‘What about its food?’
‘Jesus!’
‘You promised you’d pay half.’
‘How much?’
‘Your split is a dollar fifty-seven. I got a bag of Gravy Train – I think it will last the week.’
‘If it doesn’t,’ he said fiercely, groping for more money, ‘the mutt goes hungry.’
She accepted two more dollars from him, and began to search for change.
‘Forget it,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Put it towards the collar and lead.’
‘That’ll give you a five percent share,’ she said gravely.
He couldn’t help laughing. The dog began to bark. Gingerly he patted it on the head.
‘Did you work things out with our dragon landlady?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘I told you it would be easy for you.’
‘Yeah, well y’just have to know how to handle her.’
‘And I expect you do.’
Was she giving him a jab? He couldn’t tell. God, she was young. Too young to even know how to jab.
‘How old are you?’ he couldn’t help asking.
‘Older than I look,’ she replied mysteriously.
Since she looked about twelve that didn’t help much. ‘Lucky you. I’m about ten years younger than I look.’
She almost smiled. He couldn’t tell what was going on behind her John Lennon specs. ‘Well, I gotta get goin’,’ he said. ‘See you.’
He strode briskly away, leaving her standing outside his front door, a rather forlorn little figure. Didn’t she have any friends?
What did he care whether she did or not?
Come on, Wesley. Get your ass in gear. The star is waiting.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
In the Bistro Garden, an elegant Beverly Hills restaurant, the hum of conversation was muted as the rich and famous checked each other out. Poppy Soloman had a table in the tree-shaded garden. She had invited two other women apart from Melanie-Shanna, and while she waited for her guests to arrive, she sipped Perrier with a slice of lime, and inspected the other diners.
There was a well-known producer – well known for his shoplifting proclivities.
There was his wife – an English rose from whom the bloom had long since faded.
There was a young screen writer – whose main claim to fame was his perpetual state of inebriation.
There was a teenage actress who had slept her way down the ladder.
Scattered among them were the stars, the true royalty of Hollywood. Poppy counted two retired greats, and a semi-retired almost-great. She also spotted Chuck Nielson with his agent. They exchanged waves.
Melanie-Shanna arrived before the other two women. She was flushed and full of apologies. ‘Am I late? I’m so sorry. I do hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’
Poppy tossed back her long blonde hair. Her thick tresses were her best feature, and she always made sure her hair was clean and shining and smelled of deliriously expensive shampoos and conditioners. ‘You’re not late,’ she said, consulting a diamond-studded watch. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re exactly on time.’
‘Thank goodness!’ sighed Melanie-Shanna.
Poppy summoned the waiter with an authoritative gesture. ‘What would you like, dear?’
She quickly looked to see what Poppy was drinking. ‘The same as you, please.’
‘No, no. You must have something alcoholic. I’ll join you in a minute.’ Poppy clicked her fingers at the waiter. ‘Bring Mrs. Cable a Mimosa.’
Melanie-Shanna hesitated for only a second, then asked, ‘What’s a Mimosa?’
‘Champagne and orange juice,’ Poppy replied patronizingly, as if everyone should know. Before she married Howard, and got herself an education, she’d had no idea either.
Melanie-Shanna looked apologetic again. ‘Mannon doesn’t like me to drink.’
‘A Mimosa is hardly a drink. You’ll love it.’ Poppy stared critically at her luncheon guest. The girl was pretty enough in a very Texan sort of way. She had wonderful hair and skin, widely spaced eyes, and a body men watched. However, she was not Whitney – who apart from being dazzling was also a big star. Things like that made a difference. Poppy wondered where Mannon had found this one. It seemed every time he went on location to Texas he came back with a wife. ‘You know, dear,’ she said, ‘we’ve never really had an opportunity to talk before. I want to hear all about how you and Mannon met.’
Melanie-Shanna shrugged. ‘The papers were full of our story. I thought everyone knew.’
‘Not me,’ said Poppy. ‘I never have time to read the newspapers, what with my charity work, catering to Howard, and watching Roselight. She’s such an active little girl, just like her daddy. You must come over and see her one day.’
‘I’d like that.’
The waiter placed a Mimosa in front of Melanie-Shanna. She sipped it delicately, and wished she hadn’t come. Ladies’ lunches always made her feel uncomfortable, as if she had a run in her tights or chipped nails.
‘Good,’ Poppy said brightly. ‘Here are the girls.’
The ‘girls’ were two women of indeterminate age, although both would never see fifty again. Ida White was the fourth wife of super-agent Zeppo. She was put together with cement to hide the joins, and had pale skin, dramatically white hair pulled back in a tight chignon, an Yves Saint Laurent ensemble, and a blank stare. Rumour had it that Ida was permanently stoned, preferring the land of la-la to life with her womanizing husband. Zeppo was an infamous Hollywood character known for his sharp tongue and two-inch cock, which – at one time or another – he had offered to every actress in the Western world.
The second woman was the wife of Orville Gooseberger, the producer. She was big and matronly, with the requisite face-lift, frosted hair, and a very loud voice. Her name was Carmel, and her husband was even larger and louder than she.
‘Does everyone know each other?’ trilled Poppy, in between accepting hair-crushing kisses and cries of ‘You look wonderful!’ from each of the women.
‘Melanie, dear,’ continued Poppy (she loved playing hostess, it made her feel so important and busy) ‘this is Ida – you know, Zeppo White’s wife. And I’m sure you’ve met Carmel Gooseberger. Her husband’s the producer.’ Poppy made sure she gave everyone billing. ‘Girls,’ she said happily, ‘we have finally managed to get Mannon’s wife out. Can you imagine? She never goes anywhere. We simply have to befriend her.’
‘I knew Mannon when he was getting under a hundred a picture,’ boomed Carmel.
The stoned Ida rallied. ‘He was adorable then. So so witty…’
‘And quite a ladies’ man, I hear,’ giggled Poppy. ‘I’m too young to remember, but the rumours! Oh dear me!’
Melanie-Shanna smiled politely. She knew about Mannon’s past reputation – they didn’t have to stick her nose in it. After all, it was a long time ago, before Whitney. She swallowed hard when she thought of her predecessor. Last week she had gone to Mannon’s bedside drawer, searching for aspirin. And there, face up, was a framed photograph of Whitney and him together. Just the two of them, in muted colour, standing with their arms around each other, a faraway look in their eyes.
Her immediate reaction was to smash the frame to the ground and rip up the picture. She hated Whitney Valentine Cable. If Whitney wasn’t around, Mannon would be hers. For in her heart of hearts she knew he still belonged to his ex-wife.
The waiter delivered drinks to the table, and Poppy raised her glass of Perrier. ‘Now that we’re all here,’ she said gaily, ‘I’d like to propose a toast.’
Ida picked up her double vodka. Carmel lifted white wine. Melanie-Shanna reached for her second Mimosa.
‘To us,’ announced Poppy. ‘Just because we deserve it!’
The ladies drank.
‘And to Melanie.’ Poppy was on a roll, and wasn’t about to quit. ‘Because we want her to feel she’s one of us.’
They made an incongruous quartet. Melanie-Shanna, so young and pr
etty, and obviously painfully out of place; Poppy, designer-labelled to the eyebrows, but not quite chic – her hairstyle put paid to that; Ida, totally out of it; and Carmel, old enough to be Melanie-Shanna’s and Poppy’s mother.
‘I nearly fucked Mannon once,’ recalled Ida, a faraway look in her eye.
‘Shush!’ said Poppy warningly. ‘Melanie doesn’t want to hear about that.’
‘Zeppo was his agent,’ Ida continued, oblivious. ‘We were all on location… I wasn’t married to Zeppo then, but he was after me all right!’
‘Zeppo was after everything that drew breath,’ Carmel remarked loudly.
‘So was Orville,’ retorted Ida, with a spark of clarity. ‘I can remember when no actresses would step into his office because he insisted they give him a blow job under the desk.’
‘Really?’ Poppy gasped.
‘The Screen Actors Guild had to step in,’ Ida added. Her thoughts drifted. ‘I nearly fucked Mannon once.’
‘Well, you didn’t,’ roared Carmel, ‘so do get off the subject.’
Poppy giggled. She adored these two Hollywood old-timers – one never knew what was going to come out of their mouths next. And in their own way they were important women. At least their husbands were important, which made them important by association.
There is a certain kind of woman in Hollywood who believes that because she is married to a famous/rich/powerful man everyone loves her, and she is one of the queens of Hollywood.
Sure everyone loves her, while the marriage lasts. When the divorce comes – forget it. Suddenly the invitations cease and the loyal friends vanish. Sad but true. The friends stick with the famous/rich/powerful husbands. Some friends.
Ida and Carmel were two such women. Fortunately for them their marriages had lasted, sparing them the humiliation of being cast aside.
Chuck Nielson, sitting across the restaurant, had one eye on Melanie-Shanna and one eye on his agent, Quinne Lattimore. His concentration wavered between the two.
‘Chuck, are you listening to me?’ Quinne asked irritably.
‘Yeah,’ Chuck replied. ‘Only I gotta take a leak. I’ll be right back.’
He had noticed Mannon’s wife rise to go to the ladies’ room, and he was conveniently there when she came out. ‘Hello, pretty lady,’ he said.
She looked startled and flushed and exceptionally fuckable.
‘Chuck Nielson,’ he reminded.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘When are you coming to visit me at the beach?’
‘What?’
‘The beach. Malibu. Remember? I invited you down.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Don’t go wild with excitement.’
‘We’d love to come.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘We?’
‘Mannon and I.’
Chuck grinned boyishly. ‘You don’t have to bring him, y’know.’
She edged away.
He stopped her with a hand on her arm. Whitney was giving him a hard time and he needed to teach her a lesson, bring her into line. She was too independent by far. If he started an affair with Mannon’s new wife it would drive Whitney crazy.
‘Take my number,’ he urged, handing her a packet of matches with the number scrawled inside. ‘Call me.’
Melanie-Shanna smiled vaguely; she didn’t know what else to do. Mannon would be furious if he found out about this. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, pulling free.
‘Call me,’ Chuck repeated, as she hurried back to her table.
‘Well,’ Poppy said, savouring every word. ‘I see our local beach stud has you in his line of fire. How incestuous!’
‘He was just inviting Mannon and me to his house in Malibu,’ Melanie-Shanna explained lamely.
Poppy grinned knowingly. ‘I bet he was!’
‘Really.’
‘That man is a rutting dog,’ Carmel announced. ‘Orville had him in a film once. He laid every woman on the set, including his co-star.’
‘And who might that be?’ Poppy asked anxiously, never one to miss out on good gossip.
‘I don’t know. One of those flat-chested little popsies with goo-goo eyes. They all look the same to me. She married a vet or a dog trainer or something – I can’t remember which.’
Poppy’s eyes gleamed. ‘You must know some outrageous stories.’
Ida knocked over her glass of vodka and pretended not to notice. ‘I know the best stories,’ she said in her strangely flat voice. ‘I know everything.’
‘You should write a book,’ Poppy gushed.
‘I will,’ Ida said vaguely, ‘when I find the time.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
They were headed in one direction all night. Bed.
The champagne was cold.
The food delicious.
The conversation light.
Sex was on both their minds.
After dinner Silver suggested that they have brandies upstairs.
Wes grabbed a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses, and followed her up the winding staircase.
It wasn’t long before they were rolling around on her California King without a care in the world.
Silver Anderson, in bed, did not have any inhibitions. From experience Wes knew that after thirty, most women (he could only think of one exception – a tall thin porno star who swallowed men whole) had the most incredible hang-ups about their bodies. Am I too thin? Fat? Floppy? Have I got stretch marks? Do my breasts sag? God almighty! They carried on and on and on.
None of that from Silver Anderson. She wasn’t twenty-two, and didn’t give a damn. She had a compact, sinewy body, with firm breasts and hard nipples. Her bush was a little sparse, which was the only disappointment as far as he was concerned – he liked them with an abundance of hair down there. It didn’t matter, though, and it certainly made it easier when going down on her. He didn’t end up with a mouthful of annoying little pubic hairs which were impossible to get rid of.
Silver loved getting head. She didn’t mind giving it either. Some women thought they were doing you the favour of all time. Not Silver. She got down and boogied with a good solid beat.
Tonight she gave him another ball-busting climax, and after a few minutes’ recovery time he began to repay the compliment. Only he was in no hurry, and she didn’t object.
He laid her out, put pillows under her ass, spread her legs, and went to work. Eating pussy was not one of his favourite things, but he tackled the task gamely. Tongue probing, pushing, exploring. Going for the gold, and finding it.
She responded nicely, with just the right amount of moans and groans.
Usually he didn’t offer this service. In fact he could only remember doing it to two women before: his steel-thighed Swede, and the one love of his life – Vicki. Well, you had to keep something special, didn’t you? He wouldn’t have gone down on Reba Winogratsky for a thousand big ones. Maybe two thousand, but that was a lot of bucks.
Silver climaxed with abandon, thrusting her pelvis towards him until he was almost suffocated by her juices. He felt the throb, and knew it was a job well done.
He rolled away from her and dived into the bathroom, where he took a mugful of tap water and swished it around his mouth. Then he peed, and returned to the bedroom.
Silver was sitting up in the rumpled bed with the sheet tight to her chest. She had a smile of pure satisfaction on her face.
He grinned at her. No need for words as he bounded into bed beside her, reached for cigarettes for both of them, lit up, and handed her one.
They puffed silently, perfectly in tune. And when she was finished with her cigarette, she reached for his balls under the covers and kneaded them gently.
Not again! he thought. And rose to the occasion.
This was better than conversation any day!
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The yacht on Lake Mead was a rather grand affair with two decks and a uniformed crew. It belonged to Joseph Fonicetti, but he hardly used it, so his son, Dino, usually commandee
red it at weekends.
This particular weekend Dino and his wife, Susanna, were hosting a luncheon with a somewhat disparate group of guests.
There was Howard Soloman, extremely hung over, with red-rimmed eyes, and a turtleneck to cover his scars of battle.
There was Mannon Cable, with his cobalt blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and sly, self-deprecating humour.
There was Jack Python, looking uncomfortable.
And three of Susanna’s girlfriends. Two divorced, and one still searching for a victim. On a scale of ten, they ranged from a three to a six and a half.
There was Dee Dee Dionne, a beautiful black chanteuse, who was Carlos Brent’s current lady friend. She wore dark glasses and sat watchfully in the background.
There was Carlos Brent himself. He was Susanna’s father, and a true legend in his own lifetime.
And Carlos Brent’s assorted entourage.
There was Antonio, with his decorator boyfriend, and longhaired Danish friend.
And there was Jade Johnson.
Quite a group.
Jack had only stayed to see Carlos Brent. He wanted him for his show, and going through intermediaries was never satisfactory. When he spotted Jade, he knew fate had a hand in things somewhere along the line, and he was glad. Quickly noting who she was with, he detected no competition. Clarissa was in New York. He deserved a break, didn’t he?
Without hesitation he started to move towards her, only to be short-stopped by Antonio, who wanted to show off their acquaintanceship.
Jade smiled at him across the deck. A good sign. At least he wasn’t losing the Python touch.
‘Who is she?’ he asked Antonio, pointing her out.
‘You don’t know Jade?’ the photographer said in surprise. ‘How can that be?’
‘Who is she?’ Jack repeated.
The hunting look in his eye was duly observed by the wily Italian, and his bella Jade could do worse than Jack Python.
‘She is Jade Johnson. The most famous model of all. Forget Jerry Hall, Cheryl Tiegs and Christie Brinkley. This is the one.’
Jack felt like an idiot. Of course. He knew her name. And her image. Only she managed to look different in everything she did.
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