“What am I doin’ here?” he muttered, visualizing the scene. Buddy Hudson gets his chance and ends up being chewed by a Great Dane—or even worse, shot.
He hurried back to the car, where Montana sat alone in the darkness.
“There’s dogs and armed guards,” he stated indignantly.
“Don’t take any notice of the signs. Everyone has them.”
Great. Thanks, Montana. It’s not your ass out here.
He returned reluctantly to the front line and gingerly began to climb the gates. Fortunately the Art Deco design made them climbable, although going over the spikes at the top was a problem and he felt his pants tear, which really pissed him. He muttered curses and made it over.
There was a steep driveway on the other side, lit by evenly spaced green lights. He sprinted up it, keeping to the side, holding his breath, hoping to Christ that he didn’t come face to face with an alert German shepherd.
• • •
It came to her in a rush that Oliver was the only person who could help. If he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, who could? The director of his movie. The star of his next production. Christ, it was his responsibility. What were producers for if not to get you out of a jam?
“Call Oliver Easterne,” she groaned to Thiou-Ling, who was now dressed and ready to make a fast exit.
“Who?” Thiou-Ling asked insolently.
“Do it!” screamed Gina. “Don’t question me!” She pushed at Neil’s heavy body, she beat on his chest, she groaned again. His breathing was labored. He had passed out, which really infuriated her. She was the one stuck underneath him. He had been no help at all slumped on top of her like a massive hulk. “Get a doctor,” he had gasped before losing consciousness. English fool. Did he honestly expect her to let a doctor see them like this? “Oliver Easterne’s number is in my book on the desk—try it—please. Hand me the phone when you get him. I think I’m going to die!”
“Save it for the screen, sister,” muttered Thiou-Ling.
“What?” gasped Gina.
“Forget it,” said Thiou-Ling, locating Oliver’s number. “I hope this dude is home, because I have to split.”
“You have to what?” gasped Gina, outraged. “You’re in this with me all the way, you Chinese cunt.”
“I am not Chinese, I am Asian.” Thiou-Ling smiled inscrutably, and knew for a fact that the moment Oliver Easterne arrived she would leave. This kind of thing had a way of being bad for business, and with Thiou-Ling business always came first.
• • •
The phone shattered his pleasant dreams.
“Oliver!” gasped a hysterical Gina Germaine. “I need you! Come quickly!”
Oliver Easterne dressed hurriedly, putting on a dark-blue cashmere sweater, jeans with perfect creases, and Italian loafers. His hair was a little mussy though—he needed time for that.
Gina Germaine’s hysterical phone call had unnerved him. Calls in the middle of the night were especially ominous, and this one would inevitably be no different from the rest. He drove quickly through the deserted Beverly Hills streets, gulping Maalox as he went, cursing and wondering what now.
• • •
The Spanish-style house at the end of the driveway was set in a square courtyard, and lights blazed from almost every window. Buddy didn’t have to go searching for the silver Maserati, it was parked right outside the front door for all to see. Keeping to the shadows, he prepared to retreat.
One day he would own a house with guard dogs and an armed security guard. One day. Soon. Although he would make sure his dogs were on the loose ready to grab any poor slob who came climbing over his gates.
He skirted down the driveway, feeling for the damage in his pants—a ten-inch tear at least. He mouthed a few more curses.
The whir of the electric gates opening startled the hell out of him, and he stood stock-still. Then the headlights of a car traveling full speed came roaring down the drive. Just in time he flung himself into the bushes, landing on his right arm, which sent out messages of serious agony. He groaned. The ground was wet from the constant attention of sprinklers, and he was rolling in mud.
He heard a dog bark and froze.
• • •
A petite gentle Asian girl answered the front door.
Oliver liked Orientals; they knew their place. “Oliver Easterne,” he said respectfully. “Ms. Germaine called me.”
“Where the fuck you been?” the not so gentle Asian girl said rudely. “Follow me.”
Put out by this greeting, he trailed her upstairs to the bedroom. There the sight that met him was startling, to say the least. Gina Germaine—American sex symbol supreme—spread-eagled like a beached great white. And lolling on top of her, his naked hairy ass on display, was Neil Gray.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Oliver. “You got me out of bed just to watch you two fuck? I’ve seen it before, you know—only with a better class of actor.”
“You prick!” screeched Gina, summoning all her strength. “Do something, goddammit! You’re the producer around here.”
42
“I’m looking for a woman,” Deke said tonelessly.
The plump female in the purple sweater and short black skirt, a small child straddling her hip, laughed and said, “Ain’t everyone?”
She stood in the doorway of her run-down house and waited expectantly for him to say something else.
“Mrs. Carrolle,” he said, fumbling for his piece of paper, although he knew what was written on it only too well. “C-AR-R-O-L-L-E,” he repeated slowly, spelling it out.
The woman shook her head vaguely. “Dunno.” The child’s nose started to run, and she wiped it absentmindedly with the back of her hand. “Dunno,” she said again.
“Who is it?” came a masculine voice, and a short squat man joined her at the door. “Yes?” he barked. “What do you want?”
Deke blocked the door with his foot. “Who lived here before you?” he asked coldly.
Something about his eyes—so blank and steely—stopped the man from objecting. “Some old witch.”
“Was her name Carrolle?”
“I don’t know.” He tried to push the door closed, but Deke’s foot held firm.
The woman said in a loud whisper, “What’s he want? Why don’t he go away?”
“How can I find out who lived here before?” Deke asked, his black eyes burning with frustration.
“I guess y’could try the bum we lease this place from,” the man said, anxious to get Deke out of his doorway. “He’ll be able to tell ya. We don’t know nuttin’.”
“Naw,” the woman agreed. “We keep ourselves private.”
The man went inside and returned with a scribbled name and address on a torn-off piece of newspaper. “Y’kin tell the money-grabber he’s been promisin’ us a new roof for five years.”
Deke took the paper, removed his foot from the door, and set off down the street without another word.
“Fuckin’ weirdo,” snapped the man, slamming his front door.
Deke walked quickly, staring straight ahead. Paper. Bits of paper. And all leading somewhere . . .
• • •
They sat side by side in a neighborhood bar, Deke sipping plain Coca-Cola, while Joey downed three rum and Cokes in a row.
“It’s gettin’ late,” she said. “What time didja tell your folks we’d be there?”
“Anytime,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Ain’t they all ’cited ’bout meetin’ me?”
“Sure they are,” he said dully, remembering his mother’s words. She had stared at him as if sensing that this one was different. “Bring her home if you must,” she had said.
“Should we come for dinner?” he had ventured.
“After dinner. I’m not cooking for some cheap tramp that I don’t even know.”
“She’s not a cheap tramp,” he had protested.
His mother had smiled thinly. “If you picked her she’s a t
ramp.”
“Let’s go,” whined Joey. “I’m tellin’ ya, cowboy, one more drink an’ I’m gonna puke all over ’em.”
Deke looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty. “I don’t feel well,” he mumbled.
“Don’tcha go tryin’ t’back out again. This is it.”
“I wasn’t trying to back out,” he said indignantly.
“Sure,” she muttered.
He took a deep breath. “We’ll go now. Are you ready?”
From her purse she whipped out a grubby tin mirror and stared at her face. Then she foraged for a lipstick and applied even more. “Wanna look nice for your ma,” she explained. “Women notice things like makeup an’ stuff. Didja tell her I was a model like I said?”
“I forgot.”
“Aw, shee . . . it. She would’ve thought that was real classy. Sometimes you’re so stupid.”
He gripped her wrist tightly. “Don’t say that.”
She pulled free. “Okay, okay. You know I din’t mean it.” Her voice became babyish. “Gimme a smile, cowboy. I’m your little girlie.” Playfully she tweaked his ear. “Girlie luvs big boy lots.”
He relaxed.
She was relieved. Didn’t want another delay in getting to Mom and Dad. She knew they would like her once they met her; it would all be so easy if they did. She needed to belong somewhere. Eighteen years old and burned out. She had been on the streets since she was thirteen, and it hadn’t been easy, but she had made out. She had hoped things would work out with the cop. He was the first man who treated her kindly, and she would have done anything for him. But when she phoned him to give him one last chance he had pretended not to know who she was and hung up. Pig!
Leon, the cop. Like all the rest in the end.
Then along came Deke, and she knew he was a screwball from the beginning. But she handled him carefully, quickly learning what knobs to push to make him work for her.
The possibility of family life thrilled her. Mrs. Deke Andrews with a mommy and daddy—his mommy and daddy, but they would grow to love her just like she was their own.
She sighed. Deke was better than nothing. Not bad-looking, if he would only cut his spooky shoulder-length hair. His mother hated his hair, she had learned that much. Together they would make him cut it off. When they were married she would do a lot of things.
“Okey-doke, cowboy.” She winked cheerily. “This little girl is ready.”
• • •
He could not remember such heat. It was desert heat—all-encompassing, suffocating.
He visited a barber shop and requested that they shave his scalp.
“You want I should take it all off?” asked the old man who owned the place.
Deke nodded.
“You got an infection? They got lotions take care of that.”
“Can you shave my head or not?”
“What are you? One of them religious persons?”
He nodded. It seemed the easiest way.
He liked his shaven scalp when it was done. It looked clean and fine. It looked like a beginning. Very fitting for The Keeper Of The Order.
He got directions for the new address. It was a one-story office building on a quiet street. A secretary sat alone in reception nibbling on a carrot strip. Propped up on her desk was a copy of Us magazine, which she read intently. “Everyone’s out to lunch,” she told him, returning to an article on Tom Selleck.
Deke said, “Maybe you can help me.”
Without looking up she said, “Sorry. I’m only a temp.”
“You know where the files are, don’t you? I want the file on Nita Carrolle. I need her new address.”
She glanced up briefly, didn’t like the look of him. “Whyn’t you come back in an hour?”
He had no time to waste. “Are you alone here?” he asked.
She was alone, but she had no intention of telling this geek that. “No, I’m not. So why don’t you just go?”
He moved swiftly, knocking the magazine to the floor, pinioning her arms behind her.
“Show me the filing systems and I won’t hurt you.” His voice was a lethal whisper.
She began to shake. He was a crazy; she should have known it immediately just from the look of him. “You baldheaded bastard,” she hissed, still shaking but determined not to break. “I’ve been raped once and I’m not letting it happen again.” Her voice rose. “You touch me and I’ll kill you—you damned bastard.”
He was surprised at her reaction, but also strangely pleased.
He hadn’t intended to do anything to her, but the message she put out was so strong and clear. She was asking for it.
Damnation.
Bastard.
Rape.
His knife was in his hand before he knew it. Her throat was so ready. After all, he was The Keeper Of The Order. There were certain things he had to do.
43
The last guests departed at five past two precisely. Ross’s grin stayed in place until the front door shut behind them, and then he marched through the empty rooms to the bar, where he sat morosely amid the debris, nursing a double scotch and waiting for Elaine to come and beg his forgiveness and offer her condolences.
He waited twenty minutes, and when she didn’t show he sought her out, and found her in his dressing room furiously throwing clothes into an open suitcase.
For a moment he stood watching, filled with confusion. Then the reality hit him and he roared, “What the fuck are you doing?” Although it was quite obvious that she was preparing to throw him out.
“I . . . have . . . had . . . enough . . . Ross,” she said tightly, her face contorted with fury. “How . . . dare . . . you. How . . . dare . . . yow. With . . . my . . . best . . . friend. You son of a bitch cheat.”
He had learned—at an early age—to deny everything.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said, trying to sound outraged.
“Don’t give me that,” she spat, throwing silk shirts in on top of hand-lasted shoes. “Save your acting for the movies.”
He had learned—at an early age—that the best form of defense was offense.
“You can talk. What about you and that overgrown surfer?”
She paused mid-throw, on an Yves Saint Laurent sweater. “Don’t you dare accuse me of anything. I have been a wonderful wife to you. An asset—as if you ever appreciated it.” She threw the sweater in his face and blazed, “Karen Lancaster indeed. I thought you had more taste.”
He blew it. “How could you think that? I married you, didn’t I?”
She slammed the suitcase shut, thrust it at him. “Get out,” she hissed.
He wasn’t thinking rationally; otherwise he would never have gone.
“Out!” she repeated.
“Don’t worry, I’m going. I’ve had just about all I can take of your friggin’ nagging.”
She escorted him to the door. “Tomorrow I am phoning Marvin Mitchelson,” she announced grandly. “By the time I am finished with you the only milk you’ll be able to afford is from Karen Lancaster’s tits!”
“Get fucked, you moaning bitch. At least she doesn’t steal it!”
“Out!” she screamed, and suddenly he was standing in his own driveway at two-thirty in the morning with nowhere to go.
By the time Buddy picked himself up and sprinted for the gates they were closed. In the distance he could still hear a dog barking, but the noise wasn’t coming his way, which was a relief. That’s all he needed, some mad dog at his throat.
His arm throbbed painfully from the fall. Maybe it was broken. Who could he sue? Certainly not Gina Germaine.
Another thought. Could he play Vinnie with a broken arm?
Even more important. Could he get over the gates with a broken arm? He made an attempt, but failed dismally, managing only to rip his silk shirt.
“Montana,” he called urgently into the darkness.
She hurried across the street. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’ve hurt my a
rm. I don’t think I can make it back over.”
They stared at each other through the heavy gates.
“You’d better try,” she said at last. “We can’t hang around here much longer. Patrol cars cruise this area all the time.”
“Thanks,” he said bitterly.
“Come on,” she coaxed. “You’re in good shape. Scale it with one arm and throw yourself over.”
Since there seemed to be no other way, he did as she suggested, landing on the cement with a thud and a grunt of pain. Two dogs began to bark in the house next door.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, hurrying over to the Volkswagen.
By the time he followed she had already started the little car and was raring to go. He hurled himself into the passenger seat and they took off.
Neither of them spoke for a minute, then she asked in a matter-of-fact voice, “Was the Maserati there?”
“Yeah—it was there. Hey, listen, I’m not kiddin’, I think I broke my arm.” He paused, expecting words of sympathy, but she was silent. “Goddammit!” he exclaimed. “I left my jacket on the ground outside. We’ll have to go back.”
“I’m not going back.”
“C’mon, it’s my best jacket. It’s Armani. Besides, all my money’s in the pocket.”
“I’ll buy you a new jacket, and refund your money. How much?”
A dollar fifty. He was straightening out, but need was need, and he could always pay her back when he was flush. “Six hundred dollars,” he said, being careful to strike a balance between too much and too little.
Abruptly she stopped the Volkswagen just as they were about to hit Sunset. Oh no, she’s going back, he thought.
She spun the car around and headed up Benedict again, making a sharp right on Lexington.
“I’m taking you to my house,” she said decisively. “I can look at your arm and give you some money. All right?”
Who was he to object?
• • •
Sadie La Salle had a little ritual at bedtime. First she took a long scented bath. It relaxed her. Then she selected one of the many Sony Betamax videotapes that she kept neatly lined up on a shelf. She put the tape into her video, switched on the television, and went to sleep every night with an old Ross Conti movie playing.
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