He grabbed her arm. “Don’t be a silly girl. It’s not necessary. It’s—”
With venom she shook his hand away. Anger that had been building all night exploded. “Don’t silly girl me, Buddy Hudson. Just who do you think you are speaking to? A Barbie Doll?”
He was surprised by her outburst. “Hey, baby—what’s all this?”
Her eyes flashed dangerously. “What is all what? Little Angel answering back? Little Angel showing feelings?” She threw the cloth angrily on the floor. “I’m a person. I’m your wife. And I want to know exactly what is going on, because if you don’t care to tell me, I am packing up and getting out of here. You understand? Be truthful with me, Buddy, or I promise you, you’ll never see me again.”
22
Lulu Kravetz did not even want to know where her sister was buried. Once she was informed of the murder and heard the details, she clammed up.
“I never knew no Deke Andrews,” she muttered. “An’ if you’re so sure it’s him, how come you don’t catch the scumbag?”
Logical enough. A simple statement. Why didn’t they catch him?
Leon mumbled something about they were working on it, and Lulu threw him a look that needed no words.
“So, since you’re not here to arrest me, or roust me for dope—can you split out of my life?” Restlessly she threw herself on top of the unmade bed and closed her eyes. “I’m tired, man. I’ve been travelin’ for fuckin’ ever.”
He stared at the fat girl for a long silent moment. Did the murder of her sister mean that little to her?
Joey Kravetz. Nobody cared. Not one single person. Except maybe him.
• • •
Relief was his first reaction. She had departed from his life without a murmur, and now he would not have to face her. He boiled water for a cup of coffee, and sat reflectively at the kitchen table. Should never have let her into his apartment in the first place. At his age he should have known better. She could have tried to blackmail him, screamed rape, anything.
He shuddered at his own stupidity, drained his coffee cup, and hurried to dress. It wasn’t until he picked up his wallet that he realized his money was missing. Every last bill. He wasn’t sure how much, but it was certainly more than three hundred dollars. Little Miss Kravetz had played him for a real sucker. She was probably still laughing.
He felt like the world’s biggest fool. And then anger took over, and he thought about finding her and getting his money back. Just who exactly did she think she was ripping off?
His intentions were solid, but after a few days of cruising around streets where he thought she might hang out, a murder case came in, and his energies were otherwise engaged. Weeks turned into months, and the vision of the teenage hooker with three hundred plus of his hard-earned money faded. He had learned a valuable lesson, that was enough. Now all he wanted to do was forget the whole incident. Which he did. Until one night in Mackie’s Bar, a cop hangout. He was there with several of his colleagues. They had cracked a big one. Arrested a forty-six-year-old man who had raped and murdered seven women over a two-year period. The man had confessed after months of being their prime suspect. Celebrations were in full swing. Even Leon—not known for his partying—was feeling no pain.
He saw her before she glimpsed him. Who could miss the orange hair and squiffy eye? She was draped all over a young rookie, giggling and sticking her tongue in his bright-pink ear.
Did she know she was in a cop’s bar? Did she even care?
He waited until she went into the ladies’ room, a solitary door in back, reached by walking along a dark deserted passageway. Ladies were not encouraged to frequent Mackie’s. Only the cop groupies survived.
Leon followed, waited until she emerged, then grabbed her and pinned her against the graffiti-scarred wall, his breath heavy with too much alcohol. “Remember me?”
“Oh. You,” she said cheerily, not at all surprised. “How ya doin’, cowboy?”
He wished he was sober and clear-headed. Drink had fogged his mind, even his tongue. “You owe me money,” he slurred.
“Are you sure?” she asked, blinking quickly while working out the best escape route.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he replied indignantly. “Over three hundred bucks.”
“I think ya got the wrong girl, mister. Like I never hafta rip off anyone’s bread. I make it legit, y’know what 1 mean?” She grinned at him cheekily. “For ten bucks I’ll jerk ÿ off here. I just figured, in your apartment it’s gotta cost ya more.”
His thoughts were tight, but his mouth didn’t follow through. “Listen, you—” he began slowly.
She ducked under his arms and was away. “Fair’s fair,” she called out. “Doncha think?”
By the time he got back to his friends she was gone.
He spent the rest of the evening trying to sober up, but two hours later when he got home he was still in a bad way.
He must have slept for several hours before the need to relieve himself woke him. He felt like the bottom of a garbage can, and vowed immediately to give up drink forever. He staggered to his feet, trying to ignore the shooting pains which attacked the back of his head like a thousand tiny needles. Then he saw her, curled on his couch, fast asleep, as comfortable and contented as a resident cat. Joey Kravetz.
For a moment he stared, too surprised to utter a word. Then he let out a sudden roar of rage—which did his head no good whatsoever. “What are you doing here?”
She awoke quickly, rubbed her eyes, grinned. “Glad t’ see you’re still alive.”
“What are you doing in my apartment?” he yelled. “How did you get in?”
Like a cat she licked the tip of her index finger and cleaned under her eyes where shadow and mascara had mingled to give her the look of a forlorn clown. “You left the key in the door—some big-time cop!”
His voice was quiet now. “What do you want?”
She jumped off the couch, ridiculous in a fake-leather white mini and high boots. “You’ll never believe this, but I got me an attack of the guilts. You know—rippin’ you off like I did when you was kind enough t’ give me a place t’ sleep an’ all.” She peered at him intently. “I got feelin’s, y’know, just like anyone else. An’ I got to thinkin’—”
“After you saw me.”
“Yeah. I got t’ thinkin’ that even for a cop you’re not so bad, an’ like I should maybe say I’m sorry, an’ pay ya back a few bucks.” She fumbled in a tattered purse and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, which she solemnly handed him.
He stared at the money while his head throbbed and his eyes ached.
“You don’t look so good,” she ventured. “How about gettin’ into bed an’ discussin’ this in the mornin’?”
“You’re really full of it,” he snapped.
She looked pained. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
He made a disgusted face and marched into the bathroom.
Why was this run-down teenage hooker invading his life? What did she want from him?
He drank several glasses of tap water, and emerged to find that she had returned to her original place on his couch and appeared to be asleep again. It was four-fifteen in the morning, and he didn’t have the strength or the heart to throw her out. Instead he double-locked the front door, then took his keys, wallet, and gun to bed with him. He considered locking his bedroom door, but didn’t.
Wearily he stripped off his clothes and climbed naked into bed. Deep down he knew that she would come to him. She was a kid, a hooker, a little nothing. Yet he knew that she would come—and worse, he wanted her to.
• • •
Mackie’s was crowded. It was at least a year since he’d been in. Nothing had changed.
He ordered a scotch and stood at the bar alone. Millie would be wondering what had happened to him. For once, let her wonder.
He downed the first shot and signaled for another. It was going to be a long hot weekend.
23
Thursday morning. At the studio. Washed and brush
ed. Nervous as an Arab in an Israeli bazaar. But looking good.
He gave his name to the guard on the gate and drove onto the lot like a star, even if he was only driving his old Pontiac.
His stomach felt queasy. He had forced hot coffee and a piece of burned toast between his lips, then thrown up, dry empty heaves.
He had been a wreck ever since calling Inga, Tuesday afternoon, and getting a short sharp blast. “Where have you been, Buddy Hudson? I have better things to do with my time than destroy my nails punching out a number that never answers.”
“What’s up?” he had asked, adrenaline flooding his body because he knew what was up without her telling him.
“Your test. If you’re still interested, that is. I never heard of a serious actor without an answering service.”
“When?”
“Thursday.”
“Ohmigod!”
Now here he was. About to test for the chance of a lifetime. Jeez! No wonder he was nervous.
Buddy Hudson, this is your life. Can you hack it or can you not?
He parked his car, checked into reception, and was shown to a dressing room adjacent to Stage Three by a butch-looking girl in jeans, a Dodgers baseball jacket, and sneakers.
“Do you know where the makeup room is?” she asked him.
He wasn’t about to admit that he didn’t. Cool. Stay cool. Don’t let anyone glimpse the nerves. “Sure. Unless they’ve moved it.”
“Same place. Ground floor, you can’t miss it. Be there in fifteen minutes. Wardrobe’ll come by to check you out.”
“What time will I be . . . uh . . . what time’s my . . . uh . . . test?”
“I guess they’ll want you on the set ’bout eleven. If you’re lucky they’ll have you out of here before lunch. The break’s at one.”
Two hours. Was that all it would take? He had imagined a day of close-ups and long shots. Shit! They were probably only shooting one setup.
“See you later,” the girl said, and left.
He had wanted to question her, find out about the other actors testing. Too late now to do anything except sweat it out.
He stared at his reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Lookin’ good. Lookin’ good. Lookin’ just the way a movie star should. No thanks to Angel. His dear sweet wife. His dear sweet departed wife. The love of his life had split. Gone. Run off. Just like that.
True he had dragged her away from the beach house and back to Hollywood without so much as an explanation. But what was there to explain? “Hey, Angel, babe, I was supposed to screw these two old lesbo broads, only I couldn’t get it up—didn’t want to get it up—on account of the fact that I love you. You see, Jason Swankle’s a fag, an’ he’s after my body. So he hired me to keep these two ladies happy, and also to keep me in his life. That’s why the beach house, the clothes, the chauffeured car.”
How could a girl like Angel ever understand a scene like that? She just wasn’t into the trash and flash of life, and he didn’t want her to be. Her innocence was one of the reasons he felt so strongly about her. There was no way he ever intended to tell her about his past. So, he had made a decision to keep her in the dark. It was the only way.
Somehow his decision had misfired. She wanted truth. He gave her lies. He had underestimated her anger. Placated her first outburst, soothed her with lies and kisses, and then collapsed out by the pool. By the time he felt human it was too late to start finding accommodations. “Just one more night at Shell’s, babe,” he pleaded. “I’ll get everything together tomorrow. Promise.”
She had gazed at him with those big eyes. Gazed at him long and hard. Only by that time he was into lighting up a little grass and getting high high high—because, goddammit, since Sunday his mother was back to haunt him with a vengeance, and getting stoned seemed like some kind of an answer.
On Tuesday he slept late. It was almost three when he opened his eyes. Randy was gone, and the small apartment was hot and stuffy. At least grass didn’t give you a hangover; in fact it left you feeling quite mellow.
He knew that Angel was not going to be delighted with him, so he took his time showering and shaving. Then decided to check in with Inga, just in case. When he heard about the test he moved like a rocket. Couldn’t wait to tell Angel. Only there was no one in at Shelly’s, and he found himself pacing the sidewalk until five, when she returned home alone.
“Where’s Angel?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. She was here when I came in last night, gone when I got up this morning.”
He knew at once she had walked. Even before he looked in the trunk of his car and found her suitcase not there. So here he was, ready to test, the most important day of his life. And where was Angel just when he needed her most?
• • •
“Why weren’t you at Bibi’s lunch, Karen?” Elaine asked, trying to avert her eyes from Ron Gordino’s bunch-up—quite impressive in a Rudolf Nureyev way.
“I was laid up,” Karen gasped, stretching her left leg to its limit.
“What did you have?” puffed Elaine, desperately trying to emulate the leg movement, but unable to complete the exercise.
“Some bug. I felt dreadful.”
“You look fine, now.”
“I’m known for my speedy recovery.”
“Need a little help here, Elaine?” Ron Gordino was bending to assist her, grabbing her ankle and wheedling the stretch out of her. He smelled of sweat and Brut after-shave.
“Ahhh . . .’ she gasped, enjoying the touch of his strong firm hands as they traveled from her ankle to her calf.
“Feel good?” he asked solicitously.
She nodded, flattered to be singled out for his personal attention. It was the first time it had happened to her, although she had often seen him bend to Bibi or Karen and always to the celebrities.
“Your muscles are real tight,” he drawled. “Tense. Are you tense, Elaine?”
“No.” She laughed nervously. “Why on earth should I be tense?”
His hair was like dirty straw, long and coarse. She noticed a few stray hairs sprouting from his ears and wondered why he didn’t do something about them.
His fingers dug into her calf muscles, causing her to wriggle uncomfortably. “Come into my office after class. You need a massage.”
“I do?”
“Yup.” He raised his sinewy frame and ambled off.
“I think you just scored,” whispered Karen, hardly able to keep the amusement out of her voice.
“Not exactly my type,” replied Elaine crossly.
“Force yourself, darling. He’s supposed to be an amazing lay.”
“I thought he was gay.”
“Bi.”
“How do you know?”
“Never ask me to reveal my source.”
The rest of the class passed quickly, and before she knew it, Elaine found herself lying face down on a massage table in Ron Gordino’s office. His probing hands started at the base of her neck and worked their way down. She had experienced massages before, many times, but the way Ron Gordino operated was different. He sought out and found—with absolutely no trouble at all—every tight muscle in her body. His hands were so soothing that she nearly fell asleep under their touch. When he was finished he tapped her lightly on the ass. “Better?” he drawled.
“Umm, yes.”
“Good. Next time I’ll do it with oils. You’ll love that.”
She stood up and stretched. “I feel so light, it’s marvelous.”
He grinned. My, what big teeth you have, she thought.
“Understand you’re having a party, Elaine.”
“Yes. For George Lancaster.”
“Nice.”
“I hope so. I think that’s one of the reasons I’m so tense.” “Could be. Pressure situation. You want to come by for a proper massage tomorrow?”
“What a good idea.” She wondered how much a personal massage with Ron Gordino cost. Probably a disgusting amount. Something else for Ross to complain abo
ut.
“Sure it is. We’ll get you all lightened up in time for your party. In perfect shape.”
“Shall I settle with your receptionist or can it be added to my bill?”
He was affronted. “I’m not going to charge you. Just invite me to your party and we’ll call it quits.”
So that was it. He was not after her body—just her party. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. At least it proved that her party was the hottest ticket in town! And that meant a lot more than any laid-back exercise instructor trying to get her in the sack.
“I’ll put you on my list, Ron. You can count on that.”
“Thank you, Elaine.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Oh, it was good to be hot again. So very very good.
• • •
Surprisingly enough, Gina Germaine was not nearly as bad as Neil had thought she would be. Certainly no Fonda, but passable—if one ignored the monstrous bosom, which in spite of copious wrapping refused to lie down.
Viewing the test alone in the screening room, he was quite pleased. At least it proved he was not totally mad. Now he could show it to Montana and Oliver without embarrassment. Gina Germaine was not Nikki, but he had brought something out in her, a quality unseen before now.
He sat quietly in the screening room as the lights came up. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have Gina in the movie he planned to do after Street People. He had bought a property over two years previously, and two young writers were working on it. With a few changes here and there it could be just the vehicle to launch a new Gina Germaine on an unsuspecting public.
Of course, the woman was a blackmailing bitch, and he was furious about the way she had behaved to get herself tested. But if he put her in the new movie he would have her in his power, and that should provide ample opportunity for getting his own back.
Childish but satisfying. He liked the idea.
• • •
Angel had absolutely no intention of returning to Louisville. How could she possibly go back a failure, and pregnant as well?
When she crept from Shelly’s apartment early in the morning she had no idea where she would go or what she would do. She only knew she had to get away from Buddy for a while, let him see that she meant business. He needed to be taught a lesson. Day by day it was becoming increasingly obvious that he was interested only in himself. He said he loved her. But if he loved her how could he treat her in such a casual way?
Hollywood Wives Page 24