The bills were piling up. She stacked them by the front door ready to send on to Ross’s business manager. Cash was running low, and she wondered what she was supposed to do about that. Not that she needed much; everything went on Visa or American Express. But Lina required cash, and it would be too embarrassing to admit to the maid that she had no money.
Oh, Ross. Why did you do it?
He didn’t. You did.
A week after Ross’s departure Ron Gordino turned up at her front door carrying a large hanging plant.
“Thought you might find a place for this,” he drawled.
Her eyes were drawn to the crotch of his jogging pants, where his maleness made an impossible lump.
“Thank you,” she murmured. He looked better during the day than at night.
He hovered on her doorstep, reluctant to leave, until finally she invited him in for a glass of iced tea. It was midday, and Lina glared suspiciously as they sat out by the pool.
“Why haven’t you . . . um . . . been in to see me?” Ron asked. “You gotta keep in shape, Elaine. The body goes . . . everything else follows. Are you taking your vitamins?”
She nodded, quite touched by his concern. At least he cared.
“There’s a rumor goin’ around that you and . . . um . . . Ross have taken the road to splitsville.”
“Who told you that?”
“It’s talk.”
“We’re just taking a breathing space.”
“You look tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you need a . . . um . . . massage.”
“Not today, Ron.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
He leaned across and lazily dug his thumbs into the base of her neck. “One tense lady,” he drawled. “You’ll get facial lines.”
She sighed wearily. “I’ve got facial lines.”
“Lie down.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
She thought of Lina inside the house. “It’s impossible.”
“No sex, Elaine,” Ron drawled. “I just want to . . . um . . . help you. You need it.”
Was she going to run her life for some Mexican maid? She did need it.
She led him into her bedroom and locked the door. Then she stripped down to her bra and panties and lay face down on the bed.
He went to work immediately—unkinking, soothing, talented fingers relaxing her body.
“Turn over,” he instructed.
“No sex,” she protested weakly.
“Wouldn’t . . . um . . . think of it, Elaine.”
He began to massage her feet, a sensation she particularly liked. Then slowly he started up her leg—the ankle, the calf, the thigh. The inside of her thigh. Firm fingers kneading, massaging. Firm fingers pulling away the crotch of her panties and entering her with an authority she did not care to fight.
Oh, Ross. Come home now, all is forgiven.
Ohhhhh . . .
• • •
For one week Ross did not screw around. The Neil Gray-Gina Germaine incident had scared the shit out of him. Yes, sure, all macho men boasted about how they wouldn’t mind going in the saddle. But the reality. Jesus H. Christ. Forget it. He couldn’t imagine anything worse. And what kind of a snatch did Gina Germaine have, anyway? A honeyed trap that no right-thinking man would ever go near again. How fortunate that he had never met her. With his schlong it would have been trouble all the way.
Getting laid, for the moment, was out. Getting Sadie became a much more important item on his agenda.
He met with her at her office. She was ruthlessly businesslike. She kept her gay assistant in the room at all times, and went over his career with an acid tongue.
“You’ve made plenty of mistakes,” she said coolly.
Tell me about ‘em.
Their meeting lasted an hour, and then she dismissed him with a brisk “I’m going to think about what we can do for you. No point in taking you on if we don’t feel we can give you our best.”
He felt like a struggling starlet. Not that starlets struggled, they merely lay back, opened their legs, and welcomed America.
Hotel life was okay. Television. Room service. Monitored calls. No one to bug you. An occasional stroll around the pool. A random lunch in the coffee shop. A predinner drink in the Polo Lounge.
He ignored Elaine’s calls, deciding to let her suffer a little. Elaine was no fool. She knew the score. Married to him she was a somebody, however much he had slipped. Without him she was a nobody. Beverly Hills law whether she liked it or not. Now, if she had a lot of money—which she didn’t—or maybe power—which she didn’t—things might have been different. All she had was him, and she wouldn’t be slow to realize it.
When Sadie didn’t call he phoned her. “Miz La Salle will get back to you as soon as possible” was the response.
Miz La Salle took her time. In fact, four days later he called again and Miz La Salle finally saw fit to come to the phone.
“Sorry, Ross,” she said in that same businesslike tone as if the night of the party had never happened. “It’s been one of those weeks.”
“I’ve left Elaine,” he announced.
She didn’t miss a beat. “I hope you have a good lawyer. Your alimony payments must be murder.”
He was annoyed by her lack of concern. “I thought you were going to call.”
“I just told you—it’s been a bitch of a week.”
“Yes, I know. But it’s important that you tell me. Are we a team again or not?”
Deliberately she paused far too long. Then she said, “I’m going to Palm Springs this weekend. Maybe you’d like to meet me there and we can discuss it.”
He was perplexed. He knew a game when he saw one—he had played enough in his time. “What about dinner tonight?” he countered.
“Love to, but I’ve got a screening.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I’m afraid it’s this weekend or nothing.” She paused, savoring the moment. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to spend the weekend with me?”
He had planned the seduction of Sadie. But on his terms. Now she was calling the shots.
“There’s nothing I’d like better,” he said, attempting to change the course of things. “In fact, I’ll pick you up and drive you there.”
“I’d love that,” she sighed wistfully. “But I have other arrangements. I’ll give you the address and why don’t you just turn up around five on Saturday.”
He accepted her terms. Once he got her into the sack things would be different.
• • •
Guilt twisted Montana. And yet she knew that she had no reason to feel guilty. She stared at Neil in his hospital bed, still in intensive care, and she wanted to scream, “It’s your own fault.” But of course she didn’t.
She passed the week in a daze, moving into a nearby room to be as close to him as possible. He lay like a stone, pale and wasted, as though the life had already drained from his body. There were tubes and drips and monitors to keep him alive. He couldn’t speak, but she sensed that he knew exactly what was going on.
The doctor—whom she had christened Mr. Gucci on account of his label mania—said he was pleased with Neil’s progress.
What progress? She wanted to get another opinion, but on checking out Mr. Gucci she found he had an excellent reputation.
Maralee was always there, blond and tearful. Montana decided that she wasn’t the bitch Neil had portrayed.
Oliver Easterne put in an occasional appearance, usually accompanied by several gofers. Speculation in the trades was rife about Street People, but Montana didn’t even bother to read them.
One day Oliver cornered her and said, “We should talk about the film.”
She couldn’t believe that he wanted to discuss business at a time like this, and she told him so.
“Don’t be naive,” he snapped. “I got commitments to fulfill. The delay is cost
ing.”
“What do you intend to do?” she asked sarcastically. “Make the movie without Neil?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “And I got a lawyer says I have every right to do so—check out the sickness clause in his contract.”
She was outraged. “You wouldn’t do it.”
“Watch me. When it comes to a buck I’ll do anything.”
• • •
Sadie La Salle issued orders. “I am arranging a photo session for you, Buddy, with one of the best photographers on the coast, and I want you to look your absolute best. So, until you hear from me, plenty of early nights and sun. Can you manage that?”
He could manage a naked flash down Sunset Boulevard if that’s what she wanted.
“Are you into drugs?” she asked crisply. “Have you ever done porno? Nude photos? Anything I should know about before we get started? I don’t want your past suddenly catching up with you—so please be truthful.”
He wasn’t truthful. Didn’t want to blow it before he had even begun. So he became Mister Clean and admitted to nothing except a few puffs of grass on occasion.
“What about family?” she asked. “Any Billy Carters in the closet?”
He thought about his mother for one bitter moment, then shook his head.
“Are you married? Divorced? Gay? Bi?”
He admitted to being very straight with no marital attachments past or present. Angel would be a surprise. A pleasant one.
They discussed Street People, his test, and the fact that Montana Gray had assured him the part was his.
“There are no sure things in this business,” Sadie said. “Learn that and remember it—however big you become.” She paused. “Of course, I’ll talk to Oliver Easterne about you immediately. Although with Neil Gray still in the hospital I expect he has other things on his mind. The film will probably be delayed, so let’s not narrow our horizons.”
“I’m in your hands.” He shrugged. “Whatever you think is best.”
“That’s a smart attitude. Try and keep it.”
He left their first meeting truly believing for once that he could make it. If Sadie La Salle saw stardom, then he hadn’t been kidding himself all those years.
First priority was finding somewhere to live. He had money in his pocket—enough at least to settle on something decent for a change. He bought The Hollywood Reporter and checked out the real estate section.
After looking at a few places he settled on a furnished apartment on Wilshire near Westwood. No dump. It was costing, but there was a fully equipped gym in the basement, a large clean rooftop pool, and maid service.
He moved in and handed the maid twenty-five bucks to go through all his clothes, wash, mend, and take to the cleaners. Twelve hundred bucks, courtesy of Montana Gray, had saved his life, and he resolved to pay it back with his first paycheck.
A car was not an immediate problem, for Montana had said he could borrow the Volkswagen until she needed it. He tried to phone her at the hospital to tell her how sorry he was to hear about her old man, but she wasn’t taking any calls. He left his new number so that she could claim her car when she was ready.
Angel, of course, was in his thoughts constantly. But maybe she would be more of a liability than an asset at this particular time, so he put her to the back of his mind for the moment. Sadie La Salle had said plenty of early nights and sun, so that’s what he did, concentrating only on the body beautiful. By the time he presented himself for the photo session he wanted to be in even more sensational shape than ever.
Sadie did not leave him hanging. She called him as soon as she had spoken to Oliver Easterne and said it was as she had thought—no decisions were being made. He felt a twinge of anxiety. Why the hell did Neil Gray have to go and have a heart attack? What kind of timing was that?
“Your photo session is arranged for tomorrow,” she continued, seemingly unconcerned about the delay. “A limo will collect you at nine o’clock in the morning. Be prepared to work hard.”
She wasn’t kidding. At nine o’clock the limo arrived, and sitting in the back was Sadie herself.
He had been concentrating on his tan and his body. He looked in peak condition—like a runner just about to start the race.
“I’m pleased with you,” she said. “You know how to take direction.”
He grinned. He could do with all the praise he could get. Then he wondered if she was going to come on to him. And hoped desperately that she wasn’t.
She would. It was always that way when someone did something for you.
The session went well. Nine solid hours with just a short break for lunch. Seven people totally concentrating on him. A hairdresser, makeup artist, clothes stylist. The photographer, with his two assistants. And Sadie.
She had her say in everything. She conferred with all of them on every setup. She knew what she wanted, and she didn’t care to quit until she felt that they had captured it.
By the end of the day he was burned out, but exhilarated all the same. If this was a taste of things to come he wanted more.
“When can I see the proofs?” he asked anxiously when Sadie dropped him off.
“Soon. I’ll call you,” she promised.
The next day he was summoned to her office. When he entered the inner sanctum she was on the phone and waved for him to sit down. He could hear a male voice shouting on the other end of the line. Sadie seemed unperturbed; she held the receiver away from her ear and listened patiently.
He glanced around the office. Framed photographs of superstars lined the walls. Where would she put his photo? Jeez! He could hardly believe all the good things that were happening for him.
“Don’t worry, George,” she said soothingly into the phone. “I’m meeting with Oliver again this evening. I’ll have a start date for you without fail.”
More yelling echoed round the office.
“Later, George,” she said firmly. “Trust me.” She hung up, reached into a silver box, and lit up a long thin cigarillo.
“Can I see my photos?” he asked expectantly.
“They’re not ready yet.”
“Oh.” He was becoming jittery. Why had she sent for him? Was it good news or bad?
She gazed at him speculatively. “Well, Buddy, Street People is definitely yours. Fifteen thousand a week on a ten-week schedule, and best of all your billing will be ‘introducing Buddy Hudson as Vinnie’ on one line. The contracts are being typed now.”
He didn’t say a word. He just sat there stunned.
“Is that all right with you?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars a week?” he managed.
“Would you prefer rubles?”
“Je . . . sus.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased. It’s nice to have one satisfied client.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Any other agent would have got you a quarter of that money,” she said bluntly. “I want you to remember that in the future.”
“I’ll never forget it,” he gulped.
“You’d be surprised how quickly you can,” she said succinctly. “Within a year we’ll be talking big bucks for your services, and that’s the time you’re likely to forget who started you off.”
She hadn’t exactly started him off—he had Montana to thank for that. But he had no reason to doubt that it was she who had gotten him the big money—and for that he would be forever grateful.
Suddenly questions were falling from his lips? “When can I get a script? Is Neil Gray directing? When do we start shooting?”
She answered briskly. “No set date yet. But soon. I have a script being messengered over. Wardrobe will be contacting you later. The PR department wants a current bio and photos—don’t mention our photo session, that’s very important—it’s nothing to do with the movie—let’s see it stays that way.” She had not yet told him of her plans to plaster him across America.
“I’m gonna be dynamite,” he said, gathering together his ego. “I won’t let anyone down.
”
“I should hope not.”
“I really ’predate the billing.”
“So you should.”
He stood up and prowled around the office wondering if now was the time to mention Angel.
No. Find her first. Start the movie. Then bring her onto the scene.
“I’m going to Palm Springs this weekend,” Sadie said casually. “I have a house down there.”
He had known it would come.
“Do you know the Springs at all?” she asked.
Why was there always a price?
“Never been,” he mumbled warily.
“I’d like you to come on Sunday. It’s only a short drive. You have a car, don’t you?”
He saw an escape route. “It’s kind of broken down on me.”
“Sounds like you need a new one. Why don’t I arrange an advance for you. I have a very good business manager who will take excellent care of you.” She jotted down a name and number and handed it to him. “Call him later today. I’ll see that he knows who you are.”
“About Palm Springs—” he began.
“It’s important that you come, Buddy. I have a surprise for you. Arrive sometime between ten and eleven on Sunday morning.”
He nodded reluctantly, and wondered how much of a star you had to be before you could quit putting out.
Oh shit. He hated the whole deal.
48
Millie had hordes of cousins in Los Angeles. She was happy to see them, and they were delighted by her presence, so when Leon said that he had to go to Barstow for the day on business, she did not object too strenuously.
He set off early in his Hertz rented car, hitting the freeway before the early-morning traffic.
Millie was enthralled by Hollywood. She loved everything—from sleazy Hollywood Boulevard with its star-imprinted sidewalks to the palm-tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills.
Leon hated the place. It was too hot and unsettled. He felt it was a town in which anything could happen and usually did.
Driving along Sunset Boulevard one afternoon they observed a teenage hooker discussing terms with the driver of a sleek silver Mercedes. The girl looked barely fourteen. A baby face and pubescent body in black leather hot pants and a cutaway top. She reminded Leon of Joey, and he looked quickly away.
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