“Good. I want to set them up soon.”
“The sooner the better.”
She climbed into her car and drove off without another word.
Neil took a deep breath. It looked like everything was going to be all right. Test Gina. The test would stink. He would be off the hook.
Just who exactly did he think he was kidding?
• • •
Street People. What a property. What a great part for him.
Ross placed the script on the coffee table in the den. He shut his eyes and leaned back with a deep sigh. For a moment he sat silently. It was late and he was tired, but he was also exhilarated, his mind alive with ideas. It was one o’clock in the morning, and he had been reading solidly for two hours.
MAC. FIFTY YEARS OLD. A STREET COP FOR ALL OF HIS ADULT LIFE. CYNICAL AND TOUGH. BUT WITH A LOT OF COMPASSION AND HOPE FOR THE FUTURE. A WORLD-WEARY MAN WITH OLDFASHIONED VALUES.
An Oscar-nomination role, no doubt about that. Of course, it was not the sort of part that he had ever played before. A man of fifty. Forget it.
What do you mean—forget it? You are no longer the boy wonder. You are fifty. Or at least you will be this year.
Would his public accept him in such a role?
What public? They gave up stampeding your movies a long time ago. Now half of ’em see you in some old movie on television and they think you’re dead, for crissake.
He rose from the couch and went to the bar, where he fixed himself a scotch on the rocks. Street People. It was strange knowing a woman had written it. She got inside a man’s head. She put down thoughts and feelings that he had imagined only men knew about.
You’re a chauvinist pig, you know that? Your ideas are corny and out of date. You’d better start thinking today—or you’ll find yourself in an elephant’s graveyard for old-time movie stars.
Jesus! He wanted the part so badly he could taste it.
Twenty-five years of movies.
Twenty-five years of shit.
He sipped his scotch, rolled the booze across his tongue, allowed it to trickle slowly down his throat.
He was calm, excited, nervous, confident. Christ! He didn’t know what he was. He only knew that whatever it took he had to have that part. Had to.
But how to convince everyone? How to convince Oliver Easterne, Neil and Montana Gray?
Oliver was a hustler, a money man. He wouldn’t see talent if it climaxed all over his deal-making face.
Neil Gray was an overblown English egotist. Talented but a total pain.
Montana Gray he didn’t even know.
Sadie La Salle could do it. She could get you the part. She weaves magic in this town. She has the power.
Yes. Sadie. She would know he was right for it. She would know he was capable of playing the hell out of it.
Had Elaine invited her to the party yet? Had she got a yes or no? He hurried into their bedroom.
Elaine slept soundly, her hair held back from her face by a white Alice band. Her face itself was liberally smeared with some kind of Royal Jelly which Ross had unkindly christened “bees’ come.” She hid her eyes beneath a black sleep mask, and snored softly.
Ross stared down at her. He had given her a tough day, and he felt sorry now. But sometimes she bugged him with all her Beverly Hills bullshit. She had come rushing back from Maralee Gray’s clutching the script as if it were stock in IBM. Thrusting it at him she said triumphantly, “There you are. How’s that for service?”
Perversely he tossed the manuscript to one side.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Later,” he said, enjoying her look of annoyed frustration.
He kept it up all day long, dying to read the damn thing, but stubbornly refusing to pick it up while Elaine was around.
They had dinner, watched a movie on television, and then she swept off to bed. He had fixed himself a drink, made himself comfortable, and started to read.
“Honey, wake up.” He shook her roughly.
She shrieked. “Who is it? What? God!” Frantically she pulled off her sleep mask, blinked twice, then said, “What the hell is it, Ross? You frightened the life out of me.”
“It’s frigging marvelous, that’s what it is,” he said excitedly.
“Are you drunk?”
“No. I am not drunk. I am very sober.” He sat down on the side of the bed. “Have you called Sadie La Salle?”
She struggled to consult her bedside clock. “It’s one-fifteen in the morning. Is that what you woke me up to find out?”
“It’s important.”
“Goddamm it! Surely it could have waited until morning?”
He reached out and playfully rubbed his finger over her cheek. “You’re covered in bees’ come again.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t say that.”
“Why? Does it make you horny?” As he said it he could feel the sap rising. Automatically he reached for her breasts.
“Ross—” she began to object, then thought better of it. Just because she wasn’t prepared did not mean she shouldn’t grab the opportunity when it arose.
They went through their familiar ritual. Marital sex was like a favorite meal. Good but predictable. She had given up wishing that Ross would do something different. He had his routine, and he stuck to it religiously.
No more than ten minutes passed before they both climaxed. Her first. Him second. He might have the biggest dick in Hollywood, but it still only took ten minutes.
After, he lit cigarettes for them both and said, “Good, huh.” He always said, “Good, huh.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
She remembered the early days. The first time they made love. The months they were secretly seeing each other. The beginning of their marriage. Oh, what a lover Ross Conti had been then!
Ross drew deeply on his cigarette and thought of Karen Lancaster. He really should call her. She was such a little wildcat in the sack. Not like Elaine, who lay there as if she were doing him a big favor. She quite obviously didn’t enjoy sex the way she used to. She always made him feel that he was pushing himself on her and that he should get it over with as quickly as possible. If the truth were known he could honestly say that sex with his wife was dull, and it certainly wasn’t his fault.
“Very good,” Elaine murmured. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how.”
He ignored the barb. Ha! She should only know!
“I read the script,” he began. “And I don’t know if Montana Gray wrote it—didn’t write it, whatever. It’s going to make one hell of a movie.”
Her interest was aroused. “It is?”
“No doubt about it.”
“And . . .” she paused. “How about the part for you?”
“Perfect.”
“Really?”
“Well, not perfect for me, Ross Conti, but perfect for me as an actor. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Did she understand? Who did he think he was talking to?
“So we have to get Sadie La Salle,” she said excitedly.
“It’s our best shot.”
They were on each other’s wavelength at last. Elaine smiled. “I’m having lunch with Karen tomorrow. She’ll have an answer for me on whether I can throw the party for George and Pamela. If I can, then nobody will dare not to show—even Sadie La Salle.”
• • •
Ma Maison. Friday lunch. The small garden restaurant was crowded, the umbrellaed tables in close proximity, the aproned waiters running this way and that.
Buddy had decided to test out the pale-tan Armani jacket, beige slacks, and matching collarless silk shirt. The look was right, expensively casual. Jason was delighted. “You need just a touch of gold,” he said, fussily toying with a thick gold chain that hung around his own neck.
“No, I don’t,” Buddy replied quickly. There was nothing worse than California casual ruined by great chunks of flash jewelry. Gold chains on men always reminded him of the aging swingers who crui
sed Beverly Hills in their Mercedeses and Porsches, with hair combed concealingly forward, and fat guts held tightly in.
Settled at their table in the corner, just the two of them, Buddy felt free to cast an interested eye around the fashionable restaurant. There were a lot of women lunching together. Tables of them. Chic. Stylish. Beautiful.
Jason suddenly felt it his duty to give him a rundown on every famous face in the place. “You see that group of women over there, well, the beautiful one with the dark hair is Mrs. Freddie Fields. And at the next table is Louisa Moore—wife of Roger—she’s such fun. And next to them—”
“Dudley Moore.”
“Very good,” said Jason crisply, “but I bet you don’t know who that is.” He pointed out an exquisite jet-haired beauty deep in conversation with a man.
“I give up.”
“Shakira Caine. Married to Michael Caine, of course. She’s with Bobby Zarem—he made the slogan ‘I love New York’ famous, wonderful PR and so amusing.”
“Do you know all these people?” Buddy asked, impressed in spite of himself.
“Not intimately, but many of them come to the store.”
“Hey—maybe you can introduce me to an agent, like a real hot one.”
“Let me see. I’m sure among my connections . . . Oh, you see that woman sitting over there—that’s George Lancaster’s daughter, Karen, and on the other side of the room is David Tebet—he’s the vice-president of Johnny Carson Productions, and I see Jack Lemmon.”
Buddy glanced restlessly around, not really listening as Jason carried on. He had eyes, he could spot the stars for himself. Clint Eastwood sprawled at a center table, his long legs impeding the waiters’ fast trips around the room. And Sidney Poitier, Tom Selleck—there were celebrities everywhere.
Buddy felt good. Not that anyone had so much as glanced in his direction, but he was still there, still part of it.
“Do you like it here?” Jason asked, well aware of the fact that indeed Buddy did.
He shrugged. “I’ve been here before, y’know.”
“I’m sure you have.” Jason couldn’t help allowing his eyes to linger on Buddy’s restless countenance. The boy had such looks, such beauty. Ah, if he bided his time, was patient . . . ah!
• • •
Karen’s green eyes gleamed. “I promise you, I spoke to Daddy and Pamela. They would be delighted to be guests of honor at your party.”
“You’re sure?” Elaine asked for the second time.
“Elaine, if I say something, you can bet it will happen.” She smiled and waved at Dudley Moore. “Pamela would like you to phone her at ten o’clock tonight—Palm Beach time.”
“She would?”
“Don’t look so dumbstruck—it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? And thanks to me you’ve got it. The hottest party in town. Just watch Bibi jump now!”
Maralee joined in the conversation. “Who’s doing the catering?”
Elaine had imagined she could use Lina and two of her Mexican friends, but things were different now. “I hadn’t really thought—”
“Better start thinking!” warned Karen. “That salmon mousse Tita Cahn served last week was to die! I think she’s made a new discovery. Why not give her a call?”
“Morton’s could do the whole thing for you,” Maralee suggested. “Or La Scala. I always feel more secure when one uses professionals.”
“Yes, but that’s so safe,” argued Karen. “Daddy adores oriental food. How about a Chinese feast?”
“Madame Wu’s?” ventured Elaine, thinking about how much it was all going to cost, and how loud Ross was going to scream.
“Marvelous food,” said Maralee.
“Marvelous,” echoed Karen.
• • •
Buddy sipped the hot black espresso and wondered how long he was expected to sit there. Jason seemed quite settled as he toyed with a small glass of Sambuca.
“Uh, I guess I should be gettin’ back to the beach,” he said at last. “I’m expecting a call about the test, and I want to go over the script again.”
Jason nodded. “Is everything all right for you at the house?”
“Couldn’t be better. Angel loves it.”
It annoyed Jason that at every given opportunity Buddy mentioned his wife. It was almost as if he was screaming, I’m straight! I’m straight! And don’t you forget it! He clicked his fingers for the check. Some of his most memorable experiences had been with so-called straights. When they came out of the closet, they came out with a vengeance. “Yes,” he murmured. “Angel seems such a sweet girl.”
“She is.”
“Quite so. But I do think it best if we don’t mention the fact that you’re married to Mrs. Jaeger and her friend.”
“Sure.” Why bite the hand that was draping him in Armani?
“They’ll be arriving tomorrow evening. Probably quite late,” Jason continued, squinting at the check. He withdrew a pigskin wallet from his jacket and extracted his trusty Master Charge card. “I expect they’ll be tired, so I’ll have the driver meet them at the airport and deposit them at their hotel—the Beverly Hills, of course—and I thought that on Sunday we’d all meet up for a perfectly wonderful brunch in the Polo Lounge. Won’t that be fun?”
Buddy could have thought of another way to describe it, but he tried to look enthusiastic.
“Wear what you have on today,” Jason instructed. “It suits you admirably.”
“Sure, thanks.” Impatiently Buddy glanced yet again at the tables around him. Clint Eastwood was long gone, but he spotted Allan Carr, Richard Gere, and Robert Wagner. The famous producer and the two movie stars gave him a real buzz. Quickly he sneaked a look at his watch. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Shit! By the time he got back to the beach it would be four—too late to work on his tan. What a wasted day. Jason Swankle was a nice enough guy, but who did he think he was kidding? Buddy knew the time would come when he would try to climb on his bones. Why else the beach house, the new clothes, and the money for dating two old women who any escort service could have taken care of for half the price?
The waiter returned the Master Charge card, and they rose to leave. Buddy strode quickly through the restaurant, leaving Jason to tag along behind. At the entrance he bumped into Randy Felix. They stared at each other surprise, then delight.
“Hey,” Buddy exclaimed. “What are you doin’ here?”
“Meeting someone.” Randy grinned, and stepped back to look his friend over. “And you’re lookin’ good!”
“Too right!”
They hugged quickly in an embarrassed masculine way, and parted just as Jason puffed up.
“Uh . . . this is a friend of mine—Randy Felix,” Buddy explained. “Give me five minutes an’ I’ll see you out in the car.”
Jason pursed fleshy lips and nodded curtly at Randy. “Just make sure you’re not longer than five minutes,” he said possessively before leaving.
Randy stared quizzically at Jason’s departing back. “You changed sides, bro?”
“Come on. Who d’y’think you’re talkin’ to?”
“Just askin’. You never know nowadays.”
They both noticed the blonde waving. She had risen from her seat and was beckoning frantically. “Over here, Randy,” she called, in case he missed her.
Randy waved back. “The one I was telling you about,” he explained sotto voce. “Maralee Gray. Her father owns Sanderson Studios. Her ex is Neil Gray—the director. You like the setup?”
“Like it—I want it!”
“Come meet her.”
Buddy was tempted. The mention of Neil Gray set bells ringing. But she was his ex-wife and probably had nothing to do with the movie. Besides, how would it look if Jason came waddling in to get him?
“Another time. Whyn’t you buzz me later? I got plenty of news.”
They stopped a waiter for a pen and paper, and Buddy scribbled down his number at the beach. Then they slapped palms and went their separate ways.
• • •
“Who was that?” inquired Karen, when Randy was settled at their table and introduced to her and Elaine by a nervous Maralee.
“Who was what?” asked Randy, knowing immediately that Karen Lancaster was asking about Buddy. They all had the hots for Buddy.
“That man you were talking to on your way in,” Karen persisted irritably.
“You mean Buddy.”
“Buddy?”
“Buddy Hudson. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Gay?”
Randy licked his finger and exaggeratedly smoothed his eyebrow. “If you say so, sweets!”
Maralee laughed nervously. “Randy!” she admonished. “Don’t!”
Karen glared. She hated Maralee’s new friend on sight. “I have to go,” she drawled. “Coming, Elaine?”
Actually Elaine was anxious to leave. She couldn’t wait to get home and phone Bibi. But Maralee had begged her to meet Randy before their evening dinner date, and she could hardly say hello goodbye as soon as the poor man sat down.
“I’ll stay a few minutes,” she explained apologetically.
“Suit yourself,” snapped Karen, and with an all-encompassing wave around the table she exited.
“You’ll love Karen,” Maralee gushed, holding tightly on to Randy’s hand, “when you get to know her.”
He smiled and winked at Elaine. “Can’t wait!” he said cheerily.
She decided she couldn’t stand him.
• • •
Angel spent the day dusting, polishing, and vacuuming. The house at Malibu was really the most perfect place she had ever seen—straight out of a magazine, and she couldn’t be more thrilled that they were lucky enough to be staying there.
She hummed softly as she went about her tasks, mopping the spotless kitchen floor, sponging the sparkling Formica tops, pouring disinfectant down three unused toilets.
The beach was hazy all morning, but at twelve the sun broke through, and she slipped into a bikini and lay out on the patio deck overlooking the ocean. She took with her a pad and a pen, planning to write a letter to her foster family in Louisville. She had not heard from them at all, in spite of the fact that she had written several times. It was to be expected. They had never cared for her; her presence had merely been an extra source of income from welfare. But still, she wanted them to know about the baby. Maybe they would be pleased for her.
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