Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins
“I kin give ya a ten-buck blow job,” she announced proudly, as if offering a discount in the supermarket.
His teeth clenched. “I don’t want that,” he hissed.
She adjusted a torn bra strap beneath a sweat-stained T-shirt. “Take it or leave it. Twenny a screw. Ten a blow. What’s it t’be?”
He wanted to slap her sluttish face and walk away. But he couldn’t. He needed her. There had been no one since Joey. No one.
“Where?” he asked gruffly.
“Hotel roun’ the corner.”
She set off, tottering uncomfortably on six-inch wedges, crossed the street, and headed for a darkened alley that lay between a greasy diner and a porno magazine shop.
Deke followed closely behind her, sniffing at the trail of sweat and cheap scent she left in her wake. He had arrived in Pittsburgh only hours before after driving steadily all the way from New York. His newly acquired van had not let him down. Drove smooth and clean the whole way. And so it should. He had worked hard to get it exactly right. He’d had to spend a little money on new parts, but then he had expected to.
They entered the alley, and the hooker began to whistle a tuneless rendition of a Beatles song, “Eleanor Rigby.”
The alley was dark and filled with the stench of rotting garbage. Deke followed the whistling girl as she clattered along.
Hookers. Whores. Prostitutes.
Women.
All the same. All there for just one thing.
Greedy grabbing hands. Slack lustful bodies.
Joey had been different. Joey had never regarded him as just another john. Joey had truly cared about him. Joey had—
The first blow caught him on the side of the head and knocked him to the ground, where he was kicked in the stomach by a steel-toed boot. The pain surprised him.
Desperately he tried to roll himself into a tight ball as vomit came rushing from his mouth, and with it a fast rising rage as vicious as the kicks aimed at his crumpled body.
“C’mon, get the motherfucker’s money an’ let’s get outta here,” he heard the hooker say.
Then hands were tearing roughly at his lumber jacket, searching for a wallet, a stack of bills, anything.
They had caught him off guard, just like his two assailants on the streets of New York. Only he had shown them, hadn’t he? And these two would get the same treatment.
With a sudden urgent scream he lunged out, grabbing at legs, pulling and throwing them off balance.
A shape fell on top of him and he heard a sharp curse, then muffled laughter before something exploded on the side of his head and everything faded to blackness.
• • •
The car impressed Joey. She grinned with delight when he turned up with it an hour after her request.
It was a black Camaro, and getting into it and hot-wiring the engine had given him no trouble at all. He only hoped that the owner was not planning any night trips. Then, if Joey didn’t want to stay too long in Atlantic City, he would have it back in the same parking place long before morning, and no one would be any the wiser. Especially if he gassed it up before returning it.
“Crazee!” exclaimed Joey, looking the car over before climbing in. “Clever cowboy!”
She made him feel ten feet tall. Who had ever called him clever before?
The drive to Atlantic City was wild, with Joey giggling and shrieking and urging him to go faster and faster. When they arrived they didn’t go to the beach, but to the brightly lit casinos, where Joey played the slots, her cheeks red with excitement as she fed quarter after quarter to the hungry machines.
Later, she wanted to stay. “Book us a room,” she whispered. “I wanna screw you in Atlantic City.”
He was worried about getting the car back before morning. And he hadn’t told his parents he would be out all night. He didn’t dare tell Joey his reasons not to stay—she would only laugh at him, and that’s the one thing he hated more than anything.
“I don’t want to stay,” he said finally.
“Don’t then, but I will. I like it here,” she replied cheerfully. “I can hitch a ride back tomorra.”
He didn’t want to leave her, but there was no choice, so he bid her goodbye on the boardwalk at three in the morning, and the last he saw of her was her hip-swaying walk as she headed back into one of the casinos.
She did not return to Philadelphia for six weeks. He was frantic. Twice he stole cars and drove back to Atlantic City looking for her, but she was never around.
He lived his life waiting for her to return, and when she did, white-faced, with bloodshot black-circled eyes, he shook her by the shoulders and demanded to know where she’d been.
“Get lost, man,” she muttered. “You don’t own me. I can do what I like.”
“Not if you’re my wife you can’t,” he replied vehemently, wild with burning jealousy. “I want to marry you, Joey. I want to look after you. We can be together always.”
She had endured six weeks of being abused by men. In fact, she had endured a life of being abused by men. She was tired and sick and zonked out from too many uppers and downers. She was disgusted with life, her own life in particular.
Deke Andrews was a real weirdo, but he seemed to care for her.
“Okay, bigshot,” she sighed wearily. “Name the day.”
• • •
Voices. Far off.
A sick feeling. A sick smell.
He opened his eyes and a flashlight beam hit him in the face. An involuntary groan escaped his lips.
“It’s all right. We got an ambulance coming,” the large cop standing over him announced.
His own vomit stained his clothes. He knew without looking that the money he carried in his inside pocket was gone.
“How many were there?” the cop asked.
Automatically he tested his arms, then his legs. Nothing seemed broken, although everything hurt. “What?” he mumbled. There was dried blood on his lips, and he could make out a few idle onlookers in the gloom of the alley where he lay on the ground.
“How many?” the cop repeated.
Shakily he stood. “I wasn’t mugged,” he said. “I got drunk . . . must have fallen. Don’t need an ambulance, I’m fine.”
“Don’t give me that!” the cop blurted. “You’ve been ripped off, and I want to know who did it.”
“No sir. Not me.” He began to shuffle away. “Just fell down drunk.”
“Goddamm it!” exclaimed the cop, exasperated. “Next time I’ll let you lie there.”
Deke kept walking. The sooner he was away from the cop the better. The van was parked several blocks away, the keys down the side of his boots along with the bulk of his money. Lucky that he knew the wisdom of never walking the streets with money in the expected place. The bastards had only found the fifty dollars he kept in the zipped inside pocket of his lumber jacket. They had missed the big haul. Five hundred bucks in fifty-dollar bills. Every cent he had made in New York while working shifts at the hotel, less the money he had paid out for the van.
He was filled with rage. At himself for falling into such a stupid trap. At the greedy hooker. At her accomplice, who probably thought he was so clever.
Deke Andrews was clever. He was the one who was getting away with murder.
He reached the van and viciously kicked at a tire.
They would pay for it. He had heard them laughing just before he passed out. Laughing at him!
They would pay for that. There was plenty of time to take care of them before continuing on his journey.
17
Three days after Elaine asked her, Maralee, good friend that she was, came through with the script. She phoned Elaine early in the morning to tell her that it had not been easy.
Elaine was thrilled. Twenty minutes later she arrived at Maralee’s sweeping house on Rodeo Drive, where several Mexican gardeners worked on the perfect front lawn, and another Mexican answered the door.
“You should put up a notice, ‘Illegal Immigran
Maralee smiled. “None of them speaks a word of English. It’s wonderful. So peaceful.”
“I can imagine!” murmured Elaine, following her friend into the huge living room where a genuine Picasso hung above the marble fireplace, and a potpourri of original art decorated the walls. They sat on an ivory couch while a maid served coffee and peach danish.
“How are the party plans progressing?” Maralee asked. “Do you have an answer from Bibi?”
“No. I’ve left three messages, and she has not yet felt it necessary to call me back.”
“Hmmm.” Maralee looked thoughtful. “What you need is bait. The party should be for someone. Andy Warhol, Diana Vreeland, a visiting New Yorker is always useful—Bibi adores that sort of thing. Now let’s see—anyone you can think of?”
Elaine shrugged helplessly.
Maralee suddenly clapped her hands together. “I’ve got it! Perfect!”
“Who?”
“Pamela London and George Lancaster. Karen told me they’re coming in at the end of the month.”
Elaine liked the idea immediately. She knew it would guarantee an excellent turnout if she threw the party for them, but Ross might not like the idea, and she had only met Pamela London once, and briefly at that.
Still, Karen could sound them out. Important people always liked having parties thrown for them. God! It would cost a fortune, she’d never get away with fifty people as she had originally planned. Think of it as an investment, Elaine. What a coup it would be. Everyone would want to come. Absolutely everyone. It could be the hottest party of the year.
She felt excitement creeping over her body like a rash. She could see the columns now:
Jody Jacobs:
ELAINE AND ROSS CONTI HOSTED THE BEST PARTY BEVERLY HILLS ELITE HAS SEEN IN A LONG TIME LAST NIGHT.
Army Archerd:
ELAINE CONTI, THE HOSTESS WHO KNOWS HOW TO PACK THE STARS WALL TO WALL.
Hank Grant:
PARTY QUEEN ELAINE!!
“I’ll call Karen as soon as I get home,” she said excitedly.
“Good.” Maralee picked up a large manila envelope and handed it to her. “Here’s the script. Now that’s two favors I’ve done for you, and I want one in return.”
Elaine held the envelope happily. She couldn’t wait to give the script to Ross, contact Karen, and get things moving on the party.
“Name it. It’s yours.”
Maralee tried to appear casual as she spoke, but two red spots lit up her cheeks and Elaine noticed that her eyes seemed unusually bright.
“Remember I was telling you about that man I met in Palm Springs?”
“Andy something?”
“Randy Felix.”
Elaine nodded.
“He’s here, in town, and I thought it would be nice if the four of us had dinner.”
“Fine. When?”
Maralee looked flustered. “It’s not fine. I mean it is, but I don’t know if he has any money and I can’t ask him and, well, I’m sure he’d love to meet Ross, and you’re so good with people . . .”
“Why don’t you have him checked out?”
“I don’t want to do that.”
Elaine was sympathetic. “You like him, is that it?”
Maralee grinned. “Yes.”
“Good. So we’ll meet him, and I’ll let you know what I think.”
“I don’t want another bad experience,” Maralee sighed.
Since her divorce from Neil, her track record with men was disastrous. Invariably she attracted the fortune hunters and penniless studs, with an occasional drunk thrown in for good measure. They spent her money, roughed her up, and Daddy had to send in the heavies to get rid of them. She was totally weak when it came to men.
“How about La Scala, Friday night?” Elaine suggested.
Maralee nodded thankfully. “Perfect. I’ll arrange to have the check taken care of beforehand so that Randy won’t be embarrassed.”
“Wouldn’t hear of it. It’s our treat.” Elaine stood and aimed a kiss at her friend’s cheek. “Now I must run. Thanks for everything. La Scala, Friday. See you there at seven-thirty.”
• • •
Everything happened so quickly. It was as though Jason Swankle had taken over his life. The trip to Malibu, and Jason there to greet them. “He’s an old friend,” Buddy had explained to Angel, “who owes me a favor.” She had bought that. No reason why she shouldn’t. And if she’d had any doubts about anything, they were all swept away when she saw the house. What a place! Small, but prime beachfront and decorated like a futuristic fantasy. All white, chrome, and electronic, with insane speakers everywhere and quadraphonic stereo equipment that could bring tears to your eyes.
The house was on two floors, the lower one a glass-fronted living room overlooking the ocean, and the upper floor one big bedroom dominated by a water bed.
“Please,” Jason insisted. “Be most careful.”
“We will, Mr. Swankle,” Angel replied, wide-eyed and thrilled. “I’ve always dreamed of a place like this, and you can be sure we’ll look after it as if it were our own.”
Jason was relieved. Buddy’s wife was no Hollywood tramp as he had imagined. She was young and starry-eyed. Exceptionally pretty. But dull. He could accept her, she was no rival. He left, fully satisfied that lending them the house was not a rash move.
Buddy and Angel settled in overnight. They talked excitedly of Buddy’s forthcoming test, read the few pages of script together, and later warmed frozen pizza in the microwave. Then they made long leisurely love on the waterbed.
“I love you, Buddy,” Angel told him many times. “So very much.”
He luxuriated in her adoration. He lay on the bed and imagined that the house was his, and that he was a star, and that no one, but no one, could take it away from him. Later he slept, and the nightmare faces came back to haunt him. But in the morning, when Jason’s chauffeured car arrived, he was in good shape. He had jogged along the shoreline, swum in the icy surf, and eaten a solid breakfast of bacon and eggs.
He left Angel the keys of the Pontiac and fifty bucks. Jason had advanced him two hundred on his forthcoming date. The ladies were due in town in a couple of days, and Jason wanted to fit him out with some new clothes before their arrival. He wasn’t about to argue with that. He had thought that they would go to Gladrags’ store, but this was not to be; when the car collected Jason, he instructed the driver to take them to the most exclusive, expensive men’s shop on Rodeo Drive, Bijan, where they spent three hours putting together two outfits.
Buddy could hardly believe his luck. All this for just taking out a couple of old broads?
“I get to keep the clothes, don’t I?” he asked confidently.
“Certainly,” Jason replied, beaming. “How about some lunch? Does Ma Maison appeal to you?”
Ma Maison appealed to him, all right, but maybe being seen there with Jason Swankle was not the best idea in the world. The dude was such an obvious queen, and everyone would think he was his boy. He had noticed the looks the salesmen had exchanged when he was trying on clothes and parading them for approval.
He hesitated. “I really don’t feel like heavy food. I’m into eating lightly.”
“But you could order something simple,” Jason insisted. “The duck salad is divine!” He kissed his fingertips in fervent appreciation.
Buddy shook his head. “I gotta get back to the beach, study my lines, y’know?”
Jason nodded understandingly. “I’ll send the driver for you at noon tomorrow, and we’ll have lunch then.”
“I don’t think—”
“We simply must. I want to introduce you to Patrick, the owner of Ma Maison. When you take the ladies there for dinner I don’t want you to walk in like a tourist.”
“Yeah, well—”
“Tomorrow,” Jason stated firmly.
There was no getting out of it.
• • •
Montana took t
George Lancaster . . . Gina Germaine . . . what did Oliver and Neil intend to do? Make a piece of shit? The kind of movie Oliver was famous for. She had thought Neil had more style.
She tuned the radio to a heavy rock station, smoked continually, and gradually calmed down.
What was she getting so excited about, anyway? So he wanted to test some dumb blonde. So what? Once he saw her on the screen he would know immediately how wrong she was for the part. So would Oliver.
Men. Probably dazzled by Gina’s outsize assets. She was making too big a deal over it, just because Neil hadn’t mentioned it to her first. Well, she had four actors lined up to test for Vinnie, and she had no intention of asking his opinion until he viewed them up on the screen. Making movies meant takingrisks. There was no way of knowing what would happen once an actor or actress got in front of the camera. It could be magic, it could be zilch. Maybe Gina . . . with the right clothes, hairstyle, direction . . . unlikely, but maybe.
Let Neil and Oliver play their stupid Hollywood games. She could play too if that’s what they wanted.
She arrived home to find Neil asleep, with the television on. There seemed no point in waking him.
The next morning they were scrupulously polite to each other, discussing locations over breakfast before departing for their day’s activities.
“Incidentally,” she said, walking toward her car, “if you really feel you have to test Gina Germaine, do go ahead. Maybe she’s got something that I haven’t latched onto.”
“What do you mean by that?” he snapped defensively.
She frowned. “Nothing earth-shattering. But it would have been nice if you’d discussed it with me before telling Oliver.”
“I meant to,” he said weakly.
“Oh, and by the way,” she continued, “I’ve decided to direct the tests on the actors I’ve picked. You’ve no objections, have you?”
He was relieved at the change of the subject. “I think it’s an excellent idea.”