He followed her into the small apartment. Randy was sprawled naked and asleep across the bed. The place was more of a dump than usual—clothes and records everywhere, empty wine bottles, half-eaten pizzas, and on a table next to the bed a spilled bottle of Quaaludes, a syringe and needle, and a tin box containing a small amount of cocaine.
Buddy took the scene in at a glance. “I see you two found each other,” he said restlessly.
“Why not?” countered Shelly, yawning and running her hands through her tangled hair. “Beats sleepin’ alone.” She picked up a pair of jeans and swiped them at Randy’s inert body. “Wake up, we got us a visit from Bud.”
Randy mumbled, “Piss off.”
“We had a heavy night,” she explained, gesturing vaguely toward the drug paraphernalia. “In fact, we’ve had a heavy week. Don’t time fly when you’re havin’ fun. Wanna blow?”
Buddy shook his head. Had he really been a part of this? No wonder Angel had run off.
“Look,” he said quickly. “I just stopped by to pay you both the money I borrowed.” He reached for his bankroll.
“Whatcha do? Hold up Safeways? Randy! Wake up. Bud’s here. An’ he’s got money.”
Randy sat up abruptly, wild-eyed. “Goddammit. Don’t ever yell like that again. I hate it.”
Buddy felt claustrophobic. The whole scene was getting him down. He really didn’t want to hang around.
“Where did you score?” Randy demanded. He looked as if he was falling apart. Wild glassy eyes in a white drawn face.
“What’s going on with you?” Buddy asked, indicating the syringe. “Since when did you go that route?”
“Aw, cut out the phony concern. Just give us the bucks an’ get outta here.”
For a moment Buddy felt that maybe he should get involved, at least try to talk to them. But then he thought, What am I? Crazy? They can both look after themselves.
“Here.” He peeled off some bills and handed them over. “I guess this covers it.”
“Got yourself a job, Bud?” slurred Shelly.
“Yeah,” he replied. No way was he telling these two stoned zombies his news. “Uh . . . listen. I’ve moved into a new place. If Angel calls I want you to be sure and give her my number.” He wrote it on a pad by the phone. “And please—try and get her to tell you where she is. I’ve really gotta reach her.”
“She’s ice cream, man,” mumbled Shelly, rubbing red-ringed eyes. “Melts under pressure.”
“So—I guess I’ll see you two around,” Buddy said, backing toward the door.
“You sellin’ it again?” demanded Shelly.
He didn’t reply. He was out of there, running down the steps, jumping into his car, putting space between himself and the way things used to be.
“Adrian and I have discussed it, and we both agree that you should move in with us,” Koko said.
Angel began to protest.
“No objections,” he said firmly. “Besides, I heard from the girl whose apartment you’re leasing, and she’s coming back. So you see, it’s all arranged.”
She wanted to put up a fight, assert her newfound independence. But the thought of moving in with Koko and Adrian was too tempting to resist. They could be her family. Temporarily. Was that such a bad thing to want?
A few days later they loaded her possessions into his car and she moved into the little house in the hills.
At first she felt awkward and out of place, but Adrian was so cordial to her, and Koko so kind, that she soon felt quite at home.
The baby was just beginning to show.
“Ah-ha!” Raymondo sneered one morning. “You no wanna play han’ ball wit the king. But you sure been playin’ some-where.”
“Go stuff a client,” said Koko tartly, hovering as usual.
“Sure glad one of us can,” snapped Raymondo in reply. “That good for beezzness, y’know, man?”
“God save us from horny Puerto Ricans,” Koko muttered. He turned to Angel. “I’ve found you a doctor. He’ll look after you until the baby is born—in fact, he’ll even deliver the little monster.” He mock-sighed. “How we are going to deal with a baby in the house beats me.” He hugged her protectively. “But not to worry—we’ll manage. I’ll probably adore every squealing minute!”
She squeezed his hand. “I do love you, Koko. I’ll always be grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”
He blushed beneath his halo of outlandish curls. “Please, dreamheart, no mushy stuff. I can’t take the emotional pressure. It’s bad for my hormone level!”
• • •
Oliver liked playing with a hungry actor. Especially a famous one. Usually they had him by the balls, and usually they squeezed tighter than an angry dyke. With Ross Conti, Oliver held all the cards, and he loved it. In fact, he double loved it, because he had insisted that Montana join them, and the very coupling of the names Gina Germaine and Ross Conti might well have caused her permanent damage.
“Christ, Oliver,” she said angrily when she heard. “I can understand why George Lancaster was so important to you—but why Ross Conti when there are so many really good actors around?”
Sitting at his usual table in Ma Maison, Oliver was in his element. Even his hemorrhoids had vanished—which only proved that aggravation did not agree with him; having it all his own way did.
Montana was edgy, not her usual cool together self.
Ross was on his best behavior, and Oliver played with him like a spiteful cat.
“I think it’s one of the best scripts I’ve ever read,” Ross said eagerly. “It’s got great pace and realism, and it’s a terrific part for me.”
At least he likes it, Montana thought. An improvement on George, who probably had never read it.
“Sadie called me this morning,” Oliver said, vigorously polishing his fork with a napkin. “She seems to think Adam Sutton might be interested.”
Ross swallowed bile and said nothing. He knew what Oliver was doing, and all he could do in return was sit it out.
“Of course, Adam’s price is ridiculous,” Oliver continued, waving at Dani and Hal Needham. “And Bibi on the set is enough to guarantee the poor bastard never works again. However, he is very popular, especially in Europe.” He finished polishing the fork and admired his handiwork. “You know, Ross, Zack is being very difficult. I’m aware that you have your price.” He shrugged. “But I think I should tell you that this movie is over budget before we even begin.”
Ross began to sweat. He had talked to Zack before lunch, and what Oliver was offering was an insult. Did he expect to go even lower?
“Frankly,” Oliver said magnanimously, “if we can meet on price the part is yours. If not . . .” He shrugged again. “I must have a decision by four o’clock today.”
Montana rose. “I know you’ll excuse me,” she said. “But I can’t afford the luxury of long lunches these days. We start shooting in a week, and I have a hundred things to do.”
“A week?” gulped Ross.
“Exactly,” she said, feeling sorry for him, liking him, thinking that perhaps he wasn’t so wrong for the part after all. She waved briefly at Oliver. “See you later,” she said, much to his annoyance, and was gone.
“I think she’ll make a hell of a movie,” Oliver said grudgingly, “even if she is a woman.”
“She wrote a marvelous script.”
“Yes. It’s good,” Oliver was forced to admit. “Naturally, I’ve had to make a few changes.” He sipped a glass of Perrier and glanced around the restaurant. “Isn’t that your wife?”
Ross turned around in time to observe Elaine walking in with Maralee. Christ! That’s all he needed. He quickly straightened his chair and looked away in the hope that she would not spot him.
No such luck. She saw him the moment she entered, and once Maralee was settled at a table she came sailing over.
“Hello, Oliver,” she said, managing an ingratiating smile. “Hello, Ross.” Hurt, accusing eyes.
They both returned
her greeting.
Awkward silence.
“Will you join me for coffee later, Ross? There’s something I want to discuss.”
At least she had the good sense not to do a number in front of Oliver. “Why not?” he said graciously, having no intention of doing so.
She gave a little nod. Quite humble for Elaine. “Thank you.” She returned to Maralee without another word.
“I hear you two are separated,” Oliver said, as if it weren’t common knowledge.
“It’s only a temporary thing,” Ross said airily. “Nothing we can’t work out.”
“Good. Wouldn’t like to think you were on the loose around Gina.”
The way Oliver was talking it sounded as if he already had the part. But then Oliver was about as trustworthy as a hungry piranha.
“How much truth is there in the Neil-Gina story?” Ross asked, mildly interested.
“Take what you’ve heard and treble it.”
“Really?”
“You’ve heard the phrase ‘grabbing cunt’—well, that’s what Gina is, literally.”
Both men guffawed—all guys together—relieved that Neil Gray was the schmuck who had been caught and not them.
“I have a feeling we’re going to work something out on this deal,” Oliver said. “Only talk to your agent—I can’t pull money out of my left sock. Be reasonable, and I think we can do business.”
Prick, Ross thought. What happened to all the money you no longer have to pay George Lancaster? Now, if Sadie had been his agent . . .
But she wasn’t. And even to think about her caused him extreme humiliation—an emotion he was not used to, and one he had no plans to encourage.
• • •
“He looks terrible,” Elaine fretted.
“He looks exactly the same to me,” Maralee replied. And she wanted to add, “It’s you who look terrible.”
“His hair is too long, he’s got bags under his eyes, and he’s put on weight,” Elaine stated. “He’s neglecting himself.”
So are you, Maralee wanted to say. She had never—but never—seen Elaine with chipped nail polish before. And talk about adding a pound or two, her friend looked positively jowly. As for her hair, was that a gray strand right at the front for all to see?
Maralee patted her own immaculate blond locks and reflected that whatever personal crisis she might be going through, there was always time for grooming. Elaine was making a grave mistake letting herself go.
“I wonder what Ross is doing with Oliver,” Elaine mused.
“There’s a rumor that he might replace George Lancaster,” Maralee said.
“Thanks so much for telling me,” Elaine snapped frostily.
“I only just heard, and I knew I was seeing you for lunch.” She paused, determined to get onto the subject she wished to discuss. “Neil told me. I talk to him every day. He’s making great progress, you know.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Elaine said irritably, one eye observing her errant husband’s every move. “But he is still with Montana, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so—in a way. But I don’t see it lasting much longer.”
Elaine could hardly conceal her surprise. “And you want him back? After the way he dumped you?”
Maralee tossed her blond curls imperiously. “You’re hardly in a position to talk about being dumped. Would you take Ross back?”
Elaine choked on anger. “Ross did not dump me. I threw him out because of his affair with our dear friend Karen. And while we are on the subject, you must have known what was going on. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Maralee widened blue eyes, beautifully nipped and tucked so that you couldn’t even tell they’d been fixed. “I didn’t know.”
“Probably not. Too busy screwing Randy. Whatever happened to him? Didn’t his bank balance match his hard-on?”
Maralee quickly put on a pair of wrapover white sunglasses. “I just don’t know what’s the matter with you. You certainly say things no friend should say.”
“If your friends don’t say ’em, who will?” stated Elaine logically, grabbing at a passing waiter. “Another vodkatini,” she said. “Make it two. I hate the pause between drinks.”
• • •
Ferdie caught Buddy in the middle of a push-up.
“You must get an answering service,” Ferdie scolded on the phone. “Shall I arrange it?”
“Why not?” Buddy decided. If he was going to be a star, might as well start with the trimmings.
“I have a number on that girl you were looking for,” Ferdie said matter-of-factly. “Her name is Angel. And she works at a hairdressing salon on Sunset.” He proceeded to give Buddy the number, and then he gave advice. “You have to be careful who you date now, you know. Soon everything you do will be photographed and written about. Usually it’s best to stick to dating actresses who know how to handle that sort of thing.”
Buddy grinned. Sometimes Ferdie sounded like a pale imitation of Sadie. She had already given him the same speech.
“Thanks, I’ll remember that. Gotta split. I have Linda Evans waitin’ in the hot tub!”
“Smart-ass,” sassed Ferdie.
“Don’t you know it!”
Buddy hung up and took a deep breath.
Angel. You are comin’ back to me today!
He dialed the number Ferdie had given him and waited impatiently while it rang.
A male voice answered. “Koko’s.”
“Yeah . . . uh . . . I’d like to speak to Angel.”
A pause. “Who is calling?”
“Tell her a friend.”
“I’m sure you are, but Angel is not available right now, so perhaps you would be kind enough to give me your name and number and I’ll see she gets back to you.”
Fuck! Uptight creep.
“I’ll call back later,” Buddy said, not pleased.
“Thank you,” Koko singsonged.
Buddy put down the receiver and gazed into space. He should have gotten the address, climbed into his car, and just driven over. Then he could have grabbed Angel back into his life with no arguments.
But maybe she wouldn’t come. The thought frightened him more than he cared to admit.
• • •
“Somebody telephoned you,” Koko said, when Angel returned from a visit to the doctor.
“Who?”
“He wouldn’t leave a name.”
Buddy, she thought. Oh, please God, let it be Buddy.
“Will he call back?” she asked anxiously.
“If he doesn’t, it’s his loss, dreamheart.”
• • •
One moment he was there, the next—gone. Elaine stared in helpless fury at Ross’s empty table. She had only been in the ladies’ room for a minute, and the bastard had taken that minute and made his escape.
“Did you see Ross go?” she snapped at Maralee.
“No.”
Elaine slumped into her chair. “I hate this goddam place,” she said. “Full of fucking phonies, worried about this party and that one. And if you’re not invited, you stay in with the lights off so everyone thinks you’re out of town.”
Maralee blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” Elaine said, her voice brittle. “I’m beginning to sound like Ross.” She sighed. “Let’s have another drink.”
“I don’t think so,” said Maralee disapprovingly. “I have ballet class this afternoon.”
“Shit!” exclaimed Elaine belligerently. “This place is full of it.”
• • •
At five of four exactly Ross Conti instructed Zack Schaeffer to call Oliver Easterne and accept his terms—whatever they were.
“If we drop your price it’s going to be common knowledge this time tomorrow. It’ll be a bitch bringing it up again.” Zack lowered his voice. “You know, Ross, an actor is like a whore. She either fucks for five or fifty. You know what I’m saying?”
“I want this movie, Zack. And I’m the whore who’ll do anything to
get it. Call Oliver. Now.”
52
The doctor caught Leon early in the morning while he still slept.
“I wondered if you’d like to drop by and see me,” the old man said, as if he lived next door. “I have the Andrews case history, and it’s interesting stuff.”
“I can’t do that,” Leon replied regretfully, edging away from Millie’s inert body. “Can you hold on a minute?”
He hurried into the bathroom and closed the door. Then he sat on the toilet and listened. It was interesting stuff. Once the doctor had found his file, he seemed to develop absolute recall.
“Willis Andrews was a quiet little man,” he remembered. “Came to see me first because of migraine headaches. Wasn’t migraine at all—it was his wife. Sexual problems. This didn’t come out until he had visited me three or four times. You know, back then it wasn’t like it is today, with sex discussed openly.”
“Quite,” agreed Leon.
“The problem with Mr. Andrews was that he could not maintain an erection,” continued the doctor. “And this was causing friction at home. Mrs. Andrews, it seems, was most anxious to become pregnant.”
“Yes?”
“I counseled the man. We talked of vitamins, diet, technique. Sex was always one of my favorite subjects. I liked to help people with problems in that direction. It was a challenge.”
“Did you help Willis Andrews?”
“Alas, no. He was eager, but I remember thinking at the time after several consultations that maybe the problem did not lie with him. Maybe Mrs. Andrews was at fault. . . .”
“Did you see her?”
“Unfortunately not. I suggested that it would be a good idea, but he became very agitated. In view of what happened later I wish that I had insisted.”
“What happened later?” Leon asked curiously.
“I clipped the piece from the newspaper and put it in his file.”
Leon persisted. “What piece?”
“The Andrews couple adopted a child. A girl. There was an accident—the child was killed. They said she fell down the stairs. The neighbors claimed the child was beaten to death. They were arrested, but somewhere along the line the charges were dropped. Not enough evidence, something like that. They left town, of course. I could never understand the whole thing. Willis Andrews was not a violent man at all.”
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