Hollywood Wives

  Ross recognized Buddy also, although he didn’t know his name; he merely remembered him as one of Karen’s partners when she was doing her drunken show-off dance at his party. “Yes?” he said coldly. He was never particularly friendly toward young good-looking studs—they reminded him with a vengeance of his lost youth.

  “Uh . . . is this Sadie La Salle’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she . . . uh . . . home?”

  “Why?”

  Sadie came up behind Ross, a welcoming smile lighting her features. “Buddy! I’m so glad you could make it.” She peered past him. “And I see you got your car. Are you pleased?” “You gotta be kiddin’. It’s great.”

  “Come on in. Do you know Ross Conti?”

  “Uh . . . Mr. Conti, sir. It’s a pleasure.” He proffered his hand, which Ross ignored.

  “Ross. This is my new star to be,” Sadie said, savoring the moment. “Buddy Hudson. Remember the name—he’s going to be big. He’s already been signed for one of the lead roles in Street People.” She grabbed Buddy by the arm and led him inside. “I have a surprise for you which I know you’re going to love. Ross, come with us. I think this will also interest you.”

  Ross wondered why she hadn’t told him she was expecting company. And what was all this my-new-star-to-be crap? And “Buddy Hudson. Remember the name—he’s going to be big.” Once she had introduced him that way. “Ross Conti. Remember the name—he’s going to be big.”

  He trailed them through the house, not pleased by this latest turn of events.

  She held on to Buddy’s arm, a proprietary air about her that really infuriated Ross. Something was wrong somewhere. He was the one she should be hanging on to after last night. He was surprised she could even walk after last night.

  They passed a glistening blue swimming pool and arrived outside the guest house. With a flourish Sadie unlocked the door and sprang the lights, and the three of them entered a large white room, empty apart from a billboard-size poster covering one entire wall. Buddy was there in living color. Buddy with his curly black hair, smoky dark eyes, and little else except faded Levi’s shorts and a bronzed and perfect body.

  It was a sensational photograph. It was the same photograph Ross had posed for all those years ago with his ruffled blond hair, deep-blue eyes, and bronzed and perfect body.

  Scrawled across the poster in bold red handwriting were the magic words—WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  “Je . . . sus!” exclaimed Buddy. “It’s sensational, but what’s it for?”

  “It’s a surefire way to make you a star,” Sadie said. “That poster will be on billboards from coast to coast.” She turned and looked Ross straight in the eye. “I did it once before and I can do it again. All it takes is a little manipulation and an appreciative client.” She locked eyes with Ross until she was sure he had received the message, then she linked arms with Buddy and said, “Let’s drive back to L.A. Palm Springs turned out to be a great big disappointment this weekend—one that I’ll never repeat.”

  50

  Las Vegas welcomed Deke like the eye of the tiger. He drove at night through the black desert, and there suddenly—blazing in the distance—a million sparkling lights. Las Vegas. He had never seen anything like it in his life.

  He drove into the city slowly, staring at the casinos, the flashing neon signs, and the people. Like ants they scurried all over the place. In and out, laughing, drunk, some clutching paper cups spilling quarters and silver dollars.

  He remembered Atlantic City with Joey. She had loved to gamble, loved to stuff the shiny machines as though feeding an army of ravenous sharks.

  He should have stopped her. The machines were evil. They ate money. Money was evil. People who played with money were cannibals. Bloodsucking evil cannibals. Those people had taken Joey and devoured her.

  He cruised around for a while getting the feel of the place, and all the time watching—with cold black expressionless eyes—the ants run in and out of their places of worship. Cannibal ants. Their God was money. They worshiped in the casinos. They had taken Joey as their sacrifice.

  He was tired and needed sleep, food, and cold water to cleanse the dirt of living from his body.

  A hundred cheap motels beckoned. They offered swimming pools, water beds, closed-circuit porno movies, slot machines, and free breakfasts. Joey would have loved Las Vegas.

  Sweet Joey. Where was she now? He missed her.

  He frowned, unsure for a moment. Then he remembered. She was home with Mother. She was safe.

  He checked into a motel, but as tired as he was, sleep eluded him.

  Perhaps there was something he had to do before he was allowed the luxury of rest. After all, he was no ordinary man. He was The Keeper Of The Order. He had certain responsibilities.

  At three in the morning he prowled the downtown streets on foot. He needed sleep. His eyes were raw with the effort of keeping them open. But there was something for him to do, and he must wait for a sign.

  The hooker spotted him long before he saw her. He was a weirdo all right, with his shaven head and staring eyes, but business was way off and she had to score. Besides, what was weird nowadays? As long as she walked away with the money and he didn’t beat up on her, what did she care?

  She followed him for a while before tapping his shoulder. “Hiya, cowboy. Lookin’ for a good time?”

  He spun around, red-ringed eyes wild, and for a split second the hooker contemplated backing off. But then she figured, what the hell, he was only another dumb john.

  “Joey?” he asked.

  “Who, me? You gotta be kiddin’, I’m all woman. Wanna take a walk an’ find out? Twenny greens’ll buy plenny.”

  Deke knew that he must go with her, because she was Joey, and she was reaching out for his help. She had called him cowboy. That was the signal.

  He fumbled in the pocket of his shirt for money and counted out sixteen dollars in single bills.

  “That all y’got?” she asked in disgust. Then she grabbed his arm in case he changed his mind. “It’ll do, I suppose,” she said as she hurried him down the street.

  He went with her willingly. A five-minute walk took them away from the bright lights and into deserted dimly lit streets. She pulled him into a doorway and fiddled with the belt of her skirt. The material parted. She was naked underneath. Casually she leaned back against the wall and spread her legs.

  “Seein’ as ya can’t quite reach twenny it’s gonna have to be standin’ up.”

  She reached for his zipper.

  He reached for his knife.

  She was quicker than he was. She had him out of his pants before he knew it, and began to fondle him expertly.

  He froze, the knife in his hand unmoving.

  After a few seconds she said, “Come on,” her voice an impatient complaint.

  He did not move. Somewhere in the night a woman yelled drunken insults.

  More manipulation. Then her voice again, “Wassamatter with you? Got problems?”

  He used his knife then, his real weapon, and release was sweet.

  She screamed like an animal, while in the distance the drunken woman continued to yell.

  When she slumped to the ground he was covered in blood. He took off his shirt and threw it on top of her.

  “You can rest now, Joey,” he said in a low voice. “When I’ve done what I have to do I will join you.”

  51

  The speed at which things were happening for him had Buddy dazzled. One moment he was just another actor hustling a break, the next he was Sadie La Salle’s new discovery, and one of the stars of a hot new movie.

  Thank Christ he was only Sadie’s discovery. She hadn’t come on to him at all—much to his relief. He had been sure that Palm Springs was to be the pitch, but no, she had shown him his poster, and then they drove back to L.A., he dropped her at her house, and that was that.

  Sadie La Salle and Ross Conti. Kind of a mind-blowing combination. But on asking around he disc
overed that it wasn’t so unlikely after all. According to Hollywood gossip, Sadie had discovered Ross, made him into a star, whereupon he had promptly dumped her.

  “I hope you liked your poster,” Ferdie sniffed archly, when he stopped by the office on Monday. “I had to drag it all the way down there, and now I’ve got to drag it all the way back.” “I wish I looked like that!” Buddy joked.

  Ferdie cracked a smile. “And how was your weekend?” he couldn’t help himself from asking.

  “Hey—some weekend. Like no sooner did I get there than Sadie wanted me to drive her back to L.A. I never even got to sit in the sun.”

  “You mean you didn’t stay the night?” Ferdie asked.

  “Nope.”

  He was clearly astonished. “Er, Sadie will be with you in a moment. She’s on the phone to Oliver Easterne.”

  “No problem.” Buddy prowled around the office, checking out the signed pictures of famous stars decorating the walls. His eyes came to rest on a photo of the sit-com star who had been hanging around Angel at George Lancaster’s party. “You know this creep?” he demanded.

  “I hardly hang pictures of strangers,” Ferdie replied crisply. “He’s with the agency. Sadie doesn’t handle him personally, of course. We have a television department.”

  “Can you do me a favor?”

  “It depends what it is. I do a lot for madam’s favorite clients. But I do not supply drugs or members of the opposite sex.”

  Buddy burst out laughing. “If I needed that kind of a favor you’d be the last person I’d ask!”

  “Thank you very much,” said Ferdie huffily.

  “No offense. You see, there’s this girl I’m tryin’ to find. She was at the Lancaster party—maybe with jerko.” He pointed at the picture.

  “What’s her name?”

  He could hardly say Angel Hudson, could he?

  “I never got her name. It might have been Angel. She’s a very pretty blonde—beautiful, in fact.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Let’s face it, there can’t be many Angels in Hollywood!”

  • • •

  The day it was announced that Montana Gray was going to direct Street People, George Lancaster walked. He didn’t even stay around to fight. He and Pamela boarded her private plane and jetted off to Palm Beach without a backward glance.

  George Christy in The Hollywood Reporter quoted Pamela as saying, “Hollywood sucks,” but then Pamela had never been noted for her tact.

  At first Oliver was furious. He saw his cable deal going right down the toilet. Then he started doing a touch of fast thinking, figured out the money he would save by not having George Lancaster, and decided it wasn’t such a disaster after all. Gina’s name alone would carry the film. And he’d gotten her for half her normal price—much to Sadie’s disgust. Plus Buddy Hudson was getting monkey piss—and the amount he was paying Montana was a joke.

  He had decided to build up the Buddy Hudson part—go for the young market. Much as he hated to give her credit, Montana had really discovered a winner—the kid had potential.

  Now all he had to do was come up with a stroke of creative casting for the newly vacated role of Mac—which he planned to have rewritten anyway, cut down and made less important. Who needed another George Lancaster? Not Oliver. He wanted a reasonable actor with a half-assed name who would not ask for the moon.

  Ross Conti sounded good to him when his agent, Zack Schaeffer, called with the suggestion. Not that he was the only game in town. A lot of anxious agents were calling offering clients, but Oliver liked the smell of Ross Conti. It was offbeat casting. Pretty Boy Conti playing a beat-up old cop, his first decent acting job ever—the magazines would love it. He could see the cover of People now. Plus Ross was divorcing again, which would mean more good coverage. And the chemistry between Ross and Gina should be something. It was common knowledge that Ross was a tit man.

  Put ’em together and what did you have?

  A lot more good headlines, that’s what.

  Yes. Oliver liked the aroma. He loved putting the final package together. Especially when everything was going his way.

  • • •

  Neil Gray was allowed to go home from the hospital three weeks after his heart attack. Only it wasn’t home he went to, it was a rented house at the beach with a private nurse as his companion.

  Montana arranged the whole thing. “It’ll be for the best,” she said.

  “What about you?” he asked, feeling like a man dragged back from the brink of death—which in fact he was.

  “I’ll try and get down on weekends,” she said vaguely.

  They had not talked about the cause of his heart attack. There had been no screaming fights, no accusations. But Neil knew that she was aware of the circumstances, and he was desperate to keep her.

  “Promise?” he asked, hating the begging note he heard creeping into his voice.

  “I’ll try. But with the movie and all . . .” she trailed off.

  “Montana—” he began.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said fiercely. “Not until I’m ready.”

  So he was banished to the beach with instructions to rest, and regain his health, while his wife took over his movie—starring Gina Germaine, which made the whole thing really bizarre.

  He wanted to ask her why she had agreed to have Gina in the film, but he could not bring himself to mention the woman’s name. If he had she would have told him that the choice was not hers, and that if she wanted to direct the movie she had to go along with everything Oliver Easterne desired or he would hire another director.

  “Take it or leave it,” Oliver had said, enjoying every minute. “But remember—if you take it I don’t expect any trouble from you. I’m in charge—the asshole rules. Okay?”

  The dumb asshole. Because once shooting began she would be in control—everyone knew the director had the producer by the balls once they were rolling.

  It was difficult to believe that Oliver had signed Gina. But it was done, and there was no choice but to go with it, so she summoned her to the studio for a meeting. Somehow or other she had decided to try to wring a creditable performance out of her.

  “I was so upset to hear about Neil,” Gina gushed, all pop eyes, white hair, and impossible boobs.

  Montana killed her with a look that said it all. Then she killed her with words. “I want you to lose twenty pounds. Your hair is not natural enough; it’ll have to be changed. And no specially made clothes. Off the rack. As for your makeup—no false lashes, lip gloss, or shading.”

  Gina glared.

  “I don’t want to see Gina Germaine, movie star, up on the screen. You have to try to capture the simplicity of Nikki.”

  Gina looked bored.

  “Let’s not kid each other,” Montana continued, determined to get things straight up front. “I didn’t want you for the part—you probably hate the fact that I’m directing. But basically we’re both after the same thing—a good movie. So let’s cut the crap and work for the film. Can we shake on that?”

  Gina looked surprised. “Why not?” she decided, and the two women shook hands.

  • • •

  “He wants lunch with you today. Ma Maison,” said Zack Schaeffer. “I think we might have a deal. Short money, but it’s something you should grab.”

  The schmuck was telling him he should grab it. Who the hell had he been bugging about Street People for months? The moment he heard George Lancaster had defected, Ross had contacted Zack and insisted that he call Oliver Easterne at once.

  “I’ve called him, a million times,” complained Zack—who was more interested in chasing coke and girls than in getting his clients jobs.

  “So call him again. Immediately.”

  The timing was right. George’s quitting hadn’t even hit the newspapers yet. Karen had given him advance warning. She had finally come up with a call that interested him. Usually it was “Why haven’t I seen you? What’s wrong with you?”

 
He did not know what was wrong with him. Since the episode in Palm Springs with Sadie he had been in a bad way. She had treated him like some kind of a sex object. She had used him to make her new stud jealous, and for once in his life he had been made to feel rejected and a fool. It wasn’t a good feeling, damn her.

  He shut himself in his room at the hotel and watched television day and night, calling for room service and not even bothering to shave. His depression lasted several days, and he didn’t like it one bit. It made him feel old and vulnerable, and to top everything off when his beard grew in it was gray. Christ! What with that and his tan fading he looked frigging ancient.

  That was when he pulled himself together, just in time for Karen’s call about George’s imminent departure.

  Elaine’s messages mounted up daily. At first she had just left her name with a request that he call. Then the message slips that were put under his door became more personal—embarrassingly so. Did she want the world to know what was going on?

  He had to do something about her. Go to his lawyer and talk divorce. But when it came right down to it he wasn’t sure if that’s what he really wanted.

  She should never have thrown him out. Let her suffer a while longer, then maybe he’d see.

  • • •

  Buddy had never been busier in his life, but he loved it. There were hair, makeup, and clothes tests. Stills sessions. Meetings with the publicity people to get together a suitable biography. Came the evening he fell into bed exhausted. Friday was his first free day, and he decided to drop by and see both Shelly and Randy just in case they had heard from Angel. He also wanted to repay the money he had borrowed.

  It was noon by the time he got to Randy’s place. He pressed the bell for several minutes until eventually Shelly staggered to the door, clad only in an outsize T-shirt, red curls a tangled mess, sleep clouding her stoned eyes.

  “Yeah?” she mumbled, not even registering it was him.

  “Hey—it’s great to be remembered.”

  She stared blankly until recognition dawned. “Bud,” she slurred. “S’nice t’ see you, Bud.”