Maralee and he were married on the terrace of Tyrone’s Bel-Air estate two weeks later. Most of the big names in Hollywood attended the wedding. They honeymooned in Acapulco, and returned to live on Rodeo Drive in the house Daddy bought them as a wedding present. Neil went straight to work.
His first film was a success, both artistically and financially. From being referred to as just “the son-in-law,” he became the new wonder kid in town. Every studio was after him, and since Tyrone Sanderson had not signed him to a contract he was free to do whatever he wanted.
“You have to stick with Daddy,” Maralee insisted. “He gave you your first chance.”
“Screw Daddy,” he replied. “I took my first chance, he never gave me anything.”
Neil made a succession of hot movies, while Maralee indulged in a succession of hot affairs. Neil drank, Maralee spent money.
Then came the flops. Suddenly Neil was bad news. He took off for Europe after a major fight with Maralee which ended when she summoned her father to the house. “If you bring him into our life it’s over,” he threatened.
“So goodbye,” she snapped. “You no-talent pain-in-the-ass English has-been!
Montana turned up at just the right moment.
Divorcing Maralee had not been easy. Although she didn’t want him, she didn’t want not to have him either.
The divorce was messy and expensive. But worth every cent.
• • •
Neil gazed out at the sweeping view and thought about Montana. She was strong, intelligent, and sensual. And he had been faithful to her for longer than he had ever thought possible. But in the last year he had disgusted himself with the occasional blond birdbrain he took to bed. What was the matter with him? If Montana ever found out she would walk, just like that. He knew his wife.
So why did he do it? He honestly didn’t know. Maybe the element of risk was exciting. Or the fact that sometimes he felt the need to have a woman underneath him who wasn’t his equal, a full-breasted piece who was just that—a piece. No conversation. No intellectual meeting of the minds. Just a lay.
Not that Montana wasn’t the best. In bed she was as stimulating as ever. But she was always his equal, and sometimes he felt a burning desire to bed a woman who wasn’t. Sometimes all he wanted was a hot impersonal uninvolved fuck. He was fifty-four years old. Life goes on and you never learn a goddam thing.
He left the patio and went indoors to the kitchen, where he fixed himself a cup of tea and a dish of cereal.
Gina Germaine. Fluffy. Blond. Dumb. And worse. A movie star.
He had bedded her twice and was going back for more. It was madness, but he couldn’t help himself.
4
Getting lost in the city of New York was no problem for Deke. Burying his anger in a small room in the Village. Thinking. Brooding. Working things out.
Got a job. Changed his name.
No sweat.
Altered his appearance. It was easy. A pair of scissors was all it took to cut off his shoulder-length hair. A barber finished the job, shearing his scalp until all that remained was a light sprouting, less than a crew cut, more like a delousing.
Could not do anything about the eyes. They burned black and angry in a pale nondescript face.
He was tall, thin, built like a million other young men who wore the uniform of Levi’s, shirt, and lumber jacket.
He was obsessively tidy. Everything in his room was neat. Not that there was much to mess up; when he’d left Philadelphia he had taken nothing except a small carryall.
He worked in a seedy hotel in Soho. The afternoon shift, twelve noon until six. He sat behind a desk and handed out room keys to a strange assortment of customers—visitors to the city with an obvious lack of money, hookers, eccentrics, businessmen who didn’t want to be seen on an afternoon tryst with their secretaries.
For the first six weeks he took a regular trip to the newsstand in Times Square which carried the Philadelphia papers. Back in his room he devoured the newsprint from front to back, missing nothing. When he was finished he neatly clipped out all the stories on the Friendship Street murders. Finally, when he was satisfied that he was missing no details of the investigation, he hid the news clips between the pages of a car magazine, which he then stuffed under his mattress.
Gradually the stories petered out. After all, there was nothing that sensational about the case. An ordinary middle-aged couple. Mr. and Mrs. Willis Andrews. Who cared? Joey Kravetz. A tough street tramp who had been in and out of reform school since she was fourteen. Who cared?
POLICE WOULD LIKE TO INTERVIEW DEKE ANDREWS, MISSING SINCE DAY OF CRIME.
How polite.
DETECTIVES URGENTLY SEEKING DEKE ANDREWS, LONGHAIRED SON OF SLAUGHTERED COUPLE.
Less polite.
THIS MONSTER MUST BE FOUND.
A woman writer, of course.
NO LEADS ON DEKE ANDREWS. POLICE BAFFLED.
He allowed himself a smile at that one.
New York was perfect. The streets had accepted him and swallowed him up just like one of their own. He could relax and go about his business.
And soon he would be ready to make his next move.
5
The Safeway supermarket on Santa Monica Boulevard was packed. Angel Hudson selected a cart and gave a little sigh as she glanced at the long lines waiting at each checkout.
A boy busy packing groceries into strong brown bags could not take his eyes off her. She had that effect on the male sex. Even gays couldn’t resist checking her out.
Angel certainly was something. Nineteen years old. Five feet five inches of smooth creamy skin, long-lashed aquamarine eyes, small straight nose, full pink lips, natural long blond hair, rounded breasts, a handspan waist, narrow rear, and endless legs. There was nothing trampy or obvious about her startling good looks.
As usual she wore very little makeup, and a simple outfit of pink sweater and baggy white overalls. It did not stop the stares.
Slowly she guided her cart down the crowded aisles, stopping occasionally to check out the prices. Hmmm, she thought, Safeway or not, everything sure costs a lot. All she had was thirty-five dollars, and that was supposed to keep her and Buddy going for a week. She smiled when she thought of him. She blushed when she thought of them in bed together that very morning. His hands everywhere, his tongue exploring hidden places.
Thinking about him gave her the shivers. He was so wonderful and worldly. So good-looking. She shivered again. He was her husband and had been for two great and glorious days.
“Hi,” a voice said.
She glanced up at a muscled man in a red open-necked shirt and carefully pressed pants.
“Didn’t we meet the other night at a party?” he asked, edging around the side of her cart until he was standing quite close.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “but I only got into town yesterday.”
Now why was she apologizing? Buddy had told her about it a hundred and one times. Don’t go around saying “Sorry” to everyone. You gotta learn to be more aggressive in life.
“Well,” the man said, “If you only got into town yesterday maybe I can buy you dinner tonight. Whaddya say to that?”
“I’m sor—” she began, then quickly stopped herself. “I’m married,” she stated primly.
He laughed suggestively. “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
Why did they always have to pick on her? Ever since she could remember, strange men had been sidling up and talking to her. On the street. At the movies. Everywhere. She pushed the cart firmly down the aisle, hoping to lose him, but he followed, mumbling one or the other of a hundred tired lines.
She stopped and fixed him with her devastating eyes. “Please leave me alone,” she murmured softly. “I told you, I’m married, and my husband wouldn’t like you talking to me. He wouldn’t like it one little bit.”
She had not meant it as a threat. But it seemed to work, and the man retreated.
Buddy did hate other men looking
at her. If he only knew how they approached her all the time, he would go crazy. But it wasn’t her fault, was it? She never wore form-fitting clothes or short skirts. She kept to herself and never gave any of them an inch of encouragement. Buddy was the first man who had ever done more than kiss her goodnight, and that was only since their marriage. Instinctively she had known it was right to wait, and Buddy’s appreciation on their wedding night had been worth all the slapped hands and frustrations of her past. How very lucky she was to have found him. He was a man in a million.
“Excuse me, miss,” mumbled a tall gangly boy in a torn baseball shirt, “but I think you dropped these.”
She stared blankly at the box of crackers he held out. “I’m sorry, they’re not mine,” she apologized.
“No? I thought I saw them drop off your cart.”
“Sorry.”
He nervously scratched at a pimple. “If I get in front of you in the line I can help you take all your junk out to your car.”
“No, thank you.” She moved quickly down the aisle. Safeway was teeming with them. Maybe next time Buddy would come with her.
• • •
Frances Cavendish leaned back in the chair behind her modern chrome desk and sucked greedily on a joint cunningly fitted into a roach holder. She held the rich smoke down in her lungs for a count of ten, then exhaled with a deep sigh of obvious satisfaction. She did not offer the contraption to Buddy Hudson, who slouched moodily on the other side of the desk, uncomfortable on a small straight-backed chair.
“You’ve got your goddam nerve walking in here,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I got you that TV pilot, and with the help of that old crone you were shacked up with you blew the whole thing.”
“Hey, Frances. That was then. Now I need a job. I really do. I just got married.”
“Sorry, Buddy.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But you must know how it is right now. Things are tight. I can’t help you.”
She could help him if she wanted to. She was one of the most powerful casting agents in town.
“Hey, Frances,” he wheedled. “You gonna tell me you haven’t got anything? This is Buddy Boy you’re rappin’ with. I thought we had somethin’ special.”
Frances picked up a pair of rhinestone-trimmed glasses and perched them on her long pointed nose. “Didn’t you just tell me you got married?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, dear boy, I do think that makes a difference to our—relationship. Don’t you?”
What relationship? He had escorted her to a few events. She had thrown a little work his way. It wasn’t as if he had ever balled her.
“Why?” he demanded sulkily, wishing he had never told her.
She glared at him. “I haven’t seen you for eight months. Then you just amble in here and casually announce you’re married. What makes you think I should give you special treatment?”
He stood. “So don’t.”
She took off her glasses and narrowed flinty eyes. Buddy Hudson was the best-looking male animal she had seen in months. It would be a shame just to let him walk out. “I can send you up for a commercial,” she sighed.
“I don’t want to do any more commercials. I’ve been in Hawaii for six months singing up a storm—they couldn’t get enough of me there. What I want now is a classy guest shot on some television show. Little acting, little singing, I’ll knock ’em on their fat-cat asses.”
Frances picked up a pen and tapped it impatiently on her desk. “You want to go for a commercial or not?”
He thought about his situation. Two hundred bucks to his name, a beat-up old Pontiac, and a one-room apartment off the Strip he had borrowed from a friend.
Some situation. And a wife of two days named Angel. Beautiful, soft, innocent, and all his. He had brought her back from Hawaii like a conquering hero. She thought he was a successful actor with jobs lining up for him. Wouldn’t do to disillusion her so early in their married life.
“Yeah, I’ll go,” he decided.
She scribbled something on a card and handed it to him. “Four o’clock tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
He glanced at the card, then back at her. “Frances,” he said, “aren’t you at least going to give me a toke?”
• • •
Angel sang softly to herself as she unpacked the groceries. She could hardly believe how happy she was. So much had happened in such a short period of time. And everything had fallen into position perfectly.
To think—that only a year and a half earlier she had graduated from high school in Louisville, Kentucky, gotten a job as a receptionist in a beauty salon, and one day entered a competition in a movie magazine. In her wildest dreams she had never imagined winning. But she had, and the prize was a thousand dollars and a week’s paid trip to Hollywood with a companion.
• • •
Hollywood. A magic place Angel had only read about. Hollywood. A dream come true!
Without hesitation she packed a bag and headed west with her best girlfriend, Sue-Ann. Taking off was no problem. Angel was a foster child in a large family, and the extra space in the small house they all shared was more than welcome.
A week in Hollywood at the Hyatt Hotel on the famous Sunset Boulevard. She and Sue-Ann barely had time to catch their breath. The magazine arranged for them to be photographed doing everything from exploring Disneyland to lunching with Burt Reynolds.
Burt Reynolds! Angel thought she would faint. But he was very nice and made her laugh—even put his arms around her and Sue-Ann for a photo.
The week raced by, and when it was over she did not want to return to dull old Louisville. There were no real ties to pull her back. The family she lived with had never mistreated her, but she had always felt like an outsider, an intruder, sometimes no more than just a maid. When she was growing, it had seemed natural to fetch and carry for everyone, but as she reached puberty and her beauty developed, she was resented more and more by the family.
Getting away had been on her mind for as long as she could remember, and this seemed like the perfect opportunity. “I’m going to stay,” she told Sue-Ann, her eyes shining with the light of the converted. “This is where I belong. I’m going to be an actress!”
Sue-Ann argued with her friend, but to no avail. Angel had made up her mind. After all, every man she met in Hollywood had told her that she should be in the movies, so why not give it a try? She had the thousand dollars prize money, and if she was careful it should last her for several months at least.
First of all, she needed somewhere to live, for she had no plans to waste money staying on at the hotel. The photographer gave her the number of a girl he knew who rented rooms. “Call her,” he said, winking. “An’ don’t forget, beautiful, if she’s got no bed for you there’s always a place in mine.”
She ignored his suggestive remark, called, and within an hour was installed in the back room of a large rambling house off Fairfax.
“Two minutes from May Company an’ a block from Farmers Market. How lucky can you get?” asked the flashy redhead who rented out. “You new in town, honey?”
She nodded. “I’m going to be an actress.”
“Sure you are. An’ the Pope got married yesterday.”
“What?”
“Forget it.”
Becoming an actress was not easy, but who had ever said it would be? First she found out that she needed photographs and an agent, and then Daphne, the redhead, told her, “Ya gotta join some kinda stupid union. Sure ya wanna bother? There’s easier ways of makin’ a buck. A chick that looks like you . . .” She trailed off and stared.
Professional photographs cost a hundred dollars, although the photographer did suggest there were ways she could pay other than cash. She pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about.
After visiting several agents she decided on a fatherly type with an office on Sunset. He seemed better than the younger ones who she
instinctively knew would be trouble. In six weeks he sent her on four interviews, none resulting in a job, but plenty of propositions. He then said he could get her the second lead in a porno movie, and she left his office in tears.
“Dirty old bastard,” Daphne sympathized. “Tell you what, I’m gonna treat ya to a trip to Hawaii, all expenses paid.”
“What about your job?” Angel asked tentatively. Daphne had told her she was some kind of sales representative, always running off to appointments day and night.
“Screw the job. I need a vacation.”
Angel could hardly believe her luck, finding a friend as nice as Daphne. What did it matter if she wore too much makeup and flashy clothes? She was a nice person. And, anyway, the chance to visit Hawaii was too tempting to turn down.
They arrived late at night after a turbulent flight. A twenty-minute cab ride took them straight from the airport to the Hawaiian Village Hotel. Daphne, who had managed to consume quite a few drinks on the five-hour journey, fell into a drunken sleep. Angel paid the cab fare and shook her awake, all the while staring excitedly around.
“Shit!” mumbled Daphne. “We here already?”
Angel glanced at the cab driver to see if he had heard, but he stared impassively ahead.
They entered the lobby and approached the reception desk. “You go in an’ sit down while I register,” Daphne instructed.
She waited patiently, wishing that her friend wouldn’t drink so much, would maybe cut down on the swearing. Still, she wasn’t in Louisville anymore. Daphne wasn’t Sue-Ann. And it was so good to be out in the world and free.
“All set!” Daphne swooped down on her. “Honey, I am one tired person. Let’s hit the old sack right away.”
The room was clean, with color television, a view over the pool, and a double bed. Angel hardly relished the thought of sharing. The heavy perfume Daphne wore failed to conceal her pungent body odor.
“Give the guy a tip,” Daphne ordered, indicating the bellboy who was placing their two suitcases on the floor.
Angel fished in her purse, thinking that her money was not lasting as long as she had hoped. Out of the thousand dollars she had only four hundred left. She gave the boy a dollar, which didn’t seem to thrill him.
Hollywood Wives Page 4