Lovers and Gamblers

by Collins, Jackie

  Didi smiled. ‘I have an hour’s break. Will that give us time to go to your room?’

  Nino hid a grimace of disgust.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Isn’t that the reason I came to see you?’

  * * *

  ‘Shall I open the shutters, señorita?’ the bellboy asked. Only he wasn’t such a boy. He was tall and muscled, dark-haired, with knowing eyes.

  Linda would adore him, Dallas thought, Linda would probably ravish his fine young body. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘you look like a guy knows his way around. Can you get me some grass?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, señorita?’ the boy replied carefully.

  ‘Grass. Shit. Hash.’

  The boy continued to look wary.

  ‘Something to smoke…’ Dallas pantomimed dragging on a joint, then she rolled her eyes and indicated joy. ‘You get me?’

  ‘Ah!’ the boy said at last. ‘It is expensive…’

  ‘But you can get it! I knew you would be able to help me. And some pills.’ She pantomimed popping pills into her mouth. ‘Something good. Quaaludes if you can – anything, it doesn’t matter. Something to get high – you with me?’

  He nodded. ‘It is expensive…’ he began.

  ‘Sure it is,’ agreed Dallas, fishing in her purse and producing two fifty-dollar bills, ‘and I need it fast.’ She came up with another fifty. ‘Like in an hour.’

  He grabbed the money hungrily.

  ‘I’ll open the shutters. You get going.’

  He hurried from her room.

  She giggled. That would fix Al – because she knew he wasn’t about to come up with anything. And now that she had discovered how much fun life could be – with a little help – well, she wasn’t about to give it up.

  If only she had realized before. All that misery she had gone through. The shame of hustling guys – no wonder Bobbie had felt no pain. Being high was a whole new way of life. A way of living where nothing much mattered – everything was cool.

  Marrying Aarron Mack would be a wonderful experience. No longer was he a dirty old man trying to grab a thigh. He was a beautiful human being. He would give her money, and protection, and respect, and money, and a position in the rat race, and money. She laughed out loud. Maybe she wouldn’t even bother going back to work on Monday. Who needed all that fame shit? Who needed getting up at five a.m. and spending hours being beautiful?

  She thought briefly of Cody. Bernie had told her he had called him for her. ‘He’s kinda uptight,’ Bernie had understated. ‘He says they were waiting for you all week to show up at the studio. I told him you’d make it first thing Monday. Maybe you should call him yourself.’

  She didn’t want to call him. He would only tell her off for disappearing. Who needed that trip?

  So she would finish the series. Yes – for Cody she would finish it. Then they could all go to hell. She was through catering to other people. What had other people done for her except screw her rotten?

  She threw open the shutters and was suitably impressed by the view. A magnificent stretch of white beach, bright blue ocean, and in the distance fantastic mountains. The beach was crowded with bikini-clad people. Cars lined the periphery. Transistor radios wafted out the sound of samba.

  Dallas was glad that she had come here. It looked like the kind of place you could have a good time in. A place where you could forget your problems and just be happy.

  She caught sight of herself in a mirror, and it reminded her that she was supposed to purchase something to wear for the party that evening. Al had thrust a thousand dollars in her purse and told her to get whatever she liked.

  She had accepted the money. Why not? Once a whore, always a whore. Wasn’t that how the saying went?

  * * *

  In the jewellery store Al tried to decide between a small diamond heart to hang around her neck or a lavish aquamarine and diamond ring. The heart won. If he started giving out rings, someone might get the wrong impression.

  ‘Send the bill to my hotel,’ he instructed, and for good measure picked out a chunky gold identity bracelet for himself. Then, feeling generous, he purchased a slim digital gold watch for Paul and a rough gold lion pendant for Bernie. He thought of Evan, but couldn’t decide what he would like, maybe money would be best. But then he noticed a rough gold penknife, and that seemed suitable, so he got him that.

  ‘Anything else, Señor King?’ the wide-eyed manageress asked. She was a redhead, voluptuously squeezed into a green dress. Under normal circumstances Al would have considered giving her one. The thought didn’t even occur to him.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, then he remembered Luke waiting outside the shop. He walked to the door, put his head out, asked Luke his birth sign, then came back in and chose a thick gold chain with the appropriate medallion hanging from it. That took care of everyone. Paul would organize minor presents for all the others on the tour.

  Al walked out to his limousine. He felt really good. The concert the next day was a real challenge, and he was looking forward to it. Two hundred thousand people in one go, and according to Carlos Baptista, it was a sell-out.

  Dallas would be there to watch him. If things worked out she would be watching him for weeks – maybe even months.

  He hoped she would hold his interest. He hoped this affair was going to be different. Tonight he would have her. No – they would have each other. He felt himself harden at the thought. Christ! He had wanted her long enough, it was about time.

  * * *

  Evita entered Cristina’s room. She was wearing a dramatic black dress which bared one shoulder, and was held in place by a massive diamond clip. Her white-blond hair was piled high in a severe chignon. ‘Darling, are you ready?’

  Cristina scowled at her own reflection. ‘I look fat!’

  ‘You do not.’

  ‘Beside you I do.’

  Evita sighed. ‘It’s because I am wearing black.’

  ‘I wish I could wear black. I hate this dress.’ Cristina twirled in front of the mirror, and the red dress she was wearing twirled with her. ‘I look like a little girl!’

  Evita laughed. ‘How could you?’

  Cristina made a face at herself in the mirror. ‘I wish I could wear jeans,’ she muttered. ‘I knew this dress was a mistake.’

  ‘You look perfectly delightful,’ Evita assured her daughter. ‘Louis will be quite bewitched.’

  ‘He already is,’ replied Cristina sourly. She was becoming more and more tense. All she could think of was stupid Nino, and the stupid things he wanted her to do. How on earth was she supposed to get Al King to notice her? She had been introduced to him at the airport and his stupid glazed smile had not even focused in her direction.

  How on earth was she to get Louis to take her to the airport in the middle of the concert? The whole thing was ridiculous. Nino was asking too much.

  With a shudder she remembered what Nino had threatened to do if she did not cooperate. Oh God! The shame! Louis would never speak to her again.

  ‘I think you should take a wrap,’ Evita was saying. ‘You’re shivering. Do you fell unwell?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Cristina, wishing her mother would go away and leave her alone, ‘perfectly fine.’

  * * *

  Al wore a dinner jacket of black brocade with matching waistcoat, a pale blue evening shirt, and the tighter-than-tight trousers which were his trademark. He didn’t feel tired, in spite of a day that had included the plane trip from Los Angeles to Rio. Television interviews. Photo calls. Press reception. And now a large party in his honour.

  Paul said, ‘Do you want me to fetch Dallas?’ Al shook his head. ‘You take care of Evan and go in the car with Bernie. Here – a little something.’ He handed his brother the package with the watch in.

  Paid opened it. He was amazed. It was the fifth watch Al had presented him with in the last two years. Didn’t he realize?

  ‘Great – thank you,’ he said, taking off his Cartier and replacing it with the new w
atch.

  ‘Solid gold,’ Al pointed out unnecessarily.

  ‘I can see,’ replied Paul.

  ‘Cost a bomb,’ added Al.

  Yes. No doubt. Paul knew he would have to settle the bill in the morning. Al never dealt with the money side of things. He just spent. Sometimes indiscriminately. Frankly, Paul thought he should never have shelled out a thousand dollars to Dallas. She had just won thirty thousand, let her spend her own money.

  ‘I’ll see you there then,’ said Paul.

  ‘We’ll be right behind you,’ assured Al.

  He waited until Paul had left, and then he checked himself out in the mirror one more time. He looked good. Couldn’t argue with facts.

  He wondered if he should have a drink – maybe a fast blast of Jack Daniels. Six bottles stood unopened on a table, compliments of Carlos Baptista. He decided against it. Tonight he wanted to have all his wits about him. He wanted to remain razor sharp. Maybe later he and Dallas would share a bottle of champagne. But only if she wanted to.

  He picked up the box with the diamond heart in, and dropped it into his jacket pocket, then he set off to fetch her.

  * * *

  The bell boy had not let her down. Six joints and two bottles of pills, and no change. But she hadn’t minded that. The hell with it, it was only money.

  She smoked three of the joints, and swallowed a few pills. She didn’t know what they were, but the bell boy assured her they would have the desired effect. They certainly did. This time she was really flying.

  When Al called to say he would be picking her up in twenty minutes she had not even started to dress. In fact the six hundred-dollar gown she had purchased was still in its box. She had been lying out on the balcony admiring the view. The twinkling lights fascinated her. The parade of cars driving along the promenade that separated the hotel from the beach. The samba music which never seemed to stop.

  She threw off her jeans and shirt and stood under a warm shower. It was so pleasant that she stayed there for ten minutes. Wet and naked she danced around the room drying off. Who needed towels?

  She opened the box and extracted the dress, a gorgeous funnel of white silk jersey. She slipped into it, unaware that it was back to front and that her breasts were totally exposed.

  She applied some make-up in a smudgy fashion, and shook her hair which was in a wild tangled mass.

  Al’s knock at the door coincided with her lighting another joint, and she stubbed it out hurriedly. He wouldn’t be pleased. She must appear absolutely normal. Mustn’t disappoint him.

  She flung the door open. ‘Hi, Al.’ And she started to giggle. ‘Good to see ya!’

  The smile vanished from his face. ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked coldly. He had told all of them. Bernie. Paul. Luke. They all knew if she asked to say no.

  She weaved back into the room. ‘I’m ready,’ she slurred, ‘ready t’go t’ the party.’

  His eyes travelled down her body, fixing on her breasts, and suddenly he wanted her so badly that nothing else mattered.

  He walked towards her, took her in his arms, kissed her.

  Her mouth was slack.

  He moved his hands over her incredible breasts.

  She slumped in his arms.

  ‘I want you,’ he said, his voice fierce. ‘Can you understand that? I want you.’

  She fell back on the couch, still giggling. Her legs parted. The folds of white jersey parted. She was wearing nothing underneath.

  ‘G’ ahead,’ she giggled. ‘Be my guest, man.’

  He turned away, smashing his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Why?’ he screamed, ‘Why? Why? Why?’

  ‘You all gonna wake the neighbours, sugar sweets,’ she slurred. ‘Come on over here and I’ll give you a blow job – calm you down. A professional blow job. Did I ever tell you I was a professional? Fucked my way from here to Kingdom Come! Hey, Kingdom Come. That’s funny – get it? Get it? Al Kingdom come…’ She dissolved into peals of laughter.

  He threw off his jacket, dragged her from the couch, ripped the back to front dress off her. Lifted her like a sack of coal over his shoulders and carried her into the bathroom where he dumped her unceremoniously in the bath.

  ‘Hey,’ she grumbled, ‘you’re rough.’

  He turned the shower attachment on and icy water cascaded over her.

  She tried to struggle up, gasping. He shoved her back.

  He soaked a towel and wiped it over her face. She spat a string of obscenities at him. He ignored her.

  He went in the other room, tipped out the contents of her purse and found the remaining joints and the pills. He marched back in the bathroom. She was climbing out of the bath. He held the bottle of pills up to her face, ‘What are they?’ he demanded.

  ‘How the fuck do I know,’ she snapped.

  ‘Throw up,’ he said sternly. ‘Stick your finger down your throat and throw up. You don’t know what this junk is.’

  ‘The hell I will.’

  ‘The hell you won’t.’ He grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back. ‘You going to do it or shall I?’

  ‘Get lost,’ she hissed.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘OK.’ He prised her mouth open, jamming two fingers in.

  She bit down sharply, drawing blood. He didn’t withdraw his fingers, and she felt the vomit rising, could do nothing to stop it.

  She threw up, half over him, half over the floor.

  He let her go. She slid to the floor. He threw a towel over her and marched back into the other room, wrapping Kleenex round his bleeding fingers.

  He called room service, ordering a pot of black coffee. Then he stripped off his ruined vest and shirt.

  She was sobbing on the bathroom floor, still stoned, but manageably so. He scooped her up, dumped her back in the bath. This time he let the water run warm, and she didn’t struggle.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ he said. ‘You know how to be difficult.’

  She hunched her knees up, covering herself. He took this as a sign that she knew what she was doing. ‘Don’t go away,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  He set off down the corridor to his suite, startling the maids who lapsed into torrents of excitement.

  Luke, waiting outside, did not bat an eyelid at the state Al was in. If Al had something to tell him he would do so, if not, well, he was the boss man, that was his prerogative.

  Al collected two bathrobes – he always travelled with at least six – and went back to Dallas’s suite.

  She was in the same position, her head slumped on her knees.

  ‘Out,’ he said, gently but firmly.

  She stood up docilely, and he tried to ignore the body, but Christ! Even under these conditions he was getting a hard-on.

  He helped her into a bathrobe, and she accepted his help silently.

  ‘We’re going to talk,’ he said.

  She nodded.

  He took her into the living room, sat her on the couch.

  ‘Wait,’ he commanded.

  Again she nodded, slumping back and closing her eyes.

  He went in the bathroom, took off his trousers and put on the bathrobe. Then he cleared up as best he could.

  Al King, superstar, clearing vomit off a bathroom floor?

  Who would believe it?

  Even he didn’t believe it.

  The Kleenex wrapped round his fingers was soaked with blood, and the two fingers hurt like hell. He held them under the cold tap and wrapped them in fresh tissue.

  He could hear the phone ringing, but he didn’t rush to answer it. He knew who it would be – either Paul or Bernie wanting to know where the hell he was.

  Dallas appeared to have fallen asleep. This was getting to be a habit. Only tonight was supposed to be special. He snatched the phone up in a fit of temper. ‘Yes?’

  Paul’s voice. ‘Where are you, for Chrissake?’

  ‘I am at the hotel,’ replied Al evenly. ‘I should have thought that was obvious due to the fact that you just telephoned me he
re.’

  ‘Cut it out, Al. Half of Rio has turned out to meet you. Carlos Baptista is getting jumpy.’

  ‘Am I getting paid to do a show tomorrow? Or am I getting paid to attend Carlos Baptista’s party?’ Al’s voice was icy.

  Paul knew the danger signals. Best to placate him. ‘Will you be long?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘As long as I fucking please!’ snapped Al, banging the phone down.

  Screw Paul for bothering him. But at the same time he knew he was being unfair to his brother.

  He walked to the door, whistled for Luke. ‘Call Paul at the party,’ he instructed. ‘Tell him I can’t make it – he can give them any excuse he likes. And inform the front desk no calls – either my suite or Dallas’s.’

  * * *

  Nervously Cristina skirted the room. She had danced twice with Louis, once with her father, and where was the famous guest of honour that she was supposed to get to know? Everyone was asking the same question. Where was Al King?

  His brother was there. His son was there. His publicity man was there. But where was the star himself?

  Cristina spotted her future father-in-law deep in conversation with Paul King. She took a deep breath and walked over.

  ‘Hello,’ she said gaily, ‘have you seen Louis?’

  ‘What?’ snapped Carlos, not at all in a good mood.

  ‘Er – Louis,’ stammered Cristina, ‘I seem to have lost him.’ She turned to Paul King. ‘Hello again, we met at the airport earlier today. Cristina Maraco, Louis Baptista’s fiancée.’

  ‘Run along, dear,’ interrupted Carlos brusquely, ‘we’re in the middle of a business conversation.’

  ‘Oh – sorry.’ She felt herself blushing, and was furious with Nino for having put her in such an undignified position. Paul King completely ignored her. The two men resumed their conversation as if she had never interrupted. So much for getting to know the people surrounding Al King. Then she noticed the son; at least someone had said it was the son, although she could hardly believe that the spotty, insignificant boy standing in the corner was actually the great Al King’s son. She could not remember seeing him at the airport.

  Resolutely she walked over to him.

  ‘Hello, I’m Cristina Maraco, Louis Baptista’s fiancée. I don’t think we have met.’ Politely she extended her hand to him.