She never returned his call. It burned the shit out of him. What kind of a grudge was she carrying?
He cornered her at the next party they both attended. She was with a gay dress designer—rumor had it she was a dyke. Ross knew better than that.
“Sadie,” he breezed. “I think you just got lucky. Guess what?” He flashed the famous Conti smile. “I’m on the market for a new agent and it might just be you.”
She glared at him coldly. “I’m not looking for any more clients, Ross.”
Hurt. Surprise. Fix her with the famous baby blues. “It’s been fifteen years, sweetheart. This is business.”
“Screw business,” she said tightly. “If making commission on you gave me my one hot meal of the week I’d starve to death. Do we understand each other, Ross?”
Bitch! Dyke! Slimmed-down cunt! He had not exchanged a word with her since.
Maybe it was time to try again, now that he was married to Elaine and another ten years had gone by.
“Meester Conti.” Lina stood solidly in the doorway, her legs like tree trunks emerging from the white uniform Elaine insisted she wear.
He turned off the sulks and managed a smile. Mustn’t let the fans down. “Yes, Lina, what is it?”
“Miguel sick. Okay I bring boy in?”
Why the hell was she bothering him? Domestic matters were Elaine’s province. God knows he shelled out enough money to see that everything ran smoothly. “What boy?” he asked, annoyed because he had wanted Miguel to wash the Corniche.
“A good boy. Very nice. Okay I let him do pool?”
“Can he drive?”
“Sure he drive.”
“Fine. Get him over here. Have him get the Corniche out, wash it, and I want it ready by one o’clock.”
Lina nodded and gave one of her rare smiles.
“Where’s my coffee?” Ross asked.
She shook her head stupidly. “I forget.”
“So bring it.”
She backed from the room as the phone began to ring. Ross snatched the receiver to his ear and barked a sharp “Hello.”
“Welcome back, baby,” whispered a low husky voice.
“Who is this?”
“My, what a short memory you have. Was our afternoon at the beach such a forgettable experience? I know it was a few weeks ago, but really, Ross.”
He laughed. “Karen!”
“The very same.”
“When can I see you?”
“You name a time and a place and yours truly will be there.”
“Your beach house. Three-thirty.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“I’ll be coming.”
“Oh I know, I know.”
They both laughed.
• • •
Elaine was late for her tennis lesson, and her coach, a swarthy New Yorker with teeth like dazzling snow and a grip like a samurai warrior, was not pleased. “Ten minutes late, Mrs. C., is ten minutes lost.”
So what? she thought irritably. I’m the one who’s paying. Or rather Ross is. After three years of feebly hitting the ball over the net she had finally decided she must excel. It had nothing to do with the fact that Bibi Sutton had started to throw lavish tennis luncheons “for the girls” at her Bel-Air estate, and that Elaine had been invited once, performed like an amateur, and never been asked back.
She stood stiffly on one side of the court, her calf muscles killing her because of two days’ hard work at Ron Gordino’s exercise class. Going every day was just not on. Too punishing by far. She would cut it down to maybe three times a week. But what three days? That was the problem. What were the in days to go? When did Bibi Sutton attend? The ball whooshed past her racquet and she made a halfhearted swipe but missed it.
“Mrs. C.!” her coach complained.
She wished he wouldn’t call her Mrs. C. It sounded altogether too familiar, and she was not one of those women who wished to be on intimate terms with her tennis coach. “The name is Conti,” she said sharply.
“I know,” he replied, unabashed. “Now, do you think you can concentrate, Mrs. C.?”
She glared at him. He had hairy legs with rigid thigh muscles which disappeared into crisp white shorts. She wondered how his cock was. Probably hairy and rigid and . . . She shook her head sharply. What was she thinking about his cock for? She couldn’t stand him. Quickly she adopted an athletic stance and returned the oncoming ball gracefully.
“That’s better!” he said.
Encouraged, she indulged in a passable volley, darting nimbly around the court.
Three-quarters of an hour later it was over, and sweating profusely she hurried to the changing rooms, where she took her third shower of the day. Ridiculous! Her skin would dry up like a prune. Must remember not to do the exercise class on the same day as her tennis lesson. She took a small black leather Cartier pad from her purse and wrote a cryptic TENNIS GYM NO! Then thoughtfully she added, ASK KAREN. Karen would most certainly know the right days to attend Ron Gordino’s class.
She dressed slowly, feeling a little tired. And she wondered if all those vitamin pills her nutritionist had recommended were doing her any good. Ross had sneered when he had caught her swallowing a dozen pills a day. But when she told him they gave you energy, stopped colds, prevented cancer, improved your skin, sharpened your eyesight . . . well, he had soon changed his mind. And now he took them too. Plus ginseng, which was said to jazz up your sex drive. But it didn’t seem to have done him any good. After three weeks away he had not so much as glanced in her direction.
She hoped he had called Zack Schaeffer about the Neil Gray film. If it had been offered to George Lancaster it had to be good. Oh, what a triumph to be back on top again, when you were on every guest list and the phone never stopped ringing and new designers begged you to accept their clothes as a gift and chauffeurs and bodyguards monitored your every protected move.
She thought resentfully of Ross. Why had he allowed the slide to happen? When was the moment, the hour, the day, he had fallen from the heights?
He’d aged, that’s what had happened. He drank too much, developed a gut, bags under his eyes, and he had leathered skin like an old ranch hand. She had begged him to return to the loving care of her former husband, the plastic surgeon. “Forget it,” he had snapped. “I don’t want my face looking like a goddam mask.”
Every month he had to pay out various amounts of alimony to his two previous wives. When he was making big money it was hardly noticeable. When the big money stopped it was a shocking drain. The cutting-down process had been painful. First the chauffeur had gone, then the live-in housekeeper and her staff of two, next the gardeners and poolman. Now it was just Lina, who came in daily, except weekends. And Miguel, who was a combination gardener, poolman, and chauffeur.
Elaine snorted with anger as she dressed briskly in a thin knit T-shirt dress from Giorgio’s, and strappy high-heeled sandals from Charles Jourdan. One thing she had refused to cut down on was her clothes. My God! If you couldn’t dress properly in Beverly Hills you might as well crawl under a stone and vanish altogether! She had weathered it well, though. It was not as if they were broke by any means. It was just that they had to be a little bit careful now that, as Ross’s business manager had put it, “The big money days are behind you, Ross.” Fool. What did he know? Elaine would get Ross back on top if she had to kill doing it.
• • •
“Get back on top, Ross,” Karen Lancaster requested huskily.
He raised his head from between her thighs. “I don’t do this for everyone,” he asserted in startled tones. “In fact, I can’t remember the last time.”
“What do you want—an award? Get back on top.”
He obliged, pumping away with vigor.
Karen was a groaner. Her oohs and aahhs and “go, baby, gos” got louder and louder.
The more noise she made, the faster Ross pumped, until they came together in a screeching climax.
He rolled off, said, “Hot dam
n!” and waited for the praise.
Karen turned onto her stomach and played dead.
The sun slanted on the huge glass-walled room at an angle, playing across the enormous circular bed where they lay on top of a quilted satin bedspread.
Outside, the Pacific Ocean rolled lazily about its business, lapping the Malibu shoreline gently. It was a perfect clear day.
“Not bad,” he said at last, when it became obvious that she was not to be the first to speak. “Not bad at all.” No reply. Lightly he patted her ass. No response. “Are you asleep?” he asked incredulously.
“Gimme five mins,” she mumbled, rolling her body into a tight ball.
He rose from the bed and padded around the room. It was some room. A circular fantasy arranged around a central steaming Jacuzzi. On one side was the ocean, on the other a mass of greenery and a carport which now housed his gleaming gold Corniche and her sporty red Ferrari.
He found a space-age kitchen around the back, and extracted an ice-cold can of Budweiser from the refrigerator.
Karen was definitely worth the trip to the beach. He had thought so the first time, but now he was sure. She had got him doing things he hadn’t done in years.
Little Karen. Christ, he had known her since she was six years old. George Lancaster had often brought her to the studio with him.
Little Karen. He had attended her first wedding to a real estate broker, read enough about her second to a spaced-out composer, and spent many an evening in her company when she became one of Elaine’s best friends.
Little Karen. A tiger in the sack.
They had bumped into each other outside Brentano’s on Wilshire quite by accident the day before he left for location. “You must come and see my new Ferrari Spyder,” she insisted. “I only took delivery of it yesterday.”
She dragged him across the street to the American Savings carpark, where the attendant was taking special care of her latest acquisition.
“A present from Daddy?” he asked casually, not taking much notice of the sleek red machine. He had never been a car buff.
“But of course! Come on, Ross, take a ride with me. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”
Actually he was. He had a meeting with his accountant, but all of a sudden Karen was giving off signals, and he couldn’t resist finding out if they meant what he thought they meant. He climbed into the car.
“Nice, huh?” she said, settling herself in the driver’s seat. And then they were off, roaring down Wilshire at breakneck speed, driving much too fast for the sedate three-lane progression of Cadillacs, Mercedeses, and Lincolns. A delivery truck gave chase from a stoplight, and a kid drag-raced her lane to lane. By the time they hit Westwood, Ross was enjoying every minute of the wild ride.
“You on for the beach?” she asked, fixing his eyes with a different unspoken question.
“Why not?” The meeting with his accountant could wait. Let his business manager take care of it, that’s what he was paid to do, wasn’t it?
They made it to the door of her Malibu beach house in twenty minutes. Fifty-two seconds later they were rolling about on the thick pile rug groping at each other’s clothes.
He mounted her like a stallion, ripping at her suede skirt and tearing through her brief panties.
Her eloquence surprised both of them.
They each had appointments in town to hurry back to, and the next day he had left L.A. for the location.
He was glad she had called him upon his return. Karen was going to be more than just a passing diversion. Of that he was sure.
• • •
Gladrags resided in a penthouse apartment on Doheny Drive. He cohabited with a white interior designer by the name of Jason Swankle, and a hideous bulldog named Shag.
Buddy pressed the door buzzer impatiently. Now that he had decided to follow his former career he was hot to trot.
Jason answered the door. A plump dormouse of a man in a peacock-blue jumpsuit festooned with gold jewelry. Shag accompanied him, took a perfunctory sniff at Buddy’s leg, and mounted it as though it were the randiest bitch in the neighborhood.
“Hey!” Buddy exclaimed, filled with horror. “Get it off me!”
“Down boy. Down!” Jason ordered, tugging at Shag’s diamanté collar.
Buddy kicked out in disgust. “Jeez!”
Shag dismounted and growled threateningly.
“And what can I do for you?” Jason inquired archly, placing one beringed plump hand on his waist, checking Buddy out, and liking what he saw.
“I’m looking for Gladra—uh . . . Mr. Jackson.”
“He’s dressing. We’re going to a wedding. Can I help?” Jason beamed, then winked. “I’d certainly like to.”
Why did fags love him? “It’s business,” Buddy said swiftly. “Private. I’ll only take a minute of his time.”
Jason pursed fleshy lips. “Marvin doesn’t like conducting business at home. Is it about the shop?”
Marvin! Buddy nodded and attempted to edge through the front door.
Shag growled, and Jason made a decision. “Oh, all right. Wait here, I’ll get him.”
He waddled off on short stumpy legs, and Buddy reflected that he and Gladrags must make a bizarre-looking couple—Gladrags so tall and skinny and black, and Jason so rounded and plump and white. Oh well, everyone to his own kick.
He whistled softly between clenched teeth and hoped that Gladrags might have something for him right away. It would be nice to go home to Angel bearing gifts.
“Who in the fuck are you?” It was Gladrags himself, skinnier than Buddy remembered, his black hair cornrowed and decorated with multicolored beads. “And what in the fuck you want?”
Nothing like a warm welcome. “Hey—my man—G.J. It’s me—Buddy Boy. You gotta remember me.” He stretched out a friendly hand, which Gladrags slapped sharply away. “Come on,” Buddy persisted. “I used to work for you, man. Randy Felix brought me in. I was one of your best.”
Gladrags sniffed deeply. “One of my best what?”
Buddy checked out the corridor. “Can I come in? Can we talk?” He attempted to move through the door. Shag growled ferociously. “I . . . uh . . . I wanna get back in action. See, I need some bucks like yesterday, an’ you were always pretty good at arranging things.”
“I ain’t in that business no more,” Gladrags spat, sniffing again and beginning to close the door. “An’ even if I was—which I ain’t—believe me, man, I sure do remember you. You was the weirdo could only get it up for the ladies. Right? And, if I remember correct, you dumped on me an’ went inta business with that fat fucker Maxie Sholto. An’ with him I understand if it moved ya screwed it. So if I was in that business still, which as I said repeatedly I ain’t—then even if you farted ‘Stars an’ Stripes,’ an’ sported a flag on your pecker every time ya got the bone—I still wouldn’t be interested in puttin’ you together with anythin’ human. Now get lost.” He slammed the door sharply.
“Shit!” muttered Buddy sharply. “Goddam shit!”
Angrily he turned and strode toward the elevator. It was his own dumb fault.
Jason Swankle caught up with him just as he was driving out of the underground garage. “So glad I found you,” he puffed, running up to the car, dragging a reluctant Shag behind him.
Buddy glared. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to help you. I think I can help you.”
“You’re not my type,” snapped Buddy sarcastically.
“Take my card,” Jason insisted. “And call me on my business number. Tomorrow.” He thrust a small white card through the open window. It fluttered onto the floor of the car as Buddy put his foot down and roared off into the late-morning sun.
10
The small Italian restaurant with its checked tablecloths, excellent pasta, and potent house wine was busy. Saturday night always brought out the crowds. Millie Rosemont was enjoying herself, but Leon felt ill at ease. He had promised Millie faithfully that the one thing he would never do was
bring his problems home, and he had kept that promise up until the time of the Friendship Street murders. Up until the time he was faced with Joey Kravetz’s mutilated body.
He remembered their second encounter. It was long before he met Millie.
• • •
It wasn’t just raining, it was coming down in torrents. Driving home late, his windshield wipers fighting the downpour, Leon decided he was hungry after all. Only an hour previously he had phoned to cancel a dinner date with an attractive divorcée he had been seeing. She was nice enough, but deep down he found her boring. On impulse he made a left into a Howard Johnson’s and parked his car in a side lot. Then he hurried through the rain to a corner booth, where he ordered himself a toasted chicken sandwich and some hot coffee. Opening up the paper, he studied the sports page.
The waitress brought his sandwich and coffee, and he settled back to relax after a long and tiring day.
“You sonuvabitch!” a voice screeched.
Startled, he looked up from his newspaper and stared at the short, angry girl standing by his table, her arms crossed over a grubby T-shirt, her legs encased in army surplus trousers several sizes too big.
“Don’t remember me, huh?” She glared.
“Should I?” he asked at last.
“Should ya? Ha! Should ya? You can bet your fat butt ya should!”
He put down his paper. “Now wait a minute. Just who do you think you’re talking to?”
“You—cop!” she spat.
“Do I know you?” he asked angrily.
“Ya got my ass locked up in some girl’s prison for a fuckin’ year. You should know me,” she crowed triumphantly.
It was then he noticed the cast in her eye, and suddenly it all came back. She was the baby-faced hooker who had propositioned him one night, then kicked him on the leg when questioned about her age, and fled. He had called Grace Mann over on Juvenile, given her a general location and description, and left it in her capable hands. Grace had obviously come through.
“I thought you said you were eighteen,” he accused.
“So I lied—big deal. An’ ’cause of you they come trackin’ me, an’ locked me up on some crappy farm with a bunch of babies. Thanks a lot, cowboy.”
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