Angel glanced helplessly around. Buddy had said he would be back in twenty minutes, but an hour had passed. It was quite obvious that he no longer cared—just as Shelly had said.
Her eyes clouded over, and she realized that once and for all she must forget him and be strong. “I’m ready whenever you are,” she said resolutely.
“I don’t have to ask if you’ve had a good time,” Mrs. Liderman said happily. “I’ve been watching you, the center of attention.”
Angel smiled wanly. She was being asked to appear in a movie, and the more she said no the more they seemed to want her. Oliver Easterne had even gone so far as to bring the woman over who wrote the film. “Isn’t she Nikki?” he had insisted. And the woman had narrowed her eyes and said, “Maybe . . . if she can act.”
“But I’m not interested,” Angel had protested.
Interested or not, Oliver Easterne had insisted that she call him the next day. She had finally agreed, although she had no intention of doing so.
Mrs. Liderman said, “We won’t say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. Besides, I’m having lunch with Pamela tomorrow.”
Outside, Mrs. Liderman’s chauffeur waited by the door of her cream-colored Rolls-Royce.
Angel sank back into luxury as the car glided smoothly down the driveway.
Had she been looking out of the window she would have observed a harassed-looking Buddy paying off a cab at the curbside. He had just enough to cover the fare, although not enough to make it back to Randy’s apartment. What a night! The new movie star in town was broke. He raced back into the thick of the party anxious to find Angel. Methodically he went from room to room, checked the guest bathroom, the dancing throng, the outside tables. And he couldn’t find her. His luck that the Pontiac had picked tonight to finally expire. Fortunately after he had dropped off an uptight Frances, who had told him on her doorstep that she did not think he was right for the picture at Universal after all. “I made a mistake,” she said, expecting him to crumble.
“That’s the way it goes,” he had replied cheerfully.
She was furious. Robbed of her spiteful moment of triumph.
He searched in vain for his beautiful Angel. The least she could have done was waited. He didn’t even have an address or a phone number for her. How could he have let her get away again? What kind of a jerk was he?
And yet—she had got rid of his baby. She had done that without even speaking to him about it. She had walked on him.
He went to the bar and gulped down a Perrier water.
“Ah . . .” Karen Lancaster staggered over. “There you are—the dancer. Let’s go, killer. Let’s show ’em steps’ll make their eyes bulge!”
• • •
Montana felt foolish phoning the police. But she shut herself away in the Contis’ bedroom and phoned the Beverly Hills station anyway. They had nothing to tell her, so she tried home again—but there was no reply, just as there had been no reply for the past two hours.
Neil’s a big boy, he can look after himself, Oliver had said. Did Oliver perhaps know where he was?
She sat silently for a moment collecting her thoughts.
Yes. Oliver knew. He had to know. That’s why he wasn’t at all worried.
She sought him out.
“Okay, cut the bullshit. Where is he?”
“What is it with you? I don’t know.”
“You know. And if you don’t tell me I’ll cause one hell of a scene. You want that? Here? Tonight? In front of dear old George and your new good friend Pamela?”
“I never had you figured as the jealous wife.”
“Jealous wife. Ha! I just want to make sure that my old man’s not lying in some hospital. Then I can split from this crummy party and get some sleep.” She paused and glared at him. “I’m not like you, Oliver. I don’t have to ass-kiss my way around the room. I can go home. Now where is he?”
Oliver was suffering. His ulcer was sending out spasms of pain. His piles were pure anguish. And the scene with George Lancaster’s vulgar rich wife was an intolerable embarrassment which would haunt him for at least two days.
On top of that he couldn’t stand dealing with Montana. He had her screenplay. He no longer needed her. And why was he protecting Neil, anyway? The schmuck couldn’t even be bothered to put in an appearance at a party for the star of their movie.
“He had a meeting with Gina Germaine,” he said, savoring the moment. “Who knows? Maybe it’s still going on.”
She stared at him, tiger eyes cold as Siberia. “Thank you,” she said icily.
“My pleasure.”
“You know something, Oliver? You’re a prick. And on top of that you stink—literally.” She strode angrily away while he surreptitiously tried to check out his armpits.
Pamela London, on her way to the powder room, caught him at it.
“Well!” she exclaimed, her strident voice carrying across the room. “I’ve heard of kinky—but you are ridiculous!”
• • •
Dancing with Karen Lancaster was a kick he didn’t need. She was drunk, and stoned. And she was using him to make Ross Conti jealous. He didn’t want to be rude. After all, before Angel he would have loved meeting Karen. But now—so what? He wasn’t Randy Felix, looking to hitch up with a rich one. He was his own man—and he had made himself a promise; whether things worked out with Angel or not, he would never sell himself again. Self-respect and truth was the name of the game from now on.
Karen moved in close—her gyrations were being ignored by Ross, and she didn’t like it. “Wass your name ’gain?” she slurred, pressing her sweaty body against his white jacket.
“Buddy Hudson,” he said, pushing her gently away.
“Buddy, huh?” She fell against him, grabbing at his lapels for balance. “Wanna be my buddy, Buddy?”
This flash of humor broke her up, and while she was laughing he spotted Randy and Maralee sitting at a half-empty table talking intently. He steered her over and deposited her on a chair.
“Karen,” Maralee exclaimed, pleased by the interruption. “You look like a strong black coffee wouldn’t do you any harm.”
“The hell with coffee,” slurred Karen. “I know what I need.” She turned to Buddy. “Sit down.”
He did so, studiously avoiding Randy’s glare.
“Now . . . lemme see,” she continued. “This is Maralee . . . an’ her friend—I forgot his name . . .”
“Randy Felix,” said Maralee, toying nervously with a spoon.
“Now how could I forget a name like Randy.” She giggled. “Whattayado, sweetie-pie?”
Maralee frowned. “Karen—” she began.
“Sorry. Mustn’t ask what Randy does.” She grabbed a hovering waiter by the sleeve. “Vodka. On the rocks. Now.” Absentmindedly she did not let go of the waiter’s jacket, and Buddy painstakingly pried her fingers loose.
She looked at him gravely. “This is Bud,” she announced. “He’s a dancer.”
“Hello,” said Maralee politely.
“Nice to meet you,” said Randy coldly.
Karen looked first at Buddy, then at Randy. “Thought you two knew each other. Didn’t I see you together at Ma Maison?”
“No,” snapped Randy.
Buddy did not want any hassles. He jumped up. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I have a date here somewhere, and she’s probably looking for me.”
“Sure,” said Karen vaguely. “Better run find her. Give me a call sometime, Bud.”
“I’ll do that.”
He made his escape with a sigh of relief.
• • •
George Lancaster was getting ready to make a speech. Montana decided it was definitely time to leave. Her mind was churning. Neil with Gina. Neil screwing around.
Damn him.
Maybe it wasn’t true.
Buddy Hudson caught up with her at the door. “You going?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can I bum a ride?”
“Where’s your ca
r?”
“It died on Sunset.”
“Where do you live?”
“Just off the Strip.”
“Come on.”
He was about to follow her as she strode out the front door, when the sight of Wolfie Schweicker emerging from the guest bathroom pulled him up sharply.
Slimmer by far, hair different, but there was no mistaking those small mean eyes, that round face, the ferretlike teeth emerging from fleshy lips.
Butterball—the fat man at the party! Twelve years ago. Tony’s battered body lying on a slab in the morgue.
He shuddered, the memory too painful to contemplate.
Wolfie must have felt him staring, because he glanced over, and misjudging the intent stare for sexual interest, said, “Hello.”
“Do you want a ride or not?” Montana reappeared at the door, her voice edgy.
Buddy dragged his eyes away from Butterball. He must be mistaken. It couldn’t be the same man.
Why not?
He followed Montana outside. “Who was that guy?” he asked urgently.
“What guy?”
“The one in the hall.”
She frowned, her thoughts elsewhere. “Wolfie something—Wolfie—yes, Wolfie Schweiker. He hangs around Bibi Sutton all the time.”
“Wolfie Schweiker.” Buddy repeated the name slowly. He intended never to forget it.
• • •
George Lancaster stood up, tapped the side of his champagne glass, and boomed, “Let’s have a little quiet for the star.”
The assorted gathering obliged.
“I’m going to make a speech,” he announced.
There were a few good-natured groans and catcalls.
“Bo-ring!” Pamela cried loudly. Laughter filled the tented patio.
“Ignore the old sow,” George thundered. “I should have put her out to pasture long ago!”
More laughter.
“Seriously though, folks,” George continued, “it’s a real pleasure to see all my old friends here tonight . . . some of them a little older than I remember.” Riotous laughter. “But that’s all right—what’s a rug and a set of false teeth between friends?”
Everyone fell about.
“You’re probably all wondering what the Captain is doing back in town. Why isn’t he sitting on his ass in Palm Beach with his rich-broad wife, huh? You really want to know that, don’t you?”
“Get on with it,” shrilled Pamela, loving every minute.
“I’m making a comeback,” roared George. “You know what that is—it’s the thing Frank does once every year!”
“Right on!” someone yelled.
“I’m doing a movie for my friends Oliver Easterne and Neil Gray because Neil talked Pamela into what a swinging time she’d have here, and Oliver gave me an offer even I couldn’t refuse. Also they couldn’t get Burt . . .”
He droned on, but neither Elaine nor Ross was listening. They were exchanging shocked glances. George Lancaster doing Street People? George Lancaster, who, according to his loving daughter Karen, had turned it down months ago? And they were hosting a party for him. Spending a fortune they could ill afford—for what?
Elaine could not believe it. She wanted to just give up and crawl into bed.
Ross was even more stunned. He had known the part was his. Convinced himself that only he could truly play the role as it should be played. And with Sadie La Salle on his side . . .
He could almost taste the bitter disappointment that flooded his body.
40
The American Airlines plane was crowded, but Millie didn’t mind. It was the first time she had ever flown, and her excitement was catching.
Leon was excited too. But for other reasons.
Timing was so strange. You waited and waited for something to happen, and nothing ever did. Then you went ahead and made your plans—and bingo.
Two reports had come up on the computer. The first a double murder in Pittsburgh. A whore and her pimp slashed to death. And the second a hitchhiker in Texas, stabbed twenty-eight times.
In both cases Deke Andrews had left his mark—his fingerprints.
Leon had wanted to cancel his vacation plans and investigate the new developments. But he couldn’t do that to Millie, it would have been cruel.
A young detective by the name of Ernie Thompson was assigned to both Pittsburgh and Texas to check out the new findings. He would report in to Leon, wherever he was. It wasn’t the most satisfactory of arrangements—obviously Leon would have preferred to make the trips himself—but in the circumstances it would just have to do.
“I can hardly believe we’re on our way!” Millie squeezed his arm and kissed him on the cheek.
He responded to her affection. They were on their way, all right—they seemed to be heading in the same direction as Deke Andrews.
41
They were locked together. Gina Germaine, the second most popular blonde in America, and Neil Gray, respected and revered film director.
Gina, impaled like a fish, whimpered nonstop.
Neil merely groaned. Trapped by the object of his desire like a fly in the web of a praying mantis, he felt strangely unreal and weak. The pain that had gripped him before had subsided, but he was frightened by the intensity of it, and terrified of the situation he was now in. He was feverish and exhausted. Too tired to do anything but slump on top of Gina and wait for her to release him from her deadly female trap.
Thiou-Ling, no longer a sweet and docile Eurasian sex object, had done everything in her power to separate them—everything had included throwing cold water over their lower anatomy, wild tugs at Neil’s nether regions, and Vaseline liberally applied down there. Nothing had worked.
“Goddammit, Gina,” snapped Thiou-Ling, who had suddenly developed a fierce New York street accent. “Cut the fuckin’ hysterics an’ tell me what you want me to do.”
“Oh God,” Gina whimpered. “What have I done to deserve this?” She wriggled around uncomfortably. Neil was hardly light. She felt as if someone had jammed a cold cucumber inside of her and just left it there. She knew she would go mad if something wasn’t done soon.
“Maybe I should call the paramedics,” Thiou-Ling suggested.
“Oh, for crissakes,” Gina groaned. “We’d be the laughingstock of all time. Try some more cold water. God! Do something!”
• • •
The small Volkswagen hit the road like a rocket. When it reached Sunset and Montana crossed over to Benedict Canyon instead of going toward Hollywood, Buddy said, “Hey, uh, I think you forgot to turn.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said tonelessly. “I just want to check something out. You don’t mind, do you?”
Who was he to mind? She was the one with the wheels.
The car zoomed up Benedict, swung right to Tower Road, an even sharper right on San Ysidro Drive, and finally slowed to a stop across the street from heavy iron gates.
Montana killed the ignition, shook a cigarette from a full pack, lit up, inhaled deeply, and said, “I could do with a favor.”
He nodded obligingly. “For you—anything.”
“Look, I feel kind of stupid asking you,” she said hesitantly.
He had no idea what she wanted and hoped it was nothing sexual. She was a beautiful woman, but he had to be needed for his talent, not the action he could supply.
“What do you want me to do?”
She dragged on her cigarette and stared sightlessly out of the car window. “Get past those gates, check out the driveway and garage of that house, and see if there’s a silver Maserati parked anywhere.”
He digested her request. How was he supposed to get past the gates? Climb them? And if he did, what if the owner mistook him for a burglar (highly likely at one in the morning) and shot him? After all, it was a well-known fact that most of the residents of Beverly Hills were armed to the teeth ready for the revolution.
“Hey, listen—” he began.
“You don’t have to,” she said flatly
.
“Whose house is it, anyway?” he asked, playing for time while he thought things out.
“Gina Germaine’s.”
His luck. A movie star’s house. She probably had armed guards sleeping on her doorstep.
“I’ll do it,” he said reluctantly. After all, she had given him Vinnie; he had to give her something in return.
• • •
Oliver Easterne drove a gleaming English Bentley, vintage 1969, a very good year for Bentleys. The car was immaculate, as it should be, for when not in use it was kept under pristine cloth wraps in the four-car garage of the Bel-Air house Oliver rented—three mansions to the right of Bibi and Adam Sutton’s estate. The Bentley had been with him since birth. Straight from the factory to Oliver Easterne. An immaculate car for an immaculate man.
He reflected on his day. Pamela London had ruined it for him. And, of course, Montana. They were both too smart for their own good. If Montana and Neil broke up because of the information he had let slip—then fine. He for one would be delighted. She had her nerve talking to him the way she did. Calling him an ass-licker for all to hear. Didn’t she know that it went with the job?
You produce. You ass-lick. There wasn’t a producer in town who hadn’t licked his share.
The early part of his day hadn’t been bad. Signing Gina Germaine for Neil’s new project was a plus. He looked forward to seeing Montana’s face when she heard the news on that one.
Once home, he showered, took a thick milky liquid for his ulcer, applied Preparation H to take care of the other end. He then put on fresh silk pajamas, and a hair net over his thinning locks, and climbed into bed thinking of Angel. Her unspoiled beauty and freshness were so right for Nikki. He had to convince her to do the role, she was just so perfect.
He fell asleep still thinking of golden-haired Angel.
• • •
Buddy contemplated the heavy iron gates. They were spiked at the top, and at least ten feet high. “Shit,” he mumbled, removing his white jacket, folding it, and placing it on the ground. He studied the gates again. They were surrounded on each side by an impenetrable sixteen-foot hedge, and controlled electrically. The only way past was to climb.
He then noticed the signs, one on each side. The first read DANGER GUARD DOGS. The Second WESTEC SECURITY ARMED RESPONSE.
Hollywood Wives Page 36