Anyone would think she was inviting him to a funeral!
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
Hanging up, she put a little Bruce on the stereo. Springsteen always cheered her up; he could do no wrong.
Then she realized she was going to have to do something about Mark, and reached for the phone again.
‘Lord Mark Rand checked out at noon,’ said the hotel operator.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure, madame.’
‘Did he leave a number where he can be reached?’
‘One moment please. I’ll find out for you.’
He certainly hadn’t hung around waiting for her. What enthusiasm. What tenacity. What a bastard!
You’re being unreasonable, Johnson, You were the one who took off.
The operator came back on the line. ‘No referral number.’
‘Thank you.’ She put down the phone, and wondered where he was now. She’d played games with him. He was merely returning the compliment. English asshole. He knew she hated playing games.
* * *
Jack couldn’t fault Jade for changing her mind. After all, it was a woman’s prerogative, and he had always tried to be a gentleman about such things. Only it didn’t alter the fact that he still wanted her. And when Jack Python wanted, he usually got.
He returned to the empty suite, and placed a call to Clarissa in New York. She was staying with a girlfriend in the Village. Not for Clarissa the large hotel suite or penthouse apartment. ‘I enjoy living among ordinary people,’ she had told him. ‘Nobody takes any notice of me in the Village. I can wander around and not be bothered.’
Sure she could. Because nobody recognized Clarissa off the screen.
She answered the phone herself.
‘Hi, babe,’ he said. ‘I was just sitting here thinking about you.’
Her voice sounded muffled. ‘Who is this?’
Christ! You go with a woman for over a year and she doesn’t even recognize your voice!
‘Phil Donahue,’ he said dryly.
‘Oh, God. Jack. It’s two-thirty in the morning here. Where are you?’
‘You’ll never believe this.’
‘Try me.’
‘Las Vegas.’
‘Are you drunk?’
‘When have you ever seen me drunk?’
‘You must be if you’re in Las Vegas.’
‘I am sober. And missing you. I’m calling to say hello.’
‘You are drunk. And you’ve woken me. Really, Jack, you can be very thoughtless at times. A broken night’s sleep disturbs my bio-rhythms.’
‘Spoken like a true Californian.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m going to try to get back to sleep. Call me tomorrow if you want.’
Hey – give the lady the prize for Ms. Romantic of the year.
He poured himself a brandy. Thoughtfully he sipped it, took a cold shower, and went to bed.
Some nights you just couldn’t win.
* * *
Failing in the pursuit of the prettiest of Susanna’s three friends, Howard settled for a short redhead with enormous silicone boobs and a silly smile. When he got her back to the suite and undressed her, even he was turned off by her two jutting great globules of flesh. They felt like movable cement before it hardens, and looked like a couple of giant melons with a cherry on top of each.
‘I’m fighting a cold,’ he announced, with a phoney sneeze. ‘You’d better go home.’
‘Let me fight it with you,’ she begged. ‘I’ve got the cure of the century!’
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I feel sick. I think I’ve got a temperature.’
Dressing reluctantly, she confided she was working on a screenplay with a friend. ‘Can I send it to you?’ she asked hopefully.
Trapped again. ‘Yeah, of course.’
As soon as she left he tracked down the woman from the night before. An answering machine picked up, but she called him back five minutes later.
‘Come over,’ he said. ‘Let’s continue what we almost didn’t finish.’
She hesitated. ‘I’m busy.’
‘What could make you un-busy?’
She decided he could take the truth. ‘I get a thousand bucks a night. Last night was on the house – the hotel picked up the tab. How about it, sport? I take American Express.’
He was outraged. ‘Are you a pro?’
‘No. I’m Mary Poppins. Can’t you tell? Do you want me to come over or not?’
He slammed down the phone. Howard Soloman didn’t sleep with hookers. Howard Soloman had never paid for it in his life!
God damn Dino Fonicetti. Who did he think he was dealing with?
* * *
Mannon went back to Carlos Brent’s magnificent house after the party. The entourage trailed them, plus they picked up a few strays along the way.
Carlos took him on a tour of the mansion, which had sixteen bedrooms, a full recording studio, two Olympic-sized swimming pools, and its own golf course.
‘This is just my little ole hang-out,’ Carlos boasted. ‘My real home is in Palm Springs. I’d like you and your lovely wife to come and stay with me for the weekend sometime soon.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Mannon said agreeably.
‘I’ve seen that wife of yours on television. She’s some gal!’
When was Melanie-Shanna on TV?
‘Whitney Valentine Cable,’ mused Carlos. ‘What a pretty lady!’
Mannon scowled. ‘We’re divorced,’ he said.
Carlos looked amazed. ‘Any man who lets that filly go has got to be insane!’
Mannon nodded. There were some statements you just couldn’t fight.
* * *
The Klinger plane took off from Las Vegas earlier than expected. All three passengers were aboard, and anxious to get back to L.A.
Chapter Forty-Four
There was a blue haze somewhere in his head. And a pain of ferocious intensity. And when Wes opened his eyes he had no idea where the fuck he was.
Oh shit. He had to quit with the one-night stands. Waking up in strange women’s beds was getting to be a drag.
Only he wasn’t in a bed. He was on the floor. And clasped in his right hand was a gun. And… oh shit… the blue haze lifted, and he knew he was in big trouble.
Trying to coordinate his body with his mind, he made an effort to rise, first dropping the gun to the floor.
He was in the entry hall of the Laurel Canyon house, and his companions were the same two bodies that had been there before.
Vomit threatened, and he staggered into a nearby toilet and threw up. Blood trickled into his eye from a gash on his head, and he realized a rapid exit was in order. For some unknown reason he had been set up, and he did not care to wait around to find out why.
A fast look at his watch told him only seven minutes had elapsed since he’d arrived at the house, which meant he must have a skull made of fucking concrete.
There was an eerie stillness. A loud silence screaming GET OUT.
Still feeling, disoriented and sick he picked up the gun. It had his prints on. Whoever hit him over the head had wanted it that way.
Was it the murder weapon?
Probably.
We want no connection with this bad boy an’ his sweetie-box.
Sure. No connection. Murder the two of ’em, then send the schmuck in to take the blame. Schmuck gets caught red-handed and the man walks away with no connection.
Fuck!
They had bought him for a thousand dollars. The perfect patsy. Who was going to believe Wes Money’s side of the story?
His heart was beating so fast and so loud he hardly dared to move in case it exploded. Grimly he tried to remember every murder mystery he’d ever seen. Prints. Get rid of all the prints.
He shoved the gun into his pocket. It was no good trying to clean it now. The gun was important evidence, and he had to dispose of it properly, to be absolute
ly sure it could never be connected with him.
Frantically he raced into the toilet again, grabbed a handful of tissues, and cleaned anything he might have touched.
GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!
The front door was still ajar. He made sure he wiped the handle. And the buzzer. And – shit! He heard the sound of a car approaching, and threw himself bodily into the shrubbery.
His heartbeat alone was enough to give him away.
Within seconds a police car appeared at full speed and screeched to a stop outside the open front door. Wes could make out two officers inside, neither of whom seemed ready to leave the safety of their vehicle.
It figured.
Set the schmuck up.
Send in the cops.
Schmuck discovered with murder weapon in hand. What would it matter that he had been beaten unconscious? He was holding the fucking murder weapon, for crissake. Book him and throw away the key!
With a supreme effort he tried to breathe slowly, evenly. Once they ventured inside the house, the whole area would be alive with cops. He had to get out fast.
Random thoughts raced through his head. If only he could get rid of the gun it would be a big help. But how could he risk it?
Sweat mingled with the blood dripping into his eye as he slowly crawled along the damp earth, hidden by the thick trees and bushes which tangled with his face and hair and body – scratching and tearing at his skin,
Wes Money had never been a religious man. Only now it seemed quite apt to say his prayers, and he did so with fervour.
One of the cops got out of the car. He was big and burly, the way policemen are supposed to be. He said something to his partner, but Wes couldn’t hear what it was. Fortunately he was on his way, putting distance between himself and discovery.
The other cop got out of the car, and the two of them had a short discussion before drawing their weapons and approaching the front door of the house. They had their backs to him.
With perfect timing he judged it was safe for him to rise, slide into the shadows, and jog sharply away from the scene of the crime.
He ran down the driveway as if the devil were pursuing him. Along the private road. Up the other driveway where he had prudently parked the Mercedes. A feverish grope for the keys. Into the car. Start the ignition. Not too fast. Don’t attract attention.
His breathing was laboured, and his throat felt like he’d just vacated a burning building. A sharp stitch dug into his side, and his head hurt like hell. He hadn’t realized he was in such lousy shape.
Slowly he coasted down the driveway to the private road, only just stopping himself from flooring the gas pedal. When he hit Laurel Canyon he made a sharp right turn, and allowed himself to breathe. Clumsily he took the gun from his pocket and stuffed it under the passenger seat. There was other traffic going down the hill, and he slid in between a Honda and a Jeep. Again he allowed himself to breathe.
Halfway down, coming from Sunset, were two police cars, one behind the other. With sirens screaming and red lights flashing, they roared up the hill.
Along with the other vehicles, he pulled the Mercedes over to the side and allowed them clear passage. Breathing heavily he took a Kleenex from the glove compartment and mopped his head. The blood was drying now, congealing in a mass.
He wanted to throw up again, but he didn’t dare.
He was safe. Temporarily.
Only what the fuck did he do now?
* * *
Angrily Silver glanced at the clock again. It was past nine. She was not used to being kept waiting, and certainly not by the likes of Wes Money.
In a sudden fury she called Dennis Denby.
He was home. She would have been most surprised if he wasn’t.
‘That table at Spago, Dennis,’ she purred. ‘Is it ready and waiting?’
Dennis, who had been trying to contact her ever since the gay restaurant debacle, did not hesitate. ‘For you, Silver, beauty, anything is possible.’
‘Pick me up in fifteen minutes,’ she commanded.
He was one minute late, which was admirable considering he’d had to get rid of a lady friend (the forty-five-year-old raven-haired wife of a director who was secretly into boys), call Spago and request an immediate table. Not easy, but for Silver Anderson they complied. And dress. He wore a white sports jacket from Bijan, Italian trousers, and a light pink cashmere sweater.
‘You’ve forgiven me!’ he exclaimed, kissing her hand, a gesture he had seen George Hamilton employ with great success.
‘I was never mad.’ She looked elegantly casual in a suede jacket and pants, her own hair scraped back, a full studio makeup still in place.
‘You never returned my calls,’ he pointed out.
‘Dennis, dear, you must realize that I don’t even have time to go to the bathroom!’
He understood. Silver was a very busy woman.
On the small hill outside the fashionable Spago, photographers and fans stood in a huddle waiting for a celebrity arrival. Since the celebrities always used the back entrance, the chances of catching a good shot were remote.
Silver chose to have Dennis drive her Rolls. The fans gathered at the entrance to the parking lot and called to her longingly. She gave them a queenly wave, and swept into the restaurant the back way with Dennis trotting obediently behind her.
Before reaching their table – ready and waiting – they went through a parade of smiles and kisses and fond greetings. Spago, with its laid-back atmosphere, mind-blowing pizzas and incredible array of desserts, was celebrity hang-out numero uno. And Wolfgang Puck – the chef and owner – along with his darkly dramatic wife, Barbara, made sure everyone felt comfortable and at home.
‘I absolutely adore the glorious flower arrangements here,’ Silver remarked, when safely seated.
‘So do I,’ agreed Dennis.
‘And it’s such a fun place.’
‘I agree,’ agreed Dennis.
When did he ever not? He was her yes-man. She could do with him whatever she wanted.
Not so Wes Money. There was something about him… an unknown quality… a lurking danger.
She shivered excitedly. And he was not used goods either. Well, not by anyone she knew. It was quite possible that half the women in the restaurant had romped in the hay with Dennis.
Tonight she would teach Wes a lesson. Let him know exactly who he was dealing with. She had left explicit instructions with Vladimir that if Mr Money called, he was to inform him that she was out, and to phone back the next day. Alternatively, if he arrived at the house, Vladimir was to send him on his way.
Let Wes know she was not completely at his beck and call just because he had a hard cock and a persuasive tongue.
She smiled at the thought of both pieces of his anatomy.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Dennis asked anxiously.
She picked up a piece of bread, looked at it longingly, and put it down again. ‘Nothing that would interest you, Dennis, dear. Shall we order? I’m famished.’
* * *
The men’s room in a gas station on Sunset supplied Wes with an image which frightened the shit out of him. He was wild-eyed, wild-haired, with scratches all over his face. His clothes were dirty and torn, and there was a nasty spongy spot on the top of his head where he had been hit.
Better than being dead, with a bullet through his skull.
He felt the bile rise again, only this time he could supply nothing but dry heaves.
Quickly he cleaned up as best he could. The result was not Paul Newman. Face it – he looked fucked.
Searching through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes he came up with two unexpected items. A large glassine envelope filled with a white powder that looked suspiciously like cocaine. And a wad of used thousand-dollar bills totalling twenty-two thousand.
Shit! Part of the set-up. They had wanted him pegged as a dealer.
Swearing viciously, he stuffed everything back in his pocket.
Just in time,
as two Mexicans entered the can, unzipped, and began to relieve themselves.
He hurried out of there, and went over to a pay phone. His first thought was to call Rocky. Just how much did his good friend know?
For a moment he played with the quarter. Should he? Shouldn’t he?
A hooker drifted by in orange fishnet stockings and little else. ‘Wanna visit love city?’ she drawled.
He ignored her. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart move to contact Rocky. After all, he was the one responsible for getting him into this mess in the first place.
And then he thought about going home. Was it safe?
Sure it was safe. What could they do to him now?
They could come searching for their money, that’s what. It was hardly loose change. They could come to reclaim their cocaine – there must be at least fifteen hundred bucks’ worth.
He had no intention of parting with either. This money he had really earned. And the thousand stashed with Unity.
No, going home tonight was not the best idea in the world.
He thought of alternatives. And then he thought of Silver Anderson. Nobody would come looking for him at her house. With Silver he’d be safe.
Chapter Forty-Five
‘We’re having a dinner for Silver Anderson,’ Poppy announced, as she brushed her long hair in front of her dressing table mirror.
Howard, who had returned from Vegas earlier in the day, and was sitting up in bed surrounded by papers, documents, and unanswered memos, looked at her as if she had gone berserk. ‘Why? You hardly know her.’
Poppy continued to brush her luxuriant blonde tresses. ‘Politics, sweet-buns. There may come a day when you want her in one of your movies. A touch of social intercourse never did anyone any harm.’
‘Willya talk English, for crissake?’
She leaned closer to the mirror and inspected her pampered skin. ‘I’m going to give the dinner in the back room at Chasen’s. Who would you like me to invite?’
Knowing Poppy, she already had the guest list planned. ‘I don’t care. How many people you got in mind?’
‘Eight couples. I’d like your input on this, Howard.’
A dinner party for Silver Anderson. Cross brother Jack off the list for a start. Mannon would be okay, but if they invited Mannon he couldn’t invite Whitney, and he really wanted to see her.