His head was filled with snakes. They enveloped him. They were around his neck, on his arms, legs, body, even in his mouth.
He spat on the sidewalk and watched the reptiles slither away.
A seedy doorway offered tattooes, and he walked in. MOTHER took only a scant half hour to become a part of his life forever.
He was ready.
He walked to his old brown van parked on a side street and set off to do the necessary deed.
• • •
When the bell rang, Sadie hurried to answer it. She didn’t even bother checking who it was, for she knew that it had to be Ross, and this time she wanted him for keeps.
She flung open the massive oak door in anticipation.
“Hello, Mother,” said the sinister figure in black. “I’m home.”
BOOK TWO
71
Sadie La Salle was twenty years old when she first came to Hollywood from Chicago in the fifties. It seemed the most unlikely place in the world for a girl who looked like Sadie to choose. Usually it was the beauties who flocked to tinsel town—long-haired lovelies with glowing skin and lissome bodies. Sadie was short, plump, ferociously dark, her hair a frizzy mass which grew not only on her head but everywhere else as well. Fortunately she had no desire to be an actress. She just wanted to get away from a stifling mother and live a life of her own. Hollywood seemed like a good idea at the time.
She arrived by Greyhound bus on a Monday morning, and by Tuesday afternoon she had an apartment and a job. Having worked for two years as a secretary in Chicago, she had excellent references. Goldman, Forrest and Mead, a Beverly Hills law firm, took her on immediately. She started in the typing pool, but soon progressed to being Jeremy Mead’s personal secretary. He was a tall gawky married man, tanned from golf, fit from tennis, with small brown eyes, an eagle’s nose, and thinning brown hair. It did not take Sadie long to become indispensable to him.
Work was fine. Her personal life was not. The only time men ever looked at her was when they spied her extremely large breasts, and for a moment interest gleamed. If she was lucky enough to get asked out on a date it was always the same old story. A fast dinner in some secluded restaurant and then the great pounce. The third time this happened she decided that the dinner was not worth the struggle, and she gave up dating and took up going to the movies and reading. Both infinitely more exciting.
She developed a passion for books about Hollywood and the movie industry, storing every bit of information for future use. Eventually she wanted to do something concerned with films—although she didn’t quite know what. While she waited to find out, she worked hard and absorbed all the knowledge that came her way. Jeremy Mead had an interesting client list which included producers, directors, and several famous actors. She studied their various contracts, finding out about percentages, the difference between gross and net profits, the intricacies of billing. She also learned to go over the small print with an eagle eye, and on several occasions she pointed out things to Mr. Mead that he had missed.
He was pleased enough to invite her out to lunch, and since it was business she accepted.
Three glasses of wine was over her limit. A motel in Brentwood was certainly not a colleague’s office—which is where he had said they had to go. He pounced. Of course. It was her overabundance of bosom that did it every time.
She allowed him certain liberties. After all, a girl couldn’t stay a virgin forever.
He paid ten minutes’ faithful homage to her breasts, then, with no further preliminaries, attempted to mount her. She stared at his small eyes, his hook nose, his thinning brown hair, and decided that her virginity was far too precious a commodity to be surrendered to a man like Jeremy Mead. Besides, he was married.
She pushed him off. No easy job, as by this time he was in full flight.
He complained hotly, but somehow his hardness became buried between her mammoth breasts, and a sudden orgasm left him redfaced and satisfied. He collapsed with a happy sigh while she locked herself in the bathroom and cried.
They drove back to the office in stony silence. Passion was over, and an uneasy business relationship took its place.
Two days later in Schwab’s drugstore she spotted Ross Conti. And she knew for sure that if she was going to lose her virginity to anyone, this blond bronzed Adonis, with eyes the color of sapphires and a smile to melt any girl’s heart, would be the man.
She did not know how she did it, but she willed him to her side, and soon they were sipping coffee and chatting. Apart from his incredible looks, he had an easy charm which was quite irresistible. He invited her to dinner (she paid, but it didn’t matter), and when he made the inevitable pass she summoned every bit of willpower she possessed and turned him down. She wanted Ross Conti, but she also wanted it to be more than just a quick one-nighter.
They became friends.
She cooked for him, listened to his problems, did his washing.
He confided in her, asked her advice, discussed his varied girlfriends.
She bided her time while continuing to work for Jeremy Mead, who suggested two more lunches, both of which she declined.
One day she met a sad-eyed accountant by the name of Bernard Leftcovitz, and while Ross was out laying every female from the valley to the ocean, she began to date him.
Since Ross had a habit of telling her everything, she knew all about his latest passion—a married woman who wore Arpège perfume (and probably Frederick’s of Hollywood underclothes). The woman’s husband was a musician who traveled a lot, and one night when he was in San Diego and Ross was spending the evening with his wife, Sadie decided to take action. It was simple for her to find out where the husband was playing, and whisper an anonymous phone message in his ear.
The stage was set. All she had to do was sit tight.
Bernard Leftcovitz was eating dinner by candlelight in her apartment when an outraged Ross burst in. He behaved badly, bitching about nearly being caught, talking about himself nonstop, glaring at Bernie just as Sadie had hoped. He outsat the unfortunate Mr. Leftcovitz, and then in a fit of possessiveness claimed his prize.
Oh yes. Ross Conti was certainly worth waiting for. Their lovemaking was all that she had ever dreamed of. She gave up her virginity thankfully.
And so began the most wonderful months of her life. She loved him. She would have done anything for him. And did.
Their relationship was one-sided, but it suited them both.
“I’ll make you a star,” she told Ross when he despaired of his career ever taking off. ‘I’ll be your agent.”
He laughed, but she meant it, and what’s more she knew she could do it. Suddenly everything she had been working toward made sense. She left her job, borrowed money, and with her brilliant billboard campaign forced Ross into orbit. The rest was easy.
They were halcyon days. New York. The Carson show. A triumphant return to Los Angeles. Offers pouring in.
Negotiations. She had been born to make deals.
Sadie felt complete satisfaction for the first time in her life.
Ross left her on the day she planned to tell him she was pregnant. The doctor confirmed her suspicions at four o’clock in the afternoon, and she rushed straight from his office to buy champagne.
All the way home she rehearsed what she would say. “I’m pregnant. It won’t change anything. I’ll work right up until the birth. You’ll be number one, Ross, always. Isn’t it fantastic?”
She knew he might not be pleased. At first. After all, it would mean marriage, of course.
She parked the car and hurried up to their apartment.
His closet was bare. His Sinatra records were missing. His bottles of Man-Tan and Old Spice and his toothbrush had vanished from the bathroom shelves.
The emptiness in the pit of her stomach was like a dull throbbing ache. Ross was gone.
She sat in a chair by the window and waited for him to contact her. She sat through the night and half of the next day without moving.
Eventuall
y the phone rang and a businesslike female voice informed her that Mr. Conti had requested that all of his contracts and business papers were to be forwarded to the Lamont Lisle Agency, which would be handling his affairs from now on.
Numbly she traveled to her office and gathered together his photos, contracts, press clippings, and correspondence. It did not occur to her to fight. Never crossed her mind to hire a sharp lawyer and establish the rights she most definitely had over his career.
Ross Conti walked. And she allowed him to.
For a few weeks she did nothing at all except stare at the television like a zombie and eat. Then the bills started to come in, and a visit to the bank made her aware that Ross had cleared their mutual account of everything except a thousand dollars. She accepted this fact also. And thought about killing herself, because as far as she was concerned there was nothing left to live for.
Jeremy Mead unwittingly saved her. He had lent her the money (albeit reluctantly) to launch Ross Conti’s billboard campaign, and although she had since paid him back it irked him that she had never consummated their relationship. So when news of Ross’s marriage to Wendy Warren hit the papers, he called immediately and invited himself over.
When he arrived he found her contemplating an overdose of sleeping pills, which he talked her out of. An hour later they were in bed.
She felt nothing except the weight of his bony elbows, and when he left she sobbed long into the night, breaking the numbness that had enveloped her since Ross’s departure.
In the morning she took a deep breath and decided to get on with her life. No man was going to destroy Sadie La Salle. She would show Ross Conti a thing or two by becoming rich, powerful, and successful without him. She did not know how—but somehow she would do it.
The first thing was to get an abortion. She was already four months pregnant, but because of her natural bulk it was hardly noticeable. She waited five weeks, then telephoned Jeremy Mead and requested a meeting. He came to her apartment thinking she could no longer resist his charms.
“I’m pregnant,” she said simply. “It’s yours.”
“Mine?” he spluttered. “How do you know?”
“Because there hasn’t been anyone else since you.”
He stared at dark fiery fat Sadie, and cursed the fact that he had not stuck to calm competent prepared blondes.
“You stupid girl,” he said angrily. “Why weren’t you careful?”
“Why weren’t you?” she retorted, hating him almost as much as she hated Ross.
“You’ll have to get an abortion,” he stated callously.
“I don’t have the money.”
“I’ll pay.”
“Thank you so much.”
Two days later he sent her an envelope with the name and number of a doctor and an amount of money to take care of everything. The doctor was in Tijuana, Mexico.
She took a tourist bus there the next day, booked into a cheap hotel, then called the doctor, who agreed to see her in his clinic at five-thirty.
His clinic turned out to be a small room in back of a souvenir shop, the only furniture an old rattan desk and worn leather bench. He was a man of about fifty, with red-rimmed eyes and a bad stutter. At least he was American.
“I’m pregnant,” she said quietly. “I was told you could help me.”
“How p-p-pregnant?”
“Three months,” she lied.
He nodded, told her the price, and requested that she remove her clothes and lie on the bench.
She thought he was going to examine her and tell her to come back the next day to his hospital or wherever he took care of such matters, so she disrobed and lay down, prudently keeping on her bra.
“Take that o-o-off,” he commanded.
The small room was hot and dusty. A fly buzzed incessantly. Gritting her teeth, she unclipped her bra.
The doctor’s red-rimmed eyes bulged. He licked his lips as he approached her. “Open your legs.”
She shut her eyes and did as he bade.
His fingers were inside her immediately, roughly probing and searching. As she cried out he said sharply, “Be quiet. I’m not hurting you.”
She wanted to get up, dress, and leave. But what was the point? Ross’s child was growing inside her, and it had to be removed.
He finished his examination, pressed each breast roughly, and said, “I can take care of it.”
“When?” she asked, sitting up.
“Now,” he said. “If you’ve g-g-got the money with you.”
She was aghast. “Here?”
He snorted. “You g-g-girls are all the same. You get yourselves pregnant, want it terminated, then expect f-f-first-class service. May I remind you that an abortion is illegal.”
“I know. But . . . here?” She gestured hopelessly around the dusty room.
“I’ve taken care of five hundred girls here,” he said dismissively. “You w-w-want it or not?”
She was frightened, but want overcame fear. She lay back. “Go ahead,” she said dully.
“The money first.”
She rose naked to get the money from her purse, and his red-rimmed eyes followed her across the room.
“You need to lose some w-w-weight,” he said when she lay down again. His hands passed lingeringly across her breasts. “These m-m-must be heavy to carry around.”
“Let’s just get on with it,” she muttered furiously.
An hour later she stumbled out to the street barely able to walk. He had probed and pierced and stabbed. But nothing had happened. Nothing except agonizing contractions and a steady flow of blood.
As time passed he had begun to sweat. His hands started to shake. His stutter became worse. Abruptly he threw down the steel instrument he was using. “Go home,” he said. “It’s g-g-going to take more t-t-time with you. I’ve s-s-started it oo-off. It’ll h-h-happen spontaneously. There’s n-n-nothing else I c-c-can do.”
“I don’t understand,” she screamed weakly. “I’ve paid you.”
He thrust a wad of cotton between her legs and quickly brought over her clothes, helping her to dress. “It’ll h-h-happen,” he assured her, pushing her out to the street. “G-g-go h-h-home. It’ll happen s-s-soon.”
Somehow she staggered back to the hotel, her contractions becoming worse all the time. There she lay on the bed and watched the blood seep through the cotton pad bunched between her legs.
The pain was excruciating. When blood began to soak through to the bed, she realized hazily that she needed help. The doctor had not given her an abortion, the bastard had butchered her.
She attempted to get up, and for one brief moment Ross’s image danced in front of her eyes. Then she lost consciousness and slumped to the floor.
She drifted back to the real world days later, remembering nothing. Her eyes fluttered open and took in her surroundings. She was in a bed, a rubber tube attached to her arm. Her mouth was dry and parched, and she longed for a drink. A white screen enclosed the bed, and the brightness hurt her eyes. She tried to gather her thoughts. Where was she? What had happened?
She must have drifted some more, for when she next awoke there was a face peering down at her. A middle-aged woman who gently said, “Feeling better?”
“Can I have a drink?” she whispered.
“Certainly, dear.”
Vaguely she wondered why the woman was not in nurse’s uniform. Surely she was in some sort of hospital? Then she remembered, and when the woman returned with a paper cup of water she gasped, “The baby? Am I still pregnant?”
The woman gazed at her silently for a moment, then nodded.
“Oh, no,” she groaned.
“It’s God’s way of telling you there are other ways,” the woman said mysteriously. “Rest, dear. We will talk later.”
And later they did talk. Sadie found out that the woman’s name was Noreen Carrolle. She was a former nurse. One day she had traveled to Tijuana with a girlfriend who needed an abortion. “I did not approve nor disapprove,”
Noreen said. “It seemed a sensible decision. But my friend was treated like an animal, and later that night she died.”
Sadie listened carefully as Noreen told of how from that moment on she got what she claimed to be “the calling.”
“I knew I could save other girls from the same fate,” she said simply. “And that is what I have been doing ever since.”
“How did you find me?” Sadie asked curiously.
“The hotels know me. When a girl checks in alone they alert me. You acted so fast that I didn’t have time to reach you before. But fortunately I found you in time, and even more fortunate, your baby is safe.”
She shut her eyes, thought of Ross’s baby safe inside her, and wanted to scream aloud with fury and frustration.
“Don’t worry,” Noreen said quietly. “I have an alternative plan. A happy solution for everyone concerned. Of course,” she added, “I could have taken you to a hospital. The police would have been alerted, and your family and the prospective father would certainly have been dragged into it. There might have been a prosecution.” She paused, watching for Sadie’s reaction. “Usually the girls like to keep this sort of thing to themselves, and I don’t blame them.” She nodded knowingly. “You see, I understand what happens. One night of passion . . . things get out of hand . . . no time to think about the consequences . . .”
She had Sadie’s rapt attention. Carefully she outlined her plan. “You’ll have your baby, dear. You’re too far gone to attempt another abortion anyway. I’ll send you to my sister’s place in Barstow, where you can rest and regain your strength. When you give birth you’ll be fitter than you’ve ever been, and we’ll take the baby off your hands. There are couples who long for a child. We arrange it without the fuss and bother of adoption. All those papers to fill out . . . it’s dehumanizing. One simple document is all you have to sign.” Noreen smiled reassuringly. “And my sister, Nita, and I will take care of everything.”
72
“I beg your pardon.” Sadie spaced her words carefully and spoke slowly.
Deke stared at her, his eyes glowing coals.
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