Conversations with Shelly had not helped. “You gotta understand a guy like Buddy, Angel-face. Basically he’s a loner. Doesn’t need anything or anyone. Gets off on just being himself.”
Advice from a girl like Shelly she could do without.
“I’m having a baby,” Angel informed her stiffly. “So he’ll just have to learn to be a family man.”
Shelly had snorted with laughter. “Buddy? A family man? Angel-face, you are so way off track it’s a joke. You’d better get yourself an abortion—and quick.”
Angel did not appreciate Shelly’s unwelcome advice. She huddled in the chair that night and brooded about what to do. Then at seven-thirty in the morning she collected her suitcase from the car and trudged resolutely up the hill toward Sunset. Fifty-two dollars was all the money she had, but unlike Buddy, she had no fear of taking an ordinary job.
After a while she passed a hairdressing salon with a card in the window advertising for a receptionist. There was a coffee shop nearby, and she decided to wait until the salon opened and try for the job. She bought a couple of movie magazines, settled herself at a corner table, and for two hours absorbed herself in stories of the stars.
At ten o’clock she put away the magazine, paid her check, and retraced her steps to the salon.
A wild redhead with black-ringed eyes and teased hair informed her the owner never appeared before twelve.
“Can I wait?” Angel asked.
Penciled eyebrows shot up. “You wanna wait two hours?”
“If that’s all right.”
“Take a seat, it’s your time.”
Angel did just that, leafing through various magazines and observing her surroundings. The entire place was white, with lots of plants. Loud rock music blared out of carefully placed speakers, and the hair stylists wore a unisex uniform of tight white jeans and tropical T-shirts.
Everything was quiet until eleven-thirty, when a stream of clients began to arrive. Women and men. Angel reflected that back in Louisville, men and women would not be caught dead in the same hairdressing establishment.
Around twelve-thirty an extremely tall, exceptionally thin man in his late thirties appeared. He wore a checked shirt, faded pink boiler suit, and white tennis shoes. His hair was a rich halo of Shirley Temple yellow curls which surrounded an aquiline face. “Morning, darlings!” he sang out to all and sundry. “Everyone happy?”
A plump woman, emerging from the dressing room in a fern-print robe, threw her arms around him and squealed with joy. “Koko! That boy you gave me last week is a genius. He made me look positively Candy Bergen!”
“Of course he did, dreamheart. That’s what we’re here for—to please. That’s what we’re all here for. Isn’t that right, Darlene?”
Darlene, the panda-eyed receptionist, did not crack a smile. She jabbed a three-inch scarlet-lacquered nail in Angel’s direction. “She’s been here since we opened. It’s about the job. Give it to her, for God’s sake, because I’m warning you, Koko—I am not taking any more shit from Raymondo. Understand?”
Koko removed himself from the plump woman’s grasp and scowled. “I know your stance on this matter, Darlene. Not now, please.” He turned to Angel and gave her a sweeping glance. “Well now, aren’t we a pretty one. Just come along with me, dear, and let’s talk experience.”
All she had to offer was a year’s work in a small Louisville salon, but it was enough. Koko was obviously just as anxious for Darlene to leave as she was herself.
“I don’t suppose you could start today?” he asked hopefully.
“I have to find an apartment,” Angel said.
“One room, cheap, close by?”
“Why, yes.”
“Your lucky day, dreamheart. I know of just the place. Darlene!” he screamed, his piercing voice rising above a raunchy James Brown.
“What?” she screamed back from her position behind the front desk.
“Such a lady!” tsked Koko. “What a definite joy to see her go!”
“About that apartment . . .” Angel began tentatively.
“Ah, yes. One of my girls got married last week—poor fool. She wants to sublet her place.”
“Where is it?”
“On Fountain. Are you interested?”
Within an hour she had viewed the apartment and taken it, talked Koko into giving her an advance on her salary, and started work.
Darlene gathered together her bits and pieces, shoved them in an army surplus bag, and departed the world of hairdressing with a pitying snort in Angel’s direction.
“Lovely girl!” sang Koko. “Never got along with a soul.”
Angel wasn’t really listening. She was marveling at the fact that in such a short period of time she had found a job, money, and an apartment. It just proved it could be done.
So why hadn’t Buddy done it?
She wondered if he was missing her yet. Her decision was not to contact him for at least a week. By that time he might just be ready to talk truth, and if he was—then they could start getting their lives back together. Not before. Angel had made up her mind.
• • •
Ross decided a workout was not going to kill him. Elaine’s nagging on about his gut was beginning to have some effect. He had always been in great shape, never had to worry about a thing. Maybe now he was getting just a touch heavy around the middle.
So what? After all, I’m nearly fifty for crissake. Can’t stay frigging perfect forever.
Besides, at his age they should want him for his acting ability, not his pristine pectorals.
Age. Fifty. Coming up fast. Racing toward him like an outof-control groupie.
He thought about his life as he drove the Corniche along Santa Monica to the private health club he had once attended regularly. That had been in the days when he couldn’t afford an inch of surplus flesh anywhere. The days when he had really been on top. King of the whole frigging heap. And willing to work at it.
A bitter smile twisted his lips. Where had all the gofers gone? The yes-men. His asshole buddies.
Oh, yeah. When he was king they were his best friends. The real estate moguls, bankers, rich men who handed out hospitality like peanut-butter cups because they wanted to be friends with a star. When the star faded so did the friendships. No more offers of private jets to fly him wherever he wanted to go, or parties in his honor. No more yachts and houses and islands to borrow whenever he wished. No more hot rich wives begging for his body. Or fanatic fans driving him crazy.
Fuck ’em. Ross Conti had learned a thing or two about people and the way they used each other. When he hit the magic circle again they could all go take a flying fart, unless he wanted otherwise, unless he cared to use them. If the party was a success, if he got back with Sadie, if Street People became his.
The traffic on Santa Monica was heavy, and the stares were hitting him from all sides as he drove his Comiche slowly along the street. He was still a famous face in a city of famous faces—thanks to television, which ran his old movies at least once a week. But what good was famous without the perks? Without the money to go along with it? Fuck ’em all.
He pulled up at a red light and considered the action on the street. Santa Monica had been taken over by the gay community. There were gay discos, open-pavement cafés, clothing stores, all catering more or less exclusively to gays. Personally Ross had never had any inclination in that direction; he had always been too fond of women. He thought of Karen and grinned. An oiled and muscled youth lounging by a bus stop took a tentative step toward the car. “You going my way, mister?” he singsonged through the open passenger window, one hand already reaching for the door.
Ross’s grin turned quickly to a scowl. “No, I’m not!” he snapped. “And get away from my car.”
“Don’t get excited.” The boy stepped back. “If I’m not your style then that’s cool.”
That’s cool, is it? Angrily Ross gunned the car away from the light. Did he look like a closet cruiser? A fine thing—getting
hustled by a hustler in broad daylight. Didn’t the stupid kid know who he was?
He made a sharp left turn and pulled into the parking lot. What he needed was some vigorous activity. The only vigorous activity he got nowadays was screwing Karen Lancaster. His face brightened again. Some broad! Maybe her talent was inherited. Old George had always had quite a reputation with the ladies. Like father, like daughter.
His grin firmly restored, Ross entered the health club.
• • •
“Cut!” Montana said sharply, turning to the first assistant. “Let’s take a ten-minute break. I want a little rap with Buddy.”
She had already spoken to him six times. There had been six takes. He wasn’t getting any better—in fact he was getting worse. But he was the best of the bunch. He had the look, and that’s what really mattered. Where would Nicholson be without the sneer? Eastwood without the ice-cool stare? It was the look, and then came the acting ability. She could bring it out in him, she knew she could. She approached him warily. He was nervously muttering lines under his breath.
“Hey,” she murmured softly. “You’re not listening to me, are you? You’re not taking in one single word I say.”
“I sure am,” he answered, wishing he were somewhere else.
“Just loosen up,” she crooned softly. “It’s a very simple piece of action if you relax, slow down, and take your time.”
“I can’t get the words right. I can’t—”
“Forget the words,” she soothed. “I want you to give me the essence of the man. Just go real easy and give me Vinnie.”
He was shocked. “Forget the words? You’ve got to be puttin’ me on. I was up all night. I know every bit of dialogue. I mean I really know it.”
So why do you keep on blowing it? she wanted to ask. But she didn’t, she put her arm around his shoulder and led him away from the set. “Buddy,” she said softly, “I know you can do this scene. I wouldn’t have asked you to test if I weren’t sure you could do it.”
“Yeah?” He relaxed slightly.
“I don’t need to waste your time, or mine. You’re good. I can sense it. You’re very good if you forget about the lines and just let yourself become Vinnie. If the words go, no big deal. Just stay in character and say anything you want. Don’t blow the take. Let’s get something in the can other than you saying, ‘Oh, shit’!”
He nodded sheepishly. Buddy Hudson gets his chance and “Oh, shits” himself out of a job!
“I know what you want,” he assured her, taking a deep breath. “Believe me, I got it now, really, you’ll see.”
She smiled encouragingly and fixed him with her tiger eyes. “We’ll do another take, and this time you’re going to be dynamite. Right?”
He licked dry lips and nodded. “Bet on it, lady.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek before striding back behind the camera.
A makeup girl darted forward and powdered him down. “Good luck,” she whispered.
A little luck in his life was just what he needed.
“You ready, Buddy?” Montana asked.
He nodded, bile rising in his throat, tenseness knotting his stomach.
“Remember. You are Vinnie. Okay. Action!”
Action. Walk into the scene from off camera. Glance in a mirror—instinctively he ruffled his hair. Phone cue. Pick up. Words. What were the fucking words? He wasn’t going to screw up again, was he?
The first line came out all right. Pause. Light a cigarette. What comes next? Couldn’t remember. Took her advice. Said his own words, made up the fucking dialogue, pretended he had Angel on the line and was sweet-talking her the way it used to be.
All of a sudden he forgot about the camera, the crew, blowing it. He made out as if he were at home, confident, charming, good old Buddy Boy.
Montana watched him intently. He was doing it at last. The lines went out the window and he was ad-libbing like a professional. The magnetism was coming off him in waves. Christ! If the qualities he projected translated themselves onto film, he had it made.
“Cut!” she said jubilantly.
He almost didn’t stop, he was so into it.
“That’s a print,” she said, walking over to him. “Thank you, Buddy. You were great.”
“I was?”
“Exactly as I said you would be.”
“Hey!” His confidence was returning. “I’m just gettin’ started. How about once more?”
She shook her head. “Two more actors waiting their turn, and no more time. You wouldn’t want them to miss their chance, would you?”
He grinned, full of adrenaline. “Why not?”
She smiled, and for a second they locked eyes, then she pulled her tinted reading glasses down from her hair and, very businesslike, extended her hand for a firm shake. “You came through and I couldn’t be happier. Goodbye, Buddy, and good luck.”
Goodbye! Was she out of her mind? “Hey—” he gulped. “When will I know?”
“We’ll be in touch with your agent.”
He didn’t have an agent, but it wouldn’t look good to admit that sad fact. He’d just have to keep in constant touch with Inga.
“Yeah,” he said lamely. “Like when?”
“When we decide,” she said firmly, conversation over. She turned and walked away humming to herself. She felt almost as high as he did. The charge of working with an actor and having it pan out was an incredible kick. She couldn’t wait to see his test on screen and find out if she was right.
No wonder Neil became so immersed when he was shooting a movie. It was all in the director’s hands—he or she created the magic. Oh, the satisfaction!
Buddy watched her retreat. It was fine for her, she had it made. But what about him?
The makeup girl approached. “That last take was sensational,” she enthused. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you got the part. You knocked me out.”
Now that was the kind of talk he liked to hear. Confidence flooded his veins. “What makes you think that?” he asked.
“I just got a feeling.”
“You saw the other tests?”
“Only one so far, and he wasn’t you.”
“You bet he wasn’t, but tell me about him anyway.” He took her by the arm. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
No harm in finding out about the competition. No harm at all.
24
How alike the outskirts of each city seemed. Huge giant freeways spewing off exits where squatted identical gas stations, motels, coffee shops.
To keep driving was all that mattered to Deke. Ohio, Indiana, Missouri, Oklahoma slipped by almost unnoticed. The road became a mesmerizing force, beckoning him on, leading him mile by mile to his final destination.
Joey had led him on.
Joey had laughed at him.
He saw her often.
Bitch.
She was dead.
It was her own fault.
• • •
“I wanna meet your family, an’ make plans. I’m sick of bein’ shoved around.” She stared at him balefully. “You hear what I’m sayin’?”
He heard her clearly. She had been saying the same thing for weeks now, and he had been countering with a variety of feeble excuses.
“Ya think I’m not good ’nuff to meet them. Is that it? ’Cause if it is, y’can take your freakin’ ring an’ shove it where the sun don’t shine.” She pulled the cheap garnet ring from her finger and flung it at him. “I’m gonna meet ’em this week or we’re through, buster.”
He wanted to marry her. He hadn’t changed his mind. But wouldn’t it be better if they snuck off and did it? And then he could take her home, and they would be forced to accept her.
He made this suggestion to her, but she would not hear of it. She wanted everything “nice an’ proper” as she had put it. “Just like normal folks.” She had even gone so far as to buy a copy of Brides magazine and cut out a picture of a wedding dress.
“Don’t they want to meet me?” sh
e demanded sullenly. “Aren’t they anxious to meet the girl their precious son is gonna marry?”
He did not dare to tell her that he had never so much as mentioned her name to them. They would never approve of any girl he brought home. And they especially would not approve of Joey with her flashy clothes, heavy makeup, and spiky orange hair.
“Next week,” he promised lamely. He did love her. She satisfied his flesh, if that was what love was about.
“You’d better mean it,” she snarled like a wild alley cat.
He meant it. But why did the thought of introducing her to his parents create such a throbbing in his head? Why was he so afraid of them?
Memories came flooding back.
He was six years old and playing mud pies with a friend. His mother appeared, face of darkness, voice an uncontrolled screech. “You filthy, dirty boy! Those clothes were fresh on today. Get inside at once.”
She beat him until the sweat stood out in tiny beads all over her face, and blood ran down the back of his legs. His father said nothing.
That was the first time, but there were many more occasions, and always for some minor infraction like food uneaten, or a washcloth left on the bathroom floor. When he was sixteen the beatings ceased as unexpectedly as they had begun. Instead, she tongue-lashed him. A stream of verbal abuse more devastating than the physical damage.
He grew to believe her destroying words. After all, she was his mother, as she never tired of telling him. She had given birth to him. Painfully. “You nearly killed me,” she often cried. “I nearly died bringing you into the world.” Guilt hung heavy. He had nearly killed his mother, and that’s why she punished him, and that’s why he had to accept it. She told him he was weak, dirty, useless, a parasite, a fool. What girl would ever look at him? What employer would ever give him work?
Yet she was full of contradictions. When he brought a girl home she wasn’t good enough for him. When he got a job it was never the right job.
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