dominating the center of her large living room. Something was up. "What did you think of old Jack." Artie didn't want to know Flicka's problems right now. She had enough of her own. "I liked it," Flicka said. "Liked it! Kerouac was supposed to make a person feel..." The sound of hammering from the kitchen, hidden behind a screen, pounded in time with the beginning of Artie's headache. Flick glanced curiously at the screen, which hid the Pullman kitchen and the plumber. Eddie Plankton banged on Artie's pipes, retrieving a ring she'd dropped down the drain. He'd called his labor a favor-Artie called it a disaster. Flicka opened her mouth and worked her jaw several times. Suddenly she clamped her lips shut and took a deep breath expanding her over-zealous bosom even further into the atmosphere. She sat on the sofa and covered her face with her hands. Oh, no, Artie thought. She'd started something with that book. She needed to brace herself for the revolution. Artie rooted through the clutter on her desk for an elastic hair band. She frowned as she wound it around her waist-length, curly red hair. Flicka's petite body shook. Of course, she looked glamorous as always, in sharp contrast to Artie's scarecrow, five-foot, ten-inch body. No hips. No boobs. Not even a Wonder Bra could induce cleavage. Artie mentally pushed her inadequacies away. "How did the book make you feel?" Flicka raised a tear-stained face and ran a tongue around the edges of her lips. "Jack made me want to chuck everything and go on the road." "Yeah, right," Artie laughed. "You're getting married tomorrow." Flicka cried, "I don't want to get…" A string of curses issued from the unseen Eddie broke off the remainder of Flicka's lament. For a second, Artie's mind went numb. "Flicka, you can't do this." "I don't want to get married." Flicka burst into fierce tears. Damn! Her makeup wasn't even running. How did she do that? Artie admired the way Flicka cried. She didn't get great big red blotches on her face. Her eyes never swelled. She looked as cute crying as she did sunbathing. "Isn't this epiphany a little late?" Artie thought about the tens of thousands of dollars that her aunt and uncle had shelled out to make sure the nuptials would be the social event of the century. Flicka wailed. "I don't want to marry a man I've only met a couple times. All he likes is opera. Blah! I asked him to take me to the Smashing Pumpkins concert two nights ago and he looked at me as though I'd burped in public."Artie held up her hand. "I like opera." Artie tried not to be offended, but there was life before U2. Flicka rolled her eyes. "Artie!" Artie scratched her head and hated herself for doing so, but couldn't help asking, "What do you want to do?" Artie wondered what pearls of enlightenment Flicka would drop on her. Her young cousin had never once stated-in the whole of her eighteen years--that she wanted anything more than marriage, the proverbial two-point-five children plus dog, and a husband willing to provide for her unwavering devotion to the goddess of consumerism. Flicka bit her lip. "Promise you won't laugh?" "I won't laugh." Even if I implode. Behind the black leather micro-mini skirt and belly exposing tank top, Flicka was a smart girl. So she was handicapped with a mother who only cultivated her hunger for pretty things, Flicka still had a soul. Even though her actions had put her in a lot of trouble over the years, Artie had made it her personal crusade to help Flicka grow as a person. "Well, tell me," Artie coaxed. Flicka chewed her bottom lip and stamped suede-booted feet. Her well-endowed chest puffed out again. Before I need Social Security, Artie thought.The gold metal of Flicka's Brequet watch glittered as she ran her fingers through her chic, Frederick Fakkai hair style. She clutched her Lucite bag, containing every credit card known to woman, to her chest. "I want to sing!"

"What?" Artie could only stare. She realized her mouth hung open and snapped it shut.

"I want to ... I want to sing." Flicka drew herself up to her full five-foot, four-inch height and belted out a high "C" that rolled off her tongue with such uninhibited enthusiasm, the Grateful Dead posters on Artie's walls vibrated.

"Where did you get this idea?" Artie queried, arms crossed over her barely-there chest.

Flicka gave Artie a peculiar look and pointed at the book on the sofa. "From Jack. He says I have to be true to myself. Didn't you read the book?"

Artie raised her arms. "Of course, I read the book. I loved Jack. Look at my life, Flicka. My mother has been trying to marry me off since kindergarten. She has some silly idea if I don't get shackled my sisters can't get married." Artemis was thirty-two and as determined to stay single as her traditional Greek mother was to make her marry. She was also the eldest of seven sisters who all watched intently every time Artie went out with a man. So she went out with as few men as possible.

Flicka paced around the room, her boots making clicking noises on the wood floor.

Artie looked around her apartment-an eclectic testament to following her own muses as evidenced by the wall posters, the Navaho loom in the corner, and her grandmother's Victorian furniture.

Artie returned her gaze to her young cousin, only eighteen and already earmarked for traditional Greek motherhood. Artie was about to commit heresy. She hesitated, but Flicka's comment about being true to herself rankled. "So ... go out there and sing." The first shot of the revolution had been fired. This day would live in infamy and Artie was going to pay for it.

Aunt Sofi was going to have a stroke. Uncle Stavros would lose more hair and the whole family would blame Artie. After all, been there. Done that.

Flicka stopped her pacing, her face alight with hope. "Do you really mean what you say?"

"Flicka, I've been embarrassing this family since the day I was born. The only reason they let me hang around is because I keep them in ouzo and baklava." Artie didn't like being saddled with the ability to make money. But she'd been born with the brains of an Andrew Carnegie conflicting with her Mick Jagger soul. Because of her Midas Touch, her family was drowning in loot. The Stephanos hadn't see this kind of cash since Great-grandpa Cosmos squeezed his first olive, sealed the oil in a jar and set up a cart on a street corner in Athens.

Flicka tossed Artie an ingenuous smile. "I love you anyway, cuz."

Eddie Plankton walked into the room wiping greasy hands on his torn jeans. Bony knees stuck out. Tall and wiry, his gawky movements seemed totally out of sync with his body. While his hands went one way, his legs went another-sort of like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. He pulled earphones off. "Artie, your sink is all fixed. I got your ring." He handed it to her.

Artie put the serpent ring with emerald eyes in her pocket. "Thanks, Eddie. Your rent's covered for the next week." Artie had given Eddie a room in exchange for small chores while he waited for his big break in the music industry. She hoped her plumbing survived till then.

He smiled at her, "Cool."

"Hi, Eddie," Flicka trilled. Her cheeks turned a soft rose pink. Her full breasts heaved against the low neckline of her ribbed tank top.

"Hey, Flicka." He smiled carelessly at her while brushing a long strand of dishwater blond hair out of his face. He tucked the strand back in the rubber band at the nape of his neck, then checked his earlobe for the skull and crossbones earring that matched the tattoo on his forearm. "I heard you sing. Pretty good voice you got there. Wanna go to this audition with me?"

Artie shook her head. "Eddie, chill for a few hours." She needed to get rid of him before Flicka hatched any more ideas.

Eddie grinned. "Cool."

Before Artie could frame an answer, Flicka cooed and poked his arm. She giggled like a smitten five-year-old. "I like to sing. Maybe I'll come with you."

"No." Artie half shouted. She had to stop Flicka from going to that audition.

"But, Artie..." Flicka cried.

"Forget it, Flicka," Artie replied firmly.

Eddie shrugged and headed toward the front door. "Okay. I'm out of here. If you need anything, I'm at the Vampire's Coffin." He grabbed his silver-studded, leather jacket and swung it over his shoulder, standing with one foot slightly forward, his hips canted on an angle as he eyed Flicka with a bucket of lust. "Flicka?"

Artie jumped in, "Flicka has a family matter to take care of tonight."

"What family matter?" Flicka turned to Artie, her face blank.

"You have something to tell your mother. Remember? Tomorrow? St. Constantine's? Ten a.m.?" Artie willed Flicka to remember her obligations.

Flicka frowned for a moment, "You take care of that for me. Explain how I feel to my mother. Smooth the waters a little."

"No way, kid." Artie shook her head. "This is your problem."

A mulish expression appeared in Flicka's eyes. Artie stared her down. Finally, Flicka shrugged in defeat. "I guess," she replied. Turning to Eddie, "Sorry, Eddie, maybe some other time."

Eddie shrugged again. Shrugging seemed to be the only gesture he knew. He waved at Artie and she waved back.

When he was gone, Flicka simpered, "He's better looking than all the Baldwin brothers put together."

"Stop drooling."

Flicka giggled. She reached for her own leather jacket and headed for the door. "You have to admit, he's kinda cute."

Artie gave an indulgent smile. "Get rid of the tycoon before you cast your wiles at Eddie."

"Whatever." Flicka saluted her. "See ya, cuz."

"Don't forget to tell your Mom you aren't going through with the wedding.

"Yeah! Sure!" She tossed a half wave at Artie, then slammed the door as she left.

Artie headed toward her office and sat down at the computer, getting ready to log onto the Internet and check the price of the most recent stocks she was thinking about buying.

***

Nikos Constantine stood in the middle of his living room. Chrome and glass dominated, black Corinthian leather furniture hugged the walls. He stared at the bizarre, abstract, post-apocalyptic painting on the wall and wished he'd vetoed the designer's choice. Staring at the swirling colors had a tendency to give him vertigo. He would let Fredricka redecorate-to give her something to do. Within reason, of course.

Dimitrios, his father, paced back and forth in front of him, the breeze from his passage ruffling the piles of papers on Nick's desk. He'd decided to bring some work with him on his honeymoon.

His mother, Zoe, sat on the sofa, legs crossed, white hair piled high on her head, appearing regal and calm. Nick had brought wealth and luxury to the family, but she still dressed in simple clothes she could have purchased off the rack. She refused to allow money to change the thrifty ways she had used all her life.

"Nick," his father asked, "this young woman you're marrying, how well do you know her?" He paused in his pacing to study Nick.

"What's to know?" His intended was a fashionable, young girl who looked good in a mini skirt. She had great teeth, great breasts and hips made for child-bearing. "After tomorrow we'll have plenty of time to get acquainted."

Dimitrios Constantine shook his head, sadness in his eyes. "You're making a mistake, son. These are modern times. You should marry for love, not for business."

Nick paused, straightening his messed papers, noting the distressed frown on his father's face. "Your marriage was arranged."

"That was forty years ago. This isn't Greece. It's New York. Times have changed, Nick." Dimitrios, a chef all his life and happiest in the kitchen, had been delighted to leave the business of handling the olive groves to Nick. Nick had turned one tiny olive grove into a multimillion-dollar business. And his marriage to Fredricka would combine his trees with her family's processing business.

"Nicky," Zoe Constantine interrupted, "you're my only child, I can't have you marrying that girl. She's only eighteen and dumb as a goat. You need a woman with... with... fire."

"Like your Momma," Dimitrios Constantine cast an affectionate glance at his wife. She blushed like a schoolgirl.

Nick dropped his pen. His mother, a temptress! He studied her still youthful face searching for the fire his father said was there. Nick didn't have time for such romantic notions. He didn't have time for love. Love was for fools. He'd learned that the hard way.

"Fredricka suits me fine, Poppa. Besides, don't you want grandchildren?" Nick played his trump card. His parents had pestered him for years to find a nice wife, settle down and produce a litter of Constantines. Fredricka would drop babies like a bunny rabbit. She was built for breeding.

Zoe jumped to her feet, "Not if it means you marry someone you don't love. I don't want my grandchildren raised in a house where there is no love."

Nick defended himself. "I would love my children."

His mother patted him on the shoulder, "I know, Nicky, but loving parents make for a good home."

"You were only seventeen when you married Poppa."

"But things are different now," she implored, her dainty hands flying in all directions. "You have MTV and ... and women's rights and ... fat-free food."

He swiveled around to look at her, "What does fat-free food have to do with marriage?"

"Things are different, Nicky! Don't do this because you think you're going to make us happy. Your Poppa and I were lucky. We fell in love." Another affectionate look passed between them.

Nick didn't want to listen. He wanted a passive wife who would make no demands on him or his time. Fredricka was the perfect girl. He would satisfy his ambition to create a dynasty headed by future Constantines that would live throughout history.

***

Flicka hated the nickname Flicka and wanted everyone to call her Freddie. But her mother told her she was a girl and Flicka was a perfectly good alternative to Fredricka, which Flicka hated even more. Flicka was the name of some stupid nag she had read about in grade school.

A car horn blasted as bus went by spewing noxious fumes. On the side was a picture of large ripe olives superimposed over a bottle of olive oil. Stephanos Olive Oil, the best extra-virgin oil for your cooking pleasure. The business was owned by Artie's Dad and his sister, Flicka's mother.

She glanced guiltily at her cousin's apartment windows overlooking the busy street. She hadn't promised Artie she would tell her parents about her decision right this minute. She didn't want to upset them before dinner. She hated controversy before food. She wouldn't have to face Nick either. Her decision would keep till morning.

She spotted Eddie a half-block ahead of her. She wished Eddie would do more than stare at her as though she were still a baby. His waist-length ponytail swung with the rhythm of his lean, narrow hips. She bit the inside of her cheek. He did invite her to listen. Why not go? She pivoted and ran after him, catching up to him as he waited for the light to change.

"I changed my mind, Eddie." She grabbed his leather-clad arm.

"Cool," Eddie responded.

The Vampire's Coffin, a hole-in-the wall in Soho, was dank and gloomy. Flicka sniffed, catching the aroma of mildew, stale cigarettes and booze. A stage, the size of a postage stamp, dominated one end of the tiny room. Several skinny men with long hair, tattoos, black leather pants and vests sat on stools, chain-smoking and swigging beer.

"Hey, Knife," Eddie called out.

Knife looked up from tuning his guitar. Smoke curled around his face. "Hey, Eddie." He brushed greasy, black hair out of his eyes and stabbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. A week-old beard shot with red, darkened his face.

As Flicka stepped out of the shadows, Knife gave a low wolf whistle. "Hey, babe," he called, "are you here for the audition?"

"Yes." Flicka's pulse sped up. "I want to be your singer."

"We don't care if you can sing. We need a chick who looks good." Again Knife whistled, drawing his companions' attention. "And you're all that." He handed her a sheet of music and instructed the bass guitarist to begin.

Flicka found herself dragged in front of a microphone. She had enough time to read the first line before she was cued. Her voice rose in a rolling soprano and immediately the music stopped.

"No, babe, no." Knife stopped her. "Can you do an Alanis Morissette thing?"

"I can do Alanis. I can do anyone."

"Ha! Ha! Babe, do me," the drummer yelled. He was tall and skinny with dark brown hair that hung in corkscrews about his shoulders.

Eddie growled, "She's with me, Skull."

Skull flipped his sticks in the air and brought them down on the snare drum.

Knife cued for a fresh start. Flicka opened her mouth and the first words scratched their way out. As she sang, her timbre grew deeper, she could feel the excitement coursing through her.

The music stopped again. Knife said, "Babe, you got the gig. We're leaving tonight for Virginia. We've got an alternative gig at The Cat Gut."

Flicka couldn't believe she'd heard him right. "You want me to be your singer? Really?"

"That's what I said, babe." Knife grinned, showing crooked teeth.

A violent shiver of excitement erupted inside her. Her dream. This was her dream. The hell with Nick Constantine and his olive groves, she was going to be a star.

"What about Eddie?" Flicka grabbed his arm. She owed him for bringing her here. She could see the disappointment on his face.

"Eddie's cool and we need a roadie. He can come." Knife swaggered down from the stage. He flung back his long black hair and grabbed Flicka. "Welcome to the band, babe." He gave her a bone-crushing hug and Skull handed her a beer.

"What is the name of the band?" Flicka squeaked, swallowing at Knife's rank smell. She resisted the impulse to hold her nose.

"Maggot Pie Surprise," Knife answered.

Maggot Pie Surprise! Somehow the name seemed appropriate.

Except for Eddie and herself, they all could have slithered out from a dung heap. Not the type of band she would like to sing with, but she needed the experience and Maggot Pie Surprise was going to be the best she could do for the moment. "Cool name." She mumbled through her best fake smile.

"What do we call you, babe?"

Flicka tried to swallow. This was her chance to reinvent herself. She didn't have to be stupid Flicka anymore. She could be Freddie. But Freddie what? Freddie Dovas. No, that was her parent's name. Who then? She ticked off stage names in her head.

"Well, babe?" Knife watched her curiously.

"Freddie Dove," she shouted.

"Cool." They bobbed their scruffy heads in unison.

Freddie closed her eyes, letting her new persona form in her mind. Thank you, Jack Kerouac.

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