“You know, sweetie, just nasty gossip.”
“What?” she insisted.
“That the movie Ross just finish not so good. I hear this from two or three people. Of course I no believe. This town, darling.”
Elaine almost gave a sigh of relief. So what if the movie stank? When he got Street People it would be a different story.
“Nobody’s even seen the film,” she said calmly. “It’s still being edited. Who told you this?”
“It no important, darling.”
“Hmmm . . . I know what you mean about this town. Why, I heard the same thing about Adam’s new movie. People are just so bitchy.”
Bibi was not used to being answered back. She wasn’t quite sure how to handle Elaine this morning. She certainly wasn’t her usual subservient self.
“Let me see the final list, sweetie. Then I must rush,” she said briskly.
Not to be outdone, Elaine replied, “So must I. I had to squeeze you in this morning.”
“What you give up? Your exercise class?” Bibi inquired sweetly.
French cunt. She probably knew about Ron Gordino. And in view of what she had heard on the phone that morning Elaine didn’t much care if the whole of Beverly Hills knew.
An exercise instructor, Elaine? Couldn’t you at least have picked Robert Redford?
Shut up, Etta. What’s wrong with an exercise instructor?
She handed over the final party list, and Bibi checked it through like a computer expert. It was a great list, apart from the odd name here and there Pamela London had personally requested. Elaine could see that even Bibi was impressed.
She rose before she was dismissed. “I have to rush. There’s just so much to get organized.”
Bibi rose also. “Sweetie. Tonight will be a night to remember.”
Elaine smiled vacantly. Was her erstwhile husband even now humping Karen Judas Lancaster’s horrible body?
“I hope so, Bibi. I certainly hope so.”
• • •
Gaining entry to Karen Lancaster’s high-security apartment in the area known as Century City was no mean feat. Ross could remember when Century City was Twentieth Century–Fox Studios, and a sad day it was indeed when they sold off a goodly portion of their land and the real estate developers created Century City, a sea of concrete, glass, and high-rises. He decided he wouldn’t like to be around this section of town when the earthquake struck.
“Who’re you visiting?” the female guard at the gate demanded. She wore a permanent scowl and a tough-looking uniform.
“Miss Lancaster. She’s expecting me.” He wondered if the guard recognized him. He had taken the precaution of covering the famous Conti blues with a pair of Ray Charles shades. But there was always the famous dirty-blond hair to contend with.
“What’s your name?” the guard asked with an accusing stare. Obviously she was not a fan.
“Ross—” he began, before quickly remembering he was supposed to be incognito, and that Karen had left another name at the desk which for the life of him he could not remember.
“Er . . .”
“Yes?” snapped the guard.
“Mr. Ross.”
“Okay, Mr. Ross. Please wait a minute.”
I’ve already waited more than a minute. What is this place, anyway? Attica?
The guard produced a pencil and pad and walked around to the front of the Corniche, where she took note of the license plate. Then she slowly made her way around the back of the car and did the same thing.
Ross was not a patient man. He would have driven through, but a wooden barrier blocked his entry. “Come on,” he muttered.
Deliberately moving as slowly as possible, she returned to her glass booth and dialed a number. After a long mutter on the phone she came back to the car. “Do you know which way to go?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Proceed straight ahead. Stop at courtesy parking and a valet will take you to Miz Lancaster’s apartment.”
She returned to her booth and raised the mechanical barrier. The Corniche shot through, narrowly missing an exiting Porsche.
“Ross!” screamed a blond female waving from the Porsche’s window. “See you tonight.”
He had no idea who she was, but whoever she was he would now have to think of an excuse for being there. Damn! He didn’t even feel horny anymore.
The two Mexicans stationed at valet parking were fighting in Spanish. They ignored Ross, the Comiche, the baby blues, and the dirty-blond trademark hair.
Ross alighted from the car. “This place is a frigging prison,” he screamed. “Give me some attention.”
They forgot their fight and stared at him with looks of “Who is this American clown?” Then one of them gestured to an open motorized buggy, while the other handed him a ticket and zoomed the Comiche away.
Ross indicated the buggy. “I’m supposed to get in that?”
“Sí, señor. Door-to-door service.”
“Shit!”
• • •
Elaine decided that she had to confide in somebody. Otherwise she was just going to crack with fury. Outside the gates of the Sutton estate she slowed the Mercedes and tried to decide whether she should call Maralee or just turn up at her front door. Since the country-style sidewalks of Bel-Air were hardly littered with phone booths, she decided to take a chance and go right over. There was still half an hour of grace before she had to appear at the hairdresser, where her stylist was waiting to create something sensational for the hostess of the week. That was the trouble with giving a big party in Beverly Hills—there was always someone around the corner waiting to top you. Why, only ten minutes earlier Bibi had murmured that she must throw a little soirée soon. Bibi’s “little soirées” made Oscar night seem like an evening at McDonald’s.
Make the most of it, Elaine. Hostess of the week is better than a kick in the ass.
Fuck you, Etta. What do you know anyway?
What do I know? Ha! I know that I wouldn’t sit back and let Karen Lancaster get away with screwing my husband. I’d bust her ass, and damn the party. Have you forgotten New York, Elaine? You’re a city kid, not some laid-back Californian cooze.
Three cars were parked in Maralee’s driveway. And two gardeners worked on the front lawn aimlessly hosing fallen leaves from one area to another. Elaine parked behind a silver Jaguar, alighted from her car, and rang the doorbell.
One of Maralee’s army of Mexicans opened the door a crack and stared at Elaine, the security chain firmly in place.
“Buenos días,” said Elaine pleasantly, although she didn’t feel pleasant, she felt like screaming long and loud. “Is Señora Gray up?”
“Qué, cuál?”
“Señora Gray,” Elaine repeated. “Is she up?” Why couldn’t Maralee hire Mexicans who at least spoke English?
“No.”
Before Elaine could object, the door was slammed shut. She was speechless. Maralee definitely needed a talking to about the way her help conducted themselves. The stupid woman hadn’t even asked who she was. She could have been someone important. She was someone important.
Frustrated and angry, she returned to the comfort of her pale-blue Mercedes and sat behind the wheel.
Where to now, Elaine? The hairdresser, where you get to put on a wife-of-the-star act? Or maybe Ron Gordino’s for a decent lay? Or how about confronting Karen and Ross?
Shut up, Etta. I’ll do what I want.
What did she want?
She wanted to cry.
She wanted to yell and scream.
She wanted to kick out.
She wanted never to have picked up the phone and heard her betrayal.
It was the most perfect day for a party. All around her immaculate green lawns received attention, maids walked children to school, and dogs did their duty beneath the palm trees. A police car cruised slowly by, and a Sparkletts truck stopped two houses down.
Beverly Hills.
How she loved it. When you were up it was t
he greatest.
How she hated it. When you were down it was the worst.
At the hairdresser she was unusually quiet. When she was finished she contemplated phoning Maralee, but then she thought, No, I don’t need to tell anyone. I can handle it. I’m Elaine Conti. Not big-mouthed Etta Grodinski from the Bronx.
Screw Etta Grodinski.
Screw Ross Conti.
Screw Karen Lancaster.
Calmly she reclaimed her car from the parking lot and once more sat behind the wheel contemplating her next move. She should go home, time was pressing, yet she felt so safe and secure behind the wheel of the Mercedes. It was the only place she really wanted to be.
A man in a Cadillac bleeped his horn impatiently, and she found herself heading toward Wilshire. I want to spend money, she thought. I want to spend every red cent that bastard hasn’t got.
She drew into the parking lot of Saks and entered the department store like a gladiator entering the arena. Within an hour she had charged eight thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise to be sent.
She left the store with a smile on her lips, and strolled down Wilshire to yet another large department store. Immediately she spotted an enamel bracelet she had to have. “Charge it,” she told the salesgirl imperiously.
The girl took her charge card and, since the amount was over a hundred dollars, went to the phone to check.
She returned full of apologies. “I’m so sorry, but there appears to be a problem. If you would care to go up to our credit department I’m sure that it can be settled.”
“But I want this bracelet,” Elaine announced firmly.
The girl was embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
“You will be,” said Elaine, her voice rising sharply. “Don’t you know who I am?”
The girl gazed at her blankly. She saw a passably attractive woman with an elaborate hair-do. She certainly did not see a Goldie Hawn or a Faye Dunaway. Fortunately, another customer claimed her attention, and she moved quickly away.
“Bitch!” Elaine said out loud. And then she felt sorry for calling the girl names. It wasn’t her fault. It was Ross’s fault. The bastard hadn’t paid their last account.
For a moment she was uncertain what to do. Then, quite calmly, she realized there was only one thing to do. She glanced around her. The salesgirl was busy, other shoppers were going about their business. She was unobserved, free to do anything. Quick as a flash she scooped the bracelet from the counter, where, in her haste to get away, the salesgirl had left it. Then, humming softly to herself, she walked toward the exit.
Once outside, she took a deep breath. And the adrenaline started to flow. Now she was ready to go home and look Ross in the eye without so much as a flicker to reveal she knew he was a no-good unfaithful bum.
What did she care, anyway? She was Mrs. Ross Conti, not spoiled rich bitch Karen Lancaster, whose only claim to fame was a famous daddy.
A firm hand on her arm stopped her progress along Wilshire. “Excuse me, madam,” said a tall bespectacled woman. “Would you mind returning to the store with me? The manager would like a word with you.”
• • •
Karen greeted him not clad in the red satin nightie, crotchless panties, and nippleless bra she had promised. Instead she wore a yellow track suit and a nasty scowl. She flung open the door and started to harangue him about the amount of time it had taken him to get there.
He marched inside the tribute to Architectural Digest and flung himself on a beige leather couch. “Will you shut up? It has just taken me twenty frigging minutes to get from the front entrance of this jailhouse to your front door.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she stormed. “You probably went back to sleep while I’ve been standing around waiting for you like some little groupie!”
He started to laugh. The thought of Karen Lancaster as a groupie was too absurd.
“Don’t laugh!” she yelled. “I could have had an extra hour’s sleep!”
He stretched his arms above his head and groaned loudly. “Nagging I can get at home. I came here for a fucking, not an ear bashing.”
Her scowl deepened. “I don’t feel like it now.”
He got up and headed for the door. “Take your lousy temper out on someone else. I don’t feel like it either.” He slammed the door behind him and buzzed for the elevator. Karen Lancaster in a track suit and a bad mood was not the way he wished to spend the morning. Impatiently he buzzed for the elevator again, letting forth a sneaky fart.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the apartment opposite and gave him a dirty look. She was clad in a multicolored robe, her hair full of shocking-pink curlers.
“Yaes?” she said in a European accent, staring at him suspiciously.
“Yes what?” he snapped.
“Vat are you doing in my hallvay?” she asked icily, sniffing the air with a look of disdain.
He raised his all-concealing dark shades and glared. “Your hallway?”
She glared back. “Yaes. My hallvay.”
“And Miss Lancaster’s, I presume.”
“Miss Lancaster did not give you key to the elevator. Since you do not have one, I can only say you are trespassing in my hallvay, and therefore I call security. At once.” She stepped smartly back into her apartment, slamming the door firmly behind her.
Ross did not believe it. You needed a key to get out of the place! This was tighter than San Quentin!
He hammered on Karen’s front door.
She opened it on the chain. “What?” she asked in a bored tone.
“Give me the key for the elevator. Let me out of this prison.”
“Why should I? You’ve ruined my morning.”
“I’ve ruined your morning.”
“I don’t think I like screwing a married man. Your hours don’t suit me.”
Through the crack in the door he couldn’t help noticing that she had finally come through with the nippleless bra. An erotic nipple temptingly emerged from black and red lace.
“Hmmm . . .” he said, changing his mind about leaving. “Aren’t you even going to offer me a cup of coffee?”
She licked her index finger and lasciviously brought it down to her nipple. “Maybe . . .” she said, making no move to release the chain.
He felt the return of his early-morning hard-on. “Come on, sweetheart,” he pleaded, enjoying her little game. “I’ve got something for breakfast that you are going to love!”
“Something soft?”
“Not anymore!”
“Something hot?”
“You bet your—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a baby-faced security guard nervously wielding a pistol emerged from the elevator. “Okay you,” he commanded in a high-pitched voice. “Up against the wall an’ spread ’em.”
“What?” asked an outraged Ross, drowning out Karen’s hysterical giggle.
“Don’t think I won’t use this thing,” twitched the guard. “Do as I say or I’ll shoot.”
The European woman in the pink hair curlers and the multicolored robe opened up the door of her apartment. “Yaes,” she said firmly. “That iss the intruder.”
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Ross.
“Spread ’em,” said the guard.
“What’s the matter with all of you?” said Karen, releasing her security chain and stepping out into the hallway. “Don’t any of you recognize Ross Conti when you see him?
Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at her simultaneously.
Karen Lancaster wore nothing but a nippleless bra, crotchless panties, and an amused smile.
28
It was early morning when Deke drove the van slowly into the small town of Barstow, California.
He was tired and unshaven, having driven nonstop from New Mexico. The very thought of being near his destination had sent him speeding along the arid desert roads, radio blaring, thoughts alive with the inspiring words—Keeper Of The Order.
He saw Joey often. Sitting in a passing car, her sk
irt hiked high on her thighs. Thumbing a lift roadside. Posing provocatively on billboards along the way.
He was not tempted to stop, though. Oh, no. Not tempted one little bit. He knew better. Now.
California was not how he had imagined it would be. He had expected white palaces, blue seas, wide streets lined with palm trees. Instead he found dusty sidewalks and the same old gas stations and motels. The heat was acrid. It enveloped like a blanket and tried to suffocate.
Still, he had arrived.
Barstow, California.
He took a crumpled piece of paper with an address scribbled on it from the hiding place down the side of his boot and studied it intently.
For a moment the image of the girl’s face in Amarillo danced before his eyes. “Why?” she had screamed in terror. “Why me?”
The moment of her death was ecstasy. Her screaming stopped, and her body became slack and peaceful. He had felt so close to her then, because he alone had helped her. The knife was an instrument of God sent to do His work.
Upon her death she became Joey, and he was able to relieve himself of the passion that been building in his body for so many months. The relief was glorious.
Passion. Even the President needs passion.
A broken neon sign offered coffee and doughnuts. He steered the truck into an unkempt parking lot and alighted. The diner was deserted except for a lone counterman picking his nose and studying an old copy of a girlie magazine.
“Coffee,” Deke said, taking a faded plastic seat at the counter.
The man barely raised his eyes from the magazine; he merely yelled, “Coffee,” to someone in back.
“And a doughnut,” Deke added.
“Doughnut,” yelled the man, not moving.
A line of ants had taken up residence around a grimy sugar container. Deke reached for a paper napkin and methodically squashed them.
“You ever see a naked broad with no legs?” the counterman asked, removing his finger from his nose and thrusting the open magazine across the counter.
Silently Deke regarded the pictures.
“Hot, huh?”
The girl in the pictures looked like Joey. The pictures were grossly obscene. Yes. He had done the right thing removing Joey from temptation. She was safe now. The Keeper Of The Order had performed his duty well.
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