Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  “Why?”

  “Because, dear boy, there is indeed a movie of that name being cast. But whether there is a role in it suitable for you, I do not know, because I have not seen the script. Indeed, very few people have seen the script. It’s under wraps.”

  “That’s crap, Frances. You see everything.”

  She made a sound like an angry horse. “Very true, Buddy, dear. However, on this occasion all casting is being taken care of by the writer,” and her voice filled with scorn, “who obviously knows better than all of us poor old experts. I have only been in the business thirty years, that’s all. What could I possibly know?”

  “Who is the writer?”

  “Montana Gray, the director’s wife. Does that tell you enough? Now get off this line, Buddy, and don’t ever use a phony name to get through to me again. Do you understand?”

  “I need a job, Frances.”

  She sighed. “You always need a job, but you never get any I send you for.”

  “You got something for me? Next time’ll be my shot. I know it.” He could feel her thinking, and he willed her to come up with an interview.

  “Are you interested in work as an extra?” she said at last.

  Anger flooded through him. Extra work. He’d sooner leave town than stoop to that. “No,” he said coldly.

  “Sorry. Then I can’t help you right now.”

  How he hated the phone. First Randy, then Frances. Always bad news.

  The sound of Angel’s key in the door, and what was he going to tell her?

  She looked particularly beautiful, shining with a very special innocence.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to fix your breakfast,” she murmured softly, going to him and putting her arms around his waist. “I had to visit the doctor.”

  His mind was racing. Montana Gray, wife of Neil Gray, the director. Casting the movie themselves. An Oliver Easterne production, Shelly had said. He gave Angel a gentle shove. “Call information for me, babes. I need the number of Easterne Productions.”

  She stared at him with a hurt expression. “I said I had to go see the doctor. Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Yeah, sure, ’course I do.” And then as an afterthought, “Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”

  “I . . . I wasn’t sure you’d be pleased.” She gazed at him, the happiness in her eyes shadowed by uncertainty. “But now that it’s confirmed . . .”

  The horror of what she was about to say struck him. “Christ, babe. You’re not—” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence.

  She nodded and whispered the missing word. “Pregnant.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes! Isn’t it wonderful, Buddy? Isn’t it absolutely wonderful?”

  He didn’t know what to say. A choking feeling overtook him. He wanted to push her away, but controlled himself.

  “Hey—I gotta swim, I’m runnin’ late. I’ll be back.” He rushed from the apartment like a thief.

  “Buddy—” she called after him, but he didn’t stop.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, squeezed them tightly shut, determined not to cry. Oh boy . . . it sure wasn’t the way it was in the movies, but she had to stop feeling sorry for herself. If Buddy wasn’t happy about the baby, that was just too bad. She was thrilled. And eventually he would be too. She was sure of it. After all, he loved her, didn’t he? And this would make them into a real family.

  14

  Captain Lacoste said, “You want it, take it.” He indicated the thick file on his desk. “But you know we’ve done everything we can. His description is across the country, his photo, his fingerprints. The next move is his.”

  Leon said, “I know that. I just feel there’s something we’re missing, and I want to go over the file again. I need to take my time with it.” He picked it up. It contained nothing he didn’t already know. He left the captain’s office and went straight outside to his car. It was raining.

  • • •

  Leon was annoyed about losing his raincoat. It was the genuine English article, purchased by a good friend at Burberry’s in London, and brought back as a special birthday present. The thought of Joey the hooker parading around town in it burned him up.

  He thought about getting in his car and going out to look for her, but after a long hot shower the idea of venturing once more into the filthy night did not appeal to him. So instead he put on his pajamas, poured himself a substantial glass of brandy, and settled down to watch an old western on television.

  He must have fallen asleep in front of the set, because an urgent hammering woke him with a start. Half asleep, he groped his way to the front door, glancing at his watch on the way and wondering who the hell was bothering him at two in the morning.

  He threw open the door and was confronted with a sorry sight. Joey Kravetz stood there soaked to the skin. Her T-shirt stuck transparently to her body, her baggy trousers clung damply, her orange hair was flattened to her scalp, and water dripped off the end of her crooked snub nose.

  “I brought back your raincoat,” she said forlornly, handing it to him.

  He was pleased to see his raincoat, not pleased to see her. “How did you know where I lived?”

  She fished a crumpled envelope from his raincoat pocket. “Your electric bill,” she stated, then immediately began to sneeze.

  “I guess you’d better come in,” he growled reluctantly.

  “Gee, thanks,” she sneered. “Thought you’d never ask.” And then a grin spread across her face. “Nice pajamas. Real sexy. I like the peephole!”

  He was mortified to find his fly gaping open. “Just a minute,” he said stiffly, and hurried to the bathroom, where he threw on a bathrobe. When he returned to the living room she was standing by the television set dripping all over his carpet.

  “Look,” he said testily. “I’ll give you something to put on while your clothes dry. Then I’ll call you a cab.”

  “I don’t have nowhere to go,” she whined.

  “There must be somewhere.”

  “No,” she said stubbornly.

  “So we’re back to dropping you at Juvenile then.”

  Her attitude quickly changed. “Aw, shit!” she snarled. “You gotta record playin’ in your mouth. Juvenile! Juvenile! Is that all y’can say?”

  “Joey,” he said patiently. “Don’t bug me, because I don’t need your lip. Do you have anywhere to go or not?”

  “Yeah,” she replied sulkily. “My girlfriend gets back tomorra. I’m stayin’ at her place ’til I get the bread together for Arizona.” A few more sneezes rendered her speechless.

  “Will you go into the bathroom and get those wet clothes off before you catch pneumonia?”

  She nodded obediently. He directed her while trying to figure out what to do with her.

  “Can I take a shower?” she called out.

  “I suppose so,” he replied ungraciously. “Throw me out your clothes. I’ll try and get them dry.”

  He went in the kitchen and switched on the electric kettle, then he picked up her clothes from the floor and placed them on a radiator. After that he brought a baggy sweater and some old trousers from his closet and dropped them outside the door ready for her to put on.

  How had he, Leon Rosemont, landed up with a sixteen-year-old hooker showering in his bathroom? Christ. This would make him a laughingstock if anyone down at the precinct ever found out.

  She emerged dry and clean, ridiculously swamped by his clothes. The water was boiling, so he poured some in a cup, added a teabag and two sugar cubes, and handed it to her.

  She sat herself down at the kitchen table and sipped it gratefully.

  “And what exactly am I supposed to do with you?” he said.

  “Let me sleep on your couch an’ I’ll be outta here first thing in the mornin’,” she replied, quick as a flash.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  He thought for a moment. The only alternative was to turn her in, and
that meant getting dressed and dragging over to the station. It was still pouring, the poor kid would get locked in a cell until morning, and the paperwork alone . . .

  He made a quick decision. The hell with it. Let her sleep on his couch, and in the morning he would take her to her friend just to make sure she was telling the truth. Somewhere in the back of his head a warning voice said, “Wrong,” but he ignored it, got spare blankets and a pillow from the hall closet, and left her to it.

  He closed his bedroom door, got into bed, read two chapters of a Joseph Wambaugh novel, and fell asleep.

  The storm hit around three-thirty. Wild forks of lightning and deep rumbles of thunder. Leon slept. Nothing disturbed him. Joey woke immediately, hugged the blanket around her nakedness, and began to shiver. The brilliant flashes of lightning and the heavy thunder petrified her.

  She leaped from the couch and rushed into Leon’s bedroom. He slept on his back, snoring, oblivious to everything.

  Quietly she lifted the cover and crawled in beside him. He didn’t stir. She snuggled close, and his bulk comforted her. He moved in his sleep, groaned, muttered something under his breath.

  “You awake?” she whispered, fitting herself spoonlike into the curve of his back, her hands moving around to his chest.

  He was still, his breathing heavy.

  She searched his chest, thick with curly hair, until she located his nipples. Experience had told her that men could get just as turned on by nipple play as women. She found one, then the other, and the tips of her stubby little fingers went to work. His nipples soon hardened beneath her touch. She moved her hands down, found the opening in his pajama pants, slid her hands within, and grasped his swollen penis. Very gently she began to manipulate it up and down. Slow rhythmic motions that caused a low moan of pleasure to escape his lips, although he remained asleep.

  She grinned, the storm forgotten, while she concentrated on bringing him to a climax without waking him. “You got a beautiful johnnie there,” she whispered encouragingly in his ear. “A real humdinger. . . . Come on, cowboy, give me what you got . . . give it all to Mama . . . give me all that juicy jism . . .

  Oh, she knew what they liked to hear, all right. And it was so easy. He came quickly, his sperm pulsating in long throbbing spurts onto the sheets. She snuggled closer to his back and drifted off to sleep.

  When she woke, dawn was breaking and the storm was long gone. Leon snored contentedly beside her. And why not? She had given him what he wanted. What all men wanted. He might have come on with that phony fatherly concerned act, but he was only a man after all. He didn’t really care what happened to her.

  Carefully, she wriggled from the bed and with one eye on his inert form checked out his wallet lying on the dresser. Pay dirt. He was carrying three hundred and nineteen bucks. Impulsively she grabbed the money, collected her clothes from the kitchen, flung them on, and silently crept from the apartment.

  • • •

  Millie Rosemont cursed the day Captain Lacoste had given Leon permission to bring the Andrews file home. Every night, for two and a half weeks, he had shut himself away in his cramped study, the offending file laid out in sections on his desk. There he sat, for hours on end, scribbling nothing much on his precious legal pad (she checked the basket every morning and found page after page of cryptic Why? Where is he now? When will he strike again?)

  Millie decided the time had come to have it out. She entered his study carrying a cup of coffee and a sandwich. “Leon,” she said sharply. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  He removed his heavy reading glasses, rubbed the bridge of his thick nose, and looked up. “If you can’t I don’t know who can.”

  She placed his coffee and sandwich on the desk and stared at him gravely. “This case is becoming an obsession with you, and I don’t think I like it much.”

  He regarded his wife sympathetically and tried to see things her way. It would be better if he could explain things, tell her why he felt so personally involved. But no, he couldn’t do that. He was ashamed, embarrassed.

  He stretched, feeling the strain in his shoulders, the tightness around his neck. “If you don’t want me to continue . . .”

  She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “It’s not what I want or don’t want. It’s what’s best for you.”

  “What’s best for me,” he said slowly, “is solving this case.”

  “What do you mean—solving it?” she replied angrily. “It’s no secret who did the murders. You know the son did it. And you also know that he’ll be picked up for something else. It always happens that way—you told me so yourself.”

  He sipped the hot coffee. “I want to know why, Millie. I have to know.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? It’s an obsession with you. And not a very healthy one.” She looked at him for a long moment, then turned and left the room.

  He took another bite of sandwich, a sip of coffee, then picked up his pad. Where was Deke Andrews born? he wrote. What hospital? What city? What date?

  It was probably unimportant, but still. Among the Andrews papers had been no documents that related to their lives before they had arrived in Philadelphia over twenty years before. No wedding license, no birth certificates, no relatives’ letters, no indication of where they had come from.

  This bothered Leon. Why no record of their past? Were they running from something or someone? Had Deke found out something he shouldn’t?

  It was a thought.

  In a neat script Leon wrote: Get a computer check on Willis and Winifred Andrews.

  Why not? There was nothing to lose.

  15

  He looked the best he could—and that was something. The girl on reception double-taked and didn’t even check out his name on the typed list in front of her. She directed him to the elevator with a glowing smile and a “Lots of luck.”

  Luck. He needed it.

  Luck. His body craved it as a junkie craves drugs.

  He pressed the elevator button. Floor twenty. Was twenty going to be the hot new number in his life?

  There was a mirror on the side of the elevator, and he monitored his appearance yet again.

  You’re lookin’ good . . . you’re lookin’ good . . . you’re lookin’ good like a superstar should.

  Keep thinking that way. Keep thinking up.

  He stepped out of the elevator into a sea of people. They sat, they lounged against walls, they took up every inch of space, all sizes, shapes, and ages, and in the middle of the throng was a large Lucite desk manned by a businesslike-looking blond and an elderly redhead. To Buddy, forty was elderly. Unless you were talking Jane Fonda or Raquel Welch.

  He headed confidently toward the desk, and as he did so he quickly observed where the main action was. A paneled oak door. A small brass plaque. It read MONTANA GRAY.

  Lady, you are in for a treat. Buddy Boy is here. Buddy Boy has come to star in your movie.

  He went directly to the blonde. She had marvelous green eyes, a smooth skin, and a very bad nose job.

  “Buddy Hudson,” he said confidently. “Miz Gray’s expecting me.”

  The blonde smiled, popped on a pair of lavender reading glasses, and consulted her list.

  Knowing that she wasn’t going to find his name on it, he added quickly, “Bob Evans arranged my appointment personally.”

  The blonde stopped reading. “He did? With whom?”

  “Uh, he spoke to Montana—Miz Gray. She said for me to come right over. I’m working on a special at NBC and I have”—he glanced at his watch—“exactly forty-two minutes before my ass has to be back on the set.” Now for the smile that said I think you are the most desirable female I have ever seen in the whole of my life and I would like to fuck your brains out because you are so totally and absolutely irresistibly gorgeous! “So,” he continued, “I’d appreciate it if I could be next in. Not that I want to throw off your schedule or anything.”

  The blonde had hardly led a sheltered life. She had been through many
men and many scenes. She considered herself a tough nut to crack. The smile never left her face. Buddy Hudson was something else! She knew instinctively that he desired her, and not just because she was the gateway to Montana Gray.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, writing down his name.

  His gaze was level, direct. “I’d really appreciate that.”

  • • •

  The first thing that struck Buddy was that she wasn’t his type. No way. Not at all.

  She sat behind a big desk, cool and collected in a wide-shouldered jacket and pinstripe shirt. Her jet hair was scraped back into a long braid, and most of her face was obscured by huge, lightly tinted reading glasses. Her skin was olive-toned and glowing, her mouth wide and unrouged.

  No sirree. She wasn’t his type at all. Buddy Boy liked them soft and blond, pretty and appealing. He liked them girlish.

  She was busy writing something on a pad, and without looking up she indicated that he should sit. There was a leather chair opposite her desk for just such a purpose. He glared at it balefully. Who needed to sit? Where was the impact in that? First impressions were very important, and when she looked up from her scribbling he wanted her to feel the full blast of his personality.

  He hovered near the door ready to walk toward the desk when he had her full concentration. The walk was important. It was part of him, the rolling thrusting strut. Jeez! He wasn’t nervous, was he? Buddy Boy was never nervous.

  So what were the patches of damp under his arms? And why was his upper lip clouding with little beads of sweat?

  Son of a bitch! Was she going to read all day? Up until now it had been a breeze. Who would have thought it would be that easy to lie his way in to see her? And get in ahead of a roomful of people who probably had appointments. He could thank the blonde with the bad nose job for that little piece of luck.

  He wished that he knew something about the role in the movie. Should he be aggressively sexual? Boyish? Charming? Dustin Hoffman with looks?

  Damn it. All he knew was the title of the film and that she had written it and that her old man was going to direct it.