She brought her fingers up and played with her nipples until they stood at attention. “Now ain’t that worth a buck an’ a half?” she giggled. “I got lotsa tricks like that, cowboy.”
He coughed dryly.
“You’re really nice,” she said, continuing to play with her rouged nipples. “I like you. I think you an’ me could be friends—y’know—real close friends. You’ve got the kinda eyes I like, horny eyes. I could get off just lookin’ into your eyes, cowboy—just lookin’.”
He stayed two hours. It cost him one hundred and twenty dollars and was worth every cênt.
• • •
In the distance Deke could hear the familiar whine of police sirens. He quickened his pace. It was definitely time to move on. New York had been a good resting place, a city to get lost in while the murders faded away. Another day or so and he would be off. He had things to do, places to go.
9
So, the big movie star was home. Bitching and complaining about everything.
They were in bed, Ross propped up on four pillows, eyes firmly glued to the television, when Elaine decided the time was right to mention the movie Karen Lancaster had told her about. “I think you should get Zack on it right away.”
“Ha! The great George Lancaster turns something down and you think I should call my agent,” sneered Ross. “Jesus, Elaine! You really get to me sometimes.”
“If the part was offered to George it has to be good,” she insisted stubbornly.
“Bullshit! George made more crap than a laxative factory.” Irritably he changed channels with the remote control. “George frigging Lancaster is fifteen frigging years older than me. Don’t you forget that.”
“Twelve,” corrected Elaine. She knew everyone’s age to the exact day.
Ross raised his ass from the bed and let forth a rampant fart.
Elaine was enraged. Oh, if his fans could only see him now! “If you have to do that, kindly do it in the bathroom,” she snapped.
In reply he farted again and switched channels.
“How come, before we were married, you always managed to control your bodily functions?” she asked coldly.
He mimicked her voice, “How come, before we were married, you never nagged?”
“God! You’re impossible!” She got out of their king-sized bed and pulled on a turquoise silk negligee.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To the kitchen.”
“Get me some ice cream. Vanilla and chocolate, with hot fudge sauce.”
“You’re supposed to be on a diet.”
“I don’t need a diet.”
“Everyone over the age of twenty-five needs a diet.”
He weakened. “Get me the ice cream and I’ll call Zack.”
“Promise?”
He grinned the famous Conti grin. “When have I ever lied to you, sweetheart?”
• • •
Montana sat in her office and stared at the young actor sitting across the room. He was hitting on her, and she knew it. She lowered her eyes and studied the list of credits he had handed her. The usual rota of crap television and bad movies.
“I never expected to walk into this office today and find someone like you behind that desk,” he said in a low husky voice.
He was hitting on her with his eyes again. A penetrating stare which she found most disconcerting, because in those eyes she could read stark desperation, and she understood the look only too well. “It says here that you’re twenty-two. I’m really looking for someone a little older,” she said briskly.
“How much older?” he countered.
She hesitated. Let him down easy. Rejection was never easy to dish out. “Well . . . er . . . twenty-five,-six.”
“I can look older. I’m really twenty-four.” He had a facial twitch, which sprang into action, spoiling his bland good looks.
“Fine,” she said, handing him back his résumé. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for coming by.”
“Is that all?” He sounded surprised. “Don’t you want me to read or anything?”
“Not today.”
“Does that mean I’ll be coming back?”
She smiled in what she hoped was a noncommittal way. “Thank you, Mr. Crunch.” Crunch. What kind of a name was that? “We’ll be in touch with your agent.”
He stood up and sauntered toward her. “Can I see you sometime?” he asked, the desperate eyes and the twitch going full-force.
She felt sorry for him and all the hundreds of other young actors just like him. “Look,” she said patiently, “don’t sell yourself short.”
“Huh?”
“You’re probably a very good actor, but not right for this movie—so stop pushing it.”
He reddened, bit down hard on his bottom lip, but still kept trying. “You an’ I could make beautiful things happen. Give me a try?” he leered suggestively. “I come highly recommended, y’know what I mean?”
She was getting annoyed. “Why don’t you just go. Okay?”
“Lady, you have no idea what you’re missing,” he muttered.
Her patience snapped. “Hey—I’ve got a feeling I know exactly what I’m missing.”
Reluctantly he slouched from the room.
She sighed. Hollywood. City of ambition. A town where success was the name of the game. If you had it you were top of the heap. If you didn’t—goodbye Charlie, you were less than nothing.
Hollywood. To be an actor or an actress you really had to be a masochist. That was for sure.
Come to think of it, being a writer was no picnic either. She recalled her first efforts with the original outline on her television series. Nobody had taken her seriously at first. She had made the rounds of agents and the so-called network executives. Who are you? What are your credits? Baby, you got three strikes against you. One—you’re from the East Coast. Two—you’re a woman. Three—you’re a woman.
Oh, really?
Wanna climb in the sack and discuss it?
She had never used Neil’s influence to achieve anything. The television idea was good. Eventually it had sold. Then came the book on old-time Hollywood, and writing that had been bliss because she was her own boss and didn’t have to answer to anyone. Doing the film on children was the biggest challenge of all. She had put it together herself. No small achievement. Especially for a woman, she thought cynically.
She buzzed for the next actor to be sent in, and lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply. How was Neil doing in Palm Beach with the wonderful George Lancaster? Not that it bothered her either way. If they got him it would be good box office. If they didn’t then they could go with a real actor—someone who would make the character of the old cop come alive. A far more exciting prospect.
She opened the script which lay on her desk and flicked through pages. It could be a great movie. With Neil directing, she was sure that it would be.
• • •
So what was a guy supposed to do? Let his new bride starve? Because that’s what was going to happen if he didn’t score some bucks soon.
Buddy sat disconsolately behind the wheel of his car and thought it all out. Yet again. He had been doing so much thinking lately that his head felt as if it wanted to bust right open.
He was an actor. That was his trade. Couldn’t land one job. So? What other job paid enough to keep him afloat, and still available to go on interviews? He wasn’t about to park cars for a living.
The answer was simple. No big deal when you really thought about it. Half an hour in bed with some faceless woman, a hundred in the pocket, free time to spend with Angel. And what Angel didn’t know . . .
His mind was made up. He checked out his appearance in the rearview mirror, ruffled his hair, and hooded his smoky black eyes. Satisfied with his appearance, he leaped out of the car, and with his thrusting walk in overdrive, headed toward the men’s store Gladrags owned on Santa Monica Boulevard. Six years before it had been a hole in the wall selling leather accessories. Since
that time Gladrags had bought the buildings on either side and expanded. Now the store had glass windows which extended for a quarter of a block, and sold everything from Cerruti suits to cashmere jock straps. Buddy was impressed. He wondered if he could get a discount.
Inside the store a perfumed transvestite hurried over to greet him.
“Hel-lo,” the lamé-clad creature gushed in a disturbingly masculine voice. “And what can I do for you?”
Buddy took an involuntary step backward. Gays. They always made him nervous. “Is your boss around?”
Transvestite fluttered long false lashes. “Do you mean Mr. Jackson?”
“Is that Gladrags?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Black guy. Tall. Wears lots of leather.”
“Sounds like Mr. Jackson.”
“Tell him Buddy’s here.”
“I would simply love to. But Mr. Jackson never comes in before one.” He put a manicured nail pensively to his chin. “Perhaps you’d like to wait.”
“Hey,” snapped Buddy. “I can’t wait. I got things to do.”
“I’m sure you have.” Transvestite was in love. Amber eyes swam with the promise of devotion.
“Where can I reach him now?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Force yourself.”
“Oh, dear. You see, Mr. Jackson has strict rules about giving out his home address and phone number.”
Buddy narrowed his eyes tough-guy style. “An’ I have strict rules about always getting what I want.”
Transvestite fluttered sensitive hands. “What do you think I should do?”
Buddy winked. “Give me the address and nobody will be any the wiser ’cept the two of us. Our secret. Right?”
Transvestite smiled nervously. “If you say so.”
• • •
It was no wonder George Lancaster loved living in Palm Beach. In Beverly Hills or Palm Springs he was just another retired superstar. There were dozens of them around—Sinatra, Astaire, Kelly, Hope. You could trip over them every time you ventured out of the house or onto the golf course. In Palm Beach, George Lancaster reigned supreme. He was king. Or at least prince consort to his wife, Pamela London, the third-richest woman in America.
Neil Gray sniffed around the two of them warily at a luncheon in his honor. Pamela was a woman to be wary of, known for her sharp tongue and acid wit. She had been married four times; George was her fifth. “A husband a decade,” she was fond of saying. “None of them could keep it up longer than that. With the exception of George, of course.”
She was fifty-four years old, a large-boned woman over six feet tall, with a wild mass of red frizzy hair.
George was an extremely well-preserved sixty-two. He had been married twice before. The first time to a childhood sweetheart for thirty-two years, the result of that union being his daughter, Karen. And the second to a Hollywood bitch for nine months, three days, and two minutes exactly.
Pamela and George made an imposing couple. During five years of marriage they had forged an amicable animosity toward each other. Insults ruled the day, but togetherness was the name of the game.
“So,” Pamela said, cornflower-blue eyes raking Neil. “You want old George to get his big fat rump back to work. Is that it?”
Neil smiled and glanced down the other end of the long table where George was deep in conversation with a sun-baked cosmetics queen. Trust Pamela to seat him as far away as possible; she knew it was George he had come to see. “If he wants to,” he said easily.
“If he wants to,” she sneered. “If I want him to, you mean.”
Neil had known Pamela for years. At one time she had been married to a movie producer friend of his, lived in Beverly Hills, and they had moved in the same social circles. She didn’t intimidate him, He kept smiling. “George likes the script, he likes me. What would be so bad about taking a break from all this luxury? You could come along for the ride.”
She laughed hoarsely. “You know how I love Beverly Hills. Little starlets showing everything they’ve got. Dreadful old men wearing gold chains and cracked suntans. Cheap people, Neil, darling, I hate cheap people!”
“Don’t come then,” he said mildly. “George could fly back here every Friday. We’ll arrange a private plane.”
“I have a private plane,” Pamela laughed. “Two, in fact.”
“I know. But why use your plane when the production would supply whatever George requires?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Whatever he requires?”
“Name it.”
“Hmmm.” She looked thoughtful.
Neil chalked up a small victory. The very rich loved the thought of getting something for nothing. “Well?” he pressed.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“What’ll it take for you to make up your mind?”
She indicated his glass of Perrier water. “Why aren’t you drinking?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I hate a man who doesn’t drink. It makes me uneasy.”
He summoned a hovering waiter. “A double Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.” Then he turned back to Pamela. “I wouldn’t want you to feel uneasy.”
She grinned coquettishly. “You are looking good, Neil. Maybe we should come to L.A. Do a bit of slumming.”
They were eating luncheon at the Palm Beach Country Club, an intimate luncheon for thirty guests, none of whom Neil knew, and most of them over the half-century mark. Suddenly he felt depressed surrounded by his contemporaries. He thought briefly of Montana and her exciting youth. He never felt the age difference when they were together. He felt it now surrounded by face lifts, expensive jewelry, and liver-spotted hands. Then he remembered Gina Germaine waiting patiently at the hotel where they had checked into adjoining suites earlier in the day. She never made him feel old either. She made him feel young. Or at least she made his body feel young. His cock feel young.
“A cent for every dirty little thought that’s clicking through your head,” Pamela said suddenly.
“What?” Neil was startled.
She smiled. “I always know when a man’s thinking about sex.”
“Not me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “No? What’s different about you? Do you have cotton wool where you should have balls?”
He laughed. “You’re wasted here, Pamela. You should be writing steamy novelettes.”
“What makes you think I haven’t tried it? I’ve tried almost everything else.” She leered at him. All the money in the world and her teeth were still yellow. “Except you, Neil, dear. All these years and we’ve never taken a tumble together. You know, we should make up for lost time.” She patted his knee intimately. “And I always was a sucker for a British accent. So classy, so Richard Burton. In fact, I do believe you look a little like dear Richard. That same ravaged expression, that same—”
“Pamela.” He removed her hand. “Stop making detours and let’s get to the point. Do you or do you not want George to make my film?”
• • •
“Goddam!” screamed Ross, slamming down the phone. Agents. Fuck ’em and feed ’em to the fish. Goddam parasites!
Hi, Ross. . . . Yeah, Ross. . . . Nothing doing, Ross.
What did they know? They knew nothing. They knew fuck-all. They couldn’t even wipe their ass without ripping off ten percent of the toilet tissue.
All of his career he had brought everything to them. Call Fox. Call Paramount. Call Wilder. Call Zanuck. Jobs came to him. No agent had ever had to run his balls off on Ross Conti’s behalf. Now, after twenty-five years of dropping it in their laps, he wanted some action.
“What about the new Neil Gray film?” he had asked Zack Schaeffer. “I hear it could be right for me.”
Don’t know about it, Ross. . . . I’ll look into it, Ross. . . . I’ll call you back, Ross. . . .
Why didn’t he know about it? It was his job to know about it. Sadie La Salle would know about it, and it was she who should be
handling his career.
“Elaine!” he yelled.
Lina poked her head around the door. “Meesus Conti go exercise class. You want coffee?”
He swore savagely under his breath. Elaine was never around when he needed her, only when he didn’t.
“Yes,” he growled.
Lina departed, and he sat by the phone and sulked.
Sadie La Salle. She had started it all. Grudgingly he had to admit that without Sadie and her billboard it might never have happened for him.
And how had he paid her back? He had run off with the first beautiful pair of tits that pointed in his direction, and signed with a big agency. No goodbye. No note. No phone call. Just a fast walk while she was out one day.
If all had gone according to plan, Sadie La Salle should have just faded from his life never to be heard from again. And she did vanish—for a while. He didn’t hear a thing about her as his career started to rise. And when he did start to hear her name mentioned it was nothing to get excited about. So she wanted to be an agent. Big deal. Without him she had no clients.
She found an unknown comic named Tom Brownie and built him into the biggest club act since Red Skelton. Then she nursed along a neurotic singer by the name of Melody Fame and turned her into the new Garland. Adam Sutton was struggling in B pictures when he joined the stable. Within two years his name was number one at the box office. George Lancaster defected from ICM. They all came running. Over the years she had built up the best client list in Hollywood.
Sadie La Salle. Short fat Sadie with the mustache.
Occasionally they ran into each other at parties and premieres. The mustache was gone; costly electrolysis had taken care of that. She had dropped thirty pounds and her clothes were expensive and well cut. A stylish bob replaced unruly black curls. She was no beauty but she was certainly an improvement.
He tried to be friendly. She gave him cold nods. He attempted conversations. She walked away.
In the early seventies he decided he needed her. Purely professionally, of course. So he called her on the phone, got as far as her secretary, and suggested that Ms. La Salle might care to drop by and see him.
Hollywood Wives Page 9