Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins
“You told me your parents died in a car accident,” she interrupted accusingly.
“I know what I told you. But from now on it’s the truth, right?”
“Yes.”
“My mother lives in San Diego. I haven’t spoken to her in ten years.” He was silent a moment. “I want to settle things, so I’m going to drive down to see her early in the morning, and when I get back I need you to be waiting in my—our apartment. Will you do this for me, baby? Because you mean everything to me—and I don’t want there to be any more lies between us.” He paused, willing her to say yes. “C’mon, Angel. You know the time is right.”
Somebody up there liked him. For a change.
“All right,” she whispered.
The love he had for her burned hot. From now on she came first. Without her everything else was nothing. Including the career he still wanted but refused to lie for.
“I’ll arrange a limo to pick you up at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, the maid’ll let you in, and I’ll be back around six or seven. If I’m going to be late I’ll call.”
She gave him her address.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “You won’t ever regret it.”
• • •
“Bullfriggingshit!” screamed Ross.
“Smile—there are photographers outside the house gates,” an unfazed Gina replied.
“Who gives a flying fuck about frigging photographers?” he yelled, the veins in his neck standing out like telephone cords.
“I do.”
“Well, fuck your
“Maybe later. If you stop behaving like a horse’s ass.”
“Up yours, lady!”
They had been screaming at each other since leaving the party.
“Did you know the film was down the tubes?” he had asked the moment they were alone.
“Yes, I knew. But it’s not my job to tell you. I said for you to call your agent.”
“Too much trouble for you to mention it?”
“Is it my fault you have a dumb agent?”
The fight had started with name-calling and progressed to open warfare. Ross could not remember ever having been so angry.
Their limo was slowly approaching the gates of Gina’s house. The photographers pressed forward. She had forgotten to mention to Ross that her personal PR representative had alerted the wire services only half an hour before they left the Bistro that Ms. Germaine was likely to announce her engagement to Ross Conti before the end of the evening. The press waited anxiously.
Gina realized that she might have picked the wrong moment for this particular publicity stunt.
“Oh, Jesus!” she exclaimed, pressing a button which operated the wall of glass between her and the chauffeur. “Don’t stop,” she instructed tersely.
“I’m afraid we have to, Ms. Germaine. The remote control for the gate is not in the car.”
“Why not?” she hissed angrily.
He shrugged a how-should-I-know-I-was-only-hired-for-the-evening reply, and pulled the white stretch Cadillac limousine to an abrupt halt.
The photographers surged. Ross glowered.
Gina manufactured a quick smile and opened her window. “Hi, boys,” she said genially, trusting that her personality and Ross’s sense of survival would get them past the gate. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”
They all spoke at once, asking the same question. Were she and Ross Conti planning a wedding?
“A wedding!” Ross screamed, his fury out of control. “Number one, I am a married man. And number two—take note, ladies and gentlemen of the press. I wouldn’t marry Gina Germaine if she were the last friggin’ cunt in Hollywood!”
64
Nighttime on Hollywood Boulevard and the prostitutes and the pimps and the pushers and the junkies and the muggers on parade.
Deke drove down the street slowly, his cold eyes taking in the scene.
At a red light two bored hookers sauntered over to the van.
“Interested in a threesome?” they asked in unison. “Round the world, golden shower, name it.”
He shook his head negatively and rubbed the front of his dark glasses. Whores. The world was full of them.
“Come on,” one of them encouraged, putting a bony hand with three-inch false nails on his arm.
“The sins of the flesh will kill you,” he warned, shaking her hand from him with such force that three of her false nails came off and fell on the floor of the van.
“Mothafucker!” she screeched in a fury, attempting to wrench his door open so that she could retrieve her precious nails.
He gunned the van into motion, and she fell back screaming obscenities.
Hollywood Boulevard. Gateway to the City of Angels. Alive with vermin. Alive with the dregs of the earth. As The Keeper Of The Order it was his job to deal with this seething mass. He was sent to do such things. But first . . . a woman he must find. A whore mother. Joey would want him to deal with her first. She had told him so. Joey never left his side. She was a good girl—a sweet girl.
Los Angeles. City of the Angels.
Whoretown, U.S.A.
“Mother,” he said aloud. “I know who you are. I will find you soon. I promise.”
“Good, cowboy,” said Joey. She sat beside him so bright and pretty, her skirt pulled demurely over her knees.
Familiar lights flashing MOTEL attracted him.
“Are you tired, Joey?” he asked solicitously. “Shall we stop?”
She had gone.
The whore had vanished.
He fingered the knife down the side of his boot. Next time he saw her he would slash the bitch to pieces.
65
Buddy could not sleep. After speaking to Angel he paced around his apartment excitedly. He had made a commitment, and now he had to follow through. The thought of facing his mother was unwelcome, but the sooner it was over and done with . . .
No more lies.
Everything clean.
What about Sadie? The idea was to tell her before Monday, when his billboard hit America.
He lay on the bed, fell asleep thinking about what to do, and woke early with an answer.
He did not have the nerve to wake Sadie with his outpourings of honesty at seven on Saturday morning, but he had no such qualms about stopping by Ferdie’s before leaving for San Diego.
Ferdie was up and dressed—natty in a red cutaway T-shirt with matching shorts. He was suntanned, oiled, and muscled, unlike the soberly suited man of office days. He seemed quite embarrassed to be caught out of character. Even more so when a tousle-haired youth of fourteen or fifteen appeared behind him at the front door demanding, “Who is it?”
The boy wore a towel around his waist and nothing else.
“Get back in the kitchen,” Ferdie commanded, the tone of his voice brooking no argument.
“Glad you’re up,” Buddy said breezily.
“Would it make any difference if I wasn’t?”
“I had a choice—wake you or Sadie. I figured you were my best bet.”
“And how did you find out where I lived?”
“Looked you up in the phone book.”
“This is an emergency, I presume?”
“Most definitely.”
Ferdie sighed with annoyance. “You’d better come in, I suppose.”
“Hey—don’t make me feel so welcome.”
“What do you expect at seven in the morning? Flowers and a band?”
Buddy followed him into a spacious white apartment. A lone Andy Warhol silkscreen of Marilyn Monroe took pride of place above the old-fashioned mantel. Two burned-out candles were placed beneath it.
He sat down without being invited and said, “I can’t stay long.”
“What a shame.”
The juvenile, now lurking in the kitchen, put on loud punk music just to let everyone know he was still around.
“God!” exclaimed Ferdie, then in a louder voice, “Use the headphones, Rocky.” He turned to Buddy. “Well? Do tell. I
“I’m going to San Diego.”
“A short trip, or will you be taking up residence?”
“I have to be straight with Sadie.”
“Ahhh . . . I know.” Ferdie smirked knowingly. “You’re really a transvestite, and you couldn’t bear to keep it a secret a moment longer. Is that your exciting news?”
“Cut the smart-ass cracks. This is serious.” Buddy stood up and walked to the window. The view offered a swimming pool with two girls doing lengths while another one skipped rope by the side. “Uh . . . there’s a few things I never told Sadie about.”
“Like what?” asked Ferdie, intrigued at last.
“Like I’m married. I have a beautiful wife—and I don’t want to hide the fact anymore.”
“Oh dear.”
“Is she gonna freak?”
“Let’s put it this way—she is hardly going to dance on tabletops wild with delight.”
Buddy shrugged. “That’s the way it is.” He gazed at the view. “I . . . uh . . . want you to tell her for me.”
“Thank you. You’re so kind. But I must decline your generous offer. Tell her yourself on Monday.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because she has to know today. The billboards will be up on Monday. I don’t want to let it go any longer. It’s just something that has to be done.”
Ferdie looked exasperated.
“Listen,” Buddy said persuasively, turning away from the window. “You do this for me an’ I gotta owe you one big favor. Right?”
“Maybe.”
“So you know an’ I know that there’s nothing like havin’ stored favors in this town. Right again?”
Ferdie nodded reluctantly.
“Hey—who knows what’s gonna happen to me?” Buddy continued expansively. “I could become a big star or I could end up as nothing. It’s all a role of the dice, huh?” He patted Ferdie firmly on the shoulder. “But hey—if I make it big, a favor from me should be worth somethin’. Am I right?”
Ferdie sighed. He could never resist the lethal combination of pressure and charm. Besides, he wanted Buddy out of his apartment. “All right, all right, I’ll do it. I don’t mind ruining my day. Now what exactly am I to tell madam?”
“Tell her I got me this wife. Her name is Angel. And she’s beautiful.”
“Oh, wonderful. Is that the one I found for you?”
“Don’t worry—we were already married.”
“Then why did—”
Ferdie paused, as the juvenile wandered into the room, headphones clamped over ears, fingers snapping to the beat. “Ferdie,” the boy whined, “when we goin’ to the picnic?”
“When you get dressed.”
The boy flicked the knot on his towel with studied insolence.
“For God’s sake—” Ferdie began, and stopped when it was revealed that the juvenile wore a scant white bikini underneath.
Buddy was already at the door. “Tell Sadie I’ll be in the office first thing Monday.”
Ferdie followed him out. “Don’t worry, she’ll be waiting.” He lowered his voice. “Kindly do not discuss my personal life with anyone. Especially Sadie.”
Buddy winked. “You got it. Hey—you know what, Ferd? Telling the truth is the best thing that’s happened to me in years!”
“Yes,” said Ferdie dryly. “Especially when I get to do it for you.”
66
A letter. Special delivery. To Leon Rosemont in Las Vegas.
Dearest Leon,
We had a good time together.
Sometimes good times don’t last.
This is sad . . .
But it is so . . .
Our vacation is over and I am going home—alone.
I shall always remember the good times.
Millie
He had received the letter earlier, read it through quickly, then stuffed it in his pocket. No time to deal with it—everything was happening fast.
Arriving in Las Vegas to investigate the murder of a hooker only to be summoned to a house where Deke Andrews had most certainly spent time.
Killing time.
Leon felt his stomach turn as they photographed the body of the old woman—her face a morbid grimace of fear and death.
Carnage . . . blood . . . mutilation.
Deke Andrews’s fingerprints everywhere. He had made no attempt to cover his tracks.
Scrawled across the bathroom mirror in smeared lipstick were the words I AM THE KEEPER OF THE ORDER, WHORE MOTHER—I WILL FIND YOU. It was as if he felt he didn’t have to be careful.
Leon spoke to the maid who had found the body. She was hysterical. Hadn’t seen anyone or anything, just kept on mumbling incoherently about a wool jacket.
Who was Nita Carrolle? Why had Deke broken his pattern, entered her house, and murdered her?
What was the connection?
Leon went to work, sifting through the remnants of a life. He persevered through the night, and at seven-thirty on Saturday morning hit pay dirt. Hidden beneath piles of clothes in the basement he came across an old ledger. He studied the yellowing torn pages, some of which were missing. His original hunch was correct. Deke Andrews was adopted, but not by legitimate means. Nita Carrolle and her sister Noreen had run a babies-for-sale operation.
At last the puzzle began to make sense. Leon had the scent of Deke in his nostrils. There was much to do.
67
Elaine awoke to blinding sunlight. She had forgotten to close the drapes again, and the early-morning sun spilled into her bedroom. For a few moments she lay perfectly still, knowing full well that as soon as she moved, her head would begin to throb as it did every morning lately.
She moved. Her head throbbed. She swore off drink forever, and knew for sure that the only way to get through the day was to add a slug of vodka to her breakfast orange juice.
Elaine Conti, you’re a drunk.
Absolutely not, Etta. I can quit anytime I want.
Who are you kidding? You need the booze. It kills the pain.
I’ll stop tomorrow. Damn you, Etta. Just leave me alone.
She walked unsteadily into the bathroom and tried to recall what she had done the previous evening. She could not remember one single thing, even though she thought hard.
Maralee. Were they together?
No. Maralee had left for Europe with her father two days ago. Or was it longer? She honestly could not remember.
Better get your act together, Elaine.
Better leave me the fuck alone, Etta.
She wandered into the kitchen without even a passing glance in the mirror.
Elaine Conti. Tangled hair, streaked by the sun instead of from a bottle. Perfect white skin tanned for the first time in ten years. Figure slightly voluptuous—she had gained at least ten pounds. Instead of a lace nightgown, de rigueur bedtime dress for ladies in Beverly Hills, she wore Ross’s old pajama top, the sleeves rolled high. For someone who should be looking lousy she looked pretty good. A little puffy around the eyes, but more attractive than the usual groomed-to-within-an-inch-of-her-life Elaine Conti.
She was naturally unaware of this fact. She knew for sure that she looked terrible. But since she was seeing no one and no one was seeing her, what did it matter? Even Lina had deserted.
The orange juice in the refrigerator appeared to have seen better days, but she poured half a glass anyway, and added a healthy blast of vodka—just to chase away the blues. Then she sat down and wondered how she was going to pass yet another long and lonely weekend.
• • •
Ross awoke shortly after Elaine. Only he had not had the luxury of a bed to spend the night in. The back seat of his gold Corniche had done duty—and it was not the most comfortable place in the world, although better than sharing Gina Germaine’s California Eastern King. Jesus Christ! Anything was better than that.
He kicked open the back do
A rat scampered across the garage floor. Beverly Hills was full of them. The four-legged and the two-legged kind.
Ross Conti. Movie star. Sleeping rough.
Not exactly planned, but since leaving Elaine nothing much had gone his way, which was one of the reasons he had returned to the roost. Unfortunately too late at night to gain entry. The previous evening he had rung the doorbell for ten minutes and nobody had answered. His key was somewhere among his things at Gina’s place. Too bad, but he wasn’t going back. When every dog in the neighborhood started to bark he had abandoned his attempt to get into his own home and driven the Corniche to the alley behind the house. There he had used the remote control to gain entry to the garage, parked, and taken up his sleeping position on the back seat.
Christ! His back was now killing him, and at that particular moment in time taking a piss was the most important thing in his life.
He hoped Lina was around to let him in. Didn’t want to disturb Elaine’s beauty sleep. He wanted her in a good mood for the return of her hero.
68
Deke had more information than he desired. It filled his brain like maggots swarming over the carcass of a dead cow. Eating at his sanity. Driving him mad.
Nita Carrolle.
Silent at first.
Until he punctured that fat flesh and the words came spilling out like rich red blood.
She knew plenty. She was old, but her memory was sharp as an icepick. When he mentioned the names Winifred and Willis Andrews she faltered for a moment . . . but then she remembered. And she found papers to prove it.
He knew who his mother was.
He knew where she was.
Immediately he thought of Joey. At last they would be able to meet. Joey—so lovely. She could be a movie star. So much prettier than the trash that paraded the boulevards.
Next time he saw her he would tell her. She would love him for it. She would kiss him and hug him and call him cowboy again. . . .
He missed her so badly.
If he took care of everything, would she come back? He resolved to ask her.
Of course, The Keeper Of The Order could not beg.