He had that gut feeling again, like something was about to happen he couldn't quite control.
The night he'd gotten shot he'd had that same feeling, and what should have been a simple drug bust had ended up with him nearly dying. He'd never forget that night.
Moving stealthily, he reached the surprisingly large and well-landscaped back garden. Several swaying palm trees overshadowed him.
The door to the kitchen was open and he could hear a child's voice.
His heart soared, he felt certain it was Bella.
He edged forward, getting closer to the open door. He thought he saw the back of a little girl.
Relief flooded through him, he'd found his daughter and nothing would ever separate them again.
As he took another step forward something smashed down on to his head and he descended into blackness.
The last thing he heard was a child's scream.
-=O=---=O=-
The Man kept a scrapbook. Every so often he took it out and added to the contents. He'd bought scissors and double-sided tape at Thrifty's, and worked on his scrapbook diligently whenever he had something new to add to his collection of clippings.
The woman in Agoura Hills did not rate as much newspaper space as he'd hoped, and that made him angry. He knew that to get the attention he craved he would have to start leaving a strong message so they would know exactly who they were dealing with.
He thought about it for days. What would Steven Seagal do? How would the mighty movie star handle such a dilemma?
The Man honestly didn't know.
The other night, a woman living in the house had attempted to talk to him. He'd immediately tried to put a stop to her inane chatter, but it didn't seem to prevent her from accosting him whenever she could.
I'm an actress,' she'd informed him. 'What do you do?'
'Businessman,' he'd replied, not looking her in the eye as they'd stood awkwardly in the front hallway.
What kind of business?' she'd asked.
He'd walked away from her without replying.
His rudeness didn't seem to bother her, because whenever she saw him she acted as if they were old friends. Yesterday she'd stopped him on the way to his car. 'It's funny,' she'd said cheerfully, 'we live in the same house and I don't even know your name.'
He was forced to reply. 'John,' he'd lied.
'John what?' she'd asked, edging closer.
John Seagal,' he'd replied, backing off.
She'd smirked coquettishly. 'Don't you want to know my name?'
He'd had no desire to know her name, but she'd told him anyway. 'Shelley. That's with an "ey". When I make it big you can say you knew me when.'
Would-be actresses. They were everywhere in Hollywood. They littered the streets. They filled the clubs. They drove on the freeways. Their hungry eyes watching... wanting... waiting...
If it wasn't for that bitch of an actress who'd lured him with her tantalizing smile, and her bouncy tits and her long yellow hair, he'd never have lost seven years of his life.
Pulling aside one of the black-out blinds that now covered his windows he peeked out, watching the maid as she trudged wearily down the path carrying a heavy sackload of garbage. She stayed away from him now. He had her trained not to go near his room.
His solitary existence suited him fine as long as he had everything he needed. A bed, television, VCR machine, a stack of movies, and his dreams of the future.
The future would be a better place when he'd dealt with the scum who'd so foolishly betrayed him. The female scum. They had to learn a lesson. A harsh lesson perhaps, but there was no other way.
It was time to check off the second name on his list. Six women altogether. Five to go.
It was an exciting game and he was enjoying playing it.
Chapter Thirteen
'No, Rosa, absolutely not,' Kennedy said, cradling the phone under her chin. 'I refuse to subject myself to one more blind date.'
'But Kennedy,' Rosa pleaded, in her usual you've-got-to-do-me-this-one-big-favor voice. 'Look what happened last time. You ended up enjoying yourself - I mean really enjoying yourself. What's so bad about that?'
True. Her one night with Nix had been memorable, but it was not something she wished to repeat.
'Nothing,' she said, 'I simply have no desire to do it again. Besides, I have to work.'
'What work?'
'I'm writing the Style Wars piece on Bobby Rush.'
Now she had Rosa's interest. 'Did you interview him?'
'Sort of.'
'What's he like?'
'He's OK,' she said. 'In fact, he's really a nice guy for an actor.'
'Does he have a girlfriend?' Rosa pressed, dying to find out everything.
'We didn't get into his personal life.'
Rosa was disappointed. 'Why not? That's what all your women readers will want to know.'
'Rosa,' Kennedy said patiently. 'You present the news your way, and I'll do my interviewing my way.'
'So you won't come with us tomorrow night?'
'No. Capiche?'
'Your loss.'
'According to you it always is.'
Once rid of Rosa she called her father in the nursing home. He was cheerful as usual. Eighty-five years old, riddled with cancer, and yet he always managed to make her feel better.
'I'll drive out to see you on Sunday, Dad,' she promised. 'Anything you need?'
'Just your lovely face,' he replied. 'And a fine Havana if you can smuggle it past these damned nurses.'
'I'll fly to Cuba.'
'Dunhills will do.'
She hung up smiling.
* * *
On Sunday, the long drive to the nursing home in Agoura Hills gave Kennedy plenty of time to think. With the Bobby Rush profile on its way to New York via Federal Express she could now concentrate on the first big story she planned to write for Style Wars.
Living in Los Angeles, the movie industry was a tempting subject. Women on film. Women and violence. Women in Hollywood. Equality or sexism? Who's winning?
She'd been considering the women with power in Hollywood, and the two she most wanted to interview were Sherry Lansing, currently the boss at Paramount, and Lucky Santangelo, a woman with major clout who owned and ran Panther Studios. Under Lucky's ownership, the studio was producing some pretty interesting movies depicting women as real people, instead of merely the girlfriend or the whore.
Kennedy knew there were many directions she could take. The battle had been written countless times before, but never her way. Maybe if she wrote a powerful enough piece she could influence a few of the so-called Hollywood executives to change their sexist ways.
Ha! Extremely wishful thinking.
She decided to call Mason in the morning and discuss it with him. He had good instincts, and it was essential that her first real story for Style Wars made an impact.
* * *
Nurse Linford, a middle-aged black woman in her forties with a huge bosom, mischievous smile and a crush on Kennedy's father, greeted her at reception. 'Your daddy's an incorrigible flirtin' dog!' she said, beaming. 'An' the truth of the matter is I enjoy every second of his bad-boy behaviour!'
Kennedy had never considered her father to be either a bad boy or a flirt. It was obvious there was another side to the studious professor of literature she'd grown up with. He'd always been a wonderful and caring father, and even though she was an only child, neither of her parents had ever allowed her to feel lonely. Every summer they'd travelled extensively together, exploring Europe and exposing her to all kinds of different cultures. At nine she was reading Dickens; at twelve Trollope and Dostoevsky; and by fourteen she was into Henry Miller and Anai's Nin. She'd certainly experienced a rounded education.
Nurse Linford led her into her father's room. He sat on top of the bed, a smile on his face, a pile of books on the bedside table and a notepad of paper balanced on his lap, pen poised. He was always jotting down notes with the intention of writing another book. He'd
already published three academic studies and now he was planning a fourth.
Kennedy gave him a hug and a kiss. 'How are you doing, Dad?' she asked warmly, thinking he looked thinner and more gaunt than last time she'd visited.
'How would you be doing if you were stuck in a nursing home?' he said, sounding cross but not really meaning it. He'd accepted his fate with as good a grace as he could muster.
'Not as well as you,' she replied.
'Take no notice of his complaining,' Nurse Linford said, clucking her tongue. 'He's a grouchy old boy today.'
'I never complain,' her father said indignantly. 'If I did you'd be the first to hear me.'
'I'm sure about that,' Nurse Linford replied, adjusting his bedcovers. 'How about taking a walk around the garden with your daughter? It's a beautiful day out there.'
'An excellent idea, nurse,' he agreed. He wasn't bedridden, it was just that the pain was so intense that most of the time he was hooked up to a morphine drip to relieve his suffering.
'I'll set you up with your portable power pack,' Nurse Linford said, fussing around him as she helped him off the bed. 'That'll keep you going for a while.'
'You keep me going, nurse,' he said, wincing with pain as he straightened up.
Nurse Linford favoured him with her mischievous smile. 'You'd better believe it!'
Once outside, Kennedy and he strolled slowly around the well-kept grounds arm in arm.
'Tell me, dear, what have you been up to?' he asked.
'I abandoned the book I was working on. And since I needed money, I'm writing for Style Wars - you know, the magazine.'
'Of course I know the magazine,' he said irritably. 'I may be in the hospital but I haven't stopped living.'
'I didn't think it was your kind of literature.'
'Everything is my kind of literature,' he said gruffly. 'That's what makes the world go round.'
'You taught me that when I was five.'
'I'm glad you remember,' he said, with the glimmer of a smile.
'Anyway,' she continued, 'I have to write six celebrity profiles, and at the same time I get to write six other pieces on any subject I care to cover.'
'Sounds challenging.'
'That's what attracted me to the assignment. I was considering writing an expose on the way men treat women in the film industry. What do you think?'
'If you can make it fresh.'
'Trust me, Dad, I can make it fresh.'
He squeezed her hand tightly. 'I'm sure you can, my dear. You can do whatever you set your mind to.'
It was a good feeling knowing her parents had always believed in her. They'd taught her well, infusing her with ambition, spirit and energy. The result of their nurturing was that she'd grown up full of confidence. They couldn't have given her a greater gift.
'So, what else has been going on?' she asked lightly. 'Nurse Linford still chasing you around the room?'
'Nurse Linford is taking a self-defence course,' he said, with a chuckle.
'To protect herself against you?'
His gaunt face turned serious. 'There was a murder in the neighbourhood not too long ago.'
'What happened?'
'A woman was strangled outside her house.'
'I was under the impression this was a fairly crime-free area.'
'It usually is, that's why everybody's alarmed. All the nurses are taking a self-defence course.'
'I can't imagine anyone trying to attack Nurse Linford, she'd crush them like a bug!'
He laughed drily. 'Yes, she certainly would.' He paused for a moment before adding, 'That's what you should write about.'
What? Nurse Linford and her amazing strength?'
'No, dear. Write about the woman who was murdered.'
'She's not news. The magazine wouldn't be interested.'
Her father stopped short and gave her a withering look. 'I'll pretend you never said that. Not news indeed! The woman was strangled outside her own home. What more has to happen to her before she becomes newsworthy?'
'You're right,' she said quickly, suitably chastised.
'I'm glad you think so.'
She hung on to her father's bony hand. 'It's so good to see you, Dad, it always is.'
'Make the most of it, Kennedy, dear. When these old legs stop supporting me I don't plan on staying around.'
* * *
Sunday morning Bobby rolled out of bed, forcing himself to get dressed and go jogging. He'd only had a few hours sleep, hanging out at Homebase Central until three in the morning. Several beautiful girls had tried to persuade him that they were the perfect companion to take home for a night of passion. He'd resisted all advances.
Gary had tried to encourage him. 'Go for it,' he'd urged. 'When it comes to pussy - never turn it down.'
'I'm not interested in one-nighters,' he'd said, and meant it. He considered himself past the let's-get-laid-just-because-I-can stage. There had to be more to life than sex with a stranger. He was looking for a meaningful relationship with a female who was not an actress. Most actresses were a nightmare - insecure, narcissistic, demanding, fragile. His last two semi-serious flings had been with actresses. Never again.
Jogging along the UCLA track he worked up a heavy sweat. Then he went home, dived into his swimming-pool, swam fifty lengths, got out, squeezed a glass of fresh orange juice, grabbed the L.A. Times and lay out by the pool on a comfortable chaise.
It occurred to him that maybe he'd call the woman who'd come for the interview. What was her name? Ah yes, Kennedy something or other. Kennedy Chase, that was it.
He thought about her for a moment - cool, attractive and very together.
It then occurred to him he didn't have her number, so he phoned his secretary at home.
'Beth, did you pre- interview Kennedy Chase?' he asked.
There was a long pause. 'Uh... no,' she said, sounding puzzled. 'Should I have?'
'Sure you should. She's an attractive woman, but not suitable for the job at all. By the way, what's her phone number?'
'I don't have it.'
'Why not?'
'Bobby, Elspeth handles press, she is your publicist.'
What's Elspeth got to do with this?'
'Kennedy Chase,' Beth replied patiently. 'Your interview with her is now scheduled for ten o'clock on Monday.'
'Beth, help me out here, I'm confused. I interviewed her on Friday.'
'You interviewed her?'
'That's what you set up, isn't it?'
'No.'
He was getting impatient. 'If you didn't set it up, who did?'
'There's obviously some confusion here, Bobby. Kennedy Chase is the journalist from Style Wars. She's doing the story on you to go with the cover photograph.'
'According to your latest schedule she's due to interview you Monday at ten a.m. And Elspeth has promised her she can hang in the background for the rest of the day observing. I thought you agreed to this.'
'I suppose I must have,' he muttered, knowing he'd been taken.
'Do you still want me to get you her number? I can call Elspeth, I'm sure she'll have it.'
'Don't bother,' he said, hanging up.
Of course, it all made sense now, a case of mistaken identity, and Kennedy, good little journalist that she obviously was, had taken full advantage of the situation.
He couldn't wait until tomorrow morning. He would show Ms Chase a thing or two. Oh yeah, really.
* * *
Kennedy drove home thinking about murder and ageing and disease and pain. All the good things. By the time she reached her apartment she was ready to call Rosa and yell Yes! Yes! I'm coming out with you. I don't care who he is! Bring him to me - naked and horny!
Wisdom prevailed and she didn't. Instead she heated a can of vegetable soup, sipped it slowly, took a leisurely bath, and got into bed with the latest Elmore Leonard novel - his wonderfully vivid crime books were her weakness. Thoroughly relaxed she fell asleep dreaming of Florida con men and colourful losers.
In
the morning she felt better. She had no intention of keeping her appointment to interview Bobby Rush, she'd already finished the piece and sent it to Mason. She also had no intention of informing his rude publicist - let the woman find out the hard way.
At around ten thirty her phone started ringing. She allowed the machine to pick up and listened in.
One desperate publicist.
Good.
The woman called four times between ten thirty and noon. Finally she gave up.
Kennedy decided to go to the beach. After all, this was California and it was a gorgeous clear day.
She left her apartment feeling in a great mood. Putting the top down on her Corvette, she drove down the twisting curves of Sunset to the ocean.
When she got back around four there were several messages on her machine. Rosa, of course; Bobby Rush - that was a surprise; Mason, who said he had to talk to her about the piece; and finally a sad-sounding Nurse Linford. 'Kennedy, dear... I don't know how to say this... your father... he died late this afternoon. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.'
Kennedy gazed blankly at her answering machine and somehow or other fell back into a chair.
Her eyes filled with tears, slowly they trickled down her cheeks.
Now she was completely and utterly alone.
Chapter Fourteen
'You fucked Charlie Dollar?' Cheryl exclaimed incredulously, as she and Jordanna strolled through Fred Segal checking out the new Gaultier and Montana lines.
'It's not so difficult,' Jordanna said huffily. 'After all, he is a man.'
'He's also on Donna's list of clients,' Cheryl said, relishing the fact she had inside information. 'He orders up a little professional action once in a while.'
Jordanna couldn't help feeling disappointed. 'He does?'
'Two girls. Always blondes. Mister Movie Star is into watching.'
Jordanna hated the fact that Cheryl now considered herself an expert on everybody's sex life. She wished she hadn't confided about her one-nighter with Charlie.
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