‘How do you know?’ Sunday asked curiously.
‘I have a feeling for these things. Anyway he was brought in by Sam Plum who is the faggot agent.’
Sunday rubbed some oil on her body and lay back. It was good to get to know people. Carey had said she was strange because she stayed alone all the time. Well, Carey didn’t know the full story about Paulo. About the hurt he had left behind, and the lingering guilt – which she knew she had no reason to feel, but couldn’t help.
Soon Branch Strong (formerly Sydney Blumcor from the Bronx) came lumbering over. He had a smooth good-looking face without a trace of character.
‘Hello there, little ladies,’ he said. ‘Hot enough for you?’
‘Yeah.’ Dindi grinned. ‘Hey, Branch, this is Sunday Simmons.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, rubbing oily hands over his muscle-bound stomach. He thought he had never seen such a beautiful girl as Sunday, and the body on her – wowee – what a couple they would make!
‘When do you test?’ Dindi asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ he replied nervously. ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’
‘You bet.’ she giggled. ‘I’d cross my legs too but that would be too boring.’
Sunday stood up. ‘I think I’ll swim.’ She walked to the deep end of the pool and dived off the low board. Then she swam a length under water.
Branch watched admiringly. ‘She’s really something,’ he said with a note of awe.
‘Yeah,’ Dindi agreed. ‘But a bit uptight – no action – you understand?’
‘Huh?’
‘Forget it.’ She decided Branch Strong was a big good-looking hunk of blond idiot. He was still watching Sunday in the pool, his mouth hanging slackly open, his tongue nervously jumping up and down, Dindi had to admit that Sunday certainly was a fantastic-looking girl, but she didn’t seem to have much personality, a bit of a drag really. Dindi wondered what she would say if she told her about the scene she and her Roman boyfriend, old Prince Benno, had had with her faggy husband, the one who had knocked himself off. Three days locked up in a Rome hotel room. What a time that had been. Only a few weeks before he killed himself.
Sunday emerged from the pool and lay down. ‘It’s absolutely lovely, you must go in.’ She draped her wet hair over the back of the chair and closed her eyes. The sun was hot, and as it dried the tiny rivulets of water on her body, she fell into a light sleep.
Branch didn’t take his eyes off her.
Chapter Twelve
Herbert Lincoln Jefferson smiled contentedly, displaying one black tooth amongst a row of off-white ones. For someone so obsessed with bodily cleanliness, he held the inside of his mouth in complete disregard, cleaning his teeth only when he remembered, which wasn’t often.
He stood under the rusty shower, soaping his thin hairless body and grinning all the while.
It had taken him two weeks but at last he had done it. He had written a letter to Sunday Simmons of such poetic obscenity that the mere thought of it excited him – in spite of the fact that he had only five minutes previously ejaculated into a plastic bag to be enclosed with the precious letter.
He stroked his fine upstanding member with soap and felt very proud of himself. What a man he was! What joy and thrills he could give to any woman!
The wait had been worth it. As soon as he saw Sunday he had realized that this was the girl for him. To hell with Angela Carter and all the other past recipients of his letters. This was the woman he dreamed about. Perfect, from her tawny mane of hair to her rounded sensual body. Even her feet, peeking at him through gold sandals, were sexy.
On the drive to the Milan house he watched her in the rear-view mirror. Once her big browny-yellow eyes met his, and he coughed unobtrusively, making some remark about the weather.
Since that night he had hoped to be assigned to drive her again, but no such luck. So he had started to compose a letter. His early efforts did not meet with his approval. The first letter had to be something special, something that would intrigue and excite her so much that she would want to meet the man who could write with such explicit passion and know-how.
And now, at last, he had written such a letter. A masterpiece. The crowning touch being instructions as to what she should do with his plastic-bag offering. Tomorrow he would sit and imagine her reading it and following his instructions. He would fill another plastic bag and write another wonderful letter, explaining how the second bag was filled as he thought of her lovingly dealing with the first.
‘Herbie.’ The whiney voice of his wife was accompanied by a knock on the bathroom door and a rattling of the handle. ‘Herbie, I wanna go to the john. Can I go to the john, please? You’ve been in there an hour.’
The big fat cow would have to spoil these few pleasant moments for him.
‘Just a minute, dear,’ he called back mildly. He wrapped a towel around himself and unlocked the door.
‘I don’t know why you have to always lock the door,’ she complained. ‘Makes me feel like an intruder.’ She lifted her skirt to sit on the toilet and Herbert rapidly left the room.
Heavy thighs, Marge had thick heavy thighs. She forgot to shave her legs for weeks on end and they were covered in an unpleasant ginger stubble. They had been married ten years, and glancing at the photo on the dressing table, Herbert could hardly believe that the pretty red-head with the slim figure and big breasts was now the slovenly, fat, Marge, squatting on the john. Did he know he was marrying an eating maniac? A woman to whom six eggs and a loaf of bread for breakfast were not unusual?
She had been so lovely. Their first meeting near Los Angeles airport, in a bar at lunchtime, had been so romantic. He had gone with a friend for a beer and a sandwich – at that time he was driving trucks – and Marge had come forward to serve them, looking girlish in a short fringed cowboy skirt, white boots, and a stetson hat. It was a topless bar, and her large bosoms had bobbed tantalizingly at him, a sheriff’s star cheekily covering each nipple.
‘What’ll you have?’ she had asked, standing by his table, a pad in her hand, and a sheriffs star nearly in his mouth.
Herbert would never forget that first meeting. They married a few months later, Marge already pregnant. But she had lost the baby, and then another. Shortly afterwards she started to eat, and Herbert started to write his letters.
‘Hon,’ Marge came shuffling into the bedroom, ‘what do you think I should wear?’
‘Wear?’ He looked at her in surprise. ‘For what?’ This was about the time she always settled in front of the television.
She was wriggling her fat body out of her shabby house-dress. ‘I told you, hon, I’m gonna go to a movie with our new neighbour. She asked me two days ago. I told you.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He remembered now. A married couple had moved into the yellow house next door, and Marge, on her daily trip to the supermarket, had met the wife. The two women had arranged to go to a film. Marge was thrilled. She had no friends and Herbert never took her anywhere, so to go to a movie was a rare treat.
Marge was trying to struggle into a blue sailor dress that no longer fitted. She grew larger every year.
‘We’re gonna see a movie,’ she repeated, ‘it’s supposed to be a real weird movie – y’know, weirdy weird, and dirty too.’ She abandoned the struggle with the sailor dress and chose instead a loose polka-dot shift that she had bought for her sister’s wedding the previous year. She managed to squeeze into that, although it was no longer a loose shift.
Herbert said, ‘What time are you going?’ He wasn’t sure that he liked the idea of his wife roaming around enjoying herself at dirty movies whilst he was out working.
‘Louella’s calling for me at seven. She’s got a car.’ She pouted at herself in the mirror, applied a jammy red lipstick and touched her cheeks with it, wiping the residue on her dress. ‘It’s so hot,’ she sighed, running a comb through her scraggy red hair.
‘Yes,’ Herbert agreed, but his mind was no longer on Marge. His mind was on
the letter waiting to be posted.
After Marge went downstairs he would pocket his prize and set off lovingly to post it.
She splashed cheap cologne over her fat freckled arms and put on a pair of white scuffed shoes. ‘There. How do I look?’
She looked like a ginger elephant in a polka-dot dress. ‘Very nice,’ he said, noticing that the back of her hem was hanging loose. ‘Don’t you two girls do any flirting.’
She cackled. ‘Herbie!’ She lumbered off downstairs and he quickly pocketed the letter.
Oh, Miss Sunday Simmons, what a treat you have in store for you!
Chapter Thirteen
Charlie was pleased at the way things worked out. He stood to make a great deal more money, he would be the main star of Roundabout, and they would pick a leading lady of his choice. After all, were he truthful with himself, the main reason he had wanted Michelle was personal. His ego had taken a bad beating with the divorce, and he had needed the reassurance that a sex-symbol, a woman most red-blooded men would give their right arm to possess, desired him – and not as a star, but as a man.
Michelle’s defection was a great personal disappointment. But he had to admit that professionally it was probably better.
He dressed prior to leaving for Cy’s house. His clothes reflected the new Charlie Brick, the free, divorced Charlie Brick, the thin Charlie Brick.
He wore brown slacks, and a loose Indian-type shirt. He adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses and, peering at himself in the mirror, decided that maybe he should try some tinted lenses, something a bit newer.
George was waiting in the red Maserati at the front of the hotel.
‘I think I’ll drive myself tonight,’ Charlie said. He felt good. So good in fact that he had sent Michelle a telegram of congratulation.
‘Are you sure?’ George asked doubtfully. The car was always in terrible shape after Charlie drove it.
‘Of course I’m sure. You take the Mercedes and go and have some fun. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘All right.’ George was quite pleased at the prospect of an evening off. He was bored with sitting around the hotel each night trying to keep Charlie cheerful. He stepped out of the car. Charlie climbed in and revved the engine, loving the sound of unleashed power.
A pretty girl, leaving the hotel with a small poodle, turned to stare at him. He winked, she winked back. Why the hell had he told Marshall to fix a girl for him? He could manage very nicely on his own.
* * *
Cy Hamilton Jnr’s wife, Emerald, was a lush. She was attractive, with long straight black hair parted in the middle. She wore gold patio pyjamas, and drank straight Scotch on the rocks while directing bitchy put-downs at her husband’s every other sentence. She clung onto Charlie’s arm, swaying slightly and breathing lethal alcohol fumes in his face.
Marshall caught Charlie by the arm as they were going into the Venetian dining room. ‘Take no notice of Emerald,’ he whispered, ‘She’s always smashed. She’ll probably try to grab your cock under the table. Just pretend not to notice.’
‘What?’ Charlie found the thought of Emerald making a grab for him highly amusing, and also improbable with her husband sitting right there.
‘I should have warned you before,’ Marshall muttered, ‘only Cy gets very steamed up if you say anything. She makes a play for everyone, it’s her way of getting at him.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story. To put it in a nutshell, once he marries them he can’t get it up any more. He’s in analysis about it.’
‘Yes, I should think he would be.’
Charlie felt an immediate rapport with Cy. What an awful position to be in. He had always harboured a secret fear that one day it might happen to him.
The four of them sat down to dinner served by two Mexican maids wearing starched black and white uniforms.
Emerald immediately knocked over a glass of wine and accused Cy of having pushed her elbow. They squabbled like two children, ignoring the melon and Parma ham put before them.
Marshall and Charlie ate, trying to ignore the bickering.
Marshall said quietly, ‘There’ll be a young lady coming to your hotel at eleven. She’s a nice kid, a big fan of yours. As a matter of fact, she’s quite an up and coming actress. She doesn’t usually go on blind dates, but as I said, she’s a fan of yours. You’ll like her, her name’s Dindi Sydne.’
‘Great.’ Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘Does this go on all through dinner?’ He indicated the battling couple.
‘No. She’ll throw something at him in a minute and walk out. She’ll be back for dessert.’
Sure enough, Emerald suddenly got up, called Cy a string of four-letter names, threw the bread basket at him and stalked out.
‘Broads!’ Cy exclaimed.
True to Marshall’s prediction she re-appeared at the strawberry shortcake stage. She had changed into a silk jersey floor-length dress which clung to her like a second skin, and was split from the neck to the navel, showing off lightly tanned skin and an almost flat bosom.
She smiled at everyone and sat down, sipping at a large glass of Scotch she had brought with her.
Cy continued talking about a recent production of his.
Is that a hand creeping up my leg? Charlie thought. My God, it is! Light fingers were stalking past his knee and fiddling with his fly. He was thankful that these new trousers had buttons instead of the usual zipper. Marshall certainly knew the order of events!
Emerald was making no progress with the buttons, and her fingers started to rub impatiently. To his embarrassment he started to get an erection.
Emerald smiled and sipped her drink. Cy droned on. Charlie uncomfortably spooned a mouthful of strawberry shortcake and tried to think of other things.
At last dinner was over, and Charlie excused himself quickly and went to the bathroom. What an unbelievable scene! And Marshall said she did it to everyone. The woman must be insane, and Cy even more insane to put up with it.
He cleaned his teeth with a gold Asprey’s toothpick, washed his hands, and returned to the others.
‘I thought we’d have coffee in the screening room,’ Cy said. ‘Are you going to come and watch, darling?’
Emerald shook her head and made some crack about having better things to do than watch a load of dumb starlets – only she didn’t use the word starlets.
Cy’s viewing room was done entirely in red leather. Even the screen was fitted into a red leather surround, studded with gold horseshoes.
Charlie admired it, and thought to himself that when he was finished on this film, he must buy a home for himself somewhere. It was important to get out of hotels. Now that he knew he was staying to do the movie, he would send George out to rent a house tomorrow. The children would be joining him soon, and they deserved the best.
The first girl came on the screen. She was blonde and curvaceous, but she lacked a certain something. All three of them said no. The second clip was Angela Carter. She was tall, with a particular gamine quality that appealed to Charlie. The scene was backstage at a theatre and she was wearing a leotard that made her legs appear six feet long.
‘Y’know, I don’t think she’d be bad at all,’ Charlie mused.
‘Yeah,’ Marshall agreed. Angela was bugging the life out of him to get her a part. ‘After all, it’s a comedy – no big dramatics. I think it would be a clever bit of casting.’
‘She looks like a Pekinese,’ Cy said.
‘But a sexy one,’ Marshall continued, ‘and there’s talk around that she and Steve Magnum might even get married. What a publicity natural that would be!’
‘Let’s see the others before we get carried away.’
The next girl was a new English discovery who had just starred in her first film. Rumour had it that she had screwed everyone on it from the star to the clapper boy.
‘No,’ Charlie shook his head, ‘she speaks like she’s got a plum in her mouth.’
‘Maybe somebody left their prick
there!’ Marshall said with a dirty laugh.
Girl number four was Sunday Simmons, in the bedroom scene with Jack Milan.
‘Now that’s what I call sensational,’ Cy said, sitting up very straight. ‘I don’t know about using her for the movie, but I have to meet her. Fix it up, Marsh. That is all woman.’
Charlie agreed. She was gorgeous. But who had ever heard of her? Angela Carter was certainly the best bet as far as he was concerned.
It was the first time Marshall had seen Sunday on the screen, and he suddenly understood what Carey was so excited about. This girl had it. He must phone Carey first thing and sign her up. His bad leg tingled, a sure sign that he was on to something good. ‘It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to use an unknown,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s done a lot of Italian films.’
‘No.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘She’s not right.’
‘She’s got a wild pair of tits!’ Cy said, running the scene again.
‘You don’t judge an actress by the size of her tits,’ Charlie replied coldly. He refused to be fobbed off with an unknown just because Cy wanted to lay her.
‘Let’s run the last girl,’ Cy said.
The last girl was a young television actress. She was appealing and nice. Not sexy enough, all three men agreed.
‘I’m happy to decide on Angela Carter,’ Charlie declared.
Cy nodded. ‘I guess she’s the best choice. Is she free right away, Marsh?’
‘Free as a bird. What about Sunday Simmons for the other girl, the small part?’
‘Not a bad idea. What do you think, Charlie?’
‘Yes – fine with me.’ He glanced at his watch. It was ten-thirty, time to be getting back to the hotel and preparing for his date. He got up and stretched. ‘Thank your – er – um – wife for a lovely dinner.’
‘Pleasure.’ Cy stood too. ‘I hope we didn’t disturb you with our little tiff. Emerald’s alone all day and she gets very bored. Our fights are just her way of letting off steam.’
Sinners Page 7