Tonight she chose one of her favorites, a big smash in 1958. Ross at the beginning of his career—young and careless—the baby blues and the blond locks and the sleek hard body. Not an ounce of excess then. Tonight she had noticed the beginning of a gut, and the eyes were not as bright, the hair not as blond, the skin leathery from too much living.
She wondered about the rest of him and shuddered with anticipation, although she hated herself for doing so.
Soon she would have him again. And she would use him as he had used her.
And this time she would do the walking.
No phone call. No letter. No explanation.
Nothing.
Ross Conti had ruined her life, and now, finally, she wanted him to pay for it. When she finished with him he would regret the day he met her.
On the television screen Ross smiled. Mr. Irresistible.
Sadie settled back to watch the movie. She had seen it hundreds of times before.
• • •
Buddy prowled the sparsely modern living room. The throb in his arm was easing; maybe it wasn’t broken after all.
“Where’s . . . uh . . . your old man?” he asked casually, a question which had been bugging him all night.
Montana was fiddling with the combination of a wall safe concealed behind a painting, and didn’t look up.
“I mean, well, like, shouldn’t I meet him? Did he like my test? What did he say?”
She opened the safe, selected a bundle of notes from inside and began counting off hundred-dollar bills. Then she handed him a wad. “Twelve hundred dollars. That should cover your lost cash and the damage to your clothes.”
He could kiss her. Guilt overcame him all the same.
“And incidentally,” she added, “I spoke to Sadie La Salle. She said for you to stop by her office at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
His luck was getting better all the time. “Hey, that’s great.”
She reached for a cigarette on the table and lit up. “It’s nothing. Now—let’s take a look at your arm.”
“I think I just fell on it the wrong way,” he said, flexing it out in front of him.
She insisted on looking anyway, feeling for broken bones with her long, tapered fingers. “You’ll live,” she pronounced crisply.
Now he was feeling really bad. How could he possibly con money from her? He had more style than that. “Uh . . . listen,” he began apologetically. “I didn’t really have six hundred bucks in my jacket. I was just kind of . . . uh . . . joking.”
She stared at him gravely. “Do you need the money?”
He nodded.
She drew deeply on her cigarette. “Call it a loan, then. When you get your first paycheck I’ll expect it back with interest.”
“You are one terrific lady.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “But don’t tell me how great I am, because right now I feel mean and vicious and not terrific at all.” She seemed immediately sorry to have revealed herself to him—even with so few words. “Help yourself to a drink,” she said brusquely. “I’ll just go change, then I’ll drop you home.”
“You don’t have to bother. I can call a cab.”
“I promised you a ride home, and that’s what you’ll get. Anyway, I feel like driving.”
She left the room, and he looked around. The decor was comfortable and modem. The view of Hollywood spectacular. A silver-framed picture of Neil Gray stood on a coffee table. On it was inscribed, To my darling M—who taught me how to live again.
Montana breezed back into the room wearing skin-tight faded Levi’s tucked into well-worn cowboy boots and a plain white T-shirt. “Come on, star,” she said, slamming the safe shut. “Let’s get you home—I don’t want you appearing at Sadie’s tomorrow with bags under your eyes. I gave you a buildup as the best looking actor since Marlon in Streetcar.”
One thing about Montana. She certainly knew how to say the right thing.
• • •
Valium had calmed her. She knew she was taking too many, but so what? It wasn’t every day you were almost arrested, threw the hottest party in town, and threw your husband out on the same night.
Elaine nodded grimly. The bastard deserved it. If he wanted to walk a tightrope he had to be prepared to take a fall.
Come off it, Elaine. You would never have shoved him out if you thought there was a chance of his getting the movie.
Shut your fat face, Etta. You know from nothing.
I know that you’ve turned into a miserable Beverly Hills bitch. So he screwed Karen. Well, you screwed Ron, didn’t you?
It’s not the same!
Says who?
Her past and her present. She wished the past would just vanish. Why did she have to be reminded of dumpy Etta Grodinski all the time?
Ross needed you tonight.
Ross doesn’t know what the word means.
She thought she might cry. But then she thought about red swollen eyes on top of everything else and abandoned the idea.
Elaine Conti. Separated wife. What would she do? Who would she see? How would she manage?
Women’s liberation had never interested her. Woman was there to look good and play hostess. Man was there to provide.
Utter trash.
I’m entitled to my opinion.
She wandered aimlessly around the empty house, double-checked the burglar alarm, wished that she had a cat—a dog—anything.
She didn’t like being alone. Throwing Ross out had been a big mistake. He might be a son of a bitch, but at least he was her son of a bitch. Tomorrow she would get him back.
• • •
Montana felt sad as she drove Buddy down the hill. Sad for herself, even more so for Neil. She had expected so much more of him. That he had decided to risk their life together for a fling with someone like Gina . . . what a waste. Because for a while they had had something really good. . . .
How could he be so goddam stupid? Five terrific years down the drain. For what? Some big-bosomed movie queen?
For a moment she was angry. How could he do it? How could he betray her trust? But then she realized that anger wouldn’t help. He had done it. No inquests. Now the decision was whether to stay in Los Angeles until the film was made, or make it easy on everyone and get out of town.
Hey—wait a minute, why should I go? she thought furiously. Why should I abandon a movie that has taken so much out of me, and leave it in the hands of Neil, and Oliver, and George to fuck up beyond recognition?
She made her plans. First thing was to move out—Neil could have the house, she didn’t want one red cent of his money. She would take her clothes and records and books, and her car, which she had paid for anyway. There was enough money in her bank account to last until she decided what she wanted to do next. Instinctively she knew that Neil would not let her go without a fight. He would make every excuse he could think of. Poor Neil . . . she almost felt sorry for him.
Buddy’s voice intruded. “You’re going the wrong way.”
“I am?” she said vaguely. “I guess I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
He laughed. “I’m glad my presence is really felt.”
She flashed tiger eyes at him, and he thought how incredibly beautiful she was in a wild and sensual way. She was also troubled, and he had been so busy thinking about himself that he had not realized she had her problems too.
She slowed the car, looking for a place to turn.
“Uh, if you want to take a drive I’ll come along,” he ventured.
She welcomed the thought of company. Without saying anything she put her foot down—sending the small car careening around the curves and twists of Sunset. “Now’s the time I wish I had a Ferrari,” she said softly.
He nodded, taking the time to figure out what was going on. Neil Gray not at the party. Gina Germaine not at the party. A silver Maserati parked outside the blond movie star’s house. You didn’t have to be Kojak to get the picture.
He leaned forward and pressed
a tape into the cassette player. Stevie Wonder. “That Girl.” Good music all the way to the beach and the two of them wrapped in a companionable silence.
Montana thought about being free again. She would miss Neil, but how surprisingly sweet the thought of freedom was.
Buddy thought about Angel, and getting the part in the movie, and being seen by the legendary Sadie La Salle. Then his face clouded over as he remembered the man at the party—Wolfie Schweiker. And the memories he could never shake.
She drove the car far along the Pacific Coast Highway, finally pulling onto a bluff overlooking the roaring dark ocean.
“You want to take a walk?” she asked.
“Why not?”
They left the car and made their way down a slope toward the beach. The tide was high, and they stopped while she pulled off her boots and he removed his shoes and socks.
“I used to live at the beach when I first came to L.A.,” he said. “This is the best time. No one around.” He took a deep breath. “You know what I miss? The smell.”
She smiled in the darkness. “Up front you come on like stud of the year—but really you’re not like that at all, are you? You’re caring and nice, and the combination comes across on the screen. It’s a great mixture. Don’t ever lose it.”
Nobody had ever called him caring and nice in his life. And yet . . . why not?
“Hey . . .” he mumbled, not knowing what to say.
She laughed softly. “Let’s walk, Buddy.”
• • •
The gold Corniche went first in the direction of Karen’s Century City apartment, made an abrupt U-turn and came back toward Sadie La Salle’s Bel-Air house, then finally settled on the Beverly Hills Hotel—home of the stars.
Ross checked in with no difficulty, although they were, as usual, booked to capacity.
“I’m a friend of the owner’s, Mrs. Slatkin,” he informed the night clerk, lest there was trouble with his registration.
“No problem, Mr. Conti. For you there is always a room,” said the eager clerk.
Good. If Elaine wanted him out, that’s where he would stay—out. She had proved herself to him tonight. Revealed herself as an unfeeling heartless bitch. She, above all people, had known what Street People meant to him. And she should have been there for him.
• • •
Never before had Buddy felt so at ease with a woman. Subconsciously women were the enemy. You either fought, outsmarted, or conquered. But there was something different about Montana. He could actually talk to her, and talk he did, forgetting about her problems as for the first time in his life he unburdened himself. Walking along the dark seashore with the sound of the pounding surf, he found it almost easy. And once he started it was hard to stop. She seemed genuinely interested in his life story, crummy as it was.
He began by telling her about his childhood—and once he started talking about San Diego it all came pouring out. Although he didn’t tell her everything. He left out the two most important things—Tony’s murder, and the night his mother came to his room.
He told her about arriving in L.A. young and broke. His days at the beach, and Joy Byron’s acting classes. Then about his Hollywood nights, the tricks he turned, the drugs, the disappointments, and the promises that never materialized. He got as far as Hawaii, and stopped. For some reason he didn’t want to mention Angel. She was his secret. “So I came back,” he finished off. “And I heard about your movie, and . . . uh . . . here we are.”
She liked the way he called it her movie. He was about the only one who did. She knew that Neil would try to intimidate him, George Lancaster would walk all over him, and she wanted so much for him to succeed with the only chance he was likely to get.
It was almost sunrise by the time they got back to the car, and lone joggers were beginning to appear on the horizon.
She felt better having listened to his story. Listening meant not having to think about her own problems.
They sat in the car for a while silently watching the sun rise, then she said, “How’s your arm?”
“Hey—you know something? I forgot about it.” He flexed it tentatively. “Nothin’. How about that?”
“You know what I want to do,” she said huskily. “I want to make love with you—because I like you, I think you like me—and it’s something I need right now. No heavy relationships—just . . . togetherness.” She stared at him expectantly—wild tiger eyes.
He hadn’t really thought about sex with her.
It had been at the back of his mind since they left her house.
• • •
Oliver had a doctor who was expensive and discreet. One look at the unhappy couple and he summoned him instantly. For a fleeting moment it occurred to him that the paramedics would be faster. But, oh, the headlines. In that respect he and Gina thought along the same lines. On very rare occasions no press at all was the name of the game.
“I feel terrible,” she moaned. “I’m sick, Oliver. You’d better help me.”
She didn’t look sick to him. All giant tits and ass. Voluptuous women had never appealed to him. He liked them understated, neat and very very clean.
He averted his eyes from Gina’s rolling mammaries and concentrated on Neil. Now, he looked sick. His complexion was greenish and his breathing labored.
Oliver was not versed in first aid. He had no idea what to do. He certainly didn’t want to touch them—the very thought revolted him. So, while he waited for the doctor to arrive, he did what came naturally. He picked up the nearest ashtray and began to clean it.
• • •
They lay together on a water bed in an oceanside motel naked and relaxed. They had made love urgently and fast, and now it was Montana’s turn to talk. She was giving him fragments of her life. Thoughts, opinions, ideas. She never once mentioned Neil.
Later they made love a second time, slowly and leisurely like two key athletes at play.
She was long-limbed, sensual, and also aggressive, a trait which excited Buddy because he wasn’t used to it and found he liked it.
She had a marvelous body, sleek and feline, with wide shoulders, high breasts, a narrow waist, and long legs. Her skin had the sheen and texture of dark olive oil, and she was a wonderful lover. Skillfully she sought out the pressure points which really turned him on, massaging his neck, his chest, and slowly, slowly, farther down until she was enclosing his hardness in her hands and bringing her lips down to caress him with her tongue.
He put his hands into her long jet hair and held her head steady as she teased him. He wanted to come in her mouth, but he also wanted to taste her. He withdrew and changed positions, burying his head between her legs.
Their pleasure was intense, the two of them expert and caring participants in a game they both enjoyed.
For Montana it was the release she needed. Five years and just Neil. She had almost forgotten the sharp thrill of a new body.
Silently they played out the scene.
Luxuriously they approached their climaxes.
Buddy had thought he was unique in that he never made a sound. But in Montana he had found a soulmate. Just a long-drawn-out sigh as she shuddered to a halt. And as he felt her vibrations, he came too.
It was nearly four in the morning. They fell asleep in each other’s arms.
The sound of children playing on the beach woke them some hours later. Sun streamed into the room, and for a moment Buddy could not remember where he was. Then it all came back to him, and automatically he groped for his watch.
Eight forty-nine, and Sadie La Salle at eleven. Time to get moving. Lightly he touched Montana on the shoulder.
She mumbled something and stretched like a leopard.
“It’s nearly nine o’clock,” he said quickly. “And I’ve got to get back and change my clothes before I go see Sadie La Salle. Can we make it in time?”
“Wow! You’re a real romantic in the morning.”
He grinned. “Hey—what do you want from me? Business is busi
ness. I need an agent, don’t I?”
She wrapped a sheet around her nakedness and said crisply, “You’re telling me? I arranged the appointment. You use the bathroom first while I order us some coffee. Don’t worry, I’ll have you back at your apartment before ten.”
“You got it.” He hurried into the bathroom.
She picked up the bedside phone. “Two coffees. Ditto orange juice.” She felt surprisingly good; the sex had been excellent therapy. Maybe it was silly, but in a way it was as if she had evened up the score between her and Neil just a little.
She switched on the television, changed channels until the reassuring face of David Hartman greeted her. “Good morning, America,” she murmured softly. Several commercials dominated the screen. She wondered what Neil would have to say. He would lie, of course. How depressing to have to go through it with him.
“This is Angela Black with the news,” said the beautiful newscaster on the screen.
Probably a former actress, Montana decided, not really listening as Ms. Black proceeded with the news. All bad. As if there was anything different about that.
“Film director Neil Gray was rushed to the hospital early today suffering from a massive coronary attack. A spokesman for Cedars of Lebanon Hospital said that he is in intensive care and in stable condition. In New York, Senator—”
Blankly Montana clicked the set off. She could hardly think . . . Neil . . . a heart attack . . . massive coronary . . . intensive care.
Numbly she shook her head. Then, galvanized into action, she began to dress while calling out urgently for Buddy.
“What’s the matter?” He came bounding in from the bathroom dripping water.
“There’s an emergency,” she said tightly. “We’ve got to leave. Now.”
44
Ernie Thompson phoned Leon just when Millie was by his side, Instamatic camera in hand, summery dress and white sandals complementing her deep-bronze skin. They were about to set off on a bus tour around San Diego. How he longed to tell her to go without him, but she was having too good a time for him to burst her bubble.
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