Hollywood Wives

  He tried not to smile, she was so desperately angry, and he had no wish to inflame her further. “It was for your own good,” he said.

  “Screw you!” she replied, and unexpectedly sat down. “My date never showed, so y’can buy me a coffee. I figure ya owe me a lot more than a crummy cuppa coffee.” She wiped the back of her hand across her nose, and hungrily eyed his chicken sandwich.

  “You want something to eat?” he asked. She was such a ragged-looking creature, he felt sorry for her.

  “Awright,” she agreed, as if she were doing him an enormous favor. “Gimme the same as you.”

  He signaled the waitress and gave her the order. She filled his coffee cup and hurried off.

  “What’s your name?” Leon asked.

  “Joey,” she sniffed. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’m buying you a sandwich. I might as well know who you are.”

  She glared at him suspiciously, muttered, “Lousy cop,” and set upon her sandwich with ravenous ferocity when it arrived.

  Leon watched her eat, observing her short-bitten nails, grubby neck, and spiky orange-dyed hair. She was a mess, yet there was still something appealing about her. She’s bringing out the father instinct in me, he thought wryly.

  “I take it they let you out of the girl’s farm,” he remarked. “I’m not buying food for a runaway, I hope.”

  “They let me out,” she said between mouthfuls. “They had to when my sister finally came t’get me. ’Sides, I’m sixteen now, I can look after myself.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “You bet I can!” She threw him a sly look. “Thanks t’you, really.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well . . . if I hadn’t of hit on you, an’ you hadn’t of sent the kiddie patrol after me, I might never have got myself connected with all those boss chicks at the farm. Y’know, I met ’em all, an’ I learned me plenty.”

  It occurred to him that he shouldn’t be sitting down with her. Quickly he gestured for the check.

  “Where ya goin’?” she demanded.

  “Home,” he replied, then added sarcastically, “That’s if you don’t mind, of course.”

  “I thought you’d at least give me a ride,” she whined pathetically. “Just look at it out there.”

  He turned to stare out the large windows. The rain still pounded down. “What makes you think I’m going your way?”

  “Look—if it’s too much trouble just t’drop me at the bus station. I’m goin’ to my sister, she lives outta the city, an’ I don’t wanna miss my bus.”

  He knew he should refuse her, but what the heck, he was off duty and she was only a kid.

  “Get your coat,” he sighed.

  “Don’t have no coat.”

  “In this weather?”

  “Who knew it was goin’ to piss?”

  He paid the check, took his raincoat from the rack in the corner, was about to put it on, then changed his mind and threw it over her shoulders. “Come on,” he said.

  They ran for the car, Joey tagging behind, yelping as the full force of the torrential rain hit her.

  “Come on,” Leon repeated, raising his voice as he opened the car door.

  She hurled herself inside like an angry puppy. In spite of the protection of his raincoat she was soaked through.

  He started the engine while she found disco on the radio.

  “Got a ciggie?” she asked.

  “I gave it up,” he replied gruffly. “And that’s what you should do.”

  “Sure,” she sneered. “I mean, I got so much goin’ for me, why should I need cigarettes?”

  He glanced at her and turned the radio down. “What time is your bus?”

  She was silent for a moment, chewing on her thumb and wriggling on the seat.

  “What time?” he repeated, slowing his speed as the rain increased.

  “It don’t matter what time,” she mumbled at last, “ ’cause there’s no point in me catchin’ it anyways.”

  He frowned. “I thought you wanted to be dropped at the bus station.”

  “S’awright. I can sleep on one of them benches. I done it before.”

  He was rapidly losing patience with her. Clicking off the radio he said, “What are you talking about?”

  “Well . . . y’see, my sister’s gone off to Arizona to live on one of them communes. I was supposed to save some money an’ go join her, but my money was stolen.” She warmed to her story. “These two black cats ripped me off, wanted to put me on the streets an’ pimp off me, but I got away from ’em. Only thing is they got all the money I saved from workin’, now I gotta start again.” She paused. “You got any money to spare? I’ll screw ya for ten bucks.”

  Leon pulled the car over and stopped. “Get out,” he said sharply.

  “Waddya mean?” she whined.

  “Out.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Get out. Or is it back to Juvenile? They’ll find a bed for you.”

  “Pig bastard!” she spat, realizing he was serious.

  He leaned across and opened the passenger door. Heavy rain blew into the car.

  Her voice quavered. “You’re throwin’ me out in this? Why can’t you take me to the bus station?”

  “Because you’re full of it, the bus station is out of my way, and you’re a liar. Now—out.”

  Reluctantly she stepped from the car into the pounding rain. He slammed the door shut and drove off.

  She had her nerve. Doing it to him again. Propositioning him as if he was some John who had to pay for it. Maybe he should have taken her to Juvenile. Probably kinder than dumping her on the street.

  Jesus Christ! Now he was feeling guilty!

  Well, she was only sixteen, and it was some lousy night. But then, he reasoned, she wouldn’t thank him for handing her in, and she could look after herself. She was a tough little street kid. Besides, she wasn’t his responsibility.

  Angrily he drove home, parked underground, and took the elevator to his apartment.

  It wasn’t until he was standing under a hot shower that he realized she still had his raincoat.

  • • •

  Millie leaned across the table and said, very softly, “Honey, if I left, would you miss me?”

  “Huh?” Startled, Leon returned to his surroundings.

  Millie patted his hand comfortingly. “Welcome back.”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Oh, really?” Her sarcasm was thick. “I would never have guessed.”

  “I was just thinking,” he repeated carefully, “about where we should spend our vacation this year. Have you thought about where you would like to go?”

  “California,” she replied, without hesitation. Then, anxiously, “We can afford it, can’t we?”

  “Sure we can.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to California,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Haven’t you?”

  Leon frowned. He could honestly say that he had never had the faintest desire to visit the West Coast. As far as he was concerned, California was a land of sunshine, oranges, and freaks. “I’ll talk to a travel agent next week,” he promised.

  She beamed. “We have plenty of time, but it sure would be nice to get it all planned.”

  He smiled reassuringly and wondered if Deke Andrews had had it all planned. Had he planned to viciously hack three people to death? Had he planned to leave the small house looking like an abattoir? Had he planned to calmly wash up, walk out, and vanish?

  The waiter appeared with two steaming plates of spaghetti with clam sauce. Leon felt his juices rising. Millie grinned and murmured something about the only sure way of turning him on nowadays was with a good hot plate of food.

  He didn’t reply. He wasn’t up to playful banter about the growing infrequency of their sex life. It wasn’t that he no longer desired Millie, it was just that he was so goddam tired. And half the time when he got i
nto bed and closed his eyes the images that he saw were not erotic. They were of Deke Andrews. A photograph of him that had appeared in his senior class yearbook aged eighteen. “He never changed much from that picture,” various witnesses had assured him. “Just grew his hair some.”

  The police artist had worked diligently on the photo, aging it eight years and adding the longer hair. It had then been circulated across the country.

  Leon knew the photo intimately. An ordinary boy with extraordinary eyes—burning black deadly eyes. They haunted him. And so did Joey’s mutilated body, her neck almost severed so grotesque were her wounds.

  “Eat up,” said Millie.

  He stared at the plateful of spaghetti and felt distinctly nau-seated. What was the matter with him? Had to get hold of himself. Goddam! He had lived through twenty years of gruesome murders and not one of them had ever affected him this way. He wound some spaghetti onto his fork and shoved it into his mouth.

  “Good, huh?” asked Millie.

  Good, huh? mocked Deke Andrews in his head.

  “ ’Scuse me.” He pushed his chair away from the table, dropping his fork with a dull clatter. “Call of nature. I’ll be right back.”

  Millie’s eyebrows rose in surprise as he hurried out, seeking refuge in the men’s room. There he rested his head against the cold tile wall and made a decision. He would open up the Andrews file. He would apply to the captain for permission, and if he didn’t get it, he would work on the case in his spare time.

  Suddenly he felt better.

  11

  Elaine Conti wore large tinted sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, and a voluminous white linen coat. Casually she glanced around as she strolled through the makeup department of Bullock’s, Westwood. Unobserved, she pocketed a seventy-dollar bottle of Opium as she passed by a display table. Her eyes darted this way and that as she added a ceramic hand mirror and a Lucite lipstick holder to the scent already in her pocket.

  By this time her heart was beating wildly, but her casual stroll never faltered. She drifted through to the sunglasses department and managed to pocket two sixty-dollar pairs before taking the escalator down to the linens and notions. There she was accosted by a middle-aged saleslady in black and rhinestones who said, “And what can I do for you today, madam?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Elaine replied. “I’m just looking.”

  “Do go ahead, please. I’ll keep my eye on you should you find that you need me.”

  Elaine swallowed annoyance, smiled, and beat a hasty retreat to men’s casual clothes, where she was able to add a silk Yves Saint Laurent tie to her collection of goodies.

  She looked around and noted a male assistant checking her out. Her heart was really pounding now. It was enough. Slowly she sauntered toward the exit.

  Leaving was always the moment of truth. What if a hand descended on her shoulder as she stepped outside? What if a voice said, “Would you mind coming back inside for a moment?” What if she was caught?

  Absolutely impossible. She was far too careful. She only took when she was sure no hidden eyes or cameras were watching. And she only took items priced at under a hundred dollars. Somehow she felt that was safe.

  Outside. On the street. No heavy hand on her shoulder.

  She walked to the Mercedes, which was parked at a meter on Westwood Boulevard, removed her linen coat, its pockets filled with ill-gotten gain, folded it carefully, and placed it in the trunk. Then she took off her hat and sunglasses and threw those in too.

  She felt fantastic! What an incredible charge these illicit shopping sprees gave her. Better than an affair any day. Humming softly she climbed into the car.

  Elaine had been successfully shoplifting for over a year. Once a week, regularly, she donned what she called her “disguise” and hit a department store or a boutique. Department stores were safer, but the boutiques gave the biggest thrill of all. There you could really go to town, slipping a scarf, a silk knit sweater, or even a pair of shoes into your pocket right under some snappy little salesgirl’s nose. Oh, the excitement! The kick! The shot of adrenaline that kept her vibrating for hours and hours! The greatest high of all!

  It had started by accident, really. She had been standing in Saks one day waiting for attention at the Clinique makeup counter. She needed face powder in a hurry, she was late for a lunch date, exhausted from a dance class (studying modern ballet had been the in thing to do then), and more than a little impatient and bad-tempered. Suddenly, the easiest thing in the world had been to slip the box of powder—conveniently situated on the front of the counter—into her purse, and saunter quietly out of the store. She had quite expected to be stopped, and then coolly, calmly, she would just have explained that she was merely making a little protest, taking a stand against the gross rudeness of salesgirls who preferred conversation with each other to attending to a customer.

  Would they have believed her?

  She was Mrs. Ross Conti. Of course they would.

  But she wasn’t stopped. Not then. Not the next time. Nor the time after that.

  What had started out as a protest soon changed into a habit. An unbreakable one.

  • • •

  “Buddy,” Angel whispered softly. “Can I meet your agent?” “What?” He frowned. They lay side by side on the narrow bed in Randy Felix’s borrowed apartment watching a game show on a badly functioning black-and-white television.

  She sat up, long blond hair falling around her perfect face, eyes shining with enthusiasm. “I’ve been thinking,” she announced. “It’s silly, me sitting at home all day when I could be trying for a job too. If I met your agent he could send me up for things. Wouldn’t it be terrific if / got something?”

  He spaced his words carefully. “It’s not a good idea.” Now it was her turn to frown. “Why?” she demanded plaintively.

  “Why yes?”

  “Because,” she replied quickly. “things don’t seem to be coming easily for you, and I’d like to help. Before I went to Hawaii I had made up my mind that I wanted to be an actress.”

  He breathed deeply, evenly. It had not been a good day. “Are you saying you don’t think I can look after you?”

  Her eyes widened. “I know you’ll always look after me. But we do need money, don’t we?”

  He was suddenly angry. “Who says?”

  She gestured helplessly around the cramped room. “Well, this isn’t our apartment. The car we have is falling to pieces, and you’re so jumpy lately. Honestly, Buddy, I’m not complaining. I just want to help out.”

  “Fuck!” He exploded, jumping off the bed, pulling tight Levi’s over French Y-fronts, and grabbing a shirt.

  She looked alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

  He snatched his wallet and keys from the top of the television. “You want to hassle me? Make me feel like nothing? Do it on your own time, lady.”

  Before she could even reply he slammed his way out of the apartment.

  Angel was shocked. She had not expected such a violent reaction. In fact, what she had expected was a tender scene between the two of them in which Buddy swore deep love and gratitude for her being such an understanding and helpful wife.

  Tears filled her eyes. What had gone wrong? What had she said that was so unacceptable? Weren’t married couples supposed to stick together, tell each other everything, and have no secrets?

  As the days passed, and Buddy became more irritable and no starring role or even a bit part materialized, she had slowly begun to realize that things were not exactly as he had told her they would be. Not that she minded. She had read enough fan magazines in her life to know that Getting There and Making It were not always a fast jog up the yellow brick road. Sometimes there were Pitfalls and Hold-ups. Buddy had been away, and now it would just take him a little time to get back up where he belonged. But while he was waiting, why couldn’t she have a chance too? She only wanted to help.

  Tearfully she climbed off the bed and straightened the covers. How she longed for him to c
ome running back, hold her in his arms, tell her everything was all right, and make slow gentle love to her. She shivered, and hugged her arms around her slender body.

  Buddy. If he didn’t want her to work she’d never mention it again.

  Buddy. She loved him so much. He was all she had, and she planned to stay with him forever.

  • • •

  “Have you ever considered a red-hot prick up the ass?” asked an agitated masculine voice.

  “Do me a favor and go jerk off on your own time.” Montana replaced the receiver briskly. Obscene phone calls. How did the cretins get hold of the numbers in the first place? Did they scour the phone books looking for single-female listings? Or did they lurk around the supermarkets and stores checking out customers and their charge cards? Who knew? Who really cared?

  Energetically she leaped out of bed. A wave of well-publicized violence was spreading fear throughout the hills of Hollywood, Beverly, and Holmby. People were into security gates, guard dogs, electronic alarm systems, and guns. Montana bothered with none of the precautions. She refused to live a well-guarded life. What would be would be. If an obscene phone caller hoped to upset her day he had the wrong number.

  Humming tunelessly, she launched into a few yoga positions out by the pool. It was only eight o’clock. A clear smogless day—and she had an insane desire to trash everything and drive out to the beach.

  Why not?

  Many reasons.

  Twenty actors with appointments scheduled exactly fifteen minutes apart.

  A meeting with the young dress designer she wanted to hire for the film.

  A trip to the airport to surprise Neil on his return from Palm Beach.

  For the first time she felt really good about living in L.A. She was glad that Neil had talked her into letting him buy the house a few months back. They had leased their New York apartment, packed up forty cartons of books, records, and assorted possessions, and finally made L.A. more than just a hotel suite.

  Neil loved California. She had always been a city kid, but she could change, couldn’t she? For Neil she could do a lot of things.

  Five years together and still she loved him, probably more than in the beginning, because in the beginning it had been lust. She grinned at the thought. She, who had only climbed into bed with body beautifuls and youth. Then along came Neil Gray with his middle-aged spread, graying hair, and bloodshot eyes.