this business," she'd often tell her employees. "That's not going to
happen to any of my girls. Not while they work for me."
Lauren palled up with an American-born Chinese girl named Pia who'd
worked at the agency for several years as Samm's personal assistant.
Without Pia to help her through the early days she might have given
up.
It was certainly nothing like working in a law officethe modeling world
was chaos. People on the phone day and night screaming for this girl
or that girl. The models yelling that they didn't want to go to
Alaska, they would prefer to do the shoot in the Bahamas. Boyfriends
calling up, men trying to track them down, clients complaining.
Lauren's job was to see that everybody arrived in the right place at
the right time. She was also expected to keep everyone happy. She
soon became adept.
After a few weeks Pia had said, "You're doing okay, Samm's really
pleased. Are you having fun?"
Fun was not exactly the best way to describe her first couple of months
in New York. She'd hardly had time to think, let alone have fun.
Early on Samm had asked if she minded working weekends. Like an idiot
she'd said she didn't mind. But still, she had nothing else to 977
ture finds out she'll kill her-she thinks anything British is
automatically hers."
Lauren tried to remain cool. In a way it was all too much. One minute
she was sitting in Philadelphia slogging away at a job she hated with a
boss who was always chasing her-not to mention her affair with Brad-and
now here she was in New York mixing with models and rock stars.
Emerson Burn was famous. And she was going to meet him. Emerson
Burn!
It wasn't so long ago that she'd had his poster on her wall hanging
next to John Lennon.
Calm down, Roberts, he's only a person. And from the sound of his
publicity not a very nice one.
"Can I depend on you to handle it?" Pia asked, already on her way
out.
"I'd do it myself but you're so good at everything-so organized."
I'm not so organized, she wanted to scream. I'm twenty-one years old
and I'd like to have a life too.
"Sure," she said. "Leave the numbers on my desk and I'll get started
tomorrow."
"Gee!" Pia peered at her watch. "It's past seven, my guy's gonna kill
me. We're seeing Manhattan. I'm crazy about Woody Allen. Can you
check all the lights are off and lock up?"
Thanks a lot, Pia. Why don't I collect your paycheck too?
She took the subway home, ignoring an elderly flasher in the requisite
grubby raincoat.
Two giggly girls sitting opposite her screamed with laughter when the
flasher turned his attention on them. "Get it blown up an' frame
it!"
one of them yelled, making a rude gesture.
The flasher slunk off down the train, searching for more docile
victims.
Lauren stopped at the corner market near her apartment and bought a can
of beans and a loaf of bread. Another gourmet dinner coming up, she
thought wryly.
Since arriving in New York she hadn't been out once. Her routine was
work and home-it didn't deviate. A couple of guys had asked her for a
date-one a photographer who'd dropped by the office to see Samm, and
the other an assistant to Samm's accountant. She'd declined both
offers. Who needed the hassle of a man? She certainly didn't.
Nick Angelo.
Every so often his name popped into her head for no reason at all, and
she found herself wondering where he was and what he was doing, and
most of all-was he happy?
Who cared? Nick Angelo was her past. She told herself she didn't give
a damn if she never saw him again.
army Manfred was without doubt the fattest man Nick had ever seen.
Manny wasn't just fat, he was gargantuan-with beady eyes, layers of
jowls and chins and dyed yellow hair sporting inch-long black roots.
He sat in a specially made Naugahyde chair behind a cluttered desk,
sucking -Up through a straw and tossing handfuls of cashew nuts into
his greedy little mouth. He was not what Nick had expected.
Q.J. and Manny together must have been the sight of the century!
"I'm Nick."
"So what?"
"You told me to come by."
"Oh, yeah, Q.J. sent ya.
"That's right."
"Whaddaya want?"
"A job. Part time. I need to be free to go on auditions if they come
up.
"What auditions?"
"I'm an actor."
"Says who?"
"Says me."
Manny shifted his enormous bulk and sighed. "Can ya drive?"
"Can ya drive good?"
"Yes."
"Ya got a clean license?"
"You bet."
"See Luigi. Tell him I said t'put you on the airport run."
"Is that it?"
"Whaddaya want-a kiss an' a cuddle? Scram."
He scrammed. Saw Luigi-a bullet-headed man with a broken front tooth
and a sour expression-got a short lecture on the do's and don'ts of
driving a limo and was told to report back at eight p.m. It was as easy
as that.
It wasn't so easy getting back into Cyndra's apartment. The super
pounced on him just as he was using his credit card on her door. The
super was a ferocious-looking man with shoulder-length dreadlocks, two
gold teeth and a take-no-prisoners attitude. He clamped his burly hand
on Nick's shoulder. "What you up to, mon?"
He attempted to explain.
The super was having none of it. He threw him out.
Nick realized he was lucky to get away without the Dreadlock King
calling the police.
He hung around outside the building until Annie Broderick emerged. She
looked different in clothes. A track suit covered her curvy body, and
a baseball cap hid her short red hair.
"Remember me?" he said.
"No," she said.
"Sure you do," he said, laying on the irresistible green-eyed stare.
"What do you want?" she asked, unimpressed.
"Your help."
She walked over to an old brown Packard and opened the door.
"Why?"
He spread the charm, waiting for the usual reaction." Cause you know
me. We're friends."
She seemed surprised. "We are?"
"Sure we are," he said persuasively.
Annie had wasted enough time. "Now, listen," she said sharply.
"Cyndra's brother-or whoever you are-stop bugging me. I may look like
an easy touch, but trust me-no way."
"I'm not after your money," he said, quite affronted.
"That's good, cause I don't have any."
"All I want to do is leave a note for Cyndra. Tell her where she can
reach me."
"Who's stopping you?"
"The super's on my case-I can't even get my bag outta her apartment. I
need to" "Explain to me. I'll pass it on," she said, waiting
expectantly.
He didn't say a word.
"Well?" She was getting impatient. "Where shall I say you'll be?"
"I don't have a place."
Now this is where she was supposed to feel sorry for him and offer the
use of her couch.
"You don't have a plac
e," she repeated blankly. "Too bad."
So much for the old Angelo charm. This female had a cold heart.
"No-but I got a job," he said quickly, as if that might change her
mind.
"Good for you." She glanced meaningfully at her watch. "I'm late for
class."
Maybe she was a dyke-anything was possible. "Just tell her I was here
and Il be calling her. Okay?"
Annie nodded and took off.
He spent the rest of the day wandering around Hollywood-checking out
the stars' names embedded in the sidewalk, mooching through a small
shop filled with still photos from movies and finally ending up at
Farmers' Market on Fairfax, where he ordered corned beef and cabbage
from one of the many open-air counters offering all different kinds of
traditional fare.
He thought about what he was going to do next. Money was no problem,
he'd left Chicago with twelve hundred bucks in his pocket -not bad
considering he usually spent it as fast as he earned it. If he wanted
he could rent an apartment and get himself settled-although it made
more sense to wait for Cyndra to get back and camp out on her couch for
a few weeks until he got the feel of the city and decided whether he
wanted to stay or not.
Renting a car was definitely a priority. He'd soon realized that in
L.A. the buses ran infrequently and did not cover the city. There was
no subway, so a car was a necessity. He looked up rentals in the
yellow - - 1 A1 A ;ir Behind the wheel of the car he felt a lot more
secure. At least he had a place he belonged-somewhere to call home.
"Ya ain't plannin' on wearin' what ya got on?" Luigi demanded,
squinting at Nick with a disgusted expression.
"What's wrong with what I got on?"
"Ya gotta be fuckin' kiddin'." Luigi ran his hand over his
bullethead.
"Ya look like a bum."
They glared at each other. This was not an auspicious start.
"I don't have anything else," Nick said. "I lost my bag."
"There's a closet in there." Luigi indicated the back room. "Find
something' that fits you. And for crissakes, move it-you're on the
airport run.
"Who am I meeting?"
"Mr. Evans. He's a businessman. Ya hold up the card with his name on
it, ya escort him out to the limo, ya shut the privacy glass, an' you
drive him anywhere he wants to go. Oh, an' remember t'drive nice an'
smooth. Mr. Evans don't like no sudden stops."
"Sure."
"An' another thing-no talkin' unless he speaks first. Them's the rules
of the game. These people pay good money for a limo, they don't want
no conversation."
Ha! Like he was looking for meaningful communication with a total
stranger. What kind of schmuck did Luigi take him for?
He searched through the closet in the back room and found a pair of
black pants, a dark jacket and a none-too-clean white shirt. The
clothes didn't fit properly but what the hell-he'd be sitting behind
the wheel of a car anyway.
There were a couple of other drivers back there, smoking and playing
cards. Neither of them took any notice of him.
Luigi thrust a form at him. "Fill it out," he ordered.
He put down Cyndra's address and lied about his driving experience,
writing that he'd driven for a limo company in Chicago. That
information took the edge off Luigi's scowl.
Idly, he wondered what favor Manny owed Q.J. One of these days he
intended to find out.
Luii ave him a silver limousine to drive. It was shined and polished
pretty good, but once he got in he realized the limo had seen better
days. The back, where the passengers sat, was all spruced up with a
single rose in a glass vase, a bowl of fresh fruit and side
compartments stocked with booze. But in front the leather covering the
seat was cracked, and there were plastic strips peeling off the
windows. So much for Glamour Limousines. The car reminded him of a
gorgeous girl with the clap.
"Ya know the way to the airport?" Luigi asked.
He had no idea how to get there but he nodded anyway. As soon as he
left the garage he parked the limo on a side street and studied a map
he'd found in the glove compartment. No big deal. L.A. was all
straight roads going in different directions like one big board game.
He clicked the radio on and zoomed out to the airport listening to Jimi
Hendrix at full volume.
He reached LAX twenty minutes early and had no idea where to park.
Traffic cops were everywhere-yelling and shouting, making sure all the
vehicles kept moving.
Rolling down his window, he waved ten bucks at a porter and asked where
he could put the car.
The porter grabbed the money and obligingly told him where to leave it
so he wouldn't get a ticket.
His passenger arrived on a flight from Switzerland. Mr. Evans was a
swarthy man with patent-leather hair and wrap-around black shades.
Kind of strange at ten o'clock at night, but Nick was getting used to
the foibles of people who lived in Los Angeles.
Mr. Evans had no luggage except a snakeskin briefcase that he clutched
firmly to his side, snarling ungratefully when Nick attempted to take
it.
"Only trying to help," Nick said with a shrug, leading the man to the
limo.
Mr. Evans lived in a high rise on Wilshire. Nick dropped him off and
waited for a tip, a word of thanks, anything.
Mr. Evans was not into pleasantries. He walked into his building
without a backward glance.
"Screw you too, buddy," Nick muttered, deciding that maybe the life of
a limo driver was not for him.
Back at Glamour Limousines, Luigi sat in his office picking his nose
while speaking on the phone. "I'm gonna hump your juicy ass off,
sweetie. I'm gonna-" He stopped abruptly when Nick entered.
"What the fuck you want?" he asked, covering the mouthpiece.
"I brought the car back. Thought you'd like to know I delivered your
passenger safely."
"Whaddaya want, a medal?" Luigi was like a lesser version of
Manny-they'd obviously both graduated from the same charm school.
"Same time tomorrow?" Nick asked, wondering what kind of woman Luigi
had panting on the other end of the phone.
"Yeah," Luigi snapped, anxious to get back to his sweetie.
"I'll be here."
Maybe.
If nothing better comes along.
He got in his rented Buick and cruised down Hollywood Boulevard,
finally stopping at a motel and booking a room for the night.
"Wanna hooker?" the desk clerk asked, reluctantly shifting his
attention from a well-thumbed porno magazine.
"Not tonight."
The clerk regarded him suspiciously. "Why don'tcha?"
He didn't bother replying.
Lying on a lumpy bed watching Johnny Carson do his monologue he
wondered if he'd made the right move leaving Chicago. He'd left a good
job at Q.J."s, a great-looking woman-and for what? A fleabag motel and
a shit job servicing other people.
He'd give it a couple of weeks and if things didn't improve he was on a
plane out of
there.
merson Burn had a mane of hair better than any girl's. Lauren couldn't
help staring. She'd been a fan for so many years, loved his music, and
now she was in his presence. It didn't seem possible. His thick,
shaggy, honey-colored hair fell way below his shoulders. His eyes were
a dreamy gray shadowed by long curling lashes. His nose was aquiline
and his lips surprisingly full for a man.
You're staring, Roberts.
I can't help it!
Lauren wasn't alone with him. Also present were his manager, his
publicist, his personal assistant and Selina, who-clad in a leopardskin
cat suit-prowled his apartment as if she owned it. Selina was
incredibly thin and almost as tall as Nature. She had straight
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