Zachary sat in the Loggia, the garden part of the Polo Lounge, and acceptable to be seen in only for breakfast and Sunday lunch. The big man’s salute to California was no tie. He wore a grey suit and white shirt. Howard had thrown on a white sports jacket over a loose-knit sweater and dark pants – all the better to conceal the lifts in his shoes.
‘You’re late,’ Zachary greeted him.
‘Traffic,’ Howard replied airily.
‘Isn’t your house close by?’
What is this, a, fucking inquisition? ‘How’d you sleep, Zach… er… Zachary?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
A waitress appeared with coffee and began to pour him a cup.
‘Ah,’ Howard said, making a face. ‘Nothin’ like the old caffeine to get you off to a racin’ start. Right, Zachary?’
‘It’s bad for your heart.’
‘It is?’
‘My doctor only allows me to drink decaffeinated products.’
‘Really?’ Howard took a sip and burnt his tongue. Maybe the goddamn caffeine was responsible for the wild heart palpitations he had been getting on and off for the past few months. He was certainly due for a complete physical. ‘Do you get a check-up once a year?’ he asked curiously.
‘Every three months,’ Zachary replied.
Howard noticed the older man was drinking a glass of water with a slice of lemon, and on the plate in front of him was a plain bran muffin. ‘I gotta re-think my eating habits,’ he announced as the waitress handed him a menu. Without bothering to look he ordered scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, and hash browns on the side.
His eyes hurt. Maybe he needed glasses. Had to go see the optician too. He hoped he remembered to tell all these things to his secretary. She was a lovely girl with a milky complexion and dangerous lips. Once Poppy saw her she would be fired like all the rest. Poppy liked his secretaries to resemble Hulk Hogan on a bad day.
‘How long are you staying in L.A.?’ he asked, hoping the answer would be five minutes.
Zachary extracted a very long Cuban cigar from a thin leather case, and lovingly caressed it. ‘It depends on you,’ he said.
Howard made a gesture of compliance. ‘I’m all yours. Although it would have been better to take this meeting in my office, where I’ve got all the facts and figures.’
‘I already have that information.’
Howard didn’t want to get into that one. He knew that Zachary had spies everywhere. What did he care? As long as the studio was making money, everyone should be happy.
‘Then you’ve heard about my plans for Romance, with Carlos Brent starring and Orville Gooseberger producing? It’s gonna be a big one, Zach, uh, Zachary. It’s gonna make us millions.’
‘I read the script.’
Howard was surprised. Even he hadn’t read the script. He liked to concentrate on story outlines, and this one was sensational, better than the original. ‘Great, huh?’
‘Expensive.’
‘It takes money to make money.’
‘I know that.’
The waitress delivered Howard’s food. As she set it before him, Zachary lit his cigar, and the expensive fumes drifted lazily over Howard’s plate. He needed this. Didn’t the old fucker have any manners?
‘Bad for you,’ Howard said, indicating the cigar and trying to make a joke of it. ‘Worse than caffeine. What does your doc say about that?’
‘I listen to my doctor when it suits me to listen to him,’ Zachary replied reasonably. ‘I pay him to tell me so much, and when I’ve heard enough I make my own decisions. I carry that policy through in every one of my business dealings.’
Howard sensed a zinger was on its way, and he wasn’t wrong. ‘An example.’ Zachary paused. ‘I pay you a great deal of money to run Orpheus for me. But ultimately, I make the final decisions. I do what I want, when I want.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ Howard winked, falsely jovial. ‘As long as we agree.’
Zachary didn’t crack a smile. He smoked his cigar, and watched two girls in tennis clothes settle at a nearby table. Howard enjoyed girl-watching, but Zachary stared at them with such intensity that even he became embarrassed.
‘I want Silver Anderson for the female lead in Romance,’ Zachary said, still staring at the two girls. ‘I want Mannon Cable for the reporter in The Murder, and Whitney Valentine Cable for his sidekick. And I want Clarissa Browning to do a cameo as the victim.’
Howard began to laugh. ‘What is this? Some kind of joke?’
‘I haven’t finished,’ Zachary said coldly. ‘You will offer them each exactly double the money they made on their last project. And if they have participation deals, you will double their points.’ He paused, and dragged his eyes away from the two girls, who had noticed his relentless stare, and were fidgeting uncomfortably. ‘No negotiations. These offers are to be made to their agents immediately – in writing.’
Howard felt the muscles in the back of his neck turn to steel, and a dull flush of anger suffuse his face. ‘You’re not serious?’ he asked tightly.
‘Yes. Very serious,’ Zachary replied, perfectly sanely. ‘Why? Don’t you feel that having Mannon Cable, Silver Anderson, Clarissa Browning and Whitney Valentine Cable is good for Orpheus?’
‘Well, sure,’ Howard replied, trying to figure out how to handle this maniac who knew fuck all about the movie business. Humour him, that was the way to go. ‘Only I don’t think Clarissa Browning would ever consider doing a cameo.’
‘You think not? I disagree. A week’s work at double the price of her last film. She won her Oscar four years ago, and hasn’t been in a moneymaker since. She’ll do it.’
‘Mannon won’t,’ Howard argued sourly.
‘Yes he will. The money will lure him. And the opportunity to work with Miss Browning.’
Howard decided there was no point in mentioning Whitney – she would do whatever came along – but Howard wasn’t sitting still for Silver Anderson. ‘About Silver. She’s too old,’ he stated brutally.
‘And how old is Carlos Brent?’ Zachary replied, with a great deal of logic.
‘I dunno – fifty-five, six.’
‘He’s sixty-three. Silver Anderson is in her forties. They’ll suit each other admirably.’
‘She’s a daytime television star,’ Howard objected vehemently.
‘She’s a star. That’s all that matters. And I want her.’ Zachary blew cigar smoke in Howard’s face, and rose from the table. ‘I’ll expect you back here at four o’clock, in my bungalow, with the letters of intent to go to each artist’s agent. I wish to look them over before they’re delivered.’ He stared at the two girls in tennis garb once more, then back at Howard, who sat helplessly surrounded by cigar smoke and congealing eggs. ‘Excellent party last night,’ he said casually. ‘Have someone at the studio send your wife flowers from me.’
With that he walked off, leaving Howard a seething, infuriated wreck.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Once Wes revealed that he was the tenant from next door and needed to contact their landlady so he could get into his house and pack up his belongings, the drag queen – whose name was Travis – realized exactly who he was and fawned accordingly. ‘You’re married to Silver Anderson,’ he said reverently, allowing his flowered bedspread to slip off one shoulder.
‘Yup,’ agreed Wes, reaching for the telephone and calling Reba.
‘Wesley?’ Her voice was a mixture of surprise and disbelief. ‘Stay where you are. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Travis made him a cup of overly strong black coffee served in a mug with MAKE MY DAY OH PLEASE MR EASTWOOD! emblazoned on the side. Then he stared at him with an awestruck expression and asked breathlessly, ‘What’s Silver Anderson really like?’
Wes parried questions until Reba’s arrival. She was accompanied by a male, baby-faced streak of lightning, wearing blue jeans with a worn patch at the crotch, and a string vest. He looked like an eighteen-year-old hooker plucked straight from the cruising end of S
anta Monica Boulevard. Travis fell instantly in lust.
‘Oh, Wesley, Wesley, Wesley,’ Reba greeted him, with her usual hungry expression. ‘You moved right up, didn’t you? Surprised us all, I can tell you.’
‘I surprised myself too,’ he admitted truthfully.
‘You promised me a picture,’ she reminded him reproachfully.
‘Oooh… I want a picture,’ interrupted Travis. ‘Signed if you please. To Travis. With love and admiration, Silver Anderson.’
‘Can I get a picture, too?’ the street hustler mumbled.
‘Shut up,’ said Reba sharply. ‘I’m payin’ you to be my bodyguard, not to horn in on my conversations.’
Wes raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Bodyguard?’
‘You think you’re the only one who’s important?’ she sniffed. ‘I’m havin’ problems with my divorce. I need protection.’
Her protection and Travis were falling in love, exchanging long looks of serious intent to commit a sexual act.
‘Why did you change my locks?’ Wes asked.
‘You’ll see,’ she replied mysteriously. ‘C’mon.’
He bade Travis goodbye.
‘Don’t forget my picture,’ Travis reminded him with a pout. ‘And remember – any time you want to bring Silver over, she’s always welcome’ – a flirtatious tilt of the chin – ‘and so are you…’
Wes concealed a grin at the thought of Silver anywhere near this neighbourhood.
He followed Reba next door. She produced a bunch of keys and gained entry, then stood back and allowed him to walk in first. Understandable. The place was a wreck, and she wanted him to get the full impact. Someone had gone over his house with a thorough and not too gentle hand.
‘What were they lookin’ for, Wesley?’ she asked, picking up a small lamp that seemed to have survived the search and placing it back on a table.
‘How would I know?’ he replied irritably. ‘I only live here.’
‘Lived,’ she corrected, producing a large notebook from her purse. ‘I suppose you’ve already moved to Beverly Hills or Bel Air, or wherever Silver Anderson resides.’
‘You got it.’
‘Nice of you to contact me before,’ she said reproachfully.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
She began ticking off items in her notebook. ‘You owe me three months’ rent. Breakage on several items—’
‘I didn’t break anything,’ he objected.
‘Whoever came in did.’
‘Am I supposed to be responsible for burglars?’
She pursed her lips. ‘Yes.’
‘You can whistle for it, Reba.’
‘Don’t act like a cheapskate. You’re responsible for everything that happens in this house while you’re the tenant. It’s the law, you know.’
He kicked at a bunch of clothes strewn on the floor, then bent to pick up scattered photographs from his short career as a singer. The room stank of stale cigarettes and dirty clothes, a far cry from Silver’s Bel Air palace. He wanted to get out as fast as possible, and with that thought in mind he grabbed an old duffel bag and began stuffing in anything salvageable.
Reba leaned against the wall watching him. She had left her ‘protection’ outside. ‘You were never the perfect tenant,’ she said, with a sly smile, ‘but you an’ I – we always understood each other, didn’t we, Wesley?’
‘I guess,’ he agreed.
‘An’ we had good sex, didn’t we?’
He knew better than to argue with that one. ‘The best,’ he replied warily.
She licked her lips, coated with jammy scarlet lipstick. ‘Is that what Silver sees in you?’ she asked. ‘Is it the sex?’
He shrugged non-committally, and speeded up his packing.
Reba cleared her throat and suggestively fingered the top button of her blouse. ‘I wouldn’t say no to one last fling, Wesley,’ she announced. ‘Would you?’
‘C’mon,’ he chided. ‘I’m a married man.’
Ignoring that piece of information she began to unbutton. ‘You an’ I, we were always special together.’
Yeah, he thought, about as special as a corn-beef sandwich.
She nearly had her blouse off, revealing a pink Frederick’s of Hollywood push-up bra. He held up a warning hand. ‘Enough, Reba.’
‘Don’t enough me, Wesley. You know you’re horny. And I’m better than your fancy movie star any day.’
It occurred to him that he didn’t have to be nice to her anymore. He did not need Reba Winogratsky. She was his past. Just as the run-down house was, and hustling petty scams to make a buck, and working bar. He was a free man!
With a feeling of triumph he reached into his pocket and took out a stack of bills – he had visited his safe-deposit box the day before and taken out enough cash to pay her just in case Unity wasn’t around with his thousand bucks. Good thinking. ‘How much do I owe you?’ he asked, businesslike and brisk.
She paused before unclipping her Frederick’s special. ‘I’ll tell you when we’ve finished.’
Shaking his head he said, ‘No you won’t, darlin’. Because we ain’t even gonna start. I owe you money, that’s all. The rest is not for sale.’
* * *
Mannon regarded Melanie-Shanna warily as she entered the breakfast room. She looked calm enough in a flowing house-dress, her auburn hair tied sedately back.
She sat down opposite him at the table, and reached for a piece of toast.
‘Morning,’ he said.
She mumbled a reply.
Mannon regarded her quizzically. He’d had no idea he’d married such a wild-woman. Last night she’d surprised the hell out of him, and everyone else in the vicinity of her whip-lash tongue. He’d had to practically drag her out of the Bistro before she went for Whitney’s throat. The two of them were all set for a cat-fight.
Driving home, she’d let him have it, mouthing off about Whitney full-throttle. The force of her fury really turned him on, and once they reached the privacy of their bedroom he had silenced her with the best lovemaking of their marriage. It had been several weeks since he’d touched her, and now he wondered why. Whitney was making it with Chuck. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself with his wife? Even if he was planning on divorcing her.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ she replied, eyes downcast.
The housekeeper waddled in with a plate of home-made pancakes – Mannon’s favourites. He looked over at Melanie-Shanna. ‘Did you tell her to make these?’
‘No.’
It seemed quite obvious she was not in a talkative mood. Last night she had accused him of still being in love with Whitney. True. But he wasn’t about to admit it. He’d denied it vehemently.
Mannon was between movies. He had just finished shooting a tough, lean Western. And his next film was not due to start for several months. For the first few weeks he always enjoyed the rest, and then he got stir-crazy if the break lasted too long.
He could work non-stop if he wanted to. His ego did not require that kind of boost. It was important to be prudent, and he chose his future projects with a great deal of care. He was right at the peak of his career, and that’s exactly where he planned to stay.
This morning he felt pretty damn good. The thud of his fist connecting with Chuck Nielson’s dumb-ox features had delighted him. What a victory to knock the asshole on his butt in front of a roomful of the industry. Especially in front of Whitney.
Chuck Nielson was an unprincipled prick. He deserved it. You didn’t screw another man’s wife and get away with it – especially when that other man was your ex-best friend.
‘What are you going to do today?’ he asked.
Melanie-Shanna refused to look at him. She stared out of the French doors at a vast expanse of lawn, leading to a kidney-shaped swimming pool. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘Well.’ He rose. ‘I’m playing tennis, so I’ll see you later.’
She waited until he had left the room before untens
ing her muscles. It took a great deal of effort even to be civil to him. He had allowed her to make a fool of herself in front of everyone last night, and every time she thought of her behaviour she cringed.
Mannon Cable. Big movie star. Big lover. So what? When he made love to her last night she knew for sure he was thinking of Whitney. And she hated him for it. Really hated him.
* * *
The telephone began ringing in the Soloman household from eight-thirty on. First Roselight’s nanny took care of the calls, and then Poppy’s own personal secretary, who arrived at nine-thirty.
Poppy did not emerge from her bedroom until noon. She kissed her little daughter, who was playing with a Cabbage Patch doll, one of twelve Roselight had received the previous Christmas from Howard’s business associates, and proceeded into her pastel office, where her secretary sat watching As the World Turns on a portable Sony television.
‘Don’t I give you enough to do?’ Poppy asked tartly.
‘So sorry, Mrs Soloman,’ said the woman, turning the television off with a guilty start and replacing it on Poppy’s side of the huge ornate double desk.
Poppy liked to be referred to as Mrs Soloman – English style. Not for her the free and easy first-name camaraderie of American workers. She and Howard had spent their honeymoon in London at the Savoy Hotel, and she had never got over the dignity and respect of it all. She was Mrs Soloman’d all over town, and loved every minute of it.
‘Messages?’ she said irritably, not in a good mood at all.
‘Mrs White called at eight-thirty. Mrs Gooseberger at nine. Army Archerd at ten – he’d like you to return his call.’
Poppy listened, trying to decide who to call back first. There were seven more messages, including columnist Liz Smith in New York. Who to talk to? Liz or Army? Better see what Carmel had to say. Poppy dreaded the older woman’s pronouncement of ‘Disaster of the Year’.
Carmel Gooseberger did not say ‘Disaster of the Year’ at all. Carmel Gooseberger said, ‘Poppy! Darling! One of the best parties I’ve ever been to. I adored every minute. Did you hear Mannon’s wife? My God, I never realized she could speak, let alone come out with words even Orville never uses! And did you see Silver and Zachary Klinger? I don’t know if I was the only one to notice but—’