Hollywood Kids

by Jackie Collins

  He shrugged. 'It's a short story.'

  'Somebody must know something,' Rosa said, taking a quick peek in a hand mirror and fluffing her hair. 'And if they do, this interview could persuade them to come forward.'

  'Yeah,' he said, still not fully convinced he was doing the right thing.

  'Now, Michael, try to relax,' Rosa said, sitting down in a chair. 'Just pretend it's you and me talking.'

  'You make it sound so easy.'

  'It will be if we take it nice and slow.'

  The sound man began attaching a small microphone to the lapel of his sports jacket. The thought of this interview frightened the shit out of him. Michael Scorsini, who'd faced up to guns, drug dealers and God knew what else, was scared, and yet at the same time hopeful.

  When the interview started he was dry-mouthed and found himself mumbling all over the place. But Rosa knew her stuff, she dealt with him gently, drawing him out until he told his story as clearly as he could.

  When it was over she seemed pleased. She handed him her card. 'Call me, we're sure to get a big response.'

  He pocketed her card. 'Thanks. I appreciate this.'

  'I'd like to do a follow-up - maybe in a couple of weeks? Perhaps we'll have good news. What do you think?'

  'What do I think? I think I'm gonna find my daughter and then we'll see.'

  * * *

  'I've caught you a live one,' Rosa announced triumphantly as she and Kennedy worked out.

  Kennedy was on the treadmill, reaching the end of a vigorous thirty-minute stint. 'How many times do I have to tell you,' she said, almost out of breath, 'Nix was positively my last blind date.'

  'No, no,' Rosa said, lifting light hand-weights. 'You don't understand.'

  'Oh, yes, I understand perfectly.'

  This guy is the one,' Rosa said, working on her arms. 'And handsome too. He looks like a movie star. If I wasn't with Ferdy I'd grab him for myself. But since I'm such a generous friend I'm handing him your way.'

  Kennedy slowed the treadmill down. 'Thanks, but no thanks.'

  'Let me tell you about him,' Rosa said, full of enthusiasm.

  'He's an ex-New York detective. In fact, he's the ex-detective, the one who's been all over the news. You know, with the missing kid.'

  'Great! Now you're bringing me a guy with problems on top of everything else.'

  'No, no, this problem will get solved. Only I have no idea what the outcome will be, it doesn't sound good, but who knows?' She paused for a moment before adding, 'There's something about Michael - I know you'll love him.'

  Kennedy stepped off the treadmill, grabbed a towel and slung it around her neck. 'I will not love him, because I am not going to meet him.'

  Rosa put down the weights and took a breather. 'Did you see my interview with him? The response was amazing, we got over three hundred letters from women. Can you believe it? And, what's more, forty-three of them proposed marriage!'

  That's good. He can find himself a lovely wife, go off and live happily ever.'

  'What's the matter with you lately? Don't you have any heart? I'm offering you this great-looking guy that forty-three women want to marry, and you're turning him down?'

  'Rosa, English is your first language, right?'

  'Yes.'

  Then why don't you understand me? I do not wish to be fixed up.'

  'You used to be willing to take chances.'

  'I still do - in my work.'

  'So now you're becoming a nun?'

  Kennedy ignored the comment. 'By the way,' she said, 'I've been meaning to ask, do you know anything about the woman who was murdered in West Hollywood a few weeks ago?'

  'What woman?'

  'Her name was Stephanie Wolff- she was strangled, the same MO as Margarita Lynda.'

  'Really?'

  Two women, both strangled for no apparent reason, neither of them raped or robbed.'

  'Hmm... I'll get the news division to look into it.'

  'I wish you would. I've tried calling the police to see if the murders are connected in any way, but I got nowhere.'

  Rosa stretched and picked up the weights again. 'What are you writing about these women for anyway? They're not famous.'

  Kennedy laughed drily. 'You sound like my editor. If somebody gets murdered do they have to be famous before anybody pays attention?'

  'I thought celebrity interviews were your thing. When does your Bobby Rush piece appear?'

  'It'll be on the stands this week.'

  'Did you hear from him after your interview?'

  'No. He tried calling me a couple of times. I never returned the calls.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I didn't want to explain myself. Better he reads the interview, I think he'll like it.'

  'I'm sure he will,' Rosa said, with a sigh. 'And if he does, and he calls again, will you date him?'

  'No.'

  'No, huh?' Rosa shook her head. 'You're a strange one.'

  * * *

  Amber deposited her children with a girlfriend and spent two days traipsing around until she found Michael an apartment - a perfectly nice furnished one-bedroom on Riverside Drive in the Valley.

  'Don't know what I'd do without you,' he told her gratefully as she helped him settle in.

  'Somehow I've got a feeling you'd manage,' Amber said, organizing the tiny kitchen. 'You're a survivor. You keep on proving it.'

  He caught her in a hug. 'That's 'cause I've got good friends who are always around to support me.'

  She looked at him for a moment, her eyes full of sympathy. 'We care about you, Michael. Underneath that tough guy exterior lurks a very special friend.'

  Her words touched him, but it wasn't enough to jolt him out of a deep depression.

  After she left, he sat in his new apartment on his rented couch and thought about having a drink. A double Scotch. With ice.

  Oh, Christ, he could fucking smell it, taste it, feel the strong liquid burning a path down his throat.

  Why not? he asked himself. Why the fuck not?

  Because he had to stay sober to find his daughter. There was no chance if he was out of his head. And that's how alcohol affected him. It turned him into a crazy man. It turned him into his fucking stepfather. Uncontrollable.

  I am powerless over alcohol, he thought. Totally powerless.

  He'd never forget the night before the day he'd sobered up. What a bad trip that was. Rita and he got involved in one of their usual fights about money and her extravagant spending habits. She'd screamed at him that he was no good - exactly like his real father.

  'You don't know my real father,' he'd yelled at her.

  'I don't have to,' she'd yelled back. 'Sal told me all about him, and you're just as bad. A loser. A nothing. A down-and-out bum!'

  He'd stormed out of their apartment and gone to a bar where, after two hours of heavy drinking, he'd allowed himself to get picked up by a tall sexy blonde in a mini-skirt and tight sweater.

  Drinking was his curse, when he drank he became a different person - someone he hated - but once he started he couldn't stop.

  The blonde was persistent and he wasn't resisting. They'd ended up in a cheap hotel room off Times Square with a bottle of straight tequila and their hands all over each other. She'd given him head and he'd grabbed her tits.

  Memories were blurred up until then, but he'd never forget what happened next. Everything had flashed into sharp focus when the sexy blonde had dropped her short skirt and lace panties and shown him her penis and balls.

  Goddamn it! He'd realized he was with a fucking transvestite!

  He'd beaten the crap out of 'it', and her/his screaming could be heard for blocks. He'd pulled his gun and wanted to blow the pervert's brains out. Fortunately the cops had gotten there in time before he killed the motherfucker. And he would have. Oh yeah, no doubt about it.

  The next day Quincy had gotten him into Rehab for a gruelling four weeks. After that he'd started attending AA meetings.

  He'd never looked back. H
is past was too scary.

  He realized now that he needed to work the programme again, start attending meetings before it was too late.

  God grant me the serenity

  to accept the things I cannot

  change. The courage to change

  the things I can. And the

  wisdom to know the difference.

  He remembered the AA Serenity Prayer and immediately felt calmer.

  The truth was he was in a slump because he honestly didn't know what to do next. He was a detective for chrissakes, he knew how to solve cases - but he couldn't get anywhere with finding his own daughter and it was breaking him up.

  He'd loved Rita once, she was the mother of his child, but there was no way he could summon up any grief about her demise, only anger that she'd deprived him of his little girl.

  Quincy was working on a case involving a series of threatening letters being sent to the daughter of a television magnate. At first he'd assisted Michael in his investigation of Rita's murder and Bella's disappearance as best he could, but work beckoned, and when they'd encountered a series of leads that took them nowhere, he'd finally had to back off.

  In the morning Quincy called and insisted he come for dinner that night. On the way over he stopped off at a meeting. It was a worthwhile move and calmed him considerably.

  Amber had cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes and crisp fried onions. Comfort food. They sat around the kitchen table enjoying each other's company.

  Amber decided he needed the company of a woman. Quincy decided he needed to get laid. They were both on his case, until he finally acquiesced and agreed to go out on a date with a friend of Amber's from her salsa dance class.

  'I don't know her well,' Amber explained. 'But she sure is pretty. I showed her your picture and she's willing to meet you.'

  The bad news is she's a would-be actress,' Quincy interrupted, grinning. 'I got a look at her the other night when I met Amber from class. Nice legs - get her in the sack an' wrap 'em around your neck, Mike, you'll be a new man!'

  Amber tut-tutted. 'Is that the only thing you can think of - sex? It's companionship he needs at a time like this.'

  Quincy's grin broadened. 'Yeah, sure, honey, companionship, an' a little pussy to go with it!'

  'You're so crude,' Amber said crossly.

  'It's part of my charm, sweet thing!' Quincy said, throwing Michael a knowing wink.

  * * *

  They met in the bar of the Hyatt Universal Hotel.

  'Shelia?'

  'Michael?'

  They circled each other like wary soldiers on either side of the battlefield. She was California pretty with the requisite toned and tanned body, deep-dish tits exhibited in a low-cut short dress, and long sexy legs.

  'Shall we go into the restaurant?' Michael asked, surreptitiously checking her out.

  'Good idea,' she replied, sliding off the bar stool exhibiting a dangerous amount of creamy thigh.

  A hostess escorted them to a table. Michael ordered his usual non-alcoholic beer, while Shelia settled for vodka tonic.

  When her drink arrived she held it with both hands toying suggestively with the stem of her glass. 'Amber tells me you and Quincy were detectives together in New York,' she said.

  His eyes dropped to her breasts. 'And she told me you're an actress.'

  'I've done one Murder She Wrote, two lines in a Clint Eastwood movie and seven commercials. My agent says I'm almost ready to break through. Lately I've been thinking about hiring a manager, it's the smart thing to do.'

  He tried to look interested. 'Really?'

  'My nutritionist has a client who hired a manager and her career took off immediately. It's worth the extra ten per cent.'

  'It is?'

  'Yes, Michael. How much do you know about show business?' Her long fingers continued to rub the stem of the glass.

  Jesus! Did she know she was turning him on? 'Not a lot.'

  'I look at it this way, I either hire a manager, or I take it all off for Playboy. Now that's a real attention getter. Kim Basinger did it and never looked back. So did Joan Severance.'

  'Who's Joan Severance?'

  'Hmm...' she said, frowning, 'I guess it didn't have as much impact as she'd hoped, although she's on TV a lot.'

  He'd forgotten what dating was like. Two people out on a crap shoot. It wasn't for him.

  'I've done some Playboy test shots,' she said.

  'Yeah?'

  They loved my body.'

  He really wanted to be with a woman who stripped down to nothing for some jerk-off magazine.

  They said my breasts were perfect,' she announced proudly.

  It was obvious Shelia knew nothing about the double murder and his missing child. That was fine with him, because he had no desire to discuss it with a stranger, especially this stranger.

  Dinner seemed interminable. Shelia continued to drone on about her career, while he listened, trying to pay attention, but nevertheless he couldn't help thinking about his little daughter and where she could possibly be. Thoughts of Bella consumed him. It would be that way until he found her.

  Shelia ate a hearty meal, polishing off a shrimp cocktail, a large pepper steak and a huge dish of apple pie. After dinner she ordered a brandy and finally got around to asking him a couple of questions about himself.

  He answered briefly. Crass as it might seem, he wasn't out on a blind date to start a relationship. Quincy was right, he was out to get laid. Period. And it shouldn't be too difficult. He'd never had any trouble getting women into bed, in fact it was only too easy - his good looks did it every time. Women were suckers for handsome, they took one glance and simply couldn't resist. Sometimes it saddened him. Didn't they care about the person inside? He was so much more than just a glossy exterior. He had so many cravings, and yet there'd never been a woman who'd satisfied him emotionally.

  Outside the restaurant Shelia said the magic words. 'Would you like to come back to my place for coffee?'

  Translation: How about a fuck?

  'Yeah, that'd be nice,' he said.

  She lived in a small one-bedroom apartment on Fountain Avenue with two angry-looking cats named Arnold and Sly who prowled restlessly around the apartment glaring at him with steely elongated eyes.

  'I recently ended a steady relationship, how about you?' Shelia asked, handing him a cup of instant coffee in a colourful Superman mug.

  'Divorced,' he said, taking the coffee and sitting on the couch.

  She sat down beside him. He took a gulp of the hot liquid, put the mug on the table and slid his arm around behind her, pulling her in for a long kiss. After a few moments of heavy kissing activity she got to her feet, took his hand, and pulled him silently into the bedroom.

  It wasn't until they fell on top of her bed locked in a steamy embrace that he unhooked her bra and realized that what he'd thought were magnificent breasts were actually silicone implants. Easy enough to tell - they felt unreal - like a couple of solid plastic beach balls. If he wasn't so horny he would've lost his hard-on. As it was he hadn't gotten laid in months so there was no stopping him now.

  She thrust a hard nipple into his mouth. He sucked for a moment before groping for his wallet and removing the condom he'd been carrying for a while.

  Shelia was already going for his zipper, pulling it down with an expert's touch.

  He handed her the rubber. 'Here, sweetheart, you put it on,' he suggested in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion.

  To his dismay she tossed it carelessly to one side. 'I hate those things, we're both safe - who needs it?'

  Oh, shit! This AIDS thing had him very nervous. 'Uh... I'd feel happier,' he mumbled.

  'I know how to make you feel happier, baby,' she crooned, and with that her mouth descended on him, going to work like a dentist's suction cup.

  Christ! She wasn't giving him time to enjoy it. He came so fast he felt like he was back in grade school!

  As soon as it was over he wanted out, but Shelia had other ide
as. Throwing off the rest of her clothes, she lay back spread eagled on the bed and commanded in an I-take-no-prisoners voice, 'Eat me, baby, eat me!'

  He stared at her muff, a neat little strip of brown pubic hair shaved into submission. Whatever happened to good old bushy triangles?

  The uh... the shrimp,' he said vaguely, 'I gotta feeling it disagreed with me.'

  'What?'

  He was already zipping up and getting off the bed. 'We'd better finish this another time. I'm not feeling good.'

  She wasn't pleased. In fact she was furious.

  He made a daring escape, reached the street and sat in his car for a moment, leaning his arms on the steering-wheel. Sometimes he understood why paying for it was a sought-after alternative. You didn't have to buy them dinner, listen to them talk, and you certainly didn't have to give them head.

  Even more important, if you wanted to wear a condom there wasn't a hooker on earth who would argue with you.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bobby received an advance copy of Style Wars. His photograph on the cover was arresting. He'd allowed their star photographer to capture him stepping naked from the shower - although of course you couldn't see the goods because he was emerging from a frosted shower door and his pertinent bits were hidden. However, it was quite obvious he was bare-assed naked. The photographer - a manic woman with frizzed red hair and a seductive personality -had talked him into it. She'd been so persuasive and full of positive energy he'd agreed. After all, Sly had posed naked for the cover of Vanity Fair, and Demi Moore made a habit of it. He'd wanted the photo to make a statement. Boy, did it make a statement!

  Seeing it in full colour on the front of a national magazine was somewhat startling. He almost laughed aloud - it was a kick. At least his body looked buffed and ready for anything, all that jogging and working out had paid dividends.

  The caption on the front of the magazine read in bold red letters BOBBY RUSH - BODY OF THE YEAR. And underneath, in smaller print: