Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins
Nervous of banging two old broads? Buddy Hudson?
It had been a long time between professional engagements.
So what?
He set about fixing the drinks, poured himself a double vodka, and gulped it down quickly. Too much alcohol slowed the action, but one fast blast always worked.
He wanted his thousand dollars first. Up front. On the table.
The sound of the shower filtered through the bedroom door. He picked up the two martinis and pushed the door open with his foot. The bed cover was folded neatly in half, and some money lay on the flowered pillowcases. Mrs. Jaeger read minds.
He put the glasses down and swooped. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills in mint condition. Yeah. Cheap Mrs. Jaeger was not. Quickly he stuffed the money in his jacket pocket.
So . . . what was the sequence of events? Mrs. J. first, followed by Mrs. M.? Or a doubleheader?
He threw off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. Unease settled over him like a shroud as he paced the room.
What was Angel doing now? Probably cleaning out a closet or two. That brought a smile to his lips. My wife, the cleaner. Angel had changed. In Hawaii a free spirit, just like him. Now Miss Proper, scrubbing and making a big deal about every grain of sand he tracked into Jason’s house.
“Ah-hah. I see you found the money.” Norma stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped tightly in a terry-cloth robe. “Are you ready to shower now?”
Hey, hey. Didn’t she think he was clean?
“Sure,” he replied. “Why not?”
She walked into the bedroom, and he dodged past her into the bathroom, where he quickly stripped off his clothes.
A lukewarm shower, scented soap, and then on with a thoughtfully supplied bathrobe. He glanced down at his dick. Softer than a well-cooked noodle. Psyche-up time. Time to think sweet thoughts, flash onto erotic memories. Time to get it on. Confidently he swung into the bedroom.
Mrs. McQueen and Mrs. Jaeger were naked in each other’s arms. A tangle of moaning flesh.
Was he supposed to join in? Watch? Wait?
The client always makes the choice. And for a thousand bucks these ladies could make any choice they wished.
He stood in the middle of the room awaiting instructions, feeling his hard-on deflate, feeling like a fool.
The women did not seem aware of his existence as they writhed and twisted on the large double bed, so he tried a subtle clearing of his throat, just to let them know he was around.
No reaction. Norma was intent on dive-bombing Celeste’s muff, and heavy sighs and groans were signaling somebody’s climax. Certainly not his. A climax was the last thing on his mind.
“Ahhhhh . . .”
“Come on, sweetie. Make it. Get there. Come on.”
They sounded like a faltering horse and a fast-talking bookie. Buddy concealed a grin—not that they would have noticed if he had stripped right off and sung “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.”
At last they separated, and while Celeste lay gasping, Norma sat up and said triumphantly, “Well, Buddy? And what did you think of that?”
What did she want? A review?
Gee, the action was a little slow in places, and the dialogue banal, but it wasn’t a bad performance. Norma Jaeger shone as the aggressor, while Celeste McQueen was suitably hysterical as the second lead.
“Uh . . . nice.”
She hooted with laughter. “Just nice?”
He thought he should show a little enthusiasm. “Vereeee horny.”
“Why don’t you come join in?” Norma invited. Celeste was obviously a silent partner.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” he said lamely. Maybe he could fake it.
Fake an erection? What an ace trick that would be. Wow! No more money problems. Patent the scam and watch the big bucks roll. He could see the book title now. How to Get a Hard-on When You’re Not in the Mood for Sex. A sure bestseller.
“Take off your robe first. I want to look at you. I love looking at beautiful young men’s bodies.”
Oh, shit! He wanted out.
“You’re not shy, are you?” she teased. “Jason doesn’t usually send me the shy ones.”
So that was it. Jason knew the setup all along. All that garbage about taking out a couple of lonely ladies was just that. Jason must have seen him coming.
Celeste surfaced, her streaked hair in disarray. She had hanging breasts that looked as if they had seen plenty of action. “Ummm.” She stretched. “What’s happening?”
She reminded him of San Diego and a fourteen-year-old boy . . . his mother standing in the doorway . . . slipping off her robe . . . big hanging breasts and musky thighs.
“I gotta go,” he mumbled. “I really gotta go.”
“What?” Norma and Celeste both echoed their surprise.
“I have this appointment I forgot—” He stumbled into the bathroom, threw off the bathrobe, struggled quickly into his clothes. “Like there’s this test I’m doin’, an’ I gotta pick up the new pages—”
He was at the door. His hand touched freedom as he grasped the handle.
“My money, Buddy.” Norma Jaeger’s voice was ice.
“Oh, yeah . . . sure.” He reached into his jacket pocket, fingered the stack of crisp new bills, silently wished them goodbye. “Here you go.” He threw them on the bed. They landed on Celeste’s stomach.
Then he was out of there, running, running, taking deep gulps of fresh air, putting time and distance between himself and his past.
• • •
Accustomed as she was to men approaching her, Angel had never quite figured out a way to repel them without getting involved in some way. Conversation led to familiarity, and suddenly you knew a total stranger, whether you wanted to or not.
The man on the beach was different. Angel sensed it immediately. He didn’t bother with the usual lines. He just came right out with: “You don’t know me, but I’ve been watching you. And let me tell you something, I could be the start of a whole new life for you.”
“Excuse me,” she said, backing away.
He pursued her. “I don’t want your body. I have no interest in anything personal.”
She backed farther away.
“Beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Perfect!”
She looked around for someone to rescue her.
“We’re neighbors,” he said, trying to calm her. “I live in the house next to yours.”
“My husband is home,” she said nervously. “He doesn’t like me talking to men—he’s very jealous.”
“I don’t give a damn about your husband!” he yelled, waving his arms in the air. “Listen to me, little girl, and listen carefully. I want to make you a movie star! If you can do to a camera what you do in person—then you’re made. You understand me?” He paused dramatically. “I want you in my movie.”
Her eyes widened. All her life she had dreamed of someone saying that to her. “Who are you?” she gasped.
“Who am I?” He roared with laughter. “Don’t you read the trades? Didn’t you see me on the cover of Newsweek last year?”
Silently she shook her head, awed by the frantic energy he gave off.
He narrowed his eyes and stared at her intently. “You don’t smoke, do you? No, of course you don’t.” He held his hands as if to frame her face. “You, little lady, are going to be a star. I, Oliver Easterne, will make you one.”
20
PITTSBURGH, THURSDAY:
THE BODIES OF A MAN AND A WOMAN WERE DISCOVERED IN A DESERTED ALLEYWAY EARLY TODAY. THE WOMAN, A 20-YEAROLD CONVICTED PROSTITUTE, HAD BEEN BADLY MUTILATED AND SLASHED. HER THROAT WAS CUT.
THE MAN, A 34-YEAR-OLD CUBAN NATIONAL AND KNOWN PIMP, WAS ATTACKED IN A SIMILAR FASHION. THE BLOWS RAINED UPON HIM WERE SO FEROCIOUS THAT HIS RIGHT ARM WAS SEVERED ABOVE THE ELBOW. IT IS BELIEVED THAT HIS ATTACKER LEFT HIM TO BLEED TO DEATH. POLICE ARE SEEKING WITNESSES.
• • •
The old brown panel van roared along the highway, leaving Pittsburgh fa
In the bars and the cafes—Passion.
In the streets and the alleys—Passion.
Lot of pretending—Passion
Everybody’s searching—Passion.
How true the words were, Deke thought. Everyone was getting it. But where was the passion in his life?
Hear it on the radio—Passion
Read it in the paper—Passion
Hear it in the churches—Passion
See it in the schoolyard—Passion.
Joey. She had given him passion. The only one who ever had.
Can’t live without passion
Even the President needs passion
Everybody I know needs some passion
Some people die and kill for passion.
Joey. He had loved her, even though she was a whore, even though she was a liar, even though she was a whoring lying bitch bitch bitch.
Some people die and kill for passion.
The fact that Joey accepted his proposal of marriage surprised Deke. She said, “Okay, bigshot, name the day.” And then added, “An’ I want a ring—an’ if ya want me t’give up hookin’ then you’re gonna hafta hand me some bucks every week.” She collapsed with a weary sigh onto her unmade bed. “An’ when we gonna do it? Soon?” She nodded, as if asking herself the question. “Yeah, soon,” she decided.
He stared at her blankly. Asking was one thing. Doing was another.
There were all sorts of things to consider. His mother, for one. He had brought a girl home on only one occasion—and that had been when he was much younger. She had made the girl perfectly welcome, then later, when they were alone, she had smiled wistfully and said, “Not for you, son, is she? Not good enough.”
But then of course nothing was ever good enough for his mother. School marks, his job, his hobbies.
“Cars!” She would screw up her nose distastefully. “We paid for your education so that you could lie around under cars all day. Is that it, son? Is that what we struggled for?”
She had never accepted his job at the garage. She would never accept Joey.
“All right, soon,” he mumbled.
“When?” Joey demanded.
“I’ll make some plans. . . .”
“Where’ll we live?” she flashed.
He was almost sorry that he had asked her. He had not expected to have to make such immediate decisions. “Til find a place.”
“A house?”
The money he made at the garage wasn’t that good. And then of course he had to give his mother a set amount. Before Joey, he had been able to put some away, but now he had only a few hundred dollars left in the bank.
“We’ll see.”
She bounced off the bed, black-circled eyes spiteful and menacing—the cast in her left eye emphasized by her tiredness. “Listen, cowboy, don’t do me no favors.”
“I’m not,” he assured her anxiously.
“You bet you’re not.” She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. “I coulda got hitched hundreds of times if I’d wanted to. I even hadda cop crazy about me. How d’ya like that?”
He didn’t like it. Joey Kravetz was his. And anybody who tried to take her away from him was dead. Stone-cold dead.
• • •
The van veered out of its lane, and an irate driver in a Cadillac gave Deke an obscene sign with his finger. Deke was incensed. Purposefully he changed lanes, came up real close behind the Cadillac, and began to beep his horn in short staccato blasts.
Both vehicles were speeding, going way past the limit. But the Cadillac didn’t give way, and Deke did not slow his pace.
Dangerously they raced along the two-lane highway, the van only inches from the Cadillac’s tail.
There was road construction coming up; signals indicated that the two-lane highway narrowed to one lane a mile ahead.
Deke pulled out and alongside the Cadillac. The driver, a middle-aged man, stared stonily ahead. He had decided that maybe he was dealing with a nut.
As they approached the road construction the man slowed, ready to pull in behind the maniac in the van. But the maniac wouldn’t let him, the maniac kept pace with his speed, blocking his entry into the clear lane. Christ! The arrows indicated he must get over now. In a sudden burst of panic he put his foot down hard on the accelerator—there was no way a Cadillac couldn’t outrun a faded old van. No way. Except that inexplicably it couldn’t. The van stayed alongside him all the way, pulling ahead just before the Cadillac smashed at full speed into a heavy concrete mixer.
The middle-aged driver knew agonizing pain for only seconds, and then—nothing.
Deke arrived in Cincinnati three hours later. He was tired and very very hungry. It took him no time at all to find a diner, where he had two orders of steak. After that he slept for five hours in the back of the van, and then, refreshed, he continued on his journey west.
California was waiting for him. He had to hurry.
21
Bibi Sutton lived on a walled estate in Bel-Air, with armed guards at the wrought-iron gate, and specially trained German shepherd killer dogs roaming the grounds. Nobody visited Bibi unannounced.
Elaine drove her Mercedes up to the gates and gave her name to a cowboy-hatted guard. He checked out a typewritten list. “You know your way up to the main house, ma’am?” he drawled.
“Yes, I do,” she replied, thinking how silly this whole rigmarole was. Everyone loved Adam Sutton. He was a legend—a John Wayne or a Gregory Peck. Who could possibly wish to do him harm?
Then she smiled. The security was for Bibi. Probably half of Beverly Hills wanted to slit her throat!
At one time the Sutton mansion had belonged to a silent-movie star; Elaine could not quite remember which one. Maybe Barrymore or Valentino. It didn’t matter, for Bibi had changed everything, and created a cool white Roman villa with pillars, fountains, and marbled terraces. If she wasn’t a professional movie-star wife she could have taken a shot at interior design. She certainly knew what she was doing, even if it had cost a couple of million dollars.
A uniformed servant waited by the front steps to take Elaine’s car, and a maid escorted her through marbled hallways to a sunlit terrace overlooking an Olympic-size pool. There Bibi held court.
Elaine’s eyes darted around the assemblage. The upper-echelon ladies of Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, and other suitably moneyed locations were out in full force. Saint Laurent, Dior, Blass, and de la Renta rustled expensively on perfect bodies. And if they weren’t perfect they made a damn good try. Electrolysis, body firming, cellulite control, vein removing, fat removing. All these things had taken place on one or the other of the bodies milling around. Tit renovation, teeth capping, snatch tightening, eyelid lifting, nose bobbing, ass raising. All these things and more.
“Sweetie!” Bibi bore down on her, a vision in a white summery Galanos. Very simple. After all it was only a lunch party. “So nice you come. I like your suit. I see it before, no?”
“No.”
“Ah, yes. I see it in Saks last week.”
At least she was aware of the fact that it was new. “You look lovely,” Elaine enthused.
Bibi laughed gaily. “This old thing—I throw it on.”
Elaine looked around for a drink, and an attentive waiter appeared at her elbow. He carried a choice on a silver tray. Champagne or Perrier. She quickly reached for a glass of champagne. There was only one way to get through this lunch, and it certainly wasn’t sober.
• • •
The moment Elaine left the house, Ross reached for the phone. Karen picked up on the second buzz. She sounded politely cold. “I have to go, Ross. I was just leaving for Bibi’s lunch, and I’m running late.”
“What’s the matter, baby? Don’t I turn you on anymore?”
“Can we discuss this some other time?”
“What’s wrong with right now? I??
“So go jerk off.”
“It’s not the same, Karen. Not when I could be with you.” He paused for effect, then continued. “Jesus, but you looked horny on Friday night. What were you doing with a schmuck like Chet Barnes?”
“Fucking him.”
“That’s nice.”
“It was.”
“Does he still come before he gets it all the way in?”
She gasped. “How did you know that?”
“This here town ain’t nothin’ but a village, lady.”
“You bum!”
He had her, he could hear it in her voice. “How about lunch with me instead of Bibi?”
“You’re such a bastard. Why didn’t you call me when you said you would?”
“I didn’t think a little thing like that would bother a liberated lady like you.”
“I’m not some makeup girl or hairdresser you’re throwing one to on the side,” she complained.
“Where shall we meet?” he asked confidently.
She sighed. She never had been one to turn down a better offer. “The beach, I suppose.”
“It’s a long ride.”
She laughed huskily. “I sure hope so!”
• • •
Montana summoned her secretary into the office. “Inga, I want all the actors I’m testing for the part of Vinnie available on Thursday.”
Inga nodded, itching to dial the good news to Buddy Hudson.
“Have them arrive at the studio at hourly intervals from seven a.m. on. They are to wear their own clothes—casual, suggest Levi’s and a shirt. Makeup and hair will be taken care of.”
Inga nodded again, making cryptic shorthand notes on her pad.
“There’s four of them, right?” Montana checked.
“Yes,” Inga confirmed. “Do you want them to arrive in any special order?”
“It makes no difference. They’ll all have the same chance.” She pushed her glasses up into her hair. “God! I’ll be glad when every last role is cast on this movie. I seem to have spent the last year of my life interviewing actors and actresses.”
Inga wondered if it was a good time to throw some questions at her boss. “Um . . . is George Lancaster definitely doing it?”