Dear Everyone,
Well, I suppose you are wondering why I have not written for a while. Well, you see
She paused for thought and gazed at two joggers running through the surf. They were holding hands and laughing. A dog ran behind them. Buddy was so jumpy lately. Perhaps now they were at the beach, settled into a beautiful house . . .
But for how long? And who was Jason Swankle? And why was he suddenly part of their lives?
She sighed, then abruptly screwed up the paper and threw it across the sand. Buddy was her family now. Louisville was her past. Buddy was her future even if he did not confide in her, and fed her a bunch of lies when she would have been quite prepared to face the truth. For instance, where had he come up with the money to buy new expensive clothes? Why were they installed in this beautiful house? Who was paying for the chauffeured car that kept on arriving to pick him up?
When she asked him he had laughed, ruffled her hair, and said, “Don’t you worry about it, babe. My old pal Jason owes me. He’s just settlin’ a debt.”
Angel wondered, if there was a debt to be settled, why didn’t she get any new clothes? Not that she begrudged Buddy his outfits, but surely it would have been nice if she could have gotten something too. He hadn’t even asked her to accompany him on his shopping spree, and she was hurt. Soon she would have to get new clothes—maternity clothes.
The thought caused a secret smile to play across her lips. She couldn’t wait for her stomach to swell—confirming the fact that a person she and Buddy had created was growing inside her. All thoughts of being a movie star had faded. Buddy would be the star of the family, and she would be his loving wife. The fan magazines would feature photo layouts of them at home, Buddy so macho and good-looking, and she in flowing dresses with flowers in her hair and lots of beautiful children at her feet. Earth mother. The thought pleased her. She smiled broadly. How long would it take for him to become a superstar? Two years? Three? Whenever. She would be ready.
The surf looked inviting, so she slipped off her white sandals and hurried down the steps to the sand. Then she ran toward the ocean, her long blond hair flying out behind her.
A man, sitting on the deck of a neighboring house, watched her progress into the sea. He rose and walked to the edge of the deck, straining his eyes to get a better look at her as she plunged into the waves.
When she emerged he was still watching.
• • •
It took Bibi Sutton exactly eleven minutes to call back after Elaine had left a message with her secretary about the party’s being for George Lancaster and Pamela London.
“Sweetie!” she purred down the phone. “I ’ave been so busy. You know ’ow it is.”
“Don’t apologize,” Elaine said magnanimously. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Darling, you really ’ave party for Pamela and George?” Bibi always liked to check her facts before committing.
“I thought I told you it was for them,” Elaine replied innocently.
“No, no. Still. We come anyway, you know that.”
“Of course I do.” Elaine was enjoying herself. The worst star-fucks were the stars themselves.
“ ’Ow many people you ’ave?”
“Nothing enormous. More an intimate gathering. Close friends of George and Pamela’s. Fifty, sixty. No more than that.”
“Ahhh . . .” Bibi sighed. “This I like. An intimate gathering. Dressy, I ’ope.”
“For the ladies, yes. I think the men will be more comfortable casual,” Elaine replied firmly.
“So sensible, sweetie!” Bibi shrieked. “I love it. We dress up. They wear boring sports clothes.”
Approval at last. Elaine glowed.
“Now,” Bibi continued, “who do the food?”
She hesitated for only a second. Be positive. Don’t let the bitch throw you. “I was thinking of using Madame Wu’s.”
“No!”
“No?”
“I ’ave secret for you. A secret I tell only my good friends.”
Elaine waited.
Bibi paused dramatically. “Sergio and Eugenio!” she announced triumphantly.
“I don’t think I know them—”
“Sure you don’t know them. Nobody knows them. They are mine. My secret.”
It was rumored, though never proved, that Bibi got a kickback from every restaurant, caterer, store, etc. on which she put her magic seal of approval. Elaine wondered what Sergio and Eugenio would throw into the pot.
“Are they good?”
“Ha!” Bibi laughed mirthlessly. “Sweetie, would I recommend them if they not good?”
“Of course not. I—”
Bibi was in full flow. “And I ’ave another secret for you. The Zancussi Trio. Italian love songs straight from Roma. You tent the garden?”
“I hadn’t really—”
“You must! Now, let me give you some advice. . . .”
The conversation continued for another ten minutes while Bibi honored Elaine with her suggestions. And all the time Elaine was mentally counting the cost. Tented garden. Trio of musicians. Sergio and Eugenio. Valet parking. Floral arrangements. Two special bartenders to mix the latest drinks. Waiters. Kitchen staff. A new outfit.
To do it properly would cost a fortune. But properly it had to be done.
Bibi ended the conversation on an encouraging note. She invited Elaine to a lunch she was having the following Monday at her house. “I ’ave the wonderful police come to speak about Mace. We all get the permit,” Bibi explained brightly. “What you think? Good idea, no?”
What did a woman like Bibi need a can of Mace for? Her chauffeured Rolls never ventured out of Beverly Hills.
“Great idea,” gushed Elaine, hating herself for being such a crawler.
Bibi Sutton calls—you run. I thought you hated her guts.
Shut up, Etta.
Later, dinner at La Scala with Maralee and her new boyfriend, Randy, was a disaster. How did Maralee find them? How did she know just where to look for the sharp-eyed hustlers who homed right in on her money and position? Elaine had taken an instant dislike to Randy at lunchtime, and her first reaction was strengthened upon their second meeting.
Ross was annoyed that they had to go in the first place. He and Maralee had never really hit it off. He tolerated her because she was his wife’s best friend, but he didn’t see why he had to tolerate her boring dumb stud boyfriends, and pay for dinner on top of everything else.
They ordered drinks, and Elaine spoke to Maralee, while Randy attempted to communicate with Ross. He called him “sir,” which made Ross scowl, and he said things like “You were my mother’s favorite” and “I’ve seen all your old movies on television.”
An asshole of the first order. Ross summoned the waiter and proceeded to down a series of scotches on the rocks.
Halfway through the evening Karen Lancaster arrived with Chet Barnes. She swooped down on their table like a predatory bird, Chet trailing behind.
“Hel-lo, everyone,” she greeted, her eyes bright from a snort of pre-dinner cocaine, the Hollywood equivalent of an upper.
Ross sat up straight at the sight of her perky nipples straining the material of a thin silk tank top, and wondered why he hadn’t bothered to call her. He decided to rectify the situation first thing in the morning.
“Have you eaten?” Elaine inquired, thankful for the diversion.
“We’re just about to.”
“Why don’t you join us?” Elaine said quickly, giving Ross a sharp kick under the table.
He took his cue, fascinated by Karen’s nipples through the flimsy material. “Yes, come on, join us,” he encouraged.
Karen looked him straight in the eye and smiled sweetly. “No thank you. Chet and I are into a heavy discussion about multiple orgasms and whether having a big dick helps a guy to be a good lover. We wouldn’t want to put anyone off their dinner.”
Elaine laughed. “You are unbelievable!”
Karen shot Ross a
deadly look. “See you all later.”
“Come and have coffee with us,” Elaine begged desperately.
“Maybe.” Karen smiled around the table, her eyes flicking past Randy Felix as if he didn’t exist. Then she grabbed Chet’s hand, and a waiter directed them to an intimate booth in the back.
“I didn’t know Karen and Chet were having a thing,” Maralee said. “How long has she been seeing him?”
Elaine shrugged. “I can never keep up with her affairs.”
And a good thing too, Ross thought. He looked across the room. Karen was snuggling up to Chet, whispering in his ear, or was that her tongue in his ear?
All of a sudden he wanted her badly. He wanted her on her knees in front of him sucking his—
“Are you all right, Ross?” Elaine asked sharply.
“What?”
“You look most peculiar.”
“You mean I look frigging bored,” he muttered angrily. “Why do you have to stick me with these evenings?”
“Shhh . . .”
Elaine need not have been concerned. Maralee wasn’t listening anyway, she was gazing into Randy Felix’s eyes as he told her a lot of lies about his past.
• • •
Every day, around five, Buddy called the Easterne office and spoke to Montana Gray’s secretary, the blonde with the bad nose job. She and Buddy indulged in long intense conversations. He was anxious to know exactly what was happening. Was there a date set for his test? What other actors were testing? Who seemed to present the most competition?
The blonde, whose name was Inga, confided in Buddy absolutely, and fully expected him to invite her out on a date. When he didn’t she finally said, “Look, it’s difficult for me to give out all this information on the phone. Why don’t you come by my apartment?”
He knew what that meant. “I’m stuck out at the beach an’ my car’s in the shop,” he lied.
She was not to be put off. She had read her Cosmopolitan, and she knew her rights; if she wanted to get laid she was perfectly entitled to do the chasing. “I can drive down to see you,” she said firmly.
“Not a good idea. I’m stayin’ with this neurotic guy who jumps on anything that moves. It’s a bad scene here—you wouldn’t like it.”
“Try me,” she said boldly.
“One of these days, kid.”
“Just name it, Buddy.”
“Look. Why don’t I call you same time tomorrow?”
He got off the phone and prowled nervously around the house. Angel was in the kitchen fixing tuna salad for their dinner.
“Hey—why don’t we go out to eat?” He grabbed her from behind and gave her a hug.
“Everything’s nearly ready,” she said, extracting herself and continuing to chop cucumber.
“So what? I feel like showing you off.”
“Not tonight. My hair needs washing, I’ve made dinner, and there’s a Richard Gere film on television.”
What did she need Richard Gere for when she had him? That really pissed him. “Okay, okay. Fine.”
Wide-eyed and unbearably beautiful, “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Naw, ’course I don’t.”
He wandered out on the deck. Angel was beginning to sound like a wife. He would have thought she would jump at the chance of hitting the town with him. It wasn’t as if they had been living it up every night.
He felt uptight and restless. Jeez! You would think she would understand—what with the test coming up and everything.
They ate dinner with one eye on a space-age television hanging from the ceiling. Then Angel yawned delicately and said, “I’m sooo tired. Do you mind if I go to bed early?”
Yes. He minded. He need to unwind, have a few blasts, relax.
“Sure, babe, you go right ahead.”
She kissed him lightly and vanished upstairs.
He wished he had a joint to take the edge off.
He wished that he’d done the fucking test already.
He wished he was a star.
18
Joey Kravetz’s sister was back in town. Louise Kravetz. Known as Lulu. Five years older than Joey. Arrested three times for prostitution, twice for drugs.
She arrived on a charter from Amsterdam on a Sunday morning, and Leon knew about it ten minutes after she cleared customs. He had his connections.
Ignoring Millie’s objections, he jumped in his car and arrived at the run-down house where Lulu lived twenty minutes before she did. An angry landlady let him into her room. It was a depressing array of musty clothes, dead plants, an old record player, and stacks of worn rock albums. A thick film of dust covered everything.
In one corner stood an unmade bed. Over on the other side there was a gas burner, with a few dirt-encrusted dishes piled on top.
Leon positioned himself stiffly by the door ready to flash his ID and give the sister the bad news.
He wondered if she looked like Joey.
• • •
Leon awoke to the sound of an alarm ringing. Seven a.m. Without his alarm clock he could sleep forever.
He felt the dried stickiness around his crotch, and knew immediately what it was. A wet dream. Jesus H. Christ, he hadn’t had a wet dream since he was sixteen years old!
Wet dream, my ass. Joey Kravetz jerking you off in the middle of the night while you played possum.
Had he really done that?
Yes, you did it and you loved it, and you were never that much asleep that you couldn’t have woken fully and stopped her.
Shame crept over him. He, Leon Rosemont, and a sixteen-year-old hooker. It wasn’t like he was desperate. He had regular sex—as much sex as he could use. Goddam it! How could he have let her do it?
He climbed out of bed, ripped off the offending pajamas, and covered himself with a bathrobe.
How could he face her?
How could he not?
He imagined the expression on her face. She would stare at him knowingly, triumphantly. You’re just like all the rest.
But he wasn’t. No way was he like the animals who prowled the streets.
Angrily he marched into the living room. Get her up and out and give her twenty bucks to see her on her way.
That’s right. Encourage her to keep on hooking. Pay her off and forget her. She’s not your problem.
Oh yes she is. Sixteen years old and you should try and help her. Where’s your sense of public duty?
Where had his sense of public duty been in the early hours of the morning?
The blanket and pillow he had given her were on the floor. The couch was empty.
He knew she had gone before he even checked out the kitchen and bathroom.
• • •
Lulu was taller than Joey, plump, like a stuffed chicken, her skin blotched red, and her eyes that sickly yellow color that comes from too many drugs.
She was not alone. Accompanying her was a skinny nervous Chicano youth with matted wild hair and the same yellow eyes. They both had backpacks strapped to their shoulders, and the weight looked as if it was just about to finish off the Chicano. Their landlady had obviously felt it best not to mention Leon’s presence, because neither of them could have faked their looks of shocked surprise.
Leon flashed his identification.
Lulu dropped her backpack, snatched his ID, and studied it intently.
“Fuckin’ pigs,” she finally muttered, throwing it back at him. “I go away—they’re hasslin’ me. I come back—same thing.” She waved her fat arms in the air, revealing a tear in her Indian batik blouse. “I’m clean, man. Search me.”
Lulu was an obvious charmer. However, the dialogue was making her friend mighty nervous, and he began backing out the door without so much as a goodbye.
“Come back, T.T.,” Lulu shrieked. “You ain’t runnin’ out on me. Whatever they want, you’re in it too.”
T.T. froze, sick yellow eyes darting around.
“I don’t want anything,” Leon said quietly. “I have something very distre
ssing to tell you.”
“Distressing.” Lulu repeated the word blankly, as if she had never heard it before.
T.T. took his cue. “Distressin’,” he mumbled.
“It’s about your sister, Joey,” Leon intoned gravely.
“What’s the little tramp done now?” demanded Lulu, vigorously scratching a denim thigh. “Got herself finished off?” She laughed wildly at her own humor.
“Exactly,” said Leon.
“Don’t fuck with me, mister,” she snapped. “Cop or not, I don’t think that’s very funny.”
“Your sister, Joey, has been murdered,” Leon said formally.
The blotched face crumpled. Her friend’s head jerked nervously.
“I’m sorry,” Leon said gently.
“Sorry!” Lulu shrieked, recovering rapidly from her grief. “You motherfucker. What you know about bein’ sorry? You pigs killed my little sister.”
T.T. said quickly, “Hold it, Lu. Remember, he’s a cop.”
“Sure,” yelled Lulu, out of control and quivering with fury. “An’ I’ll fuckin’ remember the times she got hassled by the cops. All the time, man, all the time. A blow job in the back of a squad car. A screw in an alleyway. One even dragged her back to his stinkin’ apartment when she was only fifteen years old an’ did her. Cops!” she snorted in disgust. “She had no chance—an’ you pigs never helped her. You leaned on her, man, every step of the fuckin’ way.”
Leon stared at her angry face. One even dragged her back to his stinkiri apartment when she was only fifteen years old an’ did her.
He coughed and attempted to say something, but his mind was churning. Deke Andrews. Deke Andrews. Got to catch him. Got to catch him for Joey’s sake—for my sake!
The guilt was impossible to live with.
19
Norma Jaeger was not at all as Buddy had expected. Nor was Celeste McQueen. No doubt about it, they were no longer spring chickens, but life—as the saying goes—was not yet over. And the jewelry the two of them were wearing had to be seen to be believed.
Mrs. Jaeger first. Hennaed red hair worn in a girlish friz. The face hitting fifty if you looked closely—but from a short distance, thirty-five, give or take a year or two. Subtle makeup, slightly too heavy on the amber eye shadow. Figure very well preserved indeed, clad in a powder-blue tracksuit. And around the neck a thick gold dog collar studded with several very large diamonds. A bracelet to match. And a gull’s-egg diamond ring on her left hand which could lay a burglar out for a week and a half. No trouble.
Hollywood Wives Page 20