Poor Little Bitch Girl

by Jackie Collins

  A few minutes before the plane landed, Bobby felt it necessary to say something about the Zeena incident. He’d obviously been building up to the great explanation.

  “Uh . . . Denver, there’s something I should explain about Zeena,” he said, sounding mighty uncomfortable. “Y’see, she’s . . . uh . . . a very demanding woman, goes for what she wants whenever she wants it. And . . . uh . . . yesterday what she wanted happened to be me.”

  “I kind of get that,” I said, refusing to help out.

  “Yeah, well, I was taking a shower, and she suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Now I know I should’ve told her to get out, but—”

  “Hey,” I said, quickly stopping him from making any more excuses. “You don’t have to account for anything to me. We hardly know each other, Bobby. It’s none of my business.”

  “But it is,” he insisted. “We spent time together earlier, and it was so great.” He took a long beat. “You’ve got to understand that the Zeena thing meant nothing to me.”

  “Apparently it meant something to her,” I said, still refusing to let him down easy.

  “I’ve come up with this crazy idea,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t we forget about what happened, and consider returning to square one?” he suggested, dark eyes sincerely locked onto mine. “How does that sound to you, Denver? ’Cause it sounds real good to me.”

  God! The man was irresistible. Any other time I probably would’ve forgiven him in a flash, but my mind was firmly on Carolyn, and getting involved was nowhere near the top of my agenda.

  “Look, I get it,” I said, weakening. “No hard feelings.” Suddenly I found myself stupidly grinning. “Did that sound like a pun?”

  He grinned back at me. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, it did.”

  We exchanged a long and meaningful look. Then he said something very special. “Right now we should concentrate all our energy on finding your friend. I’m here for you, Denver, and I’ll do everything I can to help you. But after that, it’s a new beginning for us. Right?”

  And like a lovesick fool, I found myself murmuring, “Right.”

  Chapter Sixty

  Carolyn

  Alarm and fury propelled Benito into action.

  His alarm was about the woman remembering the location of his house and fingering him as her kidnapper.

  His fury was about her getting away in the first place.

  How long had the Senator’s bitch been gone? He didn’t know. It couldn’t be that long.

  Had Rosa helped her? Was that why she’d run out on him? Had she left the window open and untied their prisoner?

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  She could’ve already reached the cops and told them where he lived.

  He was not going back to jail. No fucking way! If the cops arrested him, he’d spill everything in exchange for a deal. Senator Stoneman would be the one taking the rap for this fucked-up mess, not him.

  Grabbing his gun, he ran out to his car. Maybe he wasn’t too late. Maybe he could catch her and drag her back to the house.

  The only way she was leaving was when he said so.

  * * *

  By the time Carolyn ran out of the alley and reached the street, she was in a bad way. Soaked to the skin, her foot leaking blood, she knew she had to get help.

  Looking up and down the neglected and rundown street she realized she was in a bad part the city, most likely somewhere in the south-east quarter, a notorious crime-ridden area.

  There was no one on the street, most of the street-lights were broken, and the only place she could see open was a bar on the corner.

  She limped toward it, the pain in her foot excruciating. The rain continued to pound down, making things even worse.

  If only she could get to a phone . . . that’s all she needed to be safe. One phone call to the police, and they’d come get her.

  * * *

  His car wouldn’t start, sending Benito into a rage. This was no time for his piece-of-shit car to break down. The pissing rain didn’t help.

  He tried to start the car again with no success. The battery spluttered for one brief second, then died.

  He had to get moving and search for the Senator’s bitch, but how was he supposed to do that with no car?

  Then he remembered that Rosa’s mother had an old Buick. It sat outside her house doing nothing. So fuck it – he’d take it. Too bad.

  Pulling up his hoodie to ward off the rain, he set off to cover the ten blocks to Rosa’s mother’s house.

  Taking her precious momma’s car would be Rosa’s punishment for running out on him. Puta!

  * * *

  Carolyn limped up to the outside of the bar and pushed the wooden door to gain entry.

  A big man stood inside the doorway blocking her way. Arms crossed against a massive chest, he yelled, “Get the fuck outta here, ya filthy stinkin’ cunt. How many times I gotta tell ya vagrants that ya ain’t gotta come around here.”

  “But I’ve—”

  He wasn’t having it. Red in the face and angry, he was not prepared to listen. With one fell swoop he grabbed her around the waist and propelled her outside, shoving her so hard that she fell in the gutter.

  “An’ don’t come back,” he shouted, returning to the bar and slamming the door.

  Carolyn was in shock. She’d escaped a devastating kidnapping and now she was being treated like a piece of garbage.

  Slowly, she picked herself up.

  A homeless man walked by pushing a shopping cart. Dressed in rags, he had an American flag wrapped around his head, and a mangy dog trailing behind him.

  She ran over to him and begged for help.

  “Wanna get a feel of me jimmy-jam?” he guffawed, exposing himself to her. “You’ll love me piece of meat, girly. C’mon, help yourself, lick away. No charge.”

  Quickly backing off, she started running down the street again, avoiding a drunk who spat at her, and two transvestites who totally ignored her when she tried to ask for assistance.

  She passed two public phone booths, both with broken phones dangling by the cords.

  Finally she realized that until it was light, it was far too dangerous to be out on the street. Spotting the covered doorway of a pawnshop, she ducked inside the opening and huddled in a dusty and litter-filled corner, exhausted and terrified.

  All she could do was wait for daylight and hope she would survive the night.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Bobby

  Bobby was convinced he’d made some headway with Denver regarding the Zeena débâcle. He’d tried to explain exactly what had taken place, and to his relief – after ignoring him for most of the flight – Denver had seemed pretty cool about it. She’d even ended up smiling at him – a most positive sign.

  He was glad he’d been able to provide his plane to take her to Washington. There were some perks of his multi-million-dollar heritage of which he could choose to take advantage.

  He was also pleased that he’d decided to accompany her, although he was sure M.J. and his bride, and Brigette and her girlfriend, would hardly be thrilled to discover their absence. Not to mention the absence of the plane. They were probably all bitching that he’d deserted them.

  Too bad. He was in pursuit of a girl he wanted, and for once he was throwing caution out the window. Lucky would definitely approve of his actions. Lucky was a staunch proponent of going after what you wanted.

  The bottom line was that Denver was special, he knew it. And if he had his way, they’d end up being special together.

  Meanwhile he had every intention of helping her find her missing friend, and since Lucky had connections across the board, he’d called her from the plane, and asked if there was anything she could do to help.

  After a few relevant questions, Lucky was her usual brilliant self. She promised to make a few phone calls. Naturally she knew people in Washington, including the Chief of Police. Lucky’s intervention didn’t mean that they would automat
ically find Carolyn, but it did mean that everyone concerned would be putting in their best effort.

  He decided against telling Denver; it was probably better that way.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Denver

  Tentatively I knocked on the door of the Hendersons’ hotel room. I’d asked Bobby not to come with me to their room – this was no time for introductions. Reluctantly, he’d stayed in the suite.

  George Henderson answered the door. A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and an easy charm, I could see the pain in his eyes. George had the look of a man who was totally drained.

  For a brief moment I wondered if the anguish in his eyes was because Carolyn was missing, or perhaps his sadness had something to do with Gemma Summer’s murder.

  Whatever. The man was in a distressed state.

  Even though I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, we embraced, and in a choked-up voice he said, “Thanks for coming, Denver. It means a lot to me and Clare.”

  As he spoke, Clare, his wife, emerged from the bathroom. Once a very attractive woman, I was shocked at her appearance. She was thin and gaunt, with dark shadows under her eyes and a mass of tangled, graying hair.

  It occurred to me that this deterioration in her appearance could not have taken place in the last twenty-four hours. This was a disturbed woman. Whatever she was going through, Carolyn’s disappearance had only added to the mix.

  “Hi,” I said, taking a firm step toward her, ready to hug her too.

  She backed away like a nervous filly. After an awkward moment, she said, “Where do you think my daughter is?”

  There was almost an accusatory note in her voice, as if I should know, and if I didn’t I was of no use to her.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Henderson,” I said quietly. “I don’t know where Carolyn could be.”

  “But you girls talked all the time, I know you did,” Clare said, a malevolent gleam in her weary, red-rimmed eyes.

  “No, we didn’t,” I said, shocked at this bitter angry woman who in no way matched up to the soft-spoken woman whom I remembered from my youth. Carolyn and I used to hang out at the Hendersons’ house, and sometimes Clare Henderson baked us cookies and drove us to the mall. That woman with the softly-styled hair and kindly demeanor was long gone.

  “Perhaps you can bring me up to date on everything,” I said, turning to George.

  “Oh, he can bring you up to date all right,” Clare said, her voice rising. “He can tell you all about the affair he was having with his murdered movie-star girlfriend.” She paused to glare at him. “That’s why Carolyn is missing. It’s karma. George’s punishment – and mine.”

  Finished with her rant, Clare collapsed on the end of the unmade bed, sobbing hysterically.

  George looked at me despairingly. It was a look that said, What’s done is done. I can’t take anything back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said in a low voice. “But shouldn’t we be concentrating on finding Carolyn?”

  “Of course,” George said. “I received a call from a Detective Lennox. He’d like us to come over to the precinct as soon as possible. From the sound of him, he certainly seems more cooperative than yesterday when we arrived. I’m hoping they’ll have good news for us.”

  Being summoned to the precinct didn’t sound like good news to me. Had they found Carolyn’s body? Was that the good news?

  Suddenly the enormity of what was going on washed over me. My best friend was missing. And there was a strong possibility she could be dead.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Hank Montero – The Wild Card

  The recession had hit everyone hard, especially Hank Montero – former actor, stunt-double, property-master, mechanic, and finally house painter.

  Hank, a good-looking guy in a rough and ready way, had always managed to pull down a steady income. First as an actor – not successful. Second as a stunt-double – that is, until he got badly injured and was on Social Security disability benefits for a year. Next he’d gotten himself a job as property-master for a TV commercial company, but cash went missing, and unfortunately Hank got the blame. He’d tried being a mechanic, but after he’d taken some rich dude’s Ferrari on a joy-ride and smashed the car to pieces against a brick wall, breaking a leg in the process, he’d gotten fired.

  Finally, an old acquaintance from a short spell he’d done in prison for grievous bodily harm (he’d beaten the schmuck with the Ferrari – long story) offered him a part-time job house-painting. That job lasted until he screwed the woman whose house he was painting, and the woman’s husband had come home unexpectedly and caught him rear-ending his devout Christian wife.

  Jobless, he’d jumped on anything that came his way.

  Meanwhile his third wife was pissed, his two teenage kids were pissed (a Goth and a slut) and his house was in foreclosure.

  Hank Montero was a desperate man when he got an offer that was to change his life.

  And change his life it did.

  But that was before his insane nineteen-year-old ex-stripper current wife had tried to shoot him in the nuts with his own unlicensed stolen handgun – a move that forced a nosy neighbor to report the incident to the cops. And since they had nothing better to do, two cops had turned up at his house and after ascertaining he had no permit for his gun, and noticing the hefty stash of cocaine that his wife had left in full view on the kitchen table, they’d hauled him down to the precinct.

  Which would’ve been fine. If the gun hadn’t been the same one that shot the big movie star, Gemma Summer.

  Hank Montero was fucked.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Carolyn

  Benito hit the street fast, his anger propelling him through the driving rain until he reached the rundown house where Rosa’s mama lived.

  Sure enough, her beat-up old Buick was parked right outside. He tried the handle and since the lock was broken, the door swung open easily.

  The interior of the car smelled like old cabbage and sweat, and one of the side windows was shattered.

  What did he care? He had only one purpose in mind, and that was finding the Senator’s bitch.

  After hot-wiring the car, he eased out of the parking space and took off.

  * * *

  Feeling quite desperate, Carolyn shut her eyes and tried to pretend she was safely home, but the noise of cars roaring past kept her on alert. Down the street a bunch of gang-bangers had appeared, and they were conducting some sort of drag race. They were screaming and yelling at each other as their souped-up cars raced up and down the street. She could hear glass breaking, and girls shouting their encouragement in shrill drunken voices.

  Would they help her?

  No. She didn’t think so. Self-preservation told her it was safer to stay exactly where she was until it started to get light.

  * * *

  The Buick was an even worse piece of shit than his own car. Benito reached the conclusion that if he was hot-wiring a car, he certainly could’ve done better.

  In his mind he blamed Rosa – it was all her fault. Never again would he hook up with teenage pussy, it wasn’t worth the trouble.

  Sticking near the curb, he crawled along the street in the Buick, keeping a sharp watch for the Senator’s bitch.

  She had to be close by, she couldn’t’ve gotten that far. Besides, he was feeling lucky. And when Benito felt lucky, nothing stopped him.

  * * *

  Rosa’s mother, Florita, got to the hospital very late, way beyond visiting hours. But after Florita explained to the night-duty nurse that she’d had to find someone to sit with her daughter’s baby, and then discovered that her car had been stolen, the nurse let her through.

  Rosa sobbed when she saw her mama, genuine tears of regret that she’d never listened to anything her mama had to say, and that she’d always thought she knew better.

  Florita, a small compact woman with a ruddy complexion and work-worn hands, hugged her only daughter, tears filling her eyes. “Mi chiquita,” she crooned,
rocking Rosa back and forth in her arms. “Mi amorcito.”

  Then she’d begun a rant in Spanish all about how Benito was the lowest of the low. He must be the one responsible for this terrible thing. She should never have allowed Rosa to spend so much time with such a bastardo.

  Rosa was too beaten-up to argue. She wasn’t fluent in Spanish, although she got the gist of what her mama was saying, and she was inclined to agree with her. In Rosa’s heart she knew that what Benito had done was criminal and bad. Kidnapping the Senator’s woman was wrong, and lying in a hospital bed, Rosa realized she had to tell someone, explain that it wasn’t her doing.

  “Mama,” she whispered. “I have something to tell you . . .”

  * * *

  The more noise the gang-bangers made, the tighter Carolyn squeezed into her corner, terrified that one of them would spot her. She’d often read stories about homeless people being tortured, then set on fire simply for sport. And she was well aware that’s exactly what she must look like, a homeless person with nowhere to go.

  The fear she felt now was even worse than when she was tied to the bed.

  What had she done to deserve this?

  Why was she being punished so harshly?

  * * *

  Benito continued to hug the curb, driving as slowly as possible without the piece-of-shit car stalling, while also keeping a sharp eye out. She couldn’t’ve got far, he kept telling himself. He’d seen her lying on the bed less than an hour before she’d vanished.

  He should’ve kept her trussed up like a chicken, but Rosa had said securing her wrist would do.

  Rosa – another dumb bitch. He would surely punish her for running out on him.

  As he drove down the main street he noticed activity ahead – a group of dudes drag racing. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d ventured out of his comfort zone into a part of town that was ruled by Rosa’s baby daddy and his cohorts.

  It was their territory. Their street.

  Shit! It wasn’t as if he was in his own car, thank God.