Or pay.
Had he paid her? He frowned, unsure.
Maybe once.
SHE WAS NOTHING BUT A DIRTY WHORE.
Fury filled his head already bursting with the name of the woman who had brought him into this filthy world.
Nita Carrolle’s words shattered like a zillion fragments.
“. . . always knew who the mother was . . . my babies special . . . followed their lives if I could . . . never sold them cheap . . . nice girls who got in trouble . . . your mother’s done so well . . . your mother . . . your mother . . .”
DAMN HIS MOTHER.
She left him. She gave him away. She abandoned him like garbage.
THE BITCH HAD NEVER EVEN WANTED HIM.
She would pay for every year of his life.
In blood.
Slowly.
69
“I’m leaving today,” Angel said quietly.
“I expect you are,” Koko replied crossly, spooning all-bran and raisins into his mouth while attempting to fix a cup of coffee.
Gently she took the cup from his hand.
He snatched it back. “I’m quite capable of making my own coffee, thank you very much.”
She sighed. “Why are you mad at me?”
“Who’s mad? I’m certainly not.”
“Please don’t be angry.” Tentatively she touched his arm. “You’re the one who taught me to stand up for myself. Without you I would never have had the strength to give Buddy another chance.”
“Hah!” he snorted. “I just hope you realize what you are doing.”
“I’m going back to my husband in the hope that things will work out between us, and that my baby will have a father.”
“Adrian and I would be perfectly wonderful fathers,” he sniffed.
“Will you settle for godfathers?”
“The Mario Puzo kind?”
“Who?”
“Oh, goodness! You still don’t know much, do you?”
“I know enough, thanks to you. I’m not the same stupid girl who came crying into your salon looking for a job.”
“You were never stupid. Just unbearably sweet!”
They both giggled and embraced.
“I hate goodbyes,” he said gruffly.
“I’m not being picked up until five.”
“You know Saturday’s our busiest day. I won’t be back by then.”
“Can I bring Buddy over next week?”
“God! Do you have to?”
“Please.”
“We’ll see.”
They hugged again, and he stroked her silken blond hair and held her to him very tightly. “Be happy, dreamheart,” he whispered.
“I will,” she whispered back. “I know I will.”
• • •
Montana refused to mourn for Neil. During the course of their marriage he had lost two good friends, and both times he had said the same thing. “Never look back. Face whatever’s coming to you head-on and let the bastards know that you know.” And then he had gotten uproariously drunk.
She knew he would not want her to sit around and mope, so she didn’t. Instead she set her plan to get her own back on Oliver in motion. It took some organizing, but now it was all set, and every time she thought about it a wide grin broke across her face. Monday morning was Oliver Easterne day, and she could hardly wait!
In the meantime she packed up the rest of Neil’s things, and then started on her own possessions.
Saturday morning she called Stephen Shapiro, a realtor she knew, and he came up to look at the house.
“Put it on the market at once,” she instructed. “I’ll leave it in your hands. I’ll be flying to New York on Monday.”
Stephen seemed to think a price of two million dollars was not unrealistic. “If we find the right buyer,” he added.
She deliberated over whether to call anybody and say goodbye. But then it occurred to her that all her real friends lived in New York. She only had acquaintances in Los Angeles. Would they care if she stayed or departed? Probably not.
She tried to reach Buddy Hudson, but his service picked up. She would try him again before she left; he deserved a proper explanation about the demise of the film, not the crap he was no doubt being fed.
Goodbye, California. She would miss it in her own way. The ocean and the beach. The mountains and the parks. The very seduction of living in the sun. And, of course, the view from the top of their hill. That very special spread of lights laid out like fairytale land.
Yes. She knew she would miss L.A., but as Neil would say, “Never look back. . . .”
• • •
Buddy had driven by his old home three times. The street and the house looked exactly the same. What had he expected? That everything would have been replaced with multiple skyscrapers and freeways, and that there was no way he could ever trace his mother again?
Nothing like that had happened. He had no excuse.
Maybe she didn’t live there anymore.
Maybe she was dead.
He hoped.
And hated himself for hoping such a thing.
He did not feel well at all. Why couldn’t he just walk over, ring the doorbell, and get it over and done with?
Determinedly he started to leave the car, but as he did so the front door of his former home opened and a boy of about seven emerged. Buddy paused while the boy ran over to a maroon station wagon, flung open the back door, and climbed inside. The front door of the house remained open, and Buddy waited, knowing for sure she would appear at any moment.
And so she did.
He ducked back into his car as guilty as the day he had left. He felt sixteen again. She looked exactly the same.
This really freaked him. Somehow he had expected—hoped—that ten years would have taken their toll. But even from a distance he could see that she had hardly changed. Her hairstyle was different, but that was it. Instead of hanging to her waist in rich curls, her auburn locks were trimmed to shoulder length, which made her look even younger than he remembered.
How old was she? He recalled asking her when he was about eight and she had replied primly, “A lady never reveals her age. Always bear that in mind, if you please.”
Eight years old and his own mother didn’t even want to tell him how old she was.
She got into the station wagon and drove off in the opposite direction, leaving him in a state of deep frustration.
He decided hanging around outside the house waiting for her and the kid to come back was stupid. He had other things to do in San Diego, and the sooner he did everything and headed back for L.A. and Angel the better.
Wolfie Schweicker.
Wasn’t it about time he told the police?
• • •
They confronted each other warily.
Elaine thought, My God—what do I look like?
Ross thought, My God—what does she look like?
They always had had a lot in common.
“Where’s Lina?” he asked.
“She quit,” replied Elaine, aware for the first time in ages that her nails were chipped, her hair undone, her outfit unsuitable.
“That’s my pajama top,” he accused.
“I know,” she replied. For some strange reason she felt quite light-headed.
“Am I coming in?”
“Are you?”
“It’s my home, isn’t it?”
She nodded. He was an unfaithful lying cheating bastard. She should tell him to go take a hike.
He was her unfaithful lying cheating husband. And he was back.
“Come in,” she said.
The famous blues twinkled. “I thought you’d never ask.”
• • •
There wasn’t much to pack. One suitcase and a carryall bag with all her bits and pieces in it. Never again would she be able to travel so light. Soon there would be the baby to consider.
She looked in the bathroom mirror, turned sideways, and regarded her bulge. What was Buddy going
to say when he saw her? He hadn’t even asked about the baby, not so much as a “How are you feeling?”
Suppose Koko was right and going back to him was a mistake?
She shook her head resolutely. He deserved a final chance. He sounded so different on the phone, so positive and sure about their future together. It was all going to work out, she just knew it.
Adrian knocked on the door of her room. “Do you need any help?” he inquired solicitously.
“I’m all set,” she replied. “By this time tomorrow you’ll have forgotten I was ever here.”
He wheeled himself into the small spare room. “I hope not.”
“I want to thank you for everything,” she blurted. “Without you and Koko I don’t know what I would—”
“Remember to keep in touch. Koko’s very broody about you—don’t disappoint him.”
They both laughed.
She brushed a strand of pale hair from her forehead and shivered with the anticipation of seeing Buddy again. He had said he was sending a car for her at five o’clock, but who could wait? She was ready to leave now.
• • •
“Hey, listen, man, I didn’t have to come here,” Buddy said restlessly. “I just figured—hey—y’know—like I’d be doin’ you guys a favor.”
“A ten-years-later favor,” snapped the big detective. There were two of them in the interview room. The big man, and his partner, a silent black who stoically chewed gum and cleaned his nails with a toothpick.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Buddy asked impatiently. He had given them the information. Willingly. Nobody had dragged him in off the street.
“Just what do you expect us to do?” questioned the big cop. “Put out a warrant on Wolfie whatever-his-name is because you walk in here an’ tell us he killed your boyfriend ten years ago?”
“Why don’t you look up the case?” Buddy persisted. “Pull out your files. Understand what the hell I’m talkin’ about.”
“You want the case reopened?” asked the black cop wearily, speaking for the first time.
“Hey, listen, I’m not here to get a manicure,” Buddy snapped, outraged by their indifference.
“Means a lot of paperwork,” mused the black.
“Tough,” muttered Buddy sarcastically.
The big cop sighed. “Leave your name an’ address. We’ll put it to the captain. We need authority.”
Buddy shook his head in amazement. Being a good citizen was no easy job. Then he thought about the implications if the case was opened up. Publicity of that kind was not what he needed right now. Naively he had just assumed he could walk into the precinct, tell them about Wolfie Schweicker, and split. How dumb could you get?
Pretty dumb, Buddy Boy, pretty fucking dumb.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
The detectives exchanged bored glances. Another weirdo with nothing better to do than waste their time.
“Yeah, you do that,” said the big cop with a liberal yawn. “And don’t forget—we already caught the freeway strangler an’ the joggin’ killer, so think of something new to waste our time with, huh?”
Buddy left in disgust, got in his car, and headed back to his mother’s house.
• • •
Sadie had planned to spend the weekend in Palm Springs, but when she awoke, late, she found she could not summon the energy to move. Seeing Ross with Gina had depressed her. Did he have no taste at all? Gina Germaine was a movie star, but she was also a tramp—sleeping with any man who might in some way or another further her career or her life. What she wanted from Ross was hard to guess at.
Sadie guessed anyway. And knew immediately she was right.
The legendary Conti schlong. What woman wouldn’t be thrilled to wake up with that beside her?
Frustratedly she buzzed for her maid, and then remembered that she had given the maid and her husband the weekend off, as she had expected to be in Palm Springs. No matter. She would enjoy being on her own for a change. No parties, screenings, or business meetings. Just uninterrupted peace—something she did not manage to get very much of.
Ross.
She kept on thinking of him.
Ross.
She still loved him.
In spite of . . .
She reached for the phone and dialed Gina’s private number.
The disgruntled voice of an American sex goddess answered. “Shit, Sadie,” Gina complained. “Have you seen the papers?”
Sadie, as it happened, had not. “What, dear?” she inquired soothingly, knowing full well that Gina always had some complaint or another regarding the items which were written about her.
“You can take Ross Conti and shove him up your ass,” Gina fumed.
“What did he do?”
“Ha!” snorted Gina, incensed, even after a night to mull things over. “Read all about it. I threw the bum out.”
“You did?”
“I sure did.”
“Where did he go?”
“Who gives a fast fuck?”
“I’m leaving for Palm Springs now,” Sadie said hurriedly. “I’ll call you on Monday.” She could not wait to get off the phone.
“That’s a pity,” Gina said, her voice a disappointed whine. “I thought you could come over. There’s things I want to discuss.”
“You wouldn’t want me to forgo my one weekend of peace and quiet, would you?”
“Why not? You can go to the Springs anytime.”
Selfish as always. “I’m afraid I have to go. As I said, we’ll talk on Monday.” She put the phone down before Gina could bitch further.
So Ross and Gina had split up—and not a second too soon.
She thought for a minute, then called the Beverly Hills Hotel, the Beverly Wilshire, and the Bel-Air. Ross was not registered at any of them. Could he perhaps have gone home? Back to the waiting arms of his wife? Sadie had no doubt that Elaine was waiting. In Hollywood, stars were always welcomed home, whatever they might have been up to. Hollywood wives were a breed unto themselves. Perfect, pretty women with a ticket to ride. That ticket being the famous husband.
She hesitated only a moment before trying his home number.
• • •
The phone interrupted their reunion. And what a reunion it was. Elaine spread-eagled on the thick pile rug while Ross pumped away above her like a shore-hungry sailor.
He had taken her by surprise, strode into the house a conquering hero returned from battle. “You look a mess,” he had said. “And the house looks even worse.” Then he roared with laughter. “What’s been happening around here, anyway?”
The embarrassment at being caught! He might at least have warned her he was coming home. She could have spent a day at Elizabeth Arden, had professional cleaners in to deal with the house, bought fresh flowers.
Oh, why bother? He would just have to take her as he found her. He wasn’t looking too sensational himself, plus he smelled like a sweaty horse.
They circled each other warily, then Ross blurted, “I’ll tell you something—you look damn sexy.” And he had pounced, surprising both of them. Silently they began to consummate their reunion on the living-room floor.
Then the phone rang, and automatically Elaine’s arm reached for it while Ross growled, “Forget it.”
Too late. Whoever was on the line was in the room with them. A disembodied voice echoing, “Hello, hello . . .”
“Yes?” said Elaine impatiently.
“Ross Conti, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Sadie La Salle.”
“Sadie! How are you? This is Elaine.”
Ross’s erection deflated. He grabbed the phone, spoke briefly, hung up, and turned to Elaine with a satisfied smile.
“I think we’re back in business,” he said. “Miz La Salle requests the pleasure of my company at her house.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“You’d bette
r get dressed.”
He fell back on top of her. “Not until I’ve finished what we started.”
“Ross!”
“Let her wait!”
70
How long was he going to hang around? All day, if necessary. Buddy was not returning to L.A. without straightening things out. Laying ghosts, they called it. Some ghost. His own mother. He chain-smoked half an hour away, and at last the maroon station wagon reappeared.
No more sitting around waiting for the moment to be right. He stubbed out his cigarette and hurried from the car.
By the time he walked up the driveway the station wagon was parked, with the back open, and the kid unloading brown supermarket bags.
“I want to see the lady of the house.” Buddy said.
“What about?” asked the boy, too precocious for his years.
“About none of your business.”
“Mommy,” he yelled. “There’s a man out here being rude.”
Buddy double-taked on the kid just as his mother rushed from the house. Was this his brother?
She glanced from one to the other, not recognizing Buddy at first. But on second look she knew, and a small gasp escaped her lips. “Buddy,” she whispered. “My God!” She made no attempt to come toward him. Just stared as if she had seen a ghost.
“Who’s Buddy?” demanded the boy.
“Go in the house, Brian,” she commanded.
“Don’t want to,” he whined.
“Go!” Her skin was still smooth. Her hair burnished bronze. She had put on a few extra pounds, but other than that she had not changed. Brian dragged reluctantly indoors.
Buddy threw his arms wide, an expansive gesture, but not one that she responded to. “Hey—” he said. “I figured the time had come to make peace.”
• • •
It was a hot clear day in Los Angeles. By ten-thirty in the morning the heat was already blistering and there was a general rush of cars heading for the beach.
The high temperature bothered Deke. He cut the sleeves from the black workshirt he wore and hacked his jeans off at the knee. With his bald head, wraparound black sunglasses, boots, and ragged outfit he looked bizarre. But in California anything goes, and when he strolled down Hollywood Boulevard muttering to himself nobody so much as second-glanced him.
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