Lovers and Gamblers

by Collins, Jackie

  Miss Kansas City was third. She squealed with delight and kissed the girl nearest to her before rushing onto the stage.

  Miss Miami Beach was second. ‘Oh my God!’ she muttered, the colour draining from her face. And she had to be pushed onto the stage.

  Here it comes, thought Dallas, here comes my little bit of fame – here comes my passport to better things. If any of those sonsofbitches have double-crossed me…

  ‘And now the winner – “Miss Coast to Coast” – the beautiful – Dallas! Miss Los Angeles!’

  She pulled in her stomach, threw back her shoulders and walked confidently onto the stage.

  Flashbulbs were popping, the audience was applauding and cheering. Maybe she would have won it without taking out insurance… She seemed like a popular choice.

  The MC was grabbing her excitedly – ‘Miss Coast to Coast! Miss Coast to Coast!’ he kept on screaming.

  She smiled towards the television cameras. The previous year’s winner was placing the sash around her. Ramo Kaliffe was placing the crown on her head. ‘Later,’ he whispered.

  ‘Maybe,’ she whispered back. Maybe not – she thought. Wouldn’t do to let Ed find out there were others…

  Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Ed, he was smiling proudly. He had been smiling the first time she had met him, but that had been for different reasons…

  * * *

  Dallas thumbed a lift into Miami with a truck driver. He chewed gum and barely spoke to her. When he stopped the truck to let her out she had hesitated.

  ‘Whassamatter?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you might want to keep me with you…’ she ventured.

  ‘Aw, shit!’ He spat on the sidewalk. ‘I got daughters older than you. Go peddle it at the Fontainebleau.’

  The truck drove off and she was left standing there. Go peddle it at the Fontainebleau – what did that mean?

  ‘Excuse me?’ she asked a woman at a bus stop. ‘Is there a Fontainebleau Street?’ The woman shook her head. ‘Fontainebleau Hotel,’ she suggested, ‘but that’s over on Collins Avenue.’

  ‘How do I get there?’

  The woman looked her over. ‘Goin’ for a job?’

  ‘Er – yes.’

  ‘Come with me on the bus, I’ll tell you when we get there. Hadn’t you better smarten up?’

  ‘I will later,’ agreed Dallas. She was wearing her standard clothes of old jeans, a T-shirt, and sandals. Perhaps she should brush her hair and wash her face. She was beginning to feel extremely hungry.

  The Fontainebleau Hotel seemed a large and formidable place. Dallas hung around outside for a while and watched the people emerging and collecting their cars. Two girls walked by in beach clothes, and Dallas fell into step behind them as they entered the hotel. The huge air-conditioned lobby seemed even more formidable, so Dallas followed the two girls into an elevator. They took it down to a lower level, and emerged into an arcade of shops. She smelled the restaurant, and wondered how much a sandwich would cost. While she stood outside wondering, a group of men appeared. They were middle-aged and jolly. They were shouting at each other in friendly tones, and clapping each other on the back.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Dallas asked the nearest one. ‘How much is a sandwich?’

  This question produced much hilarity, and they crowded round her, staring and laughing.

  ‘What you doin’ here?’ one of them finally asked. ‘You don’t look like you belong here.’

  ‘I’m… er… looking for a job.’

  ‘What sort of a job?’

  Dallas shrugged. ‘Anything where someone will take care of me.’

  ‘If you’ll have a bath, I’ll take care of you,’ one of them suggested leeringly.

  ‘All right,’ said Dallas seriously.

  ‘I think I just got lucky!’ he joked to the others.

  Dallas stared at him. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked. This time she wanted to know, then maybe he couldn’t run off in the middle of the night.

  ‘Frank,’ he said. ‘You can call me Frankie.’

  The others were walking off into the restaurant. ‘I’ll see you guys later,’ volunteered Frankie.

  ‘Make sure she takes a bath,’ one of them said as a parting shot. ‘Don’t want to carry anything back to Irma!’ They all departed laughing.

  Now they were alone Frankie lost some of his strut. ‘You look awfully young,’ he said. ‘You sure you old enough?’

  ‘Twenty dollars,’ stated Dallas, ‘and a sandwich.’ She was learning fast.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Linda firmly, ‘but she wouldn’t come.’

  ‘Wouldn’t come?’ echoed Al and Paul in unison.

  ‘That’s right. You got it in one.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her it was me,’ exclaimed Al in disgust.

  ‘Of course I told her it was you. I said, “Al King – the famous singer – would like you to be his guest for dinner tonight.” ’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she smiled, flashed those lethal teeth, and said, “That’s nice but I’m busy.” ’

  ‘Busy!’

  ‘She probably was busy. After all, the girl just won “Miss Coast to Coast”. There were horny little guys all over the place. I was tripping over them.’

  Al shook his head in amazement. ‘I guess she didn’t believe you. I suppose she thought you were putting her on.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Linda irritably. ‘I don’t carry an official document stating I am a certified pimp for Al King.’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ said Al. ‘That way you…’

  ‘Come on, you two,’ interrupted Paul quickly, ‘the girl’s probably married or engaged or something.’

  ‘Since when has that made any difference?’ asked Al moodily.

  ‘I have, however, managed to acquire a consolation prize,’ stated Linda. ‘Miss Miami Beach is waiting in the lobby for us, so someone believed me.’

  ‘Fuck Miss Miami Beach!’ said Al dourly.

  ‘I thought that was the whole idea,’ replied Linda. ‘She’s downstairs, gorgeously pretty, and creaming her white lace panties at the thought of meeting you!’

  ‘Great!’ exclaimed Paul. ‘She came second, didn’t she? Shall I get them to send her up, Al?’

  ‘I thought we were going out to dinner,’ said Linda coldly. She was fed up with the whole thing. She hated Paul when he was with Al, she wished that just once he would tell his brother to shut up.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Al. ‘I’ll have lunch with her tomorrow.’

  ‘With who? Miss Miami Beach?’

  ‘The original one – the piece that won – Dallas – that’s her name.’

  ‘I can’t arrange it,’ said Linda quickly.

  ‘I wouldn’t ask you to. Paul can take care of it, can’t you, boyo? Come on, let’s go. I fancy some Italian food. How does that grab everyone?’

  Linda bit back a swift retort. It didn’t grab her at all, in fact it was the last thing she fancied. But she had learned not to argue with Al. What Al wanted, Paul wanted, and she was not ready to put her relationship with Paul to the test. If it came down to the crunch, who would Paul side with? One day she would be ready to find out. But not now, not yet.

  * * *

  Miss Miami Beach waited in the lobby. She was a creamy-looking blonde with puffed-out hair and baby blue eyes. She leapt up at the sight of Al. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is like a wonderful dream!’

  Al smiled and took her by the hand. ‘Why didn’t you come first? You’re the prettiest.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I won two thousand dollars. I’m going to go to Hollywood for a screen test too. It’s the most heavenly evening of my life. And now meeting you…’

  ‘Are you wearing knicks?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Knickers. Drawers. Panties.’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  Linda shot Al a cold look. ‘He’s joking,’ she said. ‘His sense of humour is somet
imes obscure.’

  Al laughed. ‘Oh, Linda. If only you and I had met first, what a couple we would have made.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Linda sarcastically, ‘a real fun couple.’

  ‘What was the girl that won like?’ Al turned his attention back to Miss Miami Beach.

  She wrinkled up her nose. ‘Horrible. Nobody liked her. She wasn’t friendly at all.’

  ‘But a great looker.’

  ‘If you like that type. I never thought she would win. We were all hoping she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Naughty little girls. Were you mean to her?’

  ‘She was mean to us. She was a – well, she was a bitch.’

  ‘We’re going to eat spaghetti, with clams and meatballs. Then we’re going to come back to the hotel and I’m going to let you breathe garlic sauce all over my cock. You do know what a cock is, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh. Er – yes.’

  ‘Good girl. You and I are going to get along fine.’

  * * *

  Two hours later their table for four had swelled to ten.

  ‘Al shouldn’t drink,’ Linda complained. ‘Who are all these people?’

  ‘You know Al,’ replied Paul. ‘He likes to have people around.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop saying you know Al. Yes, I know him, and most of the time I find him a big fat pain.’

  ‘I wish the two of you would get along. It would make my life a lot easier.’

  ‘I can’t help it, he just behaves so badly, bossing people around, intimidating that little blonde – he’s done nothing but make obscene suggestions to her all night.’

  ‘She loves it.’

  ‘She doesn’t love it. She’s just too overawed to object. He makes fun of people – cruel fun.’

  ‘You take things too seriously.’

  ‘Maybe I do. Maybe it’s because I hardly ever see you, and when I do I want us to be alone together. I want to cook for you, and make love to you. I don’t want to watch you being a yes man to your brother.’

  ‘Your bitching is starting to get on my nerves.’

  ‘So sorry.’ She felt tears sting the back of her eyelids and she fought for control. If only she didn’t love Paul so goddamn much. If only she wasn’t so jealous of him. When he left her he had another life neatly waiting for him. A wife. Two kids. A home. And what did she have? A lousy apartment and a half-assed career. It wasn’t fair. She had so much to give to the right man. Was that man Paul? She was beginning to wonder.

  * * *

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ said Al. He was sitting fully clothed on the bed in his hotel suite.

  ‘Now?’ asked Miss Miami Beach hesitantly.

  ‘No – tomorrow,’ Al replied sarcastically. ‘Come on – strip off. Let’s see the form that made you number two.’

  ‘Can we turn the lights off?’

  ‘I don’t want the lights off.’

  ‘I’ve got a scar.’

  ‘What sort of scar?’

  ‘Appendix. It sort of embarrasses me.’

  ‘Bullshit. Clothes off or out.’

  Slowly she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. She was wearing a flesh-coloured bra and lace briefs.

  ‘Will you sign one of your albums for me?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll do better than that. Get that felt pen from the dresser and come over here.’

  She did as she was told.

  ‘Take your bra off,’ he instructed.

  She did so.

  Roughly he grabbed her left breast, and holding it steady, he scrawled Al. He repeated the process with King on the right one.

  She was breathing heavily, and her breasts signed with his name were featuring erect nipples.

  ‘Get dressed,’ Al sighed. ‘Go home. I’m tired.’

  ‘But…’ she began.

  Why did they always have to argue? Wasn’t it enough they had spent time with him, been seen with him?

  ‘Out!’ said Al sharply.

  Miss Miami Beach snatched up her clothes and, turning her back, she began to dress.

  Al waited impatiently. Why were the majority of females quick as a flash at getting out of their clothes, and yet it took them forever to put them on again?

  At last she was finished, and she turned towards Al. ‘Was it something I did?’ she asked meekly.

  Al shrugged. Conversation she wanted now!

  ‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘I guess I’ll always remember tonight. Maybe I’ll see you in Hollywood.’ She waited for him to reply, but he had shut his eyes and was feigning sleep. ‘Goodbye then,’ she said softly, and tiptoed out.

  He waited until he heard the door shut, then he got up, switched on the television, fixed himself a scotch and Coke. It was four in the morning and he wasn’t tired. He felt like a little action – a game of poker or craps. But this wasn’t Vegas, and he didn’t know where it would all be happening. On impulse he decided to phone Edna. There was no delay, so he got right through.

  ‘Al?’ questioned Edna sleepily. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  Edna had a hangup about spending money. She still assumed that to go to the expense of telephoning from America meant instant disaster.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ assured Al, ‘just thought I’d see how you were.’

  ‘I’m fine. You only left yesterday. Are you sure nothing’s the matter?’

  Oh, God. Why couldn’t she just accept the fact that he had called for the pleasure of hearing her voice. ‘Is Evan around?’

  ‘He’s asleep. Al, these calls are so expensive. I wish you wouldn’t waste your money.’

  It was always your money. Never our money. If Edna had her way they would still be living in one room. She had never learned to accept his success gracefully. She always predicted gloom. If the truth were known she was a miserable woman. He had to twist her arm to get her to go out and buy herself a new dress.

  ‘Wake him up, Edna. I want to say hello.’

  ‘He’s got school tomorrow.’

  ‘OK. So don’t wake him up.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you phoned.’

  ‘All right, tell him in the morning.’

  ‘Goodbye, Al.’

  ‘Goodbye, Edna.’

  She couldn’t wait to hang up. Waste not. Want not. Her favourite motto.

  Edna probably would have been the perfect wife for a guy with no money. But as the wife of a superstar she was a total loss.

  Al phoned room service. Bacon and eggs. Christ – but he must keep a sharp eye on the weight. Al knew what was happening every minute of the time. On stage he had to look great, and to look great he had to be thin. It was a lot easier to keep your weight down when you were twenty-seven. At thirty-seven, bulges appeared where they shouldn’t, and they were hell to get rid of. However – one portion of bacon and eggs, some champagne to swill it down with. He would cut out breakfast. He would save himself for lunch.

  Dallas – funny name for a girl. She was certainly a great looker. If he was lucky she just might be able to hold his interest for an afternoon.

  Probably another dumb bitch, though. They were all dumb. Starstruck pushovers. They would fuck for money. Fame. Power. Whatever happened to good old lust?

  * * *

  Bernie Suntan stretched in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel pool. ‘Jesus H!’ he exclaimed. ‘If they were givin’ out tickets for happiness, this would be it!’

  ‘Mr. Suntan,’ a female voice boomed through the loudspeaker. ‘Telephone for Mr. Suntan.’

  Bernie heaved himself up. Two hundred and sixty pounds of fifty-two-year-old flesh, every inch – except a few crucial ones – heavily suntanned. He wore white boxer shorts trimmed with a Mickey Mouse motif, purple sunglasses, a white peaked cap which bore the legend ‘Everybody Likes It’, and a lot of solid gold jewellery. Underneath the cap the dome of his head was totally bald, but halfway down his scalp a profusion of blond curls sprouted and luxuriated well past the back of his neck.

  ‘I’m the oldest hippie in the business!’ Bernie would
often announce. And nobody ever argued with him.

  En route to the telephone Bernie stopped to greet people. ‘Hey, Rod baby, where’s the kilt?’ ‘David Tebet – my favourite man – when did you get back? Good to see you.’ ‘Princess! How do you look! How does she look?’

  He finally reached the phone and snapped into a rapid business dialogue. Apart from being the oldest hippie in the business, Bernie Suntan had the reputation of being one of the top press agents. If you wanted action, call for Bernie. It would cost you, but it would be worth it. Right now he was setting up the public relations side of the Al King tour. And setting it up right. Every city had to roll past like clockwork. No riots. No trouble with the local police. No drugs. No bad publicity.

  He didn’t worry about Al too much. The only thing you had to watch out with him was the women and gambling. But the others on the tour could cause trouble, and by doing so give the whole caboodle a bad name.

  For a start Bernie was doubtful about the three black girls who were to be Al’s backing singers. The Promises. Three beautiful girls – if you liked spades and frankly that wasn’t Bernie’s particular scene. So they sung up a storm, but what about their private lives? One of them married to a drummer who just drew three for dealing. One of them making out with a certain minor mafioso. And the third young enough to be definite jailbait. Three ding-a-lings. Bernie wasn’t happy about having them along.

  Then he had also heard talk that Al was planning to bring his son. Well, what was that all about? A sex symbol superstar dragging along his teenage son. Bad image. Very bad image. If he did come, he would have to be pushed very much into the background. Like completely out of sight.

  Bernie had big plans for Al in Hollywood. As far as he was concerned, it would be the publicity pinnacle of the whole trip. The stars would be brought out in force to meet the great Al King. There would be parties, receptions, interviews. There was so much to get together before the start of the tour. Everything had to be planned down to the last detail. Nothing could go wrong. Bernie was staking a lot on this tour – he had been offered an incredible deal that would take him out of the publicity business forever and into the heady world of production. If all went off without a hitch Bernie had no doubt the job would be his.

  ‘Hey,’ he yelled into the phone, ‘I want the best. Everywhere we go – the best.’