Cheech never recovered from what he referred to as her ‘trickery and lies’. But his anger did not stop him from thrusting himself upon her every night, and sometimes in the morning too.
His brother was a surly fellow, with a common-law wife who came and went when it suited her. She worked as an exotic dancer, and refused to do a thing around the house, so the girl found herself cleaning and washing, shopping and cooking for everyone. Including Cheech’s brother’s friend Bryan, who stayed over on Friday nights after their beer and poker binges. Bryan was a huge man. Six feet two inches tall, and three hundred pounds wide. He had long hair, matched by an unruly beard, and a permanent sneer.
The girl soon realized that marrying Cheech was a mistake; however, it was better than being alone. She suffered in silence, accepting her fate as inevitable. At least she had a husband, and that was something.
It was on a Friday night, shortly before Christmas, that she sensed danger in the air. Cheech came home drunk, waving a half-full bottle of scotch – a seasonal present from his employer. His brother arrived shortly after, angry because his common-law wife had phoned him at work to inform him she had met another man and was never coming back. By the time Bryan got there, both Cheech and his brother were drunk. It didn’t take Bryan long to catch up.
The girl hovered in the kitchen nervously. She served them a meal of fried steak and potatoes, and then got out of their way by shutting herself in the small room she shared with Cheech.
Outside, the three of them were laughing bawdily and shouting at each other. Soon she knew that Cheech would come in and crawl all over her. At least he was quick, and when he was finished she could shut her eyes and seek solace in sleep.
Sure enough, no more than twenty minutes later, he staggered in, drunkenly mumbling under his breath.
She steeled herself to accept his advances as he lunged on top of her. No preliminaries for Cheech – he went right for the goal, chafing against her dryness.
‘There’s somethin’ wrong with ya,’ he grunted disgustedly. ‘Yer got no juice.’
Silence.
‘I’m talkin’ to ya,’ he screamed, slapping her across the face, as he had taken to doing a lot lately.
She tried to sit up, but he pushed her roughly back on the narrow bed. ‘Yer’ll go when I say so.’
He slapped her again, and once more thrust into her.
With a weary sigh she let go and relaxed. The sooner it was over the sooner he would leave her alone.
Alcohol had slowed him down, and he could not maintain an erection. With a steady stream of curses he fell off her. ‘It’s yer fault,’ he muttered angrily.
His brother pounded on the door. ‘What’s goin’ on in there?’ he shouted in a slurred voice. ‘Thought we was goin’ t’a bar.’
‘I’m comin’,’ yelled Cheech irritably, standing up and zipping his fly. ‘You’ve given me a belly ache, bitch. Yer nothin’ but a prick-tease.’
He stormed out, and she thought it was over.
Five minutes later his brother entered the room. ‘Why’ja havta upset Cheech?’ he whined.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ she said softly.
‘He’s not so bad to ya, is he?’ the brother asked, sitting on the side of the narrow bed.
‘No,’ she lied.
‘He feeds ya, puts clothes on ya.’
‘Yes.’
His big hand swooped over and enclosed her left breast.
Shrinking back against the wall she whispered, ‘Please don’t touch me.’
Whiskey breath enveloped her. ‘I gotta do it. I gotta see if yer normal. Cheech says ya ain’t.’
His fleshy mouth descended on hers, while his hands worked on dragging her legs apart.
She began to struggle as she felt the full weight of him. And then she started to scream with fury and frustration as he plunged inside her.
‘Cheech’s right. Yer a dumb bitch,’ he slurred, pinning her arms to the side with a show of macho strength.
‘And you’re a dumb bastard,’ she responded gamely, in spite of the pain he was inflicting.
‘Doncha call me names, cunt.’ He hit her twice, across the face, quieting her futile struggle. And then he finished what he had started with an animal growl of satisfaction.
When he got off her she touched her mouth and discovered blood seeping from the corner. She explored with her tongue and felt a loose tooth. Her breasts were sore, and both eyes were swollen and blackened. It was another nightmare. There had been too many in her short life.
Shakily she attempted to sit up. Before she could, Bryan entered the room. They stared at each other warily. Bryan was drunk; if he had been sober she might have been able to talk him out of what he was about to do.
‘No!’ She shook her head as he approached her. ‘No! Please, no!’
He didn’t say a single word as his huge bulk crushed her beneath him.
She must have passed out, for when she came to she was lying in the back of Cheech’s panel truck, and she could hear the three of them in the front, talking.
‘We’ll throw her right in the middle of the city dump.’ She recognized Cheech’s voice.
‘Naw’ – his brother talking – ‘the river’s better.’
‘Ya stupid fuckers,’ snarled Bryan. ‘We coulda got a prostie for twenny bucks.’
‘You fuckin’ did it,’ accused Cheech. ‘Ya fuckin’ smothered her to death.’
If she had known fear before, it was nothing compared to now. Her skin crawled with clammy horror as she realized that, when she lost consciousness, in their drunken state they must have thought she was dead, and that they had killed her. And now they were disposing of her body.
Shivering uncontrollably she decided not to put them out of their misery.
Twenty minutes later the truck ground to a halt. The three of them were still arguing among themselves, deciding on alibis and explanations in case anyone asked awkward questions.
Cheech finally did his own summing up. ‘She was just a nobody – who’s gonna notice she’s not around anymore?’
Grunts of agreement as they manhandled her body from the truck and flung it into a deep pit of garbage.
As she fell she knew the revenge she would take.
And six weeks later she did.
Lighting the first match was easy…
BOOK FOUR
Hollywood, California
November 1985
Chapter Sixty-Eight
‘Andermon Productions,’ Unity said into the white telephone. ‘Just one moment, please.’
She tapped on the glass window of the pool house, attracting Wes’s attention as he lounged outside catching the winter sun – which in California is sometimes just as hot as the summer.
‘Who?’ he mouthed.
‘Mr Samuels. Revolution Pictures.’
He made the effort and ambled into the pool house office to take the call.
In three months, Wes Money had learned a lot. He had taken over Silver’s career with a vengeance, and although Zeppo White was her official agent, Wes himself was her personal manager, and went over every deal with a street-sharp eye.
‘Harry, baby.’ He had learned the lingo right away. ‘Have you rethought our deal?’
Harry obviously had, for they spoke for five minutes, and ended with a luncheon date.
‘Put me down for a twelve-thirty at the Palm on Wednesday,’ he told Unity, hanging up.
Opening a large leather appointment book she scrawled in the arrangement.
He leaned over her desk. ‘How’re y’doin’?’
‘Okay,’ she replied primly.
She certainly looked okay. A lot better than when he’d tracked her down to that sleazy bar she was working at. Shit! Was she in lousy shape then.
One morning, a couple of months ago, he had woken up and suddenly remembered her telling him that she worked at Tito’s, a bar on Hollywood Boulevard. And it was like bingo! He thought he might amble over, collect his thousan
d bucks she was holding for him, and see how she was doing. Maybe he’d even get his dog back.
He hung around until Silver took off to appear in a charity fashion show, and then he was out of there. Silver had wanted him to come and watch her. ‘No way,’ he’d said. ‘Women in clothes bore me.’
‘You’re such a macho man!’ She had smiled affectionately, not really minding at all as long as he was waiting when she got home.
He drove the Roller to Hollywood, cruising along the seedy boulevard searching for Tito’s.
He found it conveniently located between a porno movie theatre and a sex aid shop. Nice neighbourhood.
The thought of leaving the Rolls-Royce on a meter made him nervous, so he drove to the nearest parking lot, where he tipped the Mexican attendant ten bucks to keep a special watch on it. The Mexican thought he was crazy and rolled his eyes.
‘You gonna do it, or shall I take my money back?’ Wes asked threateningly.
‘Sure, me do,’ sneered the attendant.
‘You’d better,’ he warned. ‘If I come back and there’s one single scratch on this car, I’ll slice your balls an shove ’em in an enchilada.’
He walked briskly to Tito’s, by-passing the porno shop although he was tempted to pop in and buy Silver a gift. She would love something rude. Maybe a peek-a-boo bra for her, and a jar of Tiger Balm for him. Tiger Balm was an aphrodisiac cream that supposedly got it up and kept it there. He remembered using it once when he was sixteen and going with a twenty-year-old raver who was very demanding. Locking himself in the bathroom, he had rubbed the cream on his cock. Ten strokes later and he came all over the floor. So much for Tiger Balm!
Wes had been in seedy bars in his time, but this one was a real lulu. The barman looked like he’d just been released from Attica. The customers – all six of them – looked like his cellmates. And a crusty old cashier, hunched over an ancient cash register, appeared to resemble Mae West’s grandmother – long platinum wig and all.
‘Five bucks floor show fee,’ she wheezed as he walked in.
‘What floor show?’
‘You wanna peek, ya gotta pay.’
Fishing out a ten, he waited for change that was not forthcoming.
‘Two drinks minimum,’ the old hag said, hitching at a faded scarlet dress covering withered breasts.
Over by the bar the escapee from Attica watched him suspiciously.
He slid onto a bar stool and asked for a beer. In strange locations he found it was always advisable to order something that couldn’t be watered down.
A tough-faced woman with badly dyed yellow hair and black fishnet stockings peeking from a fake leather mini-skirt appeared from nowhere and sat beside him. She fished a cigarette from her purse, stuck it in her mouth, and turned to him with what she obviously thought was a provocative expression.
‘Light?’
‘What?’
‘I wanna match fer my ciggie.’
Even at his lowest point he would never have second-glanced this one. Obligingly he took out his solid gold Gucci lighter – another present from Silver – and allowed the woman to suck on her cigarette until it glowed.
‘I’m looking for a girl called Unity,’ he said. ‘I understand she works here.’
‘Who says?’
‘She told me she works here.’
‘When?’
‘A short while ago. Does she?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Don’ ask me.’
Leaning across the bar he summoned the barman. ‘You got a girl called Unity here?’
‘Who’s askin?’
‘Shit!’ he said forcefully. ‘I feel like I’m in a friggin’ James Bond movie. Does she work here or not?’
The barman pointed to a door in the back. ‘Second booth.’
Taking a swig of beer, he eased himself off the stool and made his way through the door, which led into a dark, foul-smelling hallway. Along the wall were three closely spaced peephole windows, each one covered with heavy black-out shades. A man crouched in front of the last window along, obviously indulging in an activity most people did in private. Trying to ignore him, Wes paused in front of what he presumed to be booth two. A slot signalled the deposit of two dollars before the shade lifted. He put in the money and watched the action.
Unity appeared on the other side of the glass. He hardly recognized her, for this was a different Unity. Her pinched little face was covered with makeup, the Lennon specs were gone, and she had on a straw-coloured Tina Turner wig which made her look ridiculous.
She wore a red shiny skirt, white plastic boots, and a tight tee-shirt.
Lethargically she began to take it all off, revealing a leopard G-string and minuscule bra on a painfully skinny body.
He tried to attract her attention to let her know it was him, and that she didn’t have to do this. But the glass was obviously one-way and she couldn’t see him.
‘Goddammit!’ he muttered as she stripped off everything.
The black shade – on a two-minute timer – snapped shut.
Stalking outside, he grabbed the barman’s attention. ‘I don’t want to watch her,’ he said angrily. ‘I need to talk to her.’
‘Who?’
‘Unity, for crissake.’
‘She gets off at three.’
‘I have to speak to her now.’
The barman cleared phlegm from his throat and spat on the floor behind him. ‘It’ll cost ya.’
‘Everything costs in this joint. Are y’sure you don’t charge to take a piss?’
After a short discussion they came to a financial arrangement, and the barman went off to get her.
Unity. His uptight little neighbour. He had thought she was a waitress, not some peep-show hooker.
She came out a few minutes later, sulky-looking, with a long woollen sweater covering her ‘ready to strip’ outfit.
‘Remember me?’ he asked.
She stared at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and insolence. Before he could utter a word she blurted, ‘I spent the money. I didn’t think I’d see you again. And after the way they beat up on me, I reckon I deserved it.’
‘You spent my money?’ he asked, outraged. He might have given it to her, but the thought that she’d spent it without asking infuriated him.
‘I had to get out, didn’t I? What was I supposed to do, wait for ’em to come back?’
‘Wait for who to come back?’
‘Your drug friends. You should have warned me it was drug money.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘Don’t give me that. I may look stupid, but I’m not.’
‘I’m tellin’ you, it was not drug money.’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t care either way. I spent it, an’ there’s nothing you can do about it.’ She continued to stare at him, daring him to do something.
Shaking his head he said, ‘You’re a fucking thief.’
‘And what are you – a boy scout?’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Can I go now? I’ve got to make a living, you know.’
‘Some living. Taking it off for a bunch of jerk-off artists.’
‘Maybe I should deal dope instead. Pays more, doesn’t it?’
They glared at each other.
‘Where’s Mutt?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve got him.’
‘I want him.’
‘No way.’
‘I can give him a good home now.’
‘Bully for you. He’s stayin’ with me.’
What a pain in the ass she was with her semi-cross eyes and stupid crazy wig. She’d stolen his money, wouldn’t give him back his dog, and apparently suffered no guilt about ripping off his thousand bucks.
‘What are you workin’ in a toilet like this for?’
‘Because it pays my rent.’
‘I’ll give you fifty bucks for Mutt.’
‘Mister Generous,’ she sneered.
‘He’s half mine anyway,’ he stated self-righteously. For s
ome insane reason he had a burning desire to recover the dog they had once shared.
‘Sue me.’
Maybe it was the wig, or the place, but Unity was like a completely different person. It occurred to him that she might be high. ‘What are you on?’ he asked.
‘Fuck you.’
Grabbing her arm, he rolled up the sleeve of her sweater before she could stop him. And sure enough he found what he was looking for – a thin line of recent track marks.
She snatched her arm away with a jerk of fury. ‘Whyn’t you piss off out of here?’
‘When did y’start this charmin’ little habit?’
‘None of your goddamn business.’
‘I guess my thousand bucks financed you.’
Staring at him arrogantly, she said, ‘You could say it started me off. When your friends came in and beat the shit out of me, forcin’ me to move on, I figured why not? I had the money for once.’
He felt immediately responsible. And although he didn’t do anything about her that day, he went back twice to see her, finally suggesting that she give up her present lifestyle and come to work for him as a secretary.
‘You need a secretary!’ She hooted with mirth. ‘What for?’
‘Because I married well. My wife is Silver Anderson.’
‘No shit? And I’ve been dating Don Johnson!’
She took some convincing, but he was very persuasive. There was something waif-like and appealing about Unity – and he wanted to use a little of his good luck to try and get her back on the right track. He offered her a drying out period in a drug rehab clinic, and then the job.
‘We’ll have to tell Silver you’re my cousin. I don’t want to go into long explanations.’
Three weeks ago she had started work. The old Unity. Quiet and serious-looking, with her John Lennon shades, makeup-less heart-shaped face, and pulled-back light brown hair. It seemed to be working out well.
* * *
‘It’s a wrap,’ the first assistant announced, after the director had called ‘Cut’ on the set of Romance.
Silver swept off to her dressing room, trailed by her entourage of Nora – who now worked for her exclusively – Fernando, her hairdresser; Raoul, her makeup artist; and Iggi, her personal stylist and dresser.