“Sorry?” questioned Karen.
“Nothing,” she giggled, feeling very liberated.
“Okay, ladies. That’s it for today. Did you enjoy it?”
He had to be kidding. She would come every day. The double entendre almost made her laugh aloud, and feeling pleased with herself, she got up and headed for the showers.
Ron Gordino’s health and exercise class. The latest and the best. Bibi Sutton had discovered it. Where Bibi went others followed.
Elaine stripped in a tiny cubicle, then, naked, stepped boldly into the communal shower. Very un-Beverly Hills. But right now very in. Anyone who was frightened to show everything she had at Ron Gordino’s was immediately suspect. Nudity and letting it all hang out were the thing to do.
Perfumed soap oozed from a wall faucet at the press of a button. Elaine soaped herself thoroughly, her eyes darting this way and that checking out the other bodies on display. Karen had the largest nipples she had ever seen. Big brown buttons, like giant knobs on a transistor radio. Elaine decided that if she were a man she would probably find them quite repulsive.
“Have you heard about the new Neil Gray film?” Karen asked. She was tall, with a supple tanned body, thick copper-colored hair, and carefully chiseled features. Her connections were the best; she knew everyone and everything, since her father was George Lancaster, a giant superstar who had retired five years previously to marry Pamela London, the third-richest woman in America. He now lived in Palm Beach, and Karen visited him often. She was in her early thirties and twice divorced.
“No. What’s he doing?” Elaine soaped under her arms and tried to stop staring at her friend’s awful nipples.
“A movie that his wife wrote. Can you imagine?”
For a moment Elaine was confused. “Maralee?”
“No, not his ex-wife, silly. His wife. Montana. El big pain in the necko.”
“Oh. Her.” Elaine was silent for a moment while she digested this information. She always thought of Maralee as Neil Gray’s wife, although they had been divorced for years. Elaine had never met Montana, although of course she had heard enough about her.
“Neil sent the script to Daddy in the hope that he would want to do it,” Karen continued. “He told me it’s very good. Of course, nobody believes that Montana actually wrote it. Neil must have written it himself and decided to give her credit.” “Is George interested?” Elaine asked curiously, wondering what Karen was leading up to.
“No way would Daddy do a movie—not even if it was guaranteed to be another Gone with the Wind. He’s had the picture biz. Being married to Pamela London suits him fine. I mean, they own Palm Beach.”
Together they stepped from the showers, wrapping themselves in giant fluffy bath sheets.
“The thing is,” Karen continued pointedly, “that Daddy says the part is perfect for Ross—you know he’s always liked him.”
That was news to Elaine. Ross only had bad things to say about George Lancaster, calling him everything from a ham actor to a hood. They hadn’t even received an invitation to the Palm Beach wedding, one of the social events of the year. Karen had explained apologetically at the time, “Can’t invite too much show biz. Pamela’s orders.” So how come everyone from Lucille Ball to Gregory Peck had been present? Elaine had burned with fury for weeks.
“Who is Ross’s agent?” Karen inquired artlessly.
Elaine stared at her friend and wondered why this sudden interest in her husband’s career. “He’s with Zack Schaeffer.”
Karen frowned. “I can’t understand why he isn’t with Sadie La Salle. She really is the best.”
Elaine couldn’t understand it either, but every time she brought the subject up, Ross muttered something about Sadie and him not getting along. At parties they studiously ignored each other, and he vetoed Elaine’s suggestion of ever inviting the powerful Ms. La Salle to their home. It was a well-known fact that Sadie had discovered Ross years and years ago—but apparently that meant nothing to either of them. It really infuriated Elaine, because Sadie La Salle was, as Karen said, the absolute best.
“I hear they’re talking Tony Curtis or Kirk Douglas now,” Karen continued. “Why don’t you get Zack on it right away? I think it’s called Street People. Oliver Easterne’s producing. You know Oliver, don’t you?”
Yes, she knew Oliver. He was What Makes Sammy Run? reincarnated, a hotshot hustler who got lucky. Ross couldn’t stand him either. And anyway, if George Lancaster thought Ross was so perfect, why hadn’t he suggested him?
“Ross has got so much lined up,” she murmured vaguely. “And if they’re talking Curtis and Douglas they’re hardly talking big-time.”
Karen laughed softly. “Come on, Elaine. Don’t snow-job me. I know where every single body is buried in this town. Ross needs a good film, and this could be it.”
• • •
“Ninety-two . . . ninety-three . . . ninety-four.” The words shot out of Buddy’s mouth as his arms propelled his body up and down. Push-ups. One hundred a day. Kept him in the greatest shape in town. “Ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred.” He leaped up energetically, barely out of breath.
Angel clapped her hands in admiration. She watched him every morning. “Buddy, I love you!” she sang out. “I totally love you!”
“Hey—hey.” He grinned. “What’s with the outburst?”
“I just feel so happy!”
She ran to him and he opened up his arms to receive her. Angel liked to be cuddled more than anything else in the world. With Buddy it always turned into something more, but she didn’t mind that either.
This time he pushed her gently away. “Gonna take a fast swim, then I’ve got me that important interview. Remember? I told you yesterday.”
She didn’t remember. But maybe that was because he was always busy running here, there, and everywhere. They had been in Hollywood for two weeks and during the day she hardly ever saw him. “Business,” he had explained. “Y’know, kid, I been away. It’ll take a few weeks before everything falls into position.”
She hoped it would fall into position soon, because she couldn’t wait to accompany Buddy to the studio. She could just see the movie magazines: Mrs. Buddy Hudson visited her husband on the set of his latest movie today. What a cute couple! Angel Hudson, an aspiring actress, says that Buddy and their home life together come first.
She imagined a four-page color-photo spread of them together. Jogging in matching track suits. Feeding each other ice cream. Laughing in a hot tub.
“Buddy?” She ran after him as he headed for the door. “Do you think you’ll be doing a movie soon?”
He stared at her upturned face, wide eyes, and adoring expression. Maybe he had convinced her a little too thoroughly that he was hot shit in the movie world. But then he hadn’t expected her to believe him so absolutely. “I sure hope so, babe. Like I told you, I have been away, an’ this town’s got a real short memory.”
“Oh.” Disappointment clouded her face.
“But you can bet on old Buddy Boy pullin’ off somethin’ real big an’ juicy soon. Like I just turned down a guest shot on Cheers. The part wasn’t big enough. I gotta come back with somethin’ special. Right, sugar?”
“Right, Buddy.” She was glowing again.
He contemplated postponing his swim. Making love to Angel was like taking a ride to heaven.
But then he thought, No, gotta get my act together, gotta get my muscles in shape, gotta swim off some of the anger and frustration that’s beginning to creep into every pore of my body.
Back in town two stinking weeks, and nothing. No action whichever way he turned. Commercials. Movies. Television. Zilch.
Six interviews.
Six turndowns.
He was Buddy Hudson. He had everything going for him. Why weren’t they hanging out flags?
He ran down two flights of stairs to what was laughingly referred to as the “pool area.” There were twenty-two apartments, each of which housed at least two people. Every day forty
-four bodies splashed and reveled in the slimy twenty-foot pool, which never seemed to get cleaned. The only good thing about the small apartment was that it cost nothing, courtesy of Buddy’s good friend Randy Felix, who was currently in Palm Springs shacked up with a wealthy widow and her daughter. May the relationship last forever—that was Buddy’s daily mantra.
It was early, so the pool was deserted. A thin film of oil formed a slick on top of the water. He dived straight in—if you stopped to think about it you were lost. Then he churned up and down like a frantic dolphin confined in too small a space. When he hit it, man, he would get the biggest and the best pool in the whole city. Something with space, and cool clear water, and a diving board, and Italian tile, and a filter that worked.
“ ’Morning.” A girl stood by the side watching him. She had orange hair frizzed into tight little curls on top of her head, and she wore the smallest string bikini he had ever seen. It barely covered her large breasts, and merely skimmed her crotch.
He continued to swim.
She settled herself on a towel and began to oil her body.
Before Angel he would have hit on her. Immediately. He always had the best lookers, and this one, while being nowhere near Angel, was, in her own particular way, a very choice number.
“My name’s Shelly,” she announced. “Who’re you?”
He hauled himself from the pool and began doing leg bends. “Buddy. Buddy Hudson.”
“You live here alone?” she asked pointedly, unhooking the clasp on her bikini top and taking it off.
He couldn’t help staring at her large firm breasts. “No. I live here with my wife.”
She hooted with laughter. “You’re married?”
What was so funny about that? “Yeah. I’m married.” Furiously he worked on his legs—four more pulls on each thigh and then straight back into the pool for further punishment. He did the crawl for thirty lengths before emerging again.
Shelly lay on her back, legs spread and nicely oiled, boobs pointing skyward like two polished aubergines. Dark shades covered her eyes, and a transistor radio was tuned to KIIS FM.
Buddy picked up his towel and walked into the building. On his way upstairs he checked out the mailbox. Three bills for Randy. A leaflet urging all and sundry to JOIN JESUS. And a brochure from an enthusiastic exterminator: YOU GOT MICE WE DEAL WITH ’EM NICE.
In the one-room apartment Angel was busying herself with a vacuum. She switched off the machine when he entered and grinned. “I borrowed it from the lady next door. She said I could use it anytime. Isn’t that nice?”
“Sure is.” Angel was a nut. Why waste time vacuuming this dump? He pulled off his wet shorts and dropped them on the floor before walking to the closet they called a bathroom. There he attempted to shower with a hand attachment that fitted onto the bathtaps—not an easy exercise.
When he emerged Angel was busy squeezing fresh juice for him behind the bar, which doubled as a kitchen. The whole apartment, with no trouble at all, would neatly fit into two medium-sized suitcases.
He opened the closet and selected black slacks, his one and only silk shirt, and a lightweight Yves Saint Laurent jacket. Fortunately, in Buddy’s case, clothes did not make the man. Whatever he put on looked good, and he knew it. This puzzled him. If he always looked so good, how come he wasn’t a star?
He dressed and gulped the juice Angel handed him. “I’ll be back around six or seven. What are you goin’ to do today?”
“Go to the market, I guess. Only I’ll need some money.”
“Oh yeah, sure.” He was embarrassed. He had no money. He was down to his last hundred. Dragging some bills from his pocket, he gave her two tens. “Don’t spend it all at once.” Corny old cliché. Sometimes he hated himself.
She smiled. “I’ll try not to.”
He grabbed her, ran his hands over her gorgeous body, kissed her on the mouth. “Later, sugar.”
• • •
Pre-production was in full swing. Since Street People was to be shot mainly on location, there was much to get organized. The availability of the crew Neil usually worked with was of prime importance, and so far everything was falling into position—no big problems. He was out early most days with his lighting cameraman and first assistant scouting for locations. Some directors employed location scouts, but he preferred to do it himself.
Montana was busy casting. She had settled into an office in Oliver Easterne’s building on the Strip and gone straight to work. She could have gotten an agency to sift through the hundreds of possibles, or indeed hired a first-rate casting director like Frances Cavendish, but she wanted to see everyone herself, then present her selections to Neil for his full approval. It was her movie, and she planned to see it stayed that way.
The excitement of actually launching into the pre-production period was heady. She knew she was lucky because she was married to Neil, and he loved her script and wanted to do it. But even if he had hated it . . . well, she was confident it was good enough to take to any studio or independent and get people interested. It was the best work she had ever done, and she had no intention of succumbing to false modesty. Street People was good because it was real. She had based it on scenes of life that were happening all around. Mostly she had based it on the characters she had observed while shooting her children’s film on the streets of Los Angeles. Neil’s enthusiasm was a real plus, but deep down she couldn’t help thinking that if he hadn’t grabbed the property, maybe—just maybe—she might have gotten the chance to direct it herself.
Bullshit. Since when did women get opportunities like that? Wise up, kid, and be grateful your old man’s doing it so at least you get a fifty percent say.
There were three star roles plus thirty-two speaking parts to be cast. Some of them were only one line, but they mattered. Montana didn’t want to see actors who were in every dreary television show, she wanted new talent—and she was enjoying every minute of finding the perfect actor or actress for each role.
They came in the hundreds. Smiling, surly, eager. Old, young, pretty, ugly. All carried their portfolios filled with photos, lists of credits and résumés.
Agents assaulted her from all sides. The good and the bad.
“You wanna Marilyn Monroe type? I gotta girl that’ll rouse every cock from here to the Valley!”
“This boy I’m sending you is James Dean. I’m telling you he’s Dean—only better.”
“A young Brando.”
“An older Brooke Shields.”
“A sexy Julie Andrews.”
“A taller Dudley Moore.”
“An American Michael Caine.”
She was swamped with every type possible. But gradually she began to pick and choose, getting more excited with each find.
In the evenings she worked on the script—adding scenes, changing lines. Neil told her about the locations he had found, and she told him about some of the characters she had interviewed. Their personal life got swept to one side while together they lived, breathed, and ate Street People. It became the focus of both their lives.
Occasionally they fought. The three main roles were not cast. Oliver Easterne wanted at least two bankable stars, and Neil was hotly pursuing retired superstar George Lancaster. “If we get George,” he pointed out, “the other two can be unknowns.”
“If we get the asshole,” Oliver agreed. To him all actors were assholes, be they stars or bit players. “Which doesn’t seem likely, the way things are going.”
“I’ll fly to Palm Beach this weekend,” Neil decided. “He likes the script. I think I can convince him.”
“I hope so. Time’s running tight. I have some ideas myself.”
Neil knew about Oliver’s ideas. Half-assed star names that were wrong wrong wrong. He had no intention of even considering them.
Montana was not mad with enthusiasm about George Lancaster. “He can’t act,” she stated flatly.
“He will. With me.”
She was unconvinced, but realistic enough
to know that certain concessions had to be made. “What do you think? Should I come with you?”
Neil shook his head quickly. “No. You’ve got enough to take care of here. I can handle George.”
She nodded. “There’s a couple of actors I think we should test for the part of Vinnie.”
“If we land George Lancaster. Otherwise we go with a name.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Yes you do. It’s called playing the box-office game.”
“I never did like playing games.”
“Learn.”
“Screw you,” she murmured amiably.
“Ah, if there were only time,” he replied.
She grinned. “I’ll make time, when you get back.”
• • •
Elaine’s day.
After Ron Gordino’s exercise class, a visit to the Nail Kiss of Life, then four hours at Elizabeth Arden having her legs waxed, her eyebrows shaped, a facial, and her hair washed and blow-dried. She got home in time to change into green Norell lounging pajamas before Ross arrived back from location. Even if she did say so herself, she looked wonderful. “You look divine!” she whispered to her bedroom mirror. Eat your heart out, Etta the Elephant.
She strolled into the living room and was about to fix herself a drink when glancing through the huge plate-glass Windows she was horrified to see him at it again. Pissing in her pool!
“Lina!” she yelled, striding to the glass doors and stepping outside. “Lina!”
The boy lazily zipped up without—it seemed—a care in the world. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he drawled.
“You filthy pig!” she shouted. “I saw what you did!”
He was now bending over the hose, which gushed fresh water into the pool. “Huh?”
“Don’t huh me. You know what I mean.”
Lina appeared at that point, wiping her hands on an apron tied firmly around her waist and frowning. “What ees it, señora? I try make dinner.”
Elaine pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the boy. “I do not want him here again. You understand me, Lina? Not anymore.”
He continued to fiddle with the hose while Lina heaved a dramatic sigh. “Miguel—he sick—” she began.
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