“There’s something so familiar about you . . .”
He prodded her toward the door. “Actors are treated like cattle,” he said abruptly. “I prefer the other side of the camera.”
“Well . . .” she said. “Don’t forget to take a look at my actors. I handle some good ones.”
“I’ll view your tapes tomorrow with my people.”
“I shall look forward to hearing from you.”
He closed the door on her before she had anything else to say. Why did women always want to talk? Jabber-jabber-jabber. Their gossipy little mouths going full tilt. Why couldn’t they just shut the fuck up?
Were you ever an actor? Was she insane?
I am Richard Barry, famous director. I have been Richard Barry for almost thirty years. I took the Richard from Mr. Burton, and the Barry from a storefront opposite a movie theater playing Caesar and Cleopatra.
Richard Barry. When I came back to America from my two-year sojourn in Mexico, that’s who I was. The name had stature, dignity. The name represented the kind of life I aspired to. No more fucking my way to the bottom. What with the accidental killing of Hadley and my out-of-control drug days, I knew I couldn’t sink much lower.
It was 1970. I was thirty years old and determined to make my mark. Since being thrown out by my father at fifteen, I’d fucked around for fifteen years. Now the fucking around was over, and Richard Barry was born.
I reentered the States with a totally new agenda, plus papers proving who I was, and an attitude geared toward success. I also looked different: thinner, fitter, with a neat beard and short hair. I did not resemble the stoned hustler who’d fled to Mexico, scared shitless he’d be arrested for murder.
After my married friend returned to America, I stayed in Acapulco, got myself a job tending bar in a small place down by the water. The bar was owned by a long-retired film director, Hector Gonzales. Hector was a friendly man who loved to talk—especially to Americans. He owned a fishing boat, and one day he invited me to go out with him. After that first time we’d go fishing every weekend, and during our long hours of idly sitting there, waiting for a fish to bite, he’d regale me with tales about his life. And what a life he’d had. Married five times—twice to beautiful movie stars. Fourteen children. Twenty-six grandchildren. The recipient of many awards. The director of thirty-four movies.
It wasn’t long before Hector invited me to his house, where he showed me books of yellowing press clippings and photographs from the movies he’d directed. It was fascinating stuff, and he was a fascinating character. Although he’d worked in Mexico most of his life, he’d directed one American film, and the tales he had to tell about that experience were quite something.
Listening to Hector was totally absorbing. I told him about directing a couple of episodes of a TV show in Los Angeles, and how much I’d enjoyed it.
“That’s clever,” Hector said, with a knowing laugh, followed by a hacking cough. “Everyone wants to be an actor. Don’t they understand? The director is the one with the power.”
I began picking his brain, thinking that maybe I’d been pursuing the wrong profession all these years. I loved film, knew a lot about it—why couldn’t I direct? The two times I’d done it had been fulfilling experiences, and I was certainly smart enough.
Every night after work I’d go over to Hector’s and view some of the movies he’d directed, learning about every aspect of filmmaking from the old man. After we’d finished with his films, he made me watch the great movies of other directors—Billy Wilder, John Huston and the like. Hector supplied me with the education I’d never had. The education I found I craved.
When I finally returned to America, I was ready. I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
Hector had given me a couple of names to call, and I used his connections immediately. I’d put together an interesting fake résumé on the work I’d done in England over the past five years, and the first person I showed it to believed every word. I got a job as an assistant editor.
Since I’d temporarily given up women, work became my passion. From assistant editor it took me only a year to rise to main editor. And then an acquaintance of mine who read scripts for one of the big agencies let me have dibs on his rejection pile. One day I read a script called Killer Eyes. It was way before its time, but I immediately knew that here was the vehicle that would enable me to start my directing career. I hired a writer, and together we restructured the script. Then—with a little help from Hector’s connections—I raised the money to make an extremely low budget film. Killer Eyes became an underground hit. And I became a force to reckon with. After that I never looked back.
By the time I married Lara Ivory I was as big as they get, and nobody ever recognized me from my nefarious past. I’d successfully managed to kill off the man I once was—the murdering stud who lived off women, did drugs, sold his body. I was totally reborn.
So what the hell did Madelaine Francis mean by asking me if I was ever an actor?
No, sweetheart, I was never an actor. That person ceased to exist long ago.
And anyone who tries to bring him back will be severely punished.
CHAPTER
58
“HI,” SUMMER SAID.
“Hi,” Tina responded.
Then they both burst into giggles before awkwardly hugging each other.
Summer had called from the airport, and Tina had insisted that she come stay with her.
“Enter chaos,” Tina invited, flinging open the door of her perfectly tidy apartment. “Good flight?”
“As if!” Summer exclaimed with a fake shudder. “I was squeezed in next to a gruesomely fat lady with two whiny little geeks and a brain-dead husband.”
“At least you’re here. Wait till Norman Barton finds out. According to Darlene, he’s been asking for you ever since our one night of dirty lust!”
“He has?” she said, perking up.
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell Darlene you were on your way back,” Tina said. “Thought we’d work a deal for ourselves—knock out the commission factor. Whaddya think?”
“Excellent,” she responded, the realization hitting her that she’d finally made a break and now she was free—totally out on her own! No more of Daddy Dearest’s midnight visits or Nikki’s nagging to put up with. It was frightening, but at the same time extremely exhilarating. “I’m starving,” she gulped.
“So’m’I,” Tina agreed, leading her into the spare bedroom. “Dump your stuff an’ we’ll go get food, scope out the action.”
Summer looked around. The room was filled with stuffed animals and glassy-eyed porcelain dolls; on the wall were giant posters of Brad Pitt and Antonio Sabato, Jr. “Didn’t know you got off on Antonio,” she remarked, squinting at the posters.
“Oooh . . . those big, sexy eyes!” Tina said, making a suggestive sucking noise with her lips. “Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to find out if he’s got a great big zoomer to go with ’em!”
“Sex maniac!” Summer giggled.
“Course I am!” Tina agreed, cocking her head on one side. “Who do you like?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Norman Barton.”
“That’s convenient,” Tina said, rolling her eyes.
“Ohmigod, it’s so amazing to be back in L.A.” Summer sighed, flopping down on the bed. “Just walking through the airport made me feel as if I was coming home.”
“How’d you manage the daring escape?” Tina asked, darting into the hall and dragging Summer’s duffel bag into the room.
“I ran. Just like you. Discovered two thousand bucks hidden in one of my dad’s suits and grabbed it.”
Tina wrinkled her pretty nose. “D’you think he’ll come looking for you?”
“S’pect so,” Summer replied matter-of-factly. “Unless he’s nervous I’ll tell.”
“Tell what?” Tina asked casually.
“You know,” Summer answered uneasily, not sure if she was ready to reveal her dirty little secret.
?
??What?” Tina demanded, her curiosity aroused.
“The sex stuff,” Summer muttered. There. Now that she’d said it, she felt better.
“Sex stuff!” Tina exclaimed in surprise. “I thought he was your real father.”
“He is.”
“Gruesome!” Tina shuddered. “What a vile old perv. You could have him arrested.”
“I could?” Summer said, flashing on a mental picture of Sheldon being dragged off in handcuffs—a most satisfying image.
“Yes. That’s incest. It’s against the law.”
“Didn’t you tell me your stepfather used to come on to you?”
“Stepfathers!” Tina spat. “They’re a whole other deal.”
“I hate my father,” Summer said, feeling a strange sense of euphoria at having finally revealed her secret.
“No shit?”
“I really hate him,” Summer added, hammering home the message.
“You told your mom what he’s been doing to you?” Tina asked curiously.
“She’d say I was making it up. Like I mentioned before, my dad’s this big-time shrink in Chicago—nobody would take my word against his.”
“I would,” Tina said staunchly.
“That’s ’cause you don’t know him. He’s scary business. Like, Mister Authority.”
“Yeah—Mister Authority with a big fat hard-on for his innocent little girl.” Tina sneered in disgust. “Whatta retard! How long’s he been doing it to you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Summer mumbled, clamming up.
“Okay, okay,” Tina said, nodding understandingly. “But you should’ve told your mom. Then you wouldn’t’ve had to go back to the old degenerate; you could’ve stayed here.”
Tina was right, she should have gone to Nikki when it first started. But she’d been ten years old and totally confused, plus at the time her father was all she had.
And then there were the threats . . . If you ever tell anyone what we do, sweet pea, they’ll take you away and lock you up in a home for bad girls . . . You wouldn’t want that, pumpkin, would you?
She wasn’t a bad girl then. But now she’d show him exactly how bad she could be.
He deserved punishing. He deserved punishing big time.
• •
The session with Greg Gorman lasted several hours, and after they were finished, Joey was so elated that he hung around the studio for a while—talking to Megan, the pretty stylist; Teddy Antolin, hairdresser supreme; and a couple of Greg’s assistants—before driving home. Finally it was happening for him. It had taken a while, but he was almost there.
Comfortably settled behind the wheel of Lara’s Mercedes, he put his foot down as he cruised along Sunset, feeling surprisingly relaxed considering he was getting married any moment.
Joey Lorenzo and Lara Ivory. Fuck! He’d hit pay dirt and found the perfect woman. And their life together would be perfect, he’d make damn sure of that.
When he reached the house he spotted Cassie in the driveway, getting into her car. Cassie was never very nice to him, although he’d certainly tried with her. If she didn’t change her attitude, after he and Lara were married he’d persuade Lara to let her go and hire someone who showed him more respect.
“Where’re you off to?” he asked, leaning out the car window.
Cassie jumped guiltily. “What?” she said, squeezing behind the wheel of her Saab.
He got out of the Mercedes and strolled over. “If you’re headin’ to the set, ask Lara if she wants me there early, or is she gonna come home before the wrap party.”
“Yes, Joey,” Cassie said, wondering what he’d done to make Lara so mad that she was planning on taking off without him.
“Oh, and tell her to put her cell phone on, I can’t seem to get through.”
“Certainly.”
“See ya,” Joey said, turning and walking into the house.
Not likely, Cassie thought, quickly setting off for the studio, Lara’s bags safely stashed in the trunk.
• •
The action at the restaurant on Sunset Plaza Drive was hot and heavy as Summer and Tina made their entrance—an entrance that did not go unnoticed. Two delectable, sexy young girls always caused men to stare. The open-air tables were jammed with rich young Italians, Frenchmen and Iranians. It was like a dating fest—everybody checking everybody else out.
“Eurotrash city!” Tina exclaimed, grabbing an empty table. “I’m psyched / don’t have to date any of these guys. They’re all creepos.”
“How come?” Summer asked.
“Take a look—they all drive the same expensive sports car their daddies bought them; they all have too much spending money; and they’re all into getting their dicks sucked.”
“What?” Summer said with a nervous giggle.
“No, thank you!” Tina continued, wrinkling her nose. “If I’m sucking dick, I’m getting paid big bucks.”
Summer hoped she wasn’t as cynical as Tina by the time she was her age. “Do you think getting paid for sex is wrong?” she asked innocently.
“Wrong!?” Tina shrieked, causing several heads to turn. “Shit no! Why do it for free if you can get major bucks? I’d feel bad if I screwed a guy and didn’t get paid. Then he’d really be scoring off me.”
“Right,” Summer said hesitantly, wondering if her father had discovered her absence, and if so, what was he going to do about it? “When do I get to see Norman?” she asked, anxious to close the deal.
“Mustn’t seem antsy,” Tina replied, as if she’d been giving it a lot of thought. “We gotta have a plan. I was thinking I’ll call him myself and set up an appointment. I filched his number from Darlene’s Rolodex.” A maniacal giggle of triumph. “She’d have a shit-fit if she knew.”
“I bet she would,” Summer agreed.
I could do what she does,” Tina mused, nodding to herself.
“Like what?”
“Set girls up,” Tina said airily. “Send them out on dates and pocket a big chunk of commission.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Oh, I dunno—too much trouble. Who needs paperwork? Not me.”
Summer pushed back her long, blond hair. “But like, if you only go with guys who pay you,” she said, frowning, “how do you ever get into a proper relationship?”
“Ha!” Tina said. “Take a look around this town. There’re plenty of women who started off getting paid, an’ now they’re big-deal hostesses. Married to hot-shit lawyers and studio guys—all that crap.”
“You mean some men don’t mind if they have to pay for it?”
“What do they care? As long as they get what they want, they’re happy. And from what I hear, once they marry you they don’t want it at all. So then you’ve got it made.”
“I believe in falling in love.”
“Get over it!” Tina said with a rude laugh. “There’s no such thing as love.”
Summer disagreed. She’d read about it enough times to know it did exist, and she’d decided she was definitely making Norman Barton fall in love with her.
A young Iranian with blue-black hair and a conceited smirk cruised by their table. “You girls wanna hit the club circuit tonight?” he offered, flashing his gold Rolex.
“With you?” Tina said, her voice holding just the right amount of disdain.
“Me and my friend,” he replied, indicating a shorter version of himself hovering nearby.
“Are you paying for it, honey?” Tina inquired with a put-down smile. He backed off quickly. She shrieked with laughter. “Do I know how to get rid of them or what?” she said triumphantly. “No guy likes to think he has to pay. The real smart ones are the movie stars and the big business men. They know it’s the only way to go.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. And don’t you forget it. If I’m gonna train you, you’d better start listening to me.”
“Oh, I will,” Summer murmured. “I want to learn—honestly I do.”
Anythin
g was better than going home to her father. And if Tina was prepared to teach her, she’d be the best pupil ever.
CHAPTER
59
LARA KNEW WHAT SHE HAD to do and she didn’t falter. Everyone thought she was so sweet and nice, but when she made up her mind, there was very little anyone could do to change it. She’d been a doormat over half her life—filled with guilt over her family’s death; serving Aunt Lucy like a maid; a slave to Morgan Creedo. Then finally she’d gathered her strength and found her vocation, and she’d pursued it with a steely passion. Now everything seemed to be falling to pieces. First the revealing pictures spread all over a cheap tabloid. Then Joey.
Nobody could take her success away from her. It was her achievement in spite of horrible odds. And nobody was ever going to use her again.
• •
“Your husband’s dead,” the nurse said, her expression a mixture of fake sympathy and why-do-I-have-to-give-people-bad-news-when-it’s-the-doctor’s-responsibility?
Lara Ann nodded. Bad news was nothing new. Besides, during the time she’d been with Morgan, she’d grown to hate him. He was no knight in shining armor come to save her from the rigors of working for Aunt Lucy. He’d turned out to be a shiftless, controlling bully, with minor talent, who’d never so much as kissed her.
They’d been married almost four years, and she was still a virgin, because Morgan only required her to service him with her lips. Once, when he was very drunk, he’d told her why. “My mama warned me that puttin’ it in a woman’s pussy weakens a man,” he’d said with an embarrassed snigger. “Makes him no better than a stallion servicing a mare. I come inside you, you got me trapped forever.”
She hadn’t argued with him. By that time it was the last thing she wanted him to do.
After the nurse informed her of Morgan’s demise, the doctor appeared. He was young, hardly more than a student, and quite serious.
“You had a slight concussion,” he said, studying her chart. “Nothing serious. In fact, I’m letting you go home.”
“I don’t have a home,” she said in a low voice. “My home was the trailer behind the car. It’s gone.”