His eyes. Her eyes. Disturbingly familiar.
She felt a shiver run down her spine, and automatically began to close the door.
“Don’t do that.” He blocked it with his foot. “I’m home—Mother. Nita Carrolle sent me. It’s been a long journey, but I’m here.”
The name Nita Carrolle made Sadie hesitate. “I . . . I don’t understand,” she said falteringly.
But she understood. Twenty-six years earlier she had given birth, and now part of her past stood before her.
“Push, dear, push.”
“I am pushing. I am. I am.”
Tears streaked her face. A pause between contractions. Then the pain again, and her screams of agony. Long animal screams, while her hands tore at the roots of her hair. “Help me, someone. Please help me.”
“Shut her up, for God’s sake.”
The mask descending over her face. The gas. Deep gulps. Relief. Drifting. Away from her body. Away from the pain.
Dully she stared at the familiar stranger. “You’d better come in.”
Already she was thinking fast. Why was he here? What did he want? If he expected her to fall on him crying with pleasure, he had another think coming. She had no maternal feelings. None whatsoever. Oh God! If it ever got out . . .
Maybe he wanted money. He looked like a freak. Do not admit anything. See what he knows.
How can he know anything? They promised me—those two women—they promised me nobody would ever know.
He followed her into the house. She led him through to the kitchen, glad that the servants were away for the weekend. At least she could deal with him alone.
“Sit down,” she said, recovering her composure. Purposefully she tried to sound casual. “You know, I think you’ve made a mistake. Maybe you’d like to tell me who put you up to this?”
“I had a whore named Joey,” he said, covering his eyes with opaque wraparound sunglasses. “She’s not here now, but I loved her. You’ll love her too.”
A shiver of fear. “What?”
“Whores belong together.”
Her patience snapped. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m your son,” he replied calmly. “You know that.”
“Oh, come on. Please. What makes you think such a ridiculous thing?”
“Nita Carrolle told me.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
He turned unexpectedly and struck her full-force across the face. “You lie, whoring bitch!” he screamed. “I know the truth and you will tell me more.”
The force of his blow threw her to the floor, and she lay there stunned, suddenly realizing her peril.
This was no long-lost son. This was some sort of maniac. And she had let him into her house.
• • •
Elaine brushed her hair vigorously. She could feel the tingle all the way down to her toes. There was nobody like Ross—nobody. He was the greatest lover in the world when he wanted to be.
She lined up her program for the following week. The hairdresser, the nail clinic, the gym—no more Ron Gordino, who needed Ron Gordino? Maybe she would try Jane Fonda’s Workout or Richard Simmons’s Body Asylum. She hummed softly to herself. She would call Bibi and suggest lunch. Bibi would spread the news of Ross’s return faster than The Hollywood Reporter.
And what about Ross’s career? Sadie La Salle’s calling was an excellent sign, even if she had interrupted the best sex they had shared in years. The phone call had not fazed Ross. He could screw and talk at the same time, a feat not every actor could manage.
She felt so good. Ross had brought her to a majestic climax, then showered and left for Sadie’s house with a grin on his face. He was happy to be home. She was happy to have him. Together they would make it to the top again.
• • •
Angel took a cab and arrived at Buddy’s apartment in the morning. She was sure he wouldn’t mind.
“I ain’t got no word to let anyone in,” grumbled the maid. Buddy’s regular girl was out sick, and she had neglected to inform her replacement of his message.
“But I’m Mrs. Hudson,” Angel protested. “And Bud—er, Mr. Hudson assured me he had left word with you.”
The maid sneered, ever so slightly. “If’n you’re his missus how come you ain’t livin’ here permanent?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Angel flushed, but stood her ground.
The maid’s glance took in her swollen stomach. “Okay,” she said grudgingly. “You’d better come in. Ain’t no skin off my ass if you rob the place.”
Angel reentered Buddy’s life. Not quite the way she had expected to, but she was back, and the anticipation of seeing him again made her breathless.
• • •
Ferdie knew that Sadie was going to Palm Springs for the weekend. He also knew that she wasn’t planning on leaving until ten-thirty or eleven. He took pride in being aware of every move she made. Buddy’s news could be given to her on the telephone, but should be given to her in person.
He vacillated for only a moment. It meant changing out of his beach clothes into a more suitable outfit. It meant explaining to Rocky that the picnic would have to be delayed, and Rocky would no doubt sulk.
Ferdie stamped his foot. A moment of unbridled irritation. What was so important about Sadie’s knowing immediately anyway? God! If he had the news and she ever found out that he saved it for Monday . . . It was important, what with the billboard and everything.
Madame La Salle was not going to be pleased.
He stripped off his red T-shirt and shorts and hurried into the bedroom to change.
Ross felt surprisingly up. Things had a way of turning out for the best. An interlude away from Elaine had done them both good, and now he felt a togetherness that he thought had gone forever. Elaine was a fighter. She was no Beverly Hills bimbo. So she liked to spend money and live it up, but something he knew for sure—she would always be there when he needed her.
Sadie’s phoning—causing temporary coitus interruptus—had delighted both of them.
“She’s changed her mind,” Elaine enthused. “She must want to handle you.”
Ross had to agree. Why else the summons to her mansion on a Saturday morning?
He drove happily along Sunset, fit, tanned, and fifty. Every career had its ups and downs. His was headed for an up; he could feel the good vibrations.
• • •
“Mother whore!” spat Deke. “Harlot. Filth.”
He had tied her up, the threat of his knife ever-present. Bound her tightly to a chair.
The fear of being cut prevented her from struggling. Ever since Tijuana, the doctor, and the unsuccessful abortion, she had been fearful of blood. In a way it was his fault—if he was her son, as he claimed to be.
• • •
The mask was pulled roughly away. The pain returned. And maybe death would have been more welcome as she felt herself torn. Screaming was her only release. Different voices were everywhere.
“Shut her up.”
“You want every neighbor in the area to hear her?”
“What’s taking so long?”
“It’s a breech birth, goddamm it.”
The mask again. The sweet thunder in her ears and nose and throat like death inviting her to stay.
Drifting . . . drifting . . .
Sharp reality.
“It’s a boy.”
“He’s not breathing.”
“Christ!”
“Do something before it’s too late.”
Smack.
Nothing.
“He won’t make it.”
“I Like hell he won’t. We need the money.”
Smack.
“C’mon, you little bastard!”
And crying.
Brief respite.
The surprise of another contraction. She knew it was the afterbirth, and soon it would be over.
She sucked in her breath, let it all out in one long piercing w
ail that seemed to last forever.
Rough hands clamped the mask over her face again and she faded once more to welcome unconsciousness.
When she awoke it was over. She lay in bed clean and washed, only the dull throbbing ache between her legs reminding her of the or deal. Noreen Carrolle stood next to her sister, Nita. They both smiled. Two faces . . . one plain and kindly, the other overly made-up and coarse.
“Your worries are behind you, dear,” said Noreen.
“Yeah, no more screwin’ around an’ you’re in good shape,” laughed Nita.
She drifted back to sleep.
• • •
She tried to keep her voice calm. Somewhere she had read that when dealing with a psychotic it was important to try to remain in control. Besides, she was no shrinking violet, she was Sadie La Salle. Grown men had been known to tremble in her presence.
She thought of her elaborate alarm system. Unfortunately it was turned off. But if she could only reach the panic button by the kitchen door a distress signal would go straight through to the police.
Deke stalked around the kitchen muttering to himself.
She wondered if she should try to get him talking. Personal contact. Another way of getting through.
If she was his mother, what could be more personal than that? And if she was, that meant that Ross was his father. And even now Ross was on his way to her house.
Deke stopped marching up and down and slumped to the floor in a sitting position, his back against the refrigerator.
“This is a big house,” he remarked.
In a strange way he reminded her of someone. She couldn’t think who. He had her eyes. Oh God! He reminded her of herself, this bizarre disgusting stranger.
“I said you have a big house,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she agreed quickly.
“Joey would’ve liked it here.”
“Who is Joey?”
“My fiancée.”
She forced herself to sound as natural and friendly as possible. “Where is she? Shall we call her and invite her over?” He stood up. “She’s fucking men. That’s what the whore does. She’s like you, opens her legs for the world.” He said the words blankly, as if they meant nothing.
Sadie tried to change the subject, although her throat was so dry she could hardly talk. “What’s your name?”
He was pacing again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. What does Joey call you?”
“Joey?” He stopped and looked surprised. “How do you know Joey?”
“Why don’t you untie me and we can talk about her?” “Talk about who?”
“Joey.”
“The whore bitch is dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
Deke resumed his pacing, lost in thought.
She eyed the panic button by the kitchen door, and wondered if there was any way she could get near enough to press it.
“This is a big house,” he said, for the third time. “I think I’ll look around.”
“Yes, why don’t you do that,” she said quickly.
He didn’t hear her as he walked from the kitchen.
Laboriously she attempted to edge the chair toward the back door. It was no easy task. He had bound her with electrical cord, and it was cutting into her wrists and ankles. Nevertheless, painstakingly, she began to inch forward.
73
Leon Rosemont flew out from Las Vegas early Saturday morning. He felt a sense of urgency, but at the same time he knew that Deke Andrews was within his grasp. Maybe.
• • •
Ferdie drove his zippy white E-type Jaguar faster than the speed limit allowed. Next year a Mercedes. For sure. And the year after that—well, maybe in two years—a Rolls.
Ferdie had goals. He aimed to attain every one of them. In the meantime he enjoyed the fast English sports car. It was a luxury he felt he deserved. Besides, his young boyfriends loved it.
He pushed one of Rocky’s Rod Stewart cassettes into the tape machine and reflected on the boy’s stupid behavior. What a pain! Sulking and complaining all over the place. That was the trouble with the young ones, they acted like children.
“I wanna come with you,” Rocky had griped. “I wanna meet the great Sadie La Salle.”
“Another time,” Ferdie replied firmly.
Another time. Another century. Never mix pleasure with business. A cliché. But a true one.
Then Rocky had burst into his you-don’t-love-me-anymore number and said, “I’m splittin’.”
Ferdie had been forced to abandon everything and placate the boy. They ended up in bed. An exciting interlude that lasted far too long.
Anxiously he looked at his black Porsche watch. A Christmas present from madam.
It was nearly eleven. He hoped she hadn’t left for Palm Springs yet.
• • •
The Rolls stalled at the corner of Canon Drive and Sunset, refusing to restart. Ross was furious. When he had successfully worn the battery down to a mere click, he alighted from the car and gave it a resounding kick. A group of Mexican maids and children at the bus stop outside the Beverly Hills Hotel stamped and cheered. He gave them a mock bow and jogged across the street and up the driveway to the hotel.
“Car trouble,” he explained, handing the keys to the doorman. “You buy a frigging Rolls you just don’t expect it. It’s on the corner of Canon.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Conti. Will you be in the Polo Lounge?”
A cup of coffee and a cigarette were tempting before meeting Sadie. “The coffee shop,” he decided. “It’s nothing much, I think I just flooded the engine.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Conti. I’ll have you paged when it’s fixed.”
Ross entered the hotel.
• • •
The luxury of the house did not affect Deke as he walked from room to room. He stared blankly at expensive paintings and fine objets d’art. They meant nothing to him.
In her bedroom he stood before the four-poster bed and slowly, deliberately unzipped his jeans. He shut his eyes, thought of Joey, and did what he had to do.
In the corner there was a giant Panasonic television set. He stabbed the screen with his knife, methodically ripping it to pieces.
Joey would certainly love the place. He planned to send for her as soon as possible.
• • •
In the kitchen Sadie made slow progress. The cord around her ankles cut into her flesh, and every time she edged forward another inch it was all she could do to keep from crying out. She wanted to close her eyes and wake up from the horrifying nightmare.
Where was Ross? What a strange twist of fate that the intruder in her house might be their son. Their love child. Bitterness enveloped her. Their love child indeed. The hateful reminder of Ross’s disinterest and desertion.
Why hadn’t the baby aborted as it should have done?
She moved too fast and the chair hit the side of the kitchen table, teetered, and fell—taking her down with it.
She cried out, then bit down hard on her lower lip hoping he hadn’t heard.
She was trapped now. Tethered like some thing. Bile rose in her throat, and she felt more alone and frightened than she had ever felt in her entire life.
• • •
Deke continued his tour of the house. In her bathroom he emptied all the bottles of makeup and perfume and bath oils down the sink. Joey didn’t need any of that artificial trash.
He removed his sunglasses and gazed at himself in the triple mirror over the vanity unit. The reflection he saw surprised him. He leaned closer to the mirror and rubbed his bald scalp—slowly at first, then faster . . . faster . . . faster.
He felt another erection grow in his pants, but he ignored it, didn’t touch himself, couldn’t touch himself. Must wait for . . .
“Joey,” he said. Then he began screaming wildly. “Joey! Where are you, whore? Come out, wherever you’re hiding, bitch! I’m going to kill you, slut!”
He picked up
a bronze figure and hurled it at the mirror.
The glass shattered into a thousand fragments.
• • •
Ferdie pulled into the driveway of Sadie’s house. When was the woman going to put in security gates? Hers was practically the only house on the street without them.
He tut-tutted to himself. When he had enough money he would lock himself in a gilded cage immediately. Los Angeles was full of creeps and perverts and God knew what. Couldn’t be too careful.
He hurried from his car and rang the front doorbell, hoping that he hadn’t missed her.
• • •
Trapped on the floor, Sadie heard the buzz, and relief flooded over her. Ross was here. At least she wasn’t alone anymore.
• • •
Upstairs, Deke heard the bell ring too, and reality intruded on his thoughts.
He remembered where he was.
He remembered his mother, his real mother.
He didn’t want to lose her. Not after all he had gone through to find her.
He put down the thick black eye crayon he was playing with, loped quickly down the stairs, and rushed into the kitchen. For one blank moment he thought she had gone, and he was filled with red-hot fury. Then he saw her on the floor, tied and helpless.
“Who did this to you?” he demanded.
She stared at him in horror. He had blackened around his eyes as though drawing a cosmetic mask. High on his forehead he had written in smudgy letters WHORES DIE.
“Untie me,” she said rapidly. “I’ll see who’s at the door. I can send them away. Hurry.”
He bent to do as she said. She held her breath, weak with the anticipation of escape. Ross would save her. Thank God he was here! Maybe if they could get to his car, lock the doors, drive quickly off . . .
He had unbound one ankle when the door buzzer sounded again. He stopped what he was doing and cocked his head to one side.
“Hurry!” she urged.
A look of disgust swept across his face. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“No . . . no . . . I—”
“If you laugh at me I’ll kill you.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
He slapped her across the face, snapping her head back hard. “Don’t ever laugh at me, whore.”
She could taste blood in her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “I won’t ever do that.”
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