‘I’m not doing that either,’ she said quickly. She was sick and tired of being pushed into things.
‘Now listen, baby,’ Stu Waterman said, ‘you made it on publicity and you’re only just there, every little bit helps.’
‘I’m sure it does help you, Mr. Waterman.’ She climbed back into the limo and said to Branch, ‘I’ll meet you inside.’
Torn between a desire to be seen arriving with Sunday or drawing up on a fine white stallion, Branch shuffled uneasily.
Stu solved the problem. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said, ‘you’ll make all the papers tomorrow – the Warren Beatty of the range!’
* * *
Herbert, having attended to his business at the beach, parked the limousine several blocks away from the Cinerama Dome, locked it, and headed on foot to join the crush of people milling about outside. He shoved his way through to the front, oblivious to all the insults hurled at him as he squeezed and groped his way forward.
In the front line he squashed between two elderly queens and a group of teeny boppers.
The queens were shaking their heads sadly and saying, ‘Who is there to compare with Joan Crawford today?’
The teeny boppers were screaming, ‘There’s Randy! It’s him! Doesn’t he look fan-tas-tic!!’
Herbert slid his hand onto the backside of one of the jumping girls. She didn’t seem to notice. She was wearing very tight rolled-up blue jeans and a skinny-knit sweater that ended around her ribs.
Herbert contemplated the fact that it was disgusting the way mothers let their daughters parade themselves. He squeezed her bottom ever so slightly, and she stopped jumping and looked around. She nudged a girlfriend, whispered something, and they both giggled.
Herbert stared ahead, noting with hardly a flutter the arrival of Angela Carter, who had once been the recipient of his letters, but who had never had the good fortune to meet him. That was to be Sunday Simmons’s privilege – and tonight.
* * *
Charlie saw Sunday arrive while he was talking to Jack Julip.
She walked in alone, slightly hesitant. The cameramen leapt forward. Jack was already ending the interview with Charlie, and nodding at an assistant to bring Sunday over next. He shook hands with Charlie, a clammy insincere shake.
Thames, who had been silently pushed to the sidelines, muttered, ‘That guy’s a bum, his show stinks and so does he.’
Out of the corner of his eye Charlie observed Sunday refusing to be interviewed. The look of amazement and shock that spread over Jack Julip’s face was classic.
In his confusion Jack grabbed Thames, announcing, ‘And this lovely young lady, accompanying Charlie Brick, is none other than rising star . . .’ He left her to name herself.
‘Thames Mason.’ She preened and waved to the crowd. ‘You’re a doll, Jack, I looove your show!’ She then proceeded to bore everyone with details of how she took off her clothes in her latest movie, all in the cause of art.
Charlie went over to Sunday. ‘You owe me an explanation; not to mention,’ he added jokingly, ‘the money for the outfit I got you – hundreds of dollars worth of—’
‘Did you arrive on a horse?’ she asked.
‘No.’
They both laughed.
‘In that case I’ll pay you.’
‘Who are you with?’ he asked.
‘Branch Strong. He’s arriving on a horse any second.’
‘If I had known, we could have done a swop. Thames was longing to get in the saddle.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sorry about running off. I should explain; you were very kind and understanding.’
‘How about later? Thames has a nude scene she can’t wait to rehearse and I’m not in the mood.’
He was sorry as soon as he said it. She froze up immediately, giving him a cold little smile and saying, ‘Sorry, but I’m busy. If you can tell me how much I owe you, I’ll see you get a cheque tomorrow.’
‘I don’t want the money, I was joking.’
‘But I owe it to you, I insist.’
An intrepid photographer was taking shots of them together, and as soon as her interview was over Thames came striding to join them.
‘I guess we should wander on in,’ she said, gripping Charlie’s hand possessively and glaring at Sunday.
‘Plenty of time, love. Do you two know each other?’
* * *
Satisfied, Herbert watched Sunday Simmons arrive. She was safely in the cinema now, and everything was progressing smoothly. He checked his watch, and slowly started to ease out of the crowd.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Inside the theatre, people jostled for their seats. There was much neck-craning as positions were checked out. It was important to be sitting in the right place, not shoved to the side or the back or in the cheaper seats.
Charlie had good seats and Thames was delighted. Most premières she attended were with two-bit actors. She was usually given the tickets, which were invariably bad. The film companies wanted her at their premières for the publicity she might get posing in the foyer, but they were not prepared to give her good seats.
‘Isn’t Jack Julip just great?’ She enthused, licking her lips and smiling at a wandering photographer who had managed to get inside.
Sunday and Branch sat a few rows back in aisle seats.
Branch was nervous and sick to his stomach. Two rows in front of him sat Maxwell Thorpe in his new violet dinner-jacket, and next to him was Oliver Ritz. In appearance, Oliver was frail and intense, darkly handsome, like Branch, he had a small part in The Twelve Guns, but everyone knew he was a raving fag. Until that very week he had been openly living with a very famous male star.
Branch swallowed a lump in his throat. He liked Sunday very much, but not enough to wreck his whole future. If he had known that Maxwell would plan this revenge, there would have been no question who he would take to the première. Goddamn it, he liked living in a big Hollywood mansion. He liked being able to have a choice of an Excalibur or a Lincoln to drive. He liked walking into Cy Devore and ordering whatever he wanted.
Would it all still be available after tonight? Or was this Maxwell Thorpe’s way of telling him he was out?
Sunday shut her eyes and wished the film would begin. She hated all the phoney ballyhoo, the gushing hellos from people who wouldn’t even talk to her when her career crumbled flat, as well it might if Claude Hussan had his way.
She had already decided that she would not go with Branch to the party afterwards. She would plead a splitting headache, and she didn’t really care if he believed her or not. She was through being nice to people at cost to herself.
Branch meanwhile was wondering if he could redeem the situation with Max by getting rid of Sunday and taking Max to the party instead. He could make some excuse to Sunday and send her home with the chauffeur.
He had almost decided to edge his way over to Max and invite him, when the lights faded and the movie began.
* * *
Outside in the lobby, Stu Waterman was saying to Mike, ‘I don’t give a fuck what you do with the horses, just get ’em out of here!’
The television crews were removing their equipment. The photographers had already left. The crowds had trickled away, and the policemen gone.
Stu took a swig from his flask and swore with disgust when he found it empty. He needed a vacation, his ulcer was killing him. Working for actors was a lousy way to make a living.
* * *
Herbert sat in the car. His palms were sweating but he remained outwardly calm. It was most important to behave in a normal everyday manner.
He started the big limousine, which rolled slowly forward.
He glanced at his watch once more. The Twelve Guns had been on for exactly one hour.
He drove the car to the cinema’s parking lot, and got out. Then he unlocked the trunk and removed a brown paper bag, which he placed on the back passenger seat. He locked the car carefully, and went into the theatre.
* * *
Charlie just couldn’t believe that anyone could talk so much.
All through the movie, speaking out of the corner of her mouth like some bizarre Southern gangster, Thames kept up a running commentary.
‘You see that guy – we were at drama school together; and that one – baby, what a swinger – living with two chicks and balling day and night . . . now she’s got the worst body I’ve ever seen, where they ever found her I don’t know – just look at those boobs, hangin’ down like grandma’s!!’
‘Will you be quiet,’ he hissed for the twentieth time.
Pouting, she paid attention to the screen for a minute, then, ‘Pubic hair in Westerns! Whee! What next?’
‘I am telling you,’ Charlie said angrily, ‘if you don’t shut up I am going to leave you here to talk to yourself. I can’t stand it.’
Thames chewed on a fingernail. Jack Julip had promised her a spot on his regular TV show if she could manage to come by his house later and discuss it. It was tempting. Much as she wanted to go to the party with Charlie, maybe a television show would be better exposure.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘Took at that guy’s ass, there’s more bare ass in this movie than Oh Calcutta!’
* * *
Sunday was finding the film boring and distasteful. It was a strong combination of violence and sex, and apparently nothing else.
Branch was mesmerized. He had just appeared in close-up, and boy was he photogenic! Even the chicken-pox scar next to his mouth looked good. This was his best scene in the movie: four close-ups, ten lines.
* * *
Herbert strolled through the lobby. It was very quiet. He walked over to the box-office, where a girl sat silently filing her nails and thinking how much prettier she was than all the movie stars she had seen that evening.
‘I have an urgent message for Miss Sunday Simmons,’ Herbert said. ‘Do you know where she’s sitting?’
The girl inspected Herbert, ordinary and neat in his chauffeur’s uniform. One had to be very careful nowadays with so many lunatics wandering about. She had a special security button by her foot which she was supposed to press if she were robbed or attacked or if any maniacs appeared. This man was certainly all right.
‘I don’t know where she’s sitting,’ she said. ‘I did see her come in. Maybe the boy who took the tickets would know. In fact I’m sure he would, he always notices the celebrities.’
‘Where can I find him?’ He could not control a quick glance at his watch.
‘Oh, he’ll be standing at the back. The tall boy.’
A five-dollar tip and the tall usher immediately accompanied Herbert to where Sunday was sitting.
On screen Branch was slowly unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes staring at the camera.
The usher leaned across Branch and said in a loud stage-whisper, ‘Miss Simmons, I’m sorry to disturb you, but your chauffeur is here. He says it’s very urgent.’
‘Urgent?’ Sunday said in a startled voice.
On screen Branch was slowly unbuttoning his jeans, his eyes staring at the camera.
Sunday stood up and nudged Branch, who was apparently mesmerized by his image on the screen. He didn’t budge, just gave her a hurried push as she squeezed to get past him.
The camera was moving in on his face, which now filled the whole screen. He wondered how Max felt now. He hardly even noticed Sunday leave.
* * *
Thames said, ‘That guy sure is one hell of a piece of beefcake. I hear he’s a faggot, isn’t that a waste? I bet I could . . .’
Charlie got up. There was no reason on earth why he had to stay and put up with this. Let her call him all the names she wanted: he was going.
* * *
Once in the lobby Herbert took over. He brushed the usher aside who was searching in his pocket for a pen to get her autograph, and said quickly, ‘Miss Simmons, we must hurry. It’s the boy, he’s had an accident. They sent me for you at once.’
Sunday went white. If Claude Hussan had laid one finger on that child . . .
‘Is it bad?’ she asked, the words sticking in her throat.
Herbert nodded gravely, rushing her through the foyer and out to the parking lot.
Politely he held open the door of the car while she climbed in. Then he allowed himself a short sigh of relief.
So far so good.
She was in the trap.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Sunday sat back in the car and closed her eyes tightly. If anything had happened to Jean-Pierre because of her . . . it didn’t bear thinking about.
She couldn’t see a thing in the car. The chauffeur was blocked off by black glass, and the side windows were tinted in such a fashion that she was unable to see out of them. She groped for the button to release the glass between her and the chauffeur, but although she pressed it sharply several times, it didn’t seem to work.
She leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The car glided smoothly on.
Slowly it dawned on her that perhaps this was Claude’s idea of a joke.
* * *
In the driving seat Herbert permitted himself a fleeting smile of triumph. It had all been so easy. Masterly planning on his part, of course.
He heard her bang on the glass and his smile widened. He would not reveal too quickly who he was. Let her imagine things. It would do her good to worry a little. Women were much too secure nowadays, everything handed to them on a plate.
When he had finished with Miss Sunday Simmons, she would know who the master was.
* * *
The car slowed. A traffic light? As soon as it stopped she tried to open the door. It was locked tight. Then the car was off again.
She wasn’t frightened. Nothing Claude could do would frighten her. It was the child she was concerned about. Was the idea to blackmail her to finish the film? She wouldn’t put it past them. She wouldn’t put anything past them.
Damn Branch for sitting in the cinema so entranced by his own image on the screen! He should have come with her. He shouldn’t have let her leave by herself.
She sat back in the seat and composed herself to meet Claude.
* * *
Once in the lobby Charlie had second thoughts. Wasn’t it kind of shitty to leave Thames on her own?
Well, a girl like Thames would not be on her own for long. Besides, it was her own bloody fault. The girl had driven him mad with her inane chatter.
As he walked towards his car he thought he saw Sunday getting into a black Lincoln. There was something vaguely familiar about the chauffeur. Wasn’t it Herbert something-or-other whom Clay had loaned him?
He quickened his step. They had both agreed on the fact that it was a rotten film, so maybe she would have dinner with him after all.
Before he could reach the Lincoln it moved off in the opposite direction. He got in his Ferrari. Maybe he would just follow her for a bit, see where she was going. After all, he had nothing else to do.
* * *
Herbert switched on the speaker and spoke into a small hand microphone.
‘We have the boy. He is quite safe and will remain so as long as you do everything we say.’
‘Who are you?’ Sunday asked angrily. ‘Where is Mr Hussan?’
Herbert paused, momentarily taken aback by her anger. He had expected her to be cowed, frightened.
‘We have the child,’ he continued. ‘His safety depends on your behaviour. Mr Hussan can’t help you now. You are in our hands. You must be obedient and quiet, otherwise the child will end up the same way as the dog.’
‘What dog?’ She asked, a sinking feeling taking hold of her. She had heard the man’s voice somewhere before.
‘Look in the package on the right-hand corner of the seat’.
Abruptly interior lights went on. She looked around. God!. It felt as though she were imprisoned in a black cell. The car sped forward and she could see nothing through the opaque black glass.
On the seat there was a brown paper bag. She touched it. It was d
amp. She reached inside, looked, felt, and screamed.
The package contained Limbo’s head.
* * *
Marge Lincoln Jefferson stuffed another chocolate in her mouth. She was fed up. Ever since she had told Herbert about Louella wanting the money, she had been cast out by both of them.
Louella fobbed her off with excuses when she tried to see her. She found it impossible to get beyond the front door.
‘What about the circle of friends?’ Marge whined. ‘When will the next evening be?’
‘I can’t say,’ Louella had muttered hurriedly, and slammed the door in her face.
Herbert was no better. He had always been a difficult man to please, but now she could do nothing right, and he snapped and snarled at her the whole time.
She was reduced once more to just the television for company, and they were threatening to take that away, because Herbert had not made the last payment.
Marge sat and brooded. She knew they were up to something, for that morning Herbert had been surprisingly cheerful, and when he went out he had produced a large box of chocolates which he gave her. She had been amazed beyond words.
She had noticed activity at her neighbours’ – Louella and her husband carrying packages and suitcases out to their station-wagon all day, loading up as if they were going on a trip.
Marge popped another chocolate in her mouth, and went to the window again. She had a good view of what was happening. If there was going to be another circle-of-friends evening, she planned to be in on it.
* * *
‘Listen carefully,’ Herbert said. They were nearing their destination and it was time to give instructions.
Sunday huddled on the back seat as far away from the grisly package as she could get. The fact that she could not see the owner of the flat grey voice seemed to make matters worse. She was frightened, but determined to try to remain as calm as possible.
‘Who are you?’ she asked again. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just listen,’ Herbert insisted gruffly. ‘If you listen and do as you are told, everything will be all right. If you don’t do as I tell you, the boy will die like the dog.’