Little was speechless. You don’t go up to a man to blackmail him and have him offer to autograph the envelope with the blackmail pictures inside.
“You don’t understand,” he stuttered. “I have photographs.”
“Oh, you want me to sign the photos,” said Ross easily. He had always believed in being nice to his fans. Treat ’em good and they’ll never stop flocking to your movies.
They stopped years ago, putz.
“Photographs you wouldn’t want published,” Little continued rapidly before this big-time movie star could confuse him further. “Or your wife to see, or your mother, or your daughter, or your granddaughter.”
Granddaughter! Ross was incensed. How old did this scurvy prick think he was, anyway?
“My mother is deceased. I do not have a daughter. I certainly do not have a granddaughter—so why don’t you take whatever you have in that envelope and stick it up your ass.” Ross spoke with dignity, then headed abruptly for his car, parked in a red zone.
Little hurried after him. “How would you—in bed with Karen Lancaster—look on the cover of the National Enquirer?” he asked, twitching nervously.
For one brief moment Ross’s stride faltered, but then he thought, Come on, what am I worried about? Who could possibly have photos of me and Karen?
Little S. Schortz fumbled in his envelope and produced an eight-by-ten black-and-white glossy of Karen and Ross in bed together.
Little S. Schortz had the goods.
“How much?” Ross asked wearily.
• • •
Karen entered the Polo Lounge with confidence, waved to Nino, the maître d’, and headed for the table George Lancaster always had when he was in town.
To her disappointment he was not yet there, so she sat herself down, ordered a Bloody Mary, then took an exquisite Fabergé compact from her purse and admired her chiseled features. Fortunately she had inherited her father’s looks and his spirit—which she was pleased about, because to her way of thinking her mother had been a weak woman, too weak by far to handle a daughter like Karen, or a husband like George, which was probably the reason he had sought out other women so consistently during the course of his marriage. When her mother died, Karen got to spend a lot of time with George. For a dizzy six months they were inseparable. Then some ice-blond starlet stepped into the picture and blew everything. George, like a fool, married her. It lasted only months and cost him plenty. In the meantime Karen married the first man she could—a real estate broker who had just sold her a house. Her marriage broke up two days after George’s. But instead of moving back together as Karen had hoped, George went off to Palm Beach with some friends, met Pamela London, and as soon as his divorce was final, married her. Their wedding was the social event of the year. Karen got stoned and gave head to her date under a table. Two months later she married a spaced-out composer who spooned so much coke his nose gave way. When she realized George didn’t care who she was married to, she got a divorce, and since that time had been a single lady living alone in Beverly Hills. A single lady with a huge trust fund, a great apartment, a terrific house at the beach, three cars, four furs, and anything else her little heart desired.
George Lancaster made a rowdy entrance. People came to attention as he passed their tables, conversations stopped, flunkeys jumped to their feet and paid homage.
Karen stood as he approached. She wished she was a little girl again and could leap into his arms. Instead she settled for a quick hug.
“How’s my girlie?” he boomed.
“You look wonderful, Da—um—George. Honestly, you look really great.”
“Naw . . . I’m gettin’ old.”
“Come on. You—never.”
He grinned boyishly. “Me and Reagan, kiddo. We’re holdin’ up pretty good for two old broncos.”
“Better not let him hear you say that.”
“Who, Ronnie? He wouldn’t mind.”
“I love you, Daddy,” she said, all of a sudden the little girl she wished she still was.
“Cut out the ‘Daddy,’ will ya? You know I can’t stand it.”
She took a hurried gulp of her Bloody Mary, then brightly asked, “How’s Pamela?”
“For an old broad she’s not bad.” He laughed loudly. “Did you hear the one about the Eskimo and the ice cubes?”
For fifteen minutes he told jokes, stopping only to josh with assorted staff and patrons who stopped by the table in a steady stream.
Karen munched her way through a delicious Neil McCarthy salad, downed two more Bloody Marys, wondered why the hell Elaine Conti had phoned her looking for Ross, and listened patiently to all of George’s sexist jokes.
He didn’t like women. Even Karen had to admit that.
Finally, he imparted the news of his commitment to Street People.
Karen had heard rumors—but she had dismissed them as just that. After all, how many times had George told her that there was no way he would ever do another film?
Her reactions were mixed. It would be glorious having George back in town. But what about Ross? He wanted Street People. He needed it.
“Oh, shit,” she mumbled under her breath.
“What?” boomed George.
“Nothing, Da—George. I was just wondering if you’re sure it’s the right part for you.”
“What’s right? I don’t become the role, the role becomes me. That’s the secret of being a star in this town, and don’t you ever forget it.”
• • •
By late afternoon, Angel was exhausted. All she wanted to do was go home and collapse. The salon had been a madhouse all day, and everybody’s temper was frayed. The phone on the desk rang for about the hundredth time. Wearily she picked it up. “Koko’s. Can I help you?”
“Angel, dear?” gushed Mrs. Liderman.
“Yes.”
“I’m so glad I caught you. You’ll never guess what. Frowie came home, and it’s all thanks to you, dear. You and your positive vibes.”
“I only said—”
“It doesn’t matter what you said,” interrupted Mrs. Liderman. “You sent out positive thought waves, and that was enough to persuade my baby to come home to me. I’m so grateful.”
“What is going on?” hissed Koko.
Angel covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Mrs. L’s dog came home, and she seems to think I had something to do with it.”
“Good. Maybe she’ll give you five hundred dollars.”
As if on cue Mrs. Liderman said, “I have to reward you.” And Angel said, “Don’t be silly.”
And Mrs. Liderman said, “I’m sending my car to collect you. I’m taking you to a party tonight. You’ll have a marvelous time. It’s a very special party being thrown for my dear friend Pamela London.”
Koko, who was now listening in, nodded enthusiastically, while Angel said, “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Liderman, but I don’t think I can go.”
Koko snatched the phone from her grasp. “Mrs. Liderman,” he cooed, “Angel would love to go. Could your driver pick her up at her apartment? I’ll give you the address.”
Angel shook her head helplessly while Koko arranged her life, and when he hung up she said, “I’m not going. There is no way I’m going.”
“Dreamheart!” he exclaimed. “Trust me. You have to go, no doubt about it. You simply have to learn that in life we do not always do what we want to do. Sometimes fate pushes us in other directions, and fate has said that tonight you will go to the ball.”
“What ball?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of Cinderella? Oh, God! Must I teach you everything!”
• • •
It was four o’clock in the afternoon. Elaine was calm. Her thoughts were clear and concise. After fourteen phone calls she had failed to locate Ross, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that she would be arrested.
She stared dreamily off into space.
Headlines.
WIFE OF STAR ARRESTED IN SHOPLIFTING BUST.
BEVERLY HILLS BABE BACK TO THE BRONX.
GEORGE LANCASTER SAYS, “ELAINE WHO?”
Well, everyone would have a big laugh at her expense. She would be forced to leave town. The disgrace, the humiliation, the embarrassment.
Where was Ross Conti?
Where was the biggest lying, cheating shitheel in the world?
30
Leon Rosemont’s investigation of the Andrews family yielded very little. There appeared to be no living relatives, and of the two witnesses listed on their marriage certificate, one was untraceable and the other dead. It occurred to him that the only way he was going to find out any more about them was to go to Barstow and dig around. Millie had said she wanted to vacation in California. Somehow he didn’t think she had Barstow in mind; however, he could always make a side trip on a day when she was busy.
On impulse he went out, purchased two plane tickets to California, and presented them to her with a flourish.
“We’re going to take a month off,” he said. “The time is due me, and I figured we should do it properly. We’ll hire a car and just drive around.”
“San Francisco?” she asked, her eyes gleaming.
He nodded.
“The Napa Valley? Arizona? Hollywood?”
He nodded again.
She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Honey,” she crooned, “you are somethin’ else.”
A week before they were due to leave he handed her four hundred dollars and told her to go buy some vacation clothes. She rushed off to the shopping mall as happy as if he had given her four thousand.
While she was gone he took the opportunity to secrete the Andrews file at the bottom of his suitcase. It wasn’t strictly legal, but he had photocopied all the official documents, including the pictures.
There were fifteen still shots taken that morning in Friendship Street.
Fifteen photos of . . . murder.
31
At approximately four-fifteen Ross Conti strode angrily through the front door of his house. Chaos reigned. Strange people were everywhere.
“What in the hell is going on here?” he roared at Lina, who stood weeping in the kitchen doorway.
“Señor Conti,” she sobbed. “Is impossible. I no take it. I quit.”
She clung to his arm, and he shook her off while demanding, “Where is Mrs. Conti?”
A wild-haired youth in tight jeans and a Hell’s Angels studded jacket intervened. “Hey-hey, man, you the boss man around here? I gotta get me more power—my amps just gonna blow I don’t get me more juice.”
A middle-aged woman in a flowered pantsuit thrust herself forward. “Mr. Conti. Please. Your wife assured me that she had twenty matching vases which I need desperately if the flower arrangements are to be ready in time.”
A courtly Italian carrying a violin case inquired in pained tones, “Is our room ready? The Zancussi Trio always has a room.”
“Christ!” exclaimed Ross. “Lina, where is my wife?”
Lina wiped her tears on the corner of her apron. “She no come back. She leave everything to me. I quit.” She marched into the kitchen, where her two friends stood in a huddle by the back door.
Ross followed her, the wild-haired youth following him, the woman in the flowered pantsuit and the pained Italian trailing behind.
Already in residence in the kitchen were two gays preparing vegetables at the sink, two bartenders emptying out boxes of liquor, another sad-eyed Italian, this one with an accordion, and a blond teeny-bopper in shorts and a cut-off top, Sony headphones clamped firmly to her ears.
Ross pursued Lina to the door, wondering bitterly if Little S. Schortz had shafted him, and already shown the pictures to Elaine. What else would explain her not being home on the day of their party?
“Did Mrs. Conti phone? Leave a message? Anything?” he asked desperately.
“She phone five times,” Lina said sourly. “But she no come home.”
“Hey-hey, man. About my power?” singsonged the wild-haired youth.
“And my vases?” shrilled the pantsuited woman.
“And a room for the Zancussi Trio?” sighed the melancholy Italian, determined not to be left out.
“Fuck off!” Ross screamed, losing control.
“Hey-hey, man, back down,” said the youth, holding up a steadying hand.
“Really!” huffed the woman.
“Mama mia! Americanos!” The Italian shook his head sadly.
At that point the phone rang. Ross picked it up. “Yes?” he yelled, and then listened in disgusted silence. A few moments later he slammed the phone down and without so much as a glance at any of the assorted injustice collectors stalked out of the house.
• • •
Oliver Easterne combed his sparse sandy hair first this way and then the other, but no amount of primping could conceal the fact that he was most definitely going bald. He had recently showered, but the effort of trying to organize his hair had caused patches of sweat to form under his arms.
The phone began to ring, but he did not bother to grab for it as he usually did. Let the staff get it. They could do something for the thousand bucks he shelled out every week.
Should he take another shower?
It might screw up his hair.
He could put on a hair net.
A sharp spasm across his stomach made him wince with pain. Bleeding ulcers, as if having thinning hair was not enough. And on top of everything else—hemorrhoids. At least they weren’t bleeding. But they soon might be if he had any more aggravation with Street People.
Neil Gray was a pain in the neck—but then what director wasn’t?
Montana Gray was a pain in the neck—but then what writer wasn’t?
George Lancaster was a pain in the neck—but then what actor wasn’t?
Oliver hated talent. But Oliver needed talent. Because all he was capable of doing was The Deal.
As a producer he was a legend in his own lifetime. Not as a great producer, but as a sensational dealmaker. Oh, the deals he had made! The scams he had pulled! The flops he had put up there on the silver screen!
Not that flops affected Oliver. Before the movie was even in production he had stashed away what he considered was rightfully his. The budget on an Oliver Easterne film always had that little extra bit—or a large bit—depending on which schmucks were putting up the money. And if the original budget didn’t suit, well, getting out two budgets wasn’t against the law—not if you weren’t caught it wasn’t. And Oliver Easterne knew every trick there was to know.
He sniffed cautiously under one arm, and decided another shower was definitely going to be necessary.
On with the hairnet, off with the bathrobe.
Tonight, at the Contis’ party, he would kiss ass. He would brown-nose his way from room to room. Montana, Neil, George, they would all feel the warmth of his insincerity. And he would enjoy doing it, because he knew who would eventually be top of the heap. Once the movie was made, it was his—and he could tell them all to go fuck themselves.
Total control for Neil and Montana my ass, he thought. They could whistle for it. He had tricks Houdini never knew!
Now, if he could only track down the girl from the beach, make her a star, sign her to a personal contract.
He spotted a dirty mark on the mirrored wall. Diligently he began to rub at it with a Kleenex. His stomach twinged again. Being a movie mogul was not all laughs.
• • •
They were in Angel’s clean and neat tiny apartment.
“I have nothing to wear,” she said stubbornly.
“Something simple,” Koko mused, rifling through her closet. “Simple yet tasteful. Every bitch in town will be done up like Zsa Zsa at Christmas. I want you to stand out like a single rose at a bar mitzvah.”
“What’s a bar mitzvah?”
He shot her a disbelieving look. “Sometimes you go too far.” Then he pulled a black ruffled skirt off a hanger, held it against her, and said, “Hmmmm, I like. What c
an we find to go with it?”
She shook her head. “Koko . . . please . . . I don’t even know Mrs. Liderman.”
“Dreamheart, don’t expect to spend the evening with her. Every stud in Hollywood will take one look at you and—”
Angel was not conceited, yet she knew the effect she had on men. “That’s just it,” she wailed, “they’ll all be coming on to me with their phony lines. I’m married, Koko, I—”
Now it was his turn to interrupt. “I never pry, Angel, dear. But I do know that married or not your husband has done something to you that has hurt you a great deal. You just want to shut yourself away and be miserable. Well, being miserable never helped anyone. I’m not telling you to go out and jump into bed with every would-be Warren Beatty who approaches you. All I’m saying is get out and enjoy the attention. You’ll feel much better for it.”
She wondered how he knew so much. In just a few words he had managed to sum up her situation exactly. And he was probably right. Getting out would be good for her. After all, it wasn’t every day she got invited to a big Hollywood party.
“I’ll go,” she said softly.
He was busy inspecting her blouses. “What?” he asked vaguely.
“I said I’ll go,” she repeated firmly.
A pleased smile spread across his aquiline features. “Of course you will, dreamheart. There was never any doubt.”
• • •
Buddy had the apartment to himself while he prepared for the party. It was a bummer—having to escort Frances Cavendish. On the other hand it was a definite plus to be going at all.
He didn’t know what to wear. Frances Cavendish’s remark about his clothes had pissed him off no end. What did she know, anyway? She’d probably never even heard of Armani. And wearing Armani was chic—any fool knew that.
He wondered if Montana Gray would be there, and if she was, how he should come on. “Hey—uh—listen, if I don’t hear by Monday I’m gonna have to sign for a movie over at Universal.” Sounded good to him.
Hollywood Wives Page 31