‘If you say so.’
He hesitated. ‘I wish I was with you now. Did you sleep?’
‘Yes. Did you?’
‘No. I lay awake thinking of what you and I should have been doing.’
She laughed softly: that was exactly what she had been doing.
‘Listen, I’ll see you later,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me down.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘I’ll be singing just for you.’
Sentimental bullshit! She hung up the phone and wondered how the hell she had got into this state. She had been determined not to be affected by him, and for some stupid reason she was walking on air at the sound of his voice.
Linda was crosslegged in front of the television watching a rerun of Starsky and Hutch. ‘He’s a horny little devil!’ she remarked.
‘Who is?’ asked Dallas.
‘Little. Dave Starsky. Who else?’
‘I thought perhaps you were talking about your boyfriend from last night.’
‘You’re kidding – I’ve forgotten about him already.’
‘I don’t suppose you fancy coming to Al’s concert at the Hollywood Bowl tonight, and after, a party for Al at Karmen Rush’s?’
Linda lit a cigarette from the butt of one she was just finishing. ‘I honestly don’t think I could sit through one more Al King concert. Besides, it would mean seeing Paul, and I really don’t want to.’
Dallas nodded. ‘I knew you’d say that, although I can’t understand why you don’t want to see him. He was in a terrible state last night – really miserable.’
‘Good. Let him be the unhappy one for a change. I’ve had it with his weak excuses – other people get divorced when they have young kids. What’s so different about Paul?’
‘Maybe he’s frightened about the money she would take him for.’
‘He’s too smart to get taken financially – she would get exactly what he wanted her to get. Did you know he’s tight to the point of being mean? He’s never even bought me so much as a flower!’
Dallas glanced at her watch. ‘I’ve got to call Kiki – maybe she and Chuck will want to make it tonight.’
‘While we’re on the subject of phone calls…’
‘Yes?’
‘If you don’t mind…’
‘What?’
Linda grinned. ‘Would it bother you if during your absence I made an appointment with your male hooker?’
‘My male hooker?’
‘Well – Diamond’s. I’m really in the mood for an expert.’
Dallas started to laugh. ‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Why should I mind? Be my guest. He’s black, you know.’
‘I couldn’t care less if he’s orange!’
Dallas sighed. ‘You really want to pay for it?’
‘Why not? It’s all part of life’s rich field of experience. Besides – I never screwed around when I was with Paul – well, not much anyway. Now I want to make up for lost time before I hook myself up with another married schmuck.’
‘I’ll find you the number.’
* * *
Bernie had lined up two sycophantic, siliconed, typical Hollywood blondes for Al’s use.
‘Forget it,’ snapped Paul, who was not in the best of moods. ‘He’s not asking so I’m not pushing.’
‘I’ll keep them around anyway.’
‘Do what you want with them.’
Bernie had already done that. He had auditioned them personally and was ready to pass them on.
Al glided through interviews, taping the Johnny Carson show, and the helicopter ride to the Hollywood Bowl in perfect humour. The only sour note was created by Evan, who had sprung himself on Al in the early hours of the morning. In the longest conversation he had ever had with his father he had confessed to a ‘problem’ that he had been unable to confide to his mother. With patient questioning Al discovered what the ‘problem’ was – and in no time at all had summoned a doctor who had examined an embarrassed Evan, given him a shot, and said it was nothing more serious than a mild dose of the clap.
Al did not know what to do. He should be mad at the boy – but what the hell – it took balls to climb on a plane to America just like that. And it was good to know that Evan – for the first time in his life – had come to him with a problem instead of running to his mother.
Of course Edna would freak out. And once again he was stuck with Evan. But he didn’t have the heart to send the kid on the next plane home. At least not until he got him cured. Meanwhile – how to tell Edna. And not just about Evan. But about the fact that he had made up his mind that he wasn’t going back to her. He wanted a divorce. He had made his decision, and he wasn’t about to change his mind.
* * *
The crowds congregating at the Hollywood Bowl stretched for miles. A steady stream of cars searched for parking spaces. The stars rode by in their chauffeur-driven limousines with the special window stickers allowing them the closest drop-off points.
‘There goes Karmen Rush!’ the fans screamed, banging on the tinted glass windows of her black Rolls Royce. She acknowledged them with a queenly wave, only her sphynx-like eyes betraying the fact that she was stoned out of her head.
‘Ramo Kaliffe, Ramo Kaliffe!’ The fans chanted as the Arabian matinée idol zoomed past, flanked on either side by two girls who looked exactly like the two blondes Bernie had on standby for Al.
Bernie, in the press enclosure, was sweating more than usual. Jeeze! What a turnout. The photographers were having a field day as the stars rolled up. Rock stars. Movie stars. Sports stars. Television stars. It seemed they had all decided to make the pilgrimage to watch Al perform.
Waiting to stride out into the spotlight Al felt remarkably calm. A can of beer was the only alcohol beverage he was imbibing.
‘Is she here yet?’ he asked Paul for the fourth time.
‘Yes,’ said Paul, although he really didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. He wasn’t sure if he liked the fact that Al was obviously struck on Dallas.
‘I told you she’d come,’ smiled Al.
Hot Fudge were swaying and weaving their way onto the stage. They wore black satin cat suits with no sides, and the longest tightest boots imaginable.
Their sound was stronger, more funky than The Promises. They were more raunchy altogether.
Al had decided he preferred them. He listened to the applause. He noted their mother – a fat black lady jiggling about and mouthing each word at the side of the stage. She caught him studying her and winked broadly. He winked back.
Hot Fudge were on their closing number. The applause was enthusiastic. They ran off the stage into the excited arms of their mother.
Al tensed himself for his entrance. The MC was cracking a couple of jokes. The audience were shifting around impatiently. Come on, man, we’ve sat through Hot Fudge – we’ve made the right noises – so what are we waiting for?
‘And now—’ the MC was shouting, ‘the man you all want to see – the man you’ve been waiting for – the man himself – Al King!!!’
Book Three
Chapter Fifty-Two
The sun was shining in Rio de Janeiro. It was a perfect, cloudless day.
‘Fetch your mama her robe,’ Jorge Maraco requested of his daughter.
‘Sure, poppa,’ replied Cristina, leaping up from her position by the family swimming pool and running into the house.
Jorge turned to his blonde wife. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I don’t know why you worry about her. She is polite, considerate, obliging.’
‘To you,’ replied his wife pointedly. ‘She’ll do anything for you.’
Jorge puffed on his cigar. ‘She is a good girl. A credit to her family.’
‘You only see the side she wants you to see. I tell you, Jorge, I am worried about her. Some of the company she keeps… It’s not right. After all she is only seventeen, still a child.’
‘She has a woman’s body.’
>
‘What difference does that make? You should be more concerned because of that fact.’
Jorge reached lazily for his wife, and patted her affectionately on her bare thigh. Evita Maraco was wearing a one-piece white swimsuit which showed her voluptuous body off to full advantage. She drew away from her husband. You are not taking me seriously,’ she accused.
‘I am,’ he protested. ‘I always listen to everything you say.’
‘Yes, and I am always right. Hasn’t eighteen years of marriage taught you that?’
‘It has taught me never to argue with a beautiful woman.’
‘In that case you must talk to Cristina – today. Her thoughts and actions should be taking her in a more serious direction. Why, when I was her age, you and I were engaged to be married.’
‘I paid your mother for the privilege.’ Jorge chuckled at the memory. ‘You were my poor little carioca washing clothes to take home the money for mama.’
‘Lucky for you I washed your clothes,’ snapped Evita. ‘An old man like you not married – you were a disgrace to your family!’
‘I was only forty,’ protested Jorge.
‘Forty! A spoilt rich child. I saved you.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Jorge, ‘you saved me from a life of wine, women, and…’
‘Boredom!’ snapped Evita.
He reached for her thigh again.
‘Stop it!’ she chided. ‘Are you never satisfied?’
He sighed, ‘Never. Eighteen years wanting the same woman. I would not have believed it possible.’
Evita could not help smiling. She had tamed him. When they had married his reputation as a womanizer had been legendary. Jorge Maraco – the slippery millionaire industrialist – still single at forty. A world-wide dallier with some of the world’s most beautiful women. What a catch he was. And who had caught him? A penniless working girl from the slums.
She had been seventeen, the same age as her own daughter was now. But what a different kind of life she had led. A life filled with poverty, despair, and work. It was only her beauty that had saved her. Her long white-blond hair which was so unusual, her cinnamon elongated eyes, chiselled features, and full ripe body.
Jorge had come across her in the kitchens of his house one day, and fallen irrevocably in lust. Love, of course, had followed – helped by the fact that Evita refused to go to bed with him until they were married. Her virginity was the only possession she had to bargain with, and she used it wisely.
Cristina had been born a year after they were married, and until recently she had given them no problems. She was a bright scholar, and had always mixed with the right friends. But now – Evita felt uneasy. Cristina remained her usual polite and charming self to her father – but when he was not at home she became mean, moody and extremely rude. It was only a recent occurrence, a matter of months really. Before that Evita had been hoping that Cristina would become engaged to a boy she had grown up with. Up until a few months previously they had been steady companions – but then suddenly the change. And Cristina had become secretive and mysterious about where she was going and who she was seeing.
It could not go on. Evita had made up her mind that Jorge should talk to his daughter, find out exactly what was going on.
* * *
Cristina Maraco stared at her reflection in her mother’s dressing-room mirror. She was not thrilled with what she saw. How unfair that she should be the image of her father – dark and squat – why couldn’t she have inherited her mother’s classy blondeness?
Jet black hair hung in a tangle of thick frizzy curls around her olive-skinned face. She had a boyish body, wide shoulders, small breasts, sturdy legs, wide ass.
She hated the way she looked! Boys didn’t. Boys said she was sexy. Boys were always trying to grab her tits or ass. Or kiss her sulky pursed lips.
Boys were a pain.
Nino wasn’t. Nino was different.
Nino didn’t grab. Nino said, ‘I want to sleep with you, Cristina.’
Nino was only nineteen. But he wasn’t a boy – he was a man.
Not like Louis – the boy her mother liked. The boy her mother wanted her to marry. Louis was draggy. Full of himself and his family’s money. Just because his father was unbelievably rich.
Money was bad. Money was corrupting. Nino had taught her that.
She grabbed her mother’s robe from the closet and held it up against herself. Ugh! Silk, in some yucky print. It had probably cost a few hundred dollars. Enough to clothe some poor family for a year.
Her mother spent a fortune on clothes. And her jewels! She had diamonds and emeralds as big as marbles!
Cristina wandered over to her mother’s dressing table and idly sorted through the many bottles and jars. Evita was beautiful. What did she need all this junk for? If she was ugly it would be understandable. But she was exquisite, and young, and it wasn’t fair…
Cristina grabbed up the robe from the floor where she had thrown it, and ran downstairs.
‘You were a long time,’ remarked Jorge, withdrawing his hand from Evita’s thigh, but not quick enough for Cristina not to notice. They were always at it – her dear parents.
‘Couldn’t find it.’
Evita stood up and slipped the robe over her swimsuit. ‘I’m going to rest,’ she announced. She stared meaningfully at her husband. He gave an imperceptible nod.
Cristina dived into the pool. She was a very fast swimmer, churning her way up and down the pool at a record pace. She did fifteen lengths, then climbed out, shaking her head like a wet puppy.
‘You swim well,’ Jorge remarked.
Cristina flopped down beside him. ‘Poppa, I’ve swum well since I was three years old. Why are you telling me now?’
‘I remember when you learned to swim,’ he said. ‘Your instructor threw you in and out of the water like a sack of potatoes. I thought your mother would have a fit.’
Cristina smiled politely, and wondered how long it would be before her father followed Evita into the house. It was their Sunday ritual. Out by the pool after lunch. Into the house before five o’clock. It was the only day Cristina saw Jorge. The rest of the time he was at the office or visiting his factories, and when he returned home he usually preferred a private dinner with Evita.
Nino had said it was wise to present herself to her father in a good light. She had told him what a bitch Evita could be, always questioning and prodding for information about what she was doing.
‘I don’t see Louis at the house any more,’ Jorge remarked. ‘Is he sick?’
Cristina shrugged. ‘It depends what you call sick, poppa.’
‘What do you mean?’
She made a face, ‘Oh – you know.’
‘I know what?’
‘Boys. They’re always… Well – you know what I mean.’
Jorge sat up. ‘Do you mean to tell me that Louis…’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t…’
‘No.’
‘Thank God for that!’ Jorge chuckled. ‘You’re a sensible girl. I never doubted that. Perhaps you could explain to your mother… She would understand. You see, we give you so much freedom, Cristina, and I think it worries her. Other girls have chaperones, strict parents. I have never believed that is the way. But I know you would never let us down…’
‘Never, poppa.’
Jorge smiled. He had talked with his daughter. She was a good girl. He had never doubted the fact.
‘Well, Cristina, I think I shall go inside now. Are you going out?’
‘Yes, poppa.’
He kissed her absently, anxious to get inside to Evita. She would have showered by now. The sheets would be scented. The shades drawn down. They would make love passionately. They always did on Sundays.
‘See you, poppa.’ Cristina kissed him lightly on the cheek, and jumped back into the pool.
‘Yes, yes.’ He hurried into the house.
Cristina watched him go. He was fifty-eight but he looked much younger r
eally. He had the same sturdy body as she did, all his own teeth, and his eyes were strong and clear, not bloodshot and runny like some of the old men who were his friends.
She snorted. His friends! What a bunch they were. At parties and barbecues they could hardly keep their rheumy old eyes off her! They thought she was the sweet little virgin daughter. Good little Cristina. Sweet little Cristina.
Oh how sweet to see the surprise on their faces if they were to learn the truth.
She, Cristina, was not a virgin.
She was a woman of the world. A woman of experience.
She had been sleeping with Nino for six whole weeks!
She turned on her back in the pool and let her thoughts take over.
Nino. Even his name created a warm dark excitement.
The first time she had seen him she had known that here was someone different. She had been with a large party enjoying the carnival ball at the Municipal Theatre. She had been wearing a spangled outfit – her mother’s choice, but nice all the same. And her hair had been threaded through with silver streamers, and her make-up had been a fantasy of silver patches and dots.
He, of course, typical Nino, had taken no trouble with his appearance at all. With his looks he didn’t need to. He was nicely thin, with hidden muscles, and a stomach so hard it was like wood. His hair was black – even darker than hers, and he wore it just as it grew – a tangled mass of jet curls. She had since copied the style, nagging and cajoling her hairdresser to get it exactly right.
His eyes were the most amazing thing about him. Black, fringed with the longest lashes. But it was the way he used them. His gaze was so penetrating, so intimate. His eyes seemed to bore right through you.
Louis, on the other hand, was the sort of boy parents liked on sight – and of course they liked him even more when they realized who his father was.
Before Nino she had quite liked Louis. But after Nino, she had realized he was just another nothing little rich boy with no point of view towards life.
‘He has no fire,’ Nino had explained simply. ‘I do not want you to see him any more.’ So she hadn’t.
Her first meeting with Nino had been a disappointment. He had ignored her. He was with a rich American girl who was vacationing in Rio, and she had known some people in Cristina’s party, so they had all joined up. Cristina had been immediately struck, but he had dismissed her with a cursory glance.
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