“Did you see that?” Millie had demanded. “My oh my—little girls soliciting in the streets. Why isn’t anybody doing anything about it?”
He knew then that he could never confess about Joey. “Why didn’t you help her?” Millie would cry indignantly. He would have no reply, just his shame.
Barstow was hot and dusty. He spent the day gathering information about Winifred and Willis Andrews—who came together in holy matrimony and then faded into the woodwork. The only lead was a retired doctor Leon found from tracking an old medical record at Willis’s place of work, where nobody at all recalled him.
He phoned the doctor, who sounded old and bad-tempered.
“I don’t know if I can help you. I’ve been retired twenty years.”
“Would you have a case history on Willis Andrews?” Leon asked hopefully.
The old doctor muttered something about having a basement filled with case histories of hundreds of patients.
“Can I come and look through them?” Leon requested. A grunt gave him permission.
The doctor lived an hour out of town, and as Leon drove through the arid desert he thought to himself, What am I doing out here in the middle of nowhere? What has any of this detective crap got to do with Joey Kravetz?
It was dark by the time he found the house. He was sweating and hungry but anxious for any information—however trivial.
A washed-out-looking woman answered the door.
“Excuse the mess,” she said, bringing him into a comfortable living room. “But it’s not often we get visitors. Da,” she called out, leading him to a basement door. “That policeman’s here.”
“Send him down,” yelled the old man.
Leon descended into the basement, a damp musty room stacked to the ceiling with old furniture, cardboard boxes, and general junk. In the middle of it all sat the doctor, a gnarled nut of a man with a shock of wild silver hair and piercing gray eyes. Leon reckoned him to be a well-preserved eighty at least. He was surrounded by ancient record books and scattered papers. More than a dozen boxes spilled documents onto the cold stone floor. At a glance Leon could see that it would take at least a week to sort through. He held out his hand and introduced himself.
The doctor gave him a bonecrusher in return.
“How’re we doing?” Leon asked.
“Now that’s a good question,” replied the old man, indicating the confusion.
Leon sighed. “I don’t suppose you remember anything about Willis Andrews?”
The old man chortled. “Ah that my memory could tell me what I had for breakfast today.”
Three hours later Leon was riding the freeway back to Los Angeles with a promise from the doctor that he would telephone if he ever located the Andrews file. Not that it was important. He was chasing straws and knew it. It was four in the morning by the time he got back to the hotel. Millie slept soundly. He climbed into bed beside her. She mumbled but did not surface.
He lay awake for an hour before sleep finally came.
49
Palm Springs and the temperature hitting one hundred and three degrees.
Sadie arrived Saturday at noon with her assistant, Ferdie Cartright. Ferdie had been with her for seven and a half years. He was forty years old, nattily dressed, sharp-tongued, and extremely efficient.
The house she owned was on Sand Dunes Road in exclusive Rancho Mirage. Nothing fancy, just somewhere to get away to from time to time, or so Sadie liked to say.
Ferdie was delighted to accompany her, although she had made it quite clear that he was not to stay.
“Your house is divine,” he enthused, darting from room to room wishing he were there as an invited guest rather than just to help Sadie out setting up some surprise for Buddy Hudson. Frankly, Ferdie was somewhat taken aback by Sadie’s sudden and all-consuming interest in Mr. Hudson. Surely she liked ladies?
At her age wasn’t it rather odd to switch? In her position wasn’t it rather crass to pick a young out-of-work actor? Granted Buddy Hudson was gorgeous. But Hollywood was crammed with gorgeous.
He wondered if they had done the dirty deed yet—or if this weekend was to be the consummation. “Ferdie,” Sadie called sharply. “I appreciate the fact that you love my house, but can you please unload the car?”
He obliged. She was certainly going to a lot of trouble for Buddy Hudson. He sniffed disapprovingly, and hoped that she found him worth it. Although in his humble opinion the pretty ones were always a vast disappointment between the sheets.
• • •
Montana had always allowed Neil to take care of business. They shared a New York lawyer who was excellent at what he did, getting Neil top dollar and taking care of her interests adequately. She didn’t know him well—a few business meetings, one dinner. After her conversation with Oliver she rushed straight to the phone. He was suitably sympathetic, made all the right noises, but then said something which stunned her. “Of course, you must realize that Oliver Easterne owns the script of Street People. If Neil is unable to keep to the terms of the contract . . . well . . .”
She hung up the phone, furious. Paced around the room she was camping out in at the hospital and seethed. There had to be an answer. Oliver couldn’t be allowed to just do what he liked with her property, even if she had sold it to the jerk.
Yes. But what about total control? What about the overall deal?
There was an answer, and it occurred to her slowly. Why couldn’t she direct the film? Take over until Neil regained his health?
She shivered with anticipation. It was a far better idea than bringing in a new director, and if Oliver wanted to stick to the original schedule, she was ready. Nobody knew the property better than she did.
But could she do it?
Sure she could. It was something she’d been working toward all along. It wasn’t her fault that Neil had suffered a heart attack and presented her with this perfect opportunity. Besides, she wouldn’t be stabbing him in the back. When he recovered he would be able to just walk in and take over.
Fired with enthusiasm, she called Oliver and demanded a meeting. He agreed to lunch the next day in the Polo Lounge.
That evening Neil took a turn for the better, and she knew immediately that she had made the right decision.
• • •
Surrounded by an abundance of greenery, Elaine felt nothing but lonely. She had not realized quite how much her day-to-day existence depended on Ross. Oh, sure, she nagged and screamed at him, but he was the very center of her life—like a spoiled only child. Everything she did was in some way connected to him. Excluding Ron Gordino, of course. Whom she hated. With his hometown drawl. And sneaky fingers. And long thin cock.
She had been separated from Ross only three times during ten years of marriage. And they were enforced separations because he was on location and she had spent the entire time he was away doing things for him. Everything she did was for him—whether it was buying a new dress or having her legs waxed.
Realization hit hard. She actually loved the lazy, two-timing, thoughtless son of a bitch.
She went to her shrink and told him.
“I know, Elaine,” he said smugly. “That’s what I’ve always tried to tell you.”
The phone stopped ringing as soon as the Beverly Hills grapevine went into action. Single women were not welcome at screenings and dinners and parties, not unless they were rich and famous in their own right. Elaine, on her own, posed a threat. One of the husbands might get itchy balls—and Elaine, in her position, was hardly likely to say no.
She discovered that she had no friends. Only fair-weather acquaintances.
There was Maralee of course. Saint Maralee, as the show biz community had bitchily named her since her vigil at Neil’s bedside.
Then there was Karen.
Screw Karen and her outsize nipples. Elaine hated her with a passion. She only hoped, indeed prayed, that Ross was no longer seeing the bitch.
During the week Ron Gordino appeared at her front
door again, this time with a loaf of whole-grain bread and some farm-fresh brown eggs.
She hid in her bedroom and told Lina to say she was out.
He gazed at her blue Mercedes parked in the drive, then finally ambled off and climbed into the ridiculous jeep he drove.
She began to drink. Never before noon. But white wine at lunchtime helped, and then maybe a tiny shot of vodka to see her through the afternoon. After six o’clock, with Lina safely out of the way, she consumed more wine, a vodka or two, and several rich liqueurs before sleep saved her.
Sometimes she forgot to eat. Soon she was a wreck.
On Saturday Ross had the Corniche washed and waxed. While this was being done he settled himself on a chaise out by the hotel pool and watched the world and the tourists go by. Several acquaintances waved in his direction, but nobody bothered him.
Understandable. He wasn’t hot enough to be bothered. He wasn’t even lukewarm.
Idly he observed a blond hooker doing her number on an out-of-town schmuck dripping with sweat and gold chains.
The blond teetered past the man’s cabana several times until he could not help but notice her. She was wearing a string bikini and spindle-heeled white sandals, with every inch of her skinny body lubricated by a rich dark oil.
“Hello,” she cooed eventually. “Do you mind if I glance at your copy of Variety?”
“Get lost, girlie,” the man said, not such an out-of-town schmuck after all.
“Excuse me,” snapped the hooker, and looked around for other prospects. She spied Ross watching her and threw him a tentative smile. He turned onto his stomach and pretended not to notice.
He must have fallen asleep in the hot sun, for the next thing he knew someone was dripping cold water on his back, and the unmistakable husky tones of Karen Lancaster were saying, “You lousy bum. Walk out on your wife and I have to read about it in the trades. Charming!”
He groaned and turned over. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m having lunch with Daddy and Pamela. More to the point, what are you doing here?”
“I’m living here.”
“Nice of you to tell me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Big deal,” she pouted. “The least you could have done is call me. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we had something special going.”
“You told Elaine about us.”
“I did not,” she objected strenuously. “How can you even think that?”
“Somebody told her.”
“It wasn’t me. She called looking for you the day of your party and I just acted amazed.”
“Maybe your acting’s not so hot.”
“Why the fuss, anyway? You were all set to leave her—so don’t make her finding out about me an excuse.” She removed her mirrored shades and glared at him. “Why did you move in here when you could have come straight to me?”
He could not think of a suitable reply. Karen Lancaster had no claims on him.
He was saved by the appearance of George Lancaster, Pamela London, and assorted entourage making their way to the Lancaster cabana, where tables were set up for lunch.
“Ross!” boomed George.
“Ross!” echoed Pamela.
He should have known better. The pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel was hardly the place to come for a quiet sunbathe.
“Join us for lunch,” trilled Pamela, her angular body alive in an animal-print muumuu.
“Yes,” insisted George, resplendent in a white safari suit.
“I’d like that too,” husked Karen, replacing her mirrored shades.
It was just past twelve-thirty, and he didn’t have to be in Palm Springs until five. If he left by two it would give him more than enough time to make the drive. “Why not?” he said, getting up and putting on his shirt.
Pamela linked her arm through his. “I’m so sorry about you and Elaine,” she gushed warmly. “But these things do happen.” She laughed hoarsely. “I should know, I’ve had enough husbands!”
• • •
Saturday was always the busiest day. Koko rushed around like a madman organizing his ladies, as he liked to refer to the various females who frequented the salon. Raymondo leered and flirted as usual. Angel answered the phone, juggled appointments, phoned out for snacks, and generally orchestrated everything.
“I don’t know how I ever managed without you,” sighed Koko. “Darlene was such a witch, getting her to order a tuna sandwich was like persuading Nancy Reagan to wear off-the-rack!”
Angel smiled wanly. Since the party she had not been feeling her best. She was not sleeping properly, and every morning she felt exhausted and sick.
Koko looked at her shrewdly. “Feeling all right, dream-heart?”
Her beautiful eyes filled with tears. “I’m fine.”
“Fine!” he scoffed. “With a face on you like the end of the world.”
She dissolved in tears. “I’m just so mixed up.”
The telephone rang. A frantic woman, hair in rollers, rushed up to the desk and yelled, “Order me a taxi, I’m already ten minutes late.”
Raymondo screamed from the back of the salon, “Next bitch pleeeaze!”
Koko enveloped Angel in a comforting hug. “Your timing is off, lovely. Why don’t we save the breakdown for this evening? Dinner at my house, and we’ll play the truth game. Yes?”
“Yes,” she sobbed gratefully, realizing how much she needed to confide in someone. “I’d like that very much.”
• • •
While Ross lunched out by the pool with the Lancasters, Oliver Easterne and Montana Gray respectively picked at their food in the Polo Lounge.
Oliver toyed with an omelette. Montana took random stabs at a spinach salad. Both were busy with their own thoughts while trying to carry on a civilized conversation. Both hated the other. Both needed the other. Montana had realized it the day before. Oliver was only just beginning to accept the fact—thanks to Montana’s persuasiveness. Relentlessly she carried on about how she was the only possible choice to direct the film until Neil was well enough to take over.
At first he had laughed in her face. What did she think he was—a crazy man? But as she set forth her case, she made sense.
She knew the property better than anyone. She knew Neil’s handpicked crew better than anyone. She had cast the picture with the exception of George and Gina. (He hadn’t told her about Gina yet. He was saving that little morsel for dessert.) She had discovered Buddy Hudson—who according to Sadie was going to be hotter than shit. She had directed a movie before. True it was only a low-budget short, but she had won an award for it.
Best of all, she wanted it so much she would probably work for nothing. And of the three directors Oliver had already approached, two of them were asking for an arm and a leg—and the third his balls.
Montana’s directing the movie was not such a bad idea at all. Naturally he hadn’t told her that. He was enjoying the fact that she was actually treating him with a little respect for a change. He would like to think that she was crawling, but she wasn’t—not yet.
“I don’t know,” he stalled. “You’re inexperienced. I doubt if George would accept you. My investors would probably laugh me out the door if I even suggested you.” He played his trump card. “If you call me an asshole then I can imagine what they would call me.”
She regarded him coolly through black-tinted reading glasses. “I apologize, Oliver. Sometimes I say things I should only think.”
• • •
“What’s in Palm Springs that we should know about?” thundered George.
“It’s just business,” Ross said, excusing himself from a dull lunch.
“I bet!” muttered Karen furiously.
“The only business I ever did in Palm Springs was with a golf ball or a tootsie,” leered George.
Ross smiled politely.
“You must visit us,” Pamela said loudly. “If George’s stupid movie doesn’t start soon we�
��re going home and good riddance to lotus land. This place is an absolute bore.”
Ross felt a tingle, and it wasn’t Karen’s hand, which had been grabbing at his balls under the table throughout lunch. “When does the movie go?” he asked casually, standing up from the table.
“God knows. That peculiar Easterne man keeps on telling us yesterday. He’s muttering about having to find a suitable director.”
“When will you be back, Ross?” Karen asked tightly.
He wondered what Sadie had planned. Two days in bed, perhaps three. “Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Where are you staying?”
“My God, Karen, dear—you sound like the poor man’s wife,” trilled Pamela.
Karen glared at her, while Ross exited fast. He strode briskly toward the hotel, almost missing Oliver Easterne on his way out to the pool.
“Oliver!” he exclaimed, just in time. “How are you?”
Can’t the dumb schmuck see that I’m the only actor for his lousy movie?
“Hi, Ross. How’s it going?”
God save me from has-been movie stars in madras shorts.
“Great. Never felt better.”
Look at me, I look sensational. All I need is your frigging movie and I’m a star again.
“Good, good. See you around.”
They went their separate ways, Ross to prepare himself for Palm Springs and Sadie, Oliver to seek out his star and placate him.
• • •
Sadie dressed carefully, finally deciding that a white satin peignoir was perfectly suitable for what she had in mind.
It was a quarter to five, and she hoped that Ross would arrive on time. It was unlikely. Ross Conti had never been punctual in his life.
She peered at herself in the mirror and as usual was disappointed with what she saw. She had done her best, but nothing could change the fact that she was a plain-looking woman, although she did have lovely eyes and thick glossy hair.
She switched on the stereo, placing a record on the turntable that had always been one of Ross’s favorites. Stan Getz. Bossa Nova. Oh, the times they had danced around the room, laughing, joking, planning their future together.
Hollywood Wives Page 42