Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins
“Where the hell is that scurvy prick?” she demanded.
Oliver could think of many who fitted that description.
“Who?” he asked mildly.
“Forget it.” She stomped off to her Ferrari and exited amid a cloud of angry exhaust fumes.
Inside the restaurant Gina husked. “My place or yours?”
Ross could hardly imagine smuggling the very visible Ms. Germaine into the Beverly Hills Hotel. One look at her and the late-night tourists would probably riot!
“Yours,” he said.
“Good,” she said.
• • •
Buddy handed the bottle of prescription Quaaludes to Shelly and asked, “What kind of a doctor supplies you with these?”
“They started life as prescription drugs, man. Like for depression or relaxation—antistress—that kinda shit.” She stretched, and the short tank top she was wearing pulled up and revealed inches of hard, tanned stomach. “I got one doctor thinks I’m real depressed. Another who’d hand me a slip for the big H if he thought I’d drop my pants for him.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “And the third guy just likes the bread.” She nodded wisely. “Always gotta keep a good supply of friendly doctors. Makes life a lot easier.”
He thought of Randy. Had it been easy for him? When the drugs hit, when the coke and the grass and the heroin all combined to blow him straight to heaven—or hell. Whatever.
The phone rang and he sprang for it, catching it on the second ring. “Angel?” he blurted, so sure it was her.
“Who is Angel?” came Sadie’s acid tones.
“Just a guy I know,” he answered, without missing a beat.
“I’m very mad,” she said angrily. “And when I am mad I do not sleep—so rather than ruin my night’s rest I decided to let you know what’s on my mind.”
“Hey, Sadie. If it—”
“Just be quiet and listen. You came to me for representation. You arrived with your sexy strut and some half-cocked promise of a role in a movie.”
“Hey—”
“I took you on. Got you the film, special billing, excellent money. I am financing your billboard. I chose you, Buddy. And believe me, there are plenty of other actors I could do exactly the same for.”
“Are you sayin’ I don’t appreciate it?” he interjected heatedly.
I am saying that I do not like the way you behaved tonight. How dare you walk out in the middle of dinner? You do not treat people that way. Especially not me, any producer you are working for, or your director. When you are Al Pacino, do it if you must. But let me tell you this—if you’re going to be difficult I’ll drop you now and cancel the billboard campaign. Do you want that? Better tell me now before it’s too late.”
“I’m sorry, Sadie,” he said, suitably humble. “It was an emergency. It won’t happen again.”
“Just so long as we both know exactly where we stand,” she said crisply, and hung up.
“Tell me more about Sadie,” giggled Shelly. “Is she Sadie Sadie married lady? Is she the one that set you up here?”
“Do me a favor, drop some more pills and go to sleep.” He headed toward the bedroom.
She was not anxious to see him go. “Sure you don’t feel like stoppin’ by Maverick’s? I feel so low.”
“Sleep, Shelly.”
He closed the door. Then he sat on the end of the bed and thought things out. If Sadie was pissed at him for running out on some dumb dinner, how would she feel about him suddenly coming up with a wife?
Worse still. What if his mother materialized?
He never ever thought about her. Only in his nightmares did she come to him uninvited and unannounced.
Incest.
A filthy word.
His skin crawled every time he was forced to remember. His whole past was a mess. Names danced in front of his eyes—Maxie Sholto, Joy Byron, Gladrags, Jason Swankle, and a hundred faceless women who might see him on the screen and say, “Wasn’t that the stud I paid money to?”
The whole thing could blow up in his face if he wasn’t careful. Yet how could he be careful now? What was done was done.
He hated living a lie. Wasn’t truth supposed to be the name of the new game he was playing? How about coming clean with Angel for a start? If they were going to make a life together he owed her that at least. The more he thought about it the more he realized it was right.
A new beginning.
An unwelcome thought occurred to him. He should make peace with his mother first. It had to be done before she came screaming recognition back into his life. Which could happen when all the publicity he was doing hit. As soon as his schedule allowed he would take a day and go to San Diego.
With that decided he felt better. Then he checked with his service to see if Angel had called. She hadn’t.
Immediately he was depressed again. Why was he feeling so bad when finally everything was going so well?
He did press-ups until he was exhausted.
Then he slept.
• • •
On very rare occasions two people meet in bed who are totally compatible in every way—or so they both fondly imagine.
Gina Germaine and Ross Conti were just such a couple. She, all white-blond hair, sensual mouth, and voluptuous breasts.
He, all leathery tan, blue blue eyes, and enormous cock.
“Where have you been all my life?” he gasped, near orgasm, his rigid member clamped firmly between her heaving bosoms.
“I don’t know,” she gasped, also on the point of divine release. “But wherever it was, honey, I ain’t going back.”
They exploded in a cacophony of moans, grunts, sighs, and screams.
“Hot damn!” exclaimed Ross.
“Oh boy!” exclaimed Gina.
They had found each other with a vengeance.
56
Emmy-Lou Josus had been a maid for sixty of her eighty-two years. She had seen a thing or two in her time. Worked in a whorehouse in New Orleans, a cathouse in St. Louis, a bordello in San Francisco. She had observed fights and stabbings, abortions and suicides. She had acted as a confidante to the girls, adviser to the johns. By the time she came to Las Vegas she figured she had more or less seen it all.
She mumbled happily as she let herself into Nita Carrolle’s bijou house with her own key. Mrs. Carrolle was one of her favorites. She trusted Emmy-Lou. No locking up the booze when she was in her place.
The house smelled. Emmy-Lou sniffed and looked for the dogs to come running to greet her as they usually did. “Doggie fellas,” she called out. “Stinky fellas.”
She scratched her armpit and removed a faded wool jacket liberally decorated with moth holes. Mrs. Carrolle had promised her something new. Maybe for Christmas. Or perhaps her birthday. She frowned. Couldn’t remember when her birthday was. Couldn’t remember much of anything nowadays.
She scratched under her arm again, sniffed the strange odor which filled the small house, and went into the kitchen. The dogs were on the table in the middle of the room, their throats slit. For a moment Emmy-Lou stared. The white Formica was covered with blood, and she knew she was going to have to clean it. She didn’t like blood. It got on your clothes and hands and the smell lingered.
Silently she crossed herself. Mrs. Carrolle shouldn’t have done it. It was a cruel thing to do. Emmy-Lou could not abide cruelty. Resolutely she set about cleaning up the mess. She placed the dogs in black plastic garbage bags, scrubbed the heavily stained Formica, mopped the floor, all the while muttering ferociously to herself.
When this was done she made a cup of hot sweet tea, sat down at the table, and drank it broodingly.
Eventually she went into the living room armed with duster, mop, and vacuum. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing Mrs. Carrolle had done. Maybe not so terrible. “No more doggie shitty,” she giggled.
The words froze on her lips, and she knew for sure that she would never get the wool jacket Mrs. Carrolle had promised her.
57
The doctor had given him a list of instructions: No drinking. No excessive exercise. No smoking. No fatty foods. No stress. No sex. In fact, none of the things he enjoyed in life. He felt fine, wonderful in fact. Why should he continue to live his life like an invalid? The horror of the heart attack was behind him. He took his pills every day, and quite frankly believed he was fitter and stronger than he had been in years.
“How about a big juicy steak tonight, and a bottle of wine?” he suggested to Nurse Miller, who had abandoned her knitting, ready for her daily trip to the market.
“Now, now, Mr. Gray,” she said, as if addressing a naughty child. “We’ll have none of that talk.”
“Ah, but we will, Nurse Miller. I fancy steak and wine. Maybe even a cigar if they have anything smokable.”
“Quite out of the question. The doctor would never allow it.”
“The bloody doctor’s not here, is he?”
She pursed her lips. “I have been hired to look after you. And that is exactly what I intend to do to the best of my ability.”
She left for the market in her car, the only means of transport at the house. He had been delivered there by a chauffeur and Montana. The one and only time she had visited. Not that he blamed her. He had been caught in a situation that nightmares are made of. The question was, what to do now? He wasn’t prepared to sit quietly at the beach while he lost his wife, his movie, and his sanity.
Impatiently he paced the room and glared out at the ocean. He hated the bloody sea. The noise alone was enough to drive him mad.
In due course Nurse Miller returned. She brought him the newspapers and the trades, which he greedily devoured.
Inside the Herald Examiner there was a large photo of Gina Germaine and Buddy Hudson, accompanied by a short piece on the film. The picture was of Gina and Buddy, but the story was all Montana. He got a line or two. It seemed that he had graduated from being the celebrity in the family to just the sick husband.
He read the story through twice. It irritated him.
Then he stared at the photo of Gina—chief cause of all his troubles.
“Nurse Miller,” he shouted abruptly. “Give me the keys to your car. I am going into town for an hour or two. Don’t worry. I will not smoke, drink, or have carnal knowledge of any female. You may rest assured that I shall behave perfectly.”
She confronted him immediately, her thin lips tight with disapproval. “I cannot allow you to do that, Mr. Gray.”
He strode into the kitchen and plucked the keys from her purse. “The choice, my dear woman, is mine, not yours.”
Her voice rose. “Mr. Gray. If you insist on behaving like this I shall be forced to summon the doctor.” She hurried in front of him and blocked the doorway with her formidable self.
He shoved past her in a most ungentlemanly fashion. “Frankly, Nurse Miller, I couldn’t give a fuck.”
• • •
Shelly was not easy to get rid of. She refused to wake with all of Buddy’s pushing and shoving, so he was forced to leave her in his apartment while he went off to a business lunch with Pusskins Malone. He left large DO NOT ANSWER notes taped to both phones.
In the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel, Pusskins thrust two newspapers under his nose.
GINA GERMAINE AND NEW STAR BUDDY HUDSON.
They called him a star, and he hadn’t done a thing!
“Can I get six copies of each?” he asked anxiously.
“You can get cancer if you want it bad enough,” replied Pusskins obscurely.
Lunch was in the Polo Lounge. A beautiful Mexican journalist with shiny black hair and a Miss Universe figure waited to interview him.
He had it down pat. Same questions. Same answers. Smile. Exert plenty of charm. He had yet to meet a heavyweight, although Pusskins assured him they existed.
The girl made shorthand notes while he gave her the same old replies and let his mind drift. He wondered if there was anything in the paper about Randy. Probably not.
Sin. To die in Hollywood and be a nobody.
How about funeral arrangements? Who would take care of everything?
Second sin of the day. To die broke.
Pusskins snapped his fingers. “Junior. Get with it,” he commanded. “Michelle just asked you the same question twice. You got an answer for her or not?”
Buddy sprang to attention. Yeah. He had an answer for her. He had an answer for everything.
• • •
A piece of human garbage suitably nicknamed Rats Sorenson had started his long and nonillustrious career peddling nude pictures of his sister for twenty cents a throw. That was in the forties, when nude photos of females were something to get excited about. Realizing he had a talent for promoting, Rats soon progressed to selling photos of himself and his sister. By the time the fifties bloomed he was publishing, printing, and distributing (under the counter, of course) a crude attempt at a magazine subtly titled Twats That. He made his fortune and swiftly produced a series of blue movies which also made money. In the sixties he decided to go legitimate. And he produced a glossy magazine about gardens which lasted for three issues and took every penny he possessed.
By this time he was married to a sixteen-year-old nymphet who waited until the money went, then followed it. He caught her in a motel with a seventy-year-old married man and shot the old guy right between the eyes. For this he got a twenty-five-year sentence. And with time off for good behavior (he soon became the warden’s favorite, for reasons known only to himself and his cellmate—a blackmailer by the name of Little S. Schortz), he was set free on an unsuspecting world after fifteen years. Rats soon returned to the business he knew best, and made his second fortune. Twats That reappeared—this time on the newsstands and retitled Hard Pussy. A waiting public embraced the magazine fondly.
But, of course, Rats wanted more. He married a seventeen-year-old go-go dancer, and accompanied her on weekly trips to the supermarket, where he noticed a certain type of newspaper gain great prominence at the checkout stands. It started with the National Enquirer, which was swiftly followed by all kinds of imitators.
Rats wanted in. He decided to launch a newspaper which followed the same formula—but with an added ingredient. Hot, compromising pictures of celebrities—as hot as he could get ’em. Of course, the supermarkets wouldn’t carry his magazine, but that didn’t worry him. People could buy it at their newsstands.
Running into his old pal Little S. Schortz turned out to be a coincidence fortunate for both of them. They collided outside Tony Roma’s restaurant deep in the heart of Beverly Hills.
Conversation revealed the fact that the new hot newsrag Truth & Fact was owned, published, and edited by none other than Rats himself.
“Have I got some pictures for you!” Little boasted. “Not cheap, but worth every buck.”
The very next day business was done. Rats bought the entire Karen Lancaster-Ross Conti set of negatives and chose a rather tasteful shot of Ross just about to chew on a quite remarkable nipple for the cover. The real low-down dirty stuff he saved for the center spread.
“I’m rushing it through for the next issue,” Rats said.
“Maybe I could have photo credit,” Little suggested tentatively. He never had been particularly smart.
• • •
Maralee turned down Elaine’s request to loan her ten thousand dollars. In fact, she was quite shocked that Elaine had summoned the nerve to ask her. She phoned Karen to complain, but Karen was most unfriendly, accusing her of siding with Elaine, and not calling her.
“I’ve been too concerned about Neil to contact anyone,” Maralee explained.
“But you hate the louse,” Karen said, perplexed.
“ ‘Hate’ is a word that is no longer a part of my vocabulary,” Maralee replied piously. “Neil has changed.
“You can’t be serious?”
“Absolutely.”
There was a short silence while they both digested Maralee’s new personality. Then Karen remembered a small item she had read buried somewhere in the L.A. Times.
“What was your friend Randy’s surname?”
“Felix. I introduced you to him enough times, the least you can do is remember his name. I know he’s not famous, but—”
“He’s dead,” Karen interrupted.
“What?”
“There’s a piece in the paper. Someone called the police and they found him overdosed in some lousy one-room apartment in Hollywood. I thought you said he had money.”
Maralee was devastated. She had broken up with Randy, but still, how could such a thing happen? And what was he doing in a dump? According to him he had lived in a very nice apartment—“It’s only three bedrooms, but I find it comfortable,” he had told her. Of course she had never been there. Perhaps it was just as well.
“I must go to him,” she decided.
“What are you talking about? He’s dead,” snorted Karen. “The police are involved. They seem to think a woman was with him when he died, and they want to interview her.” A thought occurred to her. “You weren’t doing drugs with him, were you?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” snapped Maralee. “I don’t even smoke marijuana.”
“Hmmm,” Karen sighed. “You’ve no idea what you’re missing.”
Maralee concluded the conversation and went into her bathroom to gaze at her blond prettiness in the mirror.
Why did she always pick losers? What was it about her that attracted the fortune hunters and the bums?
She thought of Neil. An older man. English, respected, a fine director.
Once he had been her husband and she had let him go. The time had come to win him back.
• • •
Neil hit the Pacific Coast Highway in Nurse Miller’s pristine white Chevrolet. Now that he was out he had changed his mind about storming Oliver’s offices and regaining control of his film. He wanted Montana more than he wanted the bloody movie, and she would certainly not appreciate his barging in and taking over. He decided to stop off, have a drink, return to the beach, and call her. If he requested a meeting she could hardly turn him down, and then they could thrash everything out. A confrontation was long overdue.