Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins
She was dismayed. “When?”
“Would you believe tomorrow?”
“No!”
He held up an authoritative hand. “Do not panic. I got us a place that is going to blow your little mind.”
“Where?”
“Questions, questions. We shall pack up, kiddo, and you will see for yourself.”
While Angel got their things together he decided to take a swim. It had been some day and his adrenaline was racing full-tilt. He needed to clear his head and relax. How one day could change your life! He was to be a father. He was to be a star. He had made contact with Jason Swankle, and whether that was good or bad remained to be seen. But it had certainly turned out to be useful.
Jason Swankle’s emporium was on Robertson Boulevard, an elegant glass-fronted shop with luxurious offices in the back. Buddy had decided against calling first; a face-to-face confrontation was always best. Find out what he wanted. Not his body, he hoped. Buddy had never gone the gay route. Oh yeah—in his few wild months with Maxie Sholto he had been involved in plenty of far-out scenes, but always with females. Sometimes other men joined in with the girls, but they never went near Buddy. Oh no, he always made that clear up front, however stoned he was. The closest had been the fat record producer on the night Buddy had freaked and smashed up a camera when he had discovered it filming the scene. He still shook with anger when he thought about it—which of course he tried not to do—as with many other thoughts that slipped into his head, things he never wanted to think about again but which refused to go away.
His friend Tony, for example. Lying on a cold slab of concrete. Fourteen years old. Murdered by a bunch of fairies getting their rocks off.
Sometimes he saw the face of the man who had picked them up. A shifty face with small weasel eyes. And the host of the party. Butterball. A plump, baby-soft man with a welcoming smile and the handshake of a dead fish.
He saw them clearly—along with his mother. Naked. Smiling in triumph.
How he wished he could wash the images away. But they were permanent, always with him. And he had no intention of adding any more nightmares. -
“Can I do anything for you?” a sandy-haired man in a light beige suit with matching mustache inquired as Buddy strode into Jason’s shop. Only it wasn’t a shop as such, it was more a showroom exhibiting exclusive Italian furniture and a few well-placed antiques.
Buddy sprang Jason’s card between thumb and forefinger and waved it at him. “He wanted to see me.”
“Mr. Swankle?”
“I ain’t here to see Ronnie Reagan.”
The sandy-haired man looked down his nose in disgust. How he hated these flashy macho types who acted as if they owned the world. This one stank of raw sex, and he knew it, and what was even worse he flaunted it. “I’ll see if Mr. Swankle is available. Who shall I say wishes to see him?”
“Buddy Hudson. And he wants to see me.”
Sandy-haired retreated to the back of the store, while Buddy wandered around admiring the goods. There were leather couches, marble tables, carved lamps, and cut-glass bowls filled with fresh roses. The place had class.
Sandy-haired returned in minutes, his thin lips pursed disdainfully beneath his wispy mustache. “Mr. Swankle will see you now.”
Jason Swankle’s office was a large white room filled with greenery, flowered couches, and a huge marble slab of a table covered in drawings and designs. On the walls were a series of framed David Hockney boy-in-swimming-pool drawings.
Jason himself stood center stage. He wore a pink safari suit with a pale-green silk shirt and a pink rose pinned to his jacket.
Shag, the randy bulldog, slumbered on the thick pile rug making asthmatic breathing sounds. As soon as Buddy entered the room the dog woke, growled, and hurled itself at Buddy’s leg.
“Shag!” shrieked Jason. “Down, boy! At once.”
Reluctantly the dog obeyed, and slouched back to its place on the rug.
“So sorry,” said Jason with a friendly chuckle. “I don’t know why he always picks on you.”
“Nor do I,” complained Buddy, sensing at once that he could ask Jason Swankle for anything he wanted and probably get it. Lovelight was shining out of the plump man’s round blue eyes.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Jason fluttered, indicating a laden drinks trolley.
Buddy sat himself down on the edge of one of the flowered couches. “Yeah. Why not. Vodka on ice. No mix.”
“Certainly. My pleasure.”
While Jason fixed his drink, Buddy studied him carefully. He was a short, rounded man of about forty. He wore a bad hairpiece and a fake tan, and the lavish jewelry that adorned his person was most definitely genuine. What was he doing with a freak like Gladrags? Silly question.
As if reading his mind, Jason said quickly, “I do hope you have forgiven the way Marvin behaved to you the other day. He was so rude. It was inexcusable. I told him so, of course. He was very sorry.”
Oh sure! Marvin Gladrags Jackson sorry. That would be the day.
Buddy wondered how much Jason knew. Was he aware of the fact that his live-in friend had run a call-boy service, and that he, Buddy, had been one of the boys?
Right on cue again Jason said, “You see, you startled Marvin. His past is behind him now—he has me to look after him. I enlarged his premises”—delicate laugh at the double entendre—“and now the clothes store is enough to keep him busy. He doesn’t need to run that silly escort service anymore, it’s quite unnecessary.”
Escort service! Yeah!
“It’s been a while, and your coming to our private residence and everything . . . it upset him.”
“I didn’t mean to do that,” Buddy said, going along with the story. “But I’ve been out of town an’ I needed to score a fast buck, so I figured to look up old Gla—uh—Marvin, an’ see if there was any action around. Y’know, tourist lady wanting to visit Disneyland.”
“Believe me, I understand.” Jason handed him his drink in a mirrored glass and deliberately touched hands. Buddy snatched his away. “That’s why I came after you,” Jason added. “I just hate to see Marvin behave that way. I thought that I might make it up to you.”
Here came the pitch. Forget it. I don’t need money that bad. Buddy gulped his drink, the ice cold against his teeth.
“I wondered if you might be interested in doing me a favor,” Jason continued. “For a fee, of course.”
“What favor?” Buddy asked guardedly.
Jason sat down on the flowered couch. “I have these two ladies coming to town. Very wealthy. One is a widow, and it appears her late husband left her a sizable chunk of Texas.” He paused to allow that relevant information to sink in. “The other woman, a divorcée, has bought a mansion in Bel-Air. On her last visit she handed it over to me to do with as I will.”
Buddy frowned. “Huh?”
“Decorate, dear boy. Rebuild. Refurbish.”
“Oh . . . yeah.”
“Now you are probably wondering what this all has to do with you, and how you can help me.”
“Yeah. I was wondering.” Buddy stood, drained the vodka, and moved across the room.
“You see,” continued Jason secretively, “two women, alone in a city where they have no friends need entertaining.”
“What kind of—entertaining?” Buddy asked suspiciously. He was going to be a star now. All thoughts of going back into business had vanished. The body was no longer for sale.
Jason giggled. “Nothing intimate.” He rose from the couch and padded across the room so that he was once again in close proximity to Buddy. “What I had in mind was for you to take the ladies out to dinner, the theater, a club or two. For which, of course,” he added hastily, “I will pay you handsomely.”
“How much?”
Jason threw his arms wide. “You tell me.”
Buddy thought quickly. Two old broads in town for a couple of days. No sex. Only taking them around a bit. It was a breeze. “I don’t come cheap.”
“Nothing worth having is cheap,” sniffed Jason.
“I’d need a new suit.”
“Certainly.”
“And you’d take care of all expenses?”
“Naturally.”
“What about a car?”
“Would a chauffeured Cadillac be suitable?”
Does Streisand sing? This was turning out to be too good to be true. Where was the catch? He took a deep breath. “Five hundred a day.”
Jason didn’t even blink. “Done.”
Shit! He’d sold himself too cheap. There had to be a catch. He couldn’t help himself. “So what’s the scam?”
Jason beamed happily. “No . . . scam. I just want these ladies to be happy, and if they are happy, then maybe the one who owns half of Texas will buy herself a simple three-or-four-million-dollar house to be near her friend, and guess who will get to fix it over? Do encourage her, Buddy, won’t you, dear boy.”
Buddy grinned. Foxy little fucker.
“I’ll tell them you are my nephew,” Jason decided, posturing around the room. “And that you’re an actor.”
“I am.”
“Of course you are.”
“No, really. I am. Like I’m gonna be testing soon for Neil Gray’s new movie.”
“How exciting!”
“Yeah, it would be, but I got problems.”
“Can I help?” Jason asked sympathetically, laying a friendly hand on his arm.
“I got a wife—”
“Oh dear! That’s a big problem.”
“She’s great,” Buddy said defensively, edging away so that the warm hand slipped from his arm. “She’s not the problem at all.” He stared thoughtfully at Jason while his mind buzzed. “You see, it’s like this. We’re staying in a friend’s apartment, and he’s cornin’ back tomorrow—unexpectedly. He only let me know a few hours ago, so what with everything I’ve had no chance to get another place together. I’d like to escort your two ladies”—he shrugged eloquently—“but in the circumstances I guess I’ll have to pass.”
Jason was not slow in catching a point. “Because you have nowhere to live?”
Buddy nodded and helped himself to another drink. “Right. I mean I’m going to be too busy tryin’ to find a place. You understand?”
“But what if I can assist you?”
“Hey,” Buddy exclaimed. “If you came up with something, that’d solve my problem. I mean you help me, I help you, an’ we’re all happy. Right?”
“Just you and a wife?” Jason asked doubtfully, having second thoughts. “No children or animals?”
“You gotta be puttin’ me on.”
For a moment Jason remained undecided, but something about the handsome young man with the smoky black eyes and tousled hair had gotten to him. He wanted him in his life. Plus the fact that the two women were no story. They were coming to town. And they would appreciate an escort, especially an escort who looked like Buddy Hudson. It would mean another large mansion to decorate, more commissions on everything from the toilet seats to the onyx ashtrays.
Of course it meant taking a risk. What did he know about Buddy Hudson? And then there was a wife involved. Probably some Hollywood tramp. One of these days Buddy would wake up to the fact that boys have more fun. And wouldn’t it be simply gorgeous if it was he, Jason Swankle, who could convince him?
Abruptly he cleared his throat. “I’ve just finished work on a beach house,” he said. “In the Malibu Colony. The owner is in Europe and won’t be returning for three or four weeks. If you promise to be very careful—and I do mean very. No entertaining or parties or anything like that.”
Je . . . sus! It was his day. And what a day! A house on the beach for crissakes!
“Well,” Jason continued. “I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t stay there. Temporarily, of course,” he added hastily.
Don’t jump at it, Buddy. Cool it. Let him convince you.
“Sounds good, but I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, but you must. I insist!”
And that’s how it had come down. Everything in position.
It was now six-thirty, and the pool was packed. No chance of doing his thirty lengths with the water crowded with tired bodies just back from a hard day’s grind. Disgusted, he turned to go back inside and ran straight into Shelly. Her hair was piled high in tight gleaming curls, and her muscular body wore only the smallest of bikinis. A beach towel was slung casually over her shoulders.
“Hey—Shelly! How y’doin?”
She regarded him quizzically. “Seems you’re doin’ okay. Where’s the nervous wreck who zoomed out of my apartment last night?”
He laughed self-consciously. “I guess I was uptight.”
“Uptight! Ha!”
“I’m glad I ran into you.”
She stretched a long leg in front of her and rotated her ankle. “Why is that?”
“Because I looked into that movie you told me about and I’m testing. Can you believe it?”
“Sure. Your karma’s on an up.”
He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thanks, Shell. I’ll say good-bye—we’re movin’ out of this dump.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“Wow! One test an’ you really take it to heart.”
“I’m gonna be a star, kid. I’ll give you a part in one of my movies.”
She laughed lewdly. “There’s only one part of yours I want.”
He grinned. “Cut it out, I’m a married man.”
“Yeah. Tell me that in six months.” She winked. “Anyway, good luck, I’ll see you around.” Without a backward glance she headed for the pool, dropped her towel, and executed a graceful dive between the mass of bodies.
In other circumstances . . . if there wasn’t Angel . . .
What the hell was he thinking of? Angel was his life, his love. Abruptly he shook his head and took the stairs two at a time.
They were moving on. And things could only get better.
• • •
It took Neil several days before he could even bring himself to mention Gina Germaine in Montana’s presence. The blond bitch was blackmailing him. He was caught in her cheap little trap, and he was going to have to give her a test or suffer the consequences.
They were in Oliver Easterne’s opulent office, amusingly decorated with framed telegrams from various directors and stars swearing they would never work with him again. Oliver, a sandy-haired man in his late forties, was busy cleaning his desk with a chamois leather. He had a fetish about cleanliness that bordered on the ridiculous. If anyone so much as smoked a cigarette in his office he immediately washed out the ashtray.
Montana had been discussing several actors she wanted to test for the role of Vinnie, and then the conversation automatically led on to the girls suitable for Nikki.
“If we get George Lancaster, they can both be unknowns. If we don’t, then we’ve got to go with names,” insisted Oliver.
“You’re repeating yourself,” said Montana coldly. “Don’t you think we know that by now? Neil can’t put a gun to George’s head. We’ll just have to wait.”
Oliver ignored her. “Do you think you’ll hear from George soon?” he asked Neil.
“I’m sure I will,” Neil replied. “And while we’re on the subject of stars I did have a rather interesting thought on Nikki.”
“Who?” asked Montana, lighting up a cigarette, which put Oliver in a nervous sweat.
“Don’t drop any ash,” he muttered. “The carpet’s new.”
Neil cleared his throat, then casually said, “Gina Germaine wouldn’t be bad in the part.”
Montana snorted derisively. “You have to be kidding!”
“Scrub off the makeup—”
“Cut off the tits—”
“She’s big box office,” interrupted Oliver.
“Who gives a damn?” snapped Montana angrily. “I don’t believe we’re even discussing her.”
“Big, big box
“All I had in mind was testing her,” Neil said quickly.
Montana raised a scornful eyebrow. “Did you? How come we’ve never discussed it?”
“She’d never test,” Oliver interjected excitedly. “Would she, Neil?”
“I think she would,” Neil replied stiffly, intensely aware of his wife’s angry stare. He walked over to the bar and topped up his glass with bourbon. “And I like the idea.”
“Christ!” muttered Montana in disgust. “I don’t know how you can even think of that bosomy freak playing Nikki.”
“Listen,” said Oliver quickly. “If she’ll do it, what’s to lose?”
Deliberately Montana allowed her ash to fall on his precious carpet.
“Watch the rug!” screamed Oliver in anguish.
“I’m going home,” she announced coldly. “You have your car, don’t you, Neil?”
He nodded.
“Then I’ll see you later.” She swept out in a fury. Gina Germaine! God almighty! When had Neil come up with that idea? And why hadn’t he discussed it with her before mentioning it to Oliver?
She was angry. Street People was supposed to be their special project. How dare Neil act as if her opinion didn’t matter. Since getting back from Palm Beach he’d been a total pain. Surly, short-tempered, and drinking like the old days. And as for sex—forget it. She was too busy to take much notice of his moodiness. She just put it down to the fact that he hadn’t got a definite commitment from George Lancaster, and had made allowances.
He surely knew the stupidity of mentioning Gina Germaine to Oliver before checking with her. Fuck him!
In the underground garage the attendant bid her good evening.
“I’ll take my husband’s car,” she said shortly. “Give Mr. Gray mine.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He rushed to get the gleaming silver Maserati; she tipped him when he returned with Neil’s favorite toy. He hated her little Volkswagen. Let him walk if he didn’t like it.
16
“How about twenny for hot times?” the hooker drawled. She was a stockily built bleached blonde who had forgotten about the roots of her hair, which sprouted black and coarse.
“Too much,” Deke muttered, glancing furtively up and down the dimly lit street.