Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  Buddy stared straight ahead and silently rehearsed his opening line. “Miss La Salle.” Correction. “Miz La Salle. I have been dreaming of this day ever since I first set foot in Hollywood.”

  Corny crap!

  “Sadie. You and I . . . we’re meant to be together.”

  Even worse.

  “Sadie La Salle,” said with reverence. “A legend in her own town.”

  Oh shit!

  “Miz La Salle will see you now,” said Ferdie in response to three sharp buzzes.

  Buddy leaped up. Cool blown in all directions. He followed Ferdie, who led him through the door of the fabled inner office.

  “Miz La Salle, may I present Buddy Hudson,” Ferdie said formally.

  She sat behind a large antique desk stacked with scripts. A dark-haired woman of middle age, with bobbed black hair and a nondescript face except for huge liquid black eyes. Not attractive. Not unattractive. There was something familiar about her which he couldn’t quite place.

  She was smoking a thin brown cigarillo, which she waved at him to indicate he should sit.

  Immediately Sadie saw what Montana meant. The boy didn’t walk into her office, he sauntered with a special hip-swaying thrust which would be hard to miss. He had a great body—easy to see in the clothes he wore, and although he was dark she was reminded of the first time she ever saw Ross. Same walk. Same thrust. A direct sensuality that could leave you breathless. She had used it to propel Ross to stardom. What a challenge to do it again. Oh, she had created plenty of stars. But never in the same way.

  How would Buddy look on billboards from coast to coast? The exact campaign all these years later. Faded Levi’s cutoffs and WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  The thought intrigued her.

  He perched nervously on the edge of a chair, all opening gambits long forgotten. She was looking him over as if he were prime beef, and it was making him uncomfortable.

  Finally she said, “I’m glad you could come, Buddy. Montana Gray gave you glowing notices. I ran your test this morning, and I agree with her.”

  “You do?” He felt a buzz. His luck was on an up. Everything was falling into place. “I’m glad,” he mumbled.

  “You’ll be more than glad by the time I’ve finished with you. You’d like to be a star, wouldn’t you? And I think I’m the person that can do it for you.”

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing, but then again he had been expecting it all his life.

  Black eyes met black eyes.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “I know you are,” she replied.

  46

  Deke knew he had the living force of power flowing through his body. He had felt it growing within him for a long time. Now that his head was shaved the force was set free, and he knew that he could do anything he wanted, for the aura of power would protect him. He was invincible. He walked by himself in a world of scum. And he alone could give people liberty if he so wished.

  Cutting a throat and watching the blood flow was an act of salvation. The Keeper Of The Order did not have to be careful anymore. He was untouchable.

  Proof positive.

  He had released the receptionist from her miserable existence. Cut her until the blood flowed and life vanished. Then he had washed in a nearby toilet, removed his stained shirt, squeezed the sticky blood out under the cold tap, put the wet shirt back on his body, and searched for the filing cabinet.

  He did not hurry as he did all of this. He felt perfectly calm and secure.

  He found what he was looking for, and tipped all the rest of the files from the steel cabinet to the floor. Then he set a match to the papers and watched the flames.

  He walked unhurriedly to his van parked a block away. Joey would be proud of him.

  Now he sat on the hard bed in his dreary motel room and flipped through the file searching for the information he required.

  • • •

  His mother said, “So nice to meet you,” thin lips a prism of disapproval.

  Joey enclosed the surprised woman in a clumsy hug, and deposited a jammy kiss on her cheek. “Mama!” she blurted. “That’s what I’m gonna call you—I ’cided that first moment Dekey told me ’bout you.”

  Winifred Andrews shoved the girl away with a certain amount of force and tried to recover her composure. She hated being touched. “Don’t call me that,” she said, her bony features a passionless mask. “It is not correct for you to do so.”

  “Yet!” added Joey, with a saucy wink.

  Deke stood in the doorway to the tidy living room, every piece of furniture, every ornament polished and in its proper place. He didn’t want to enter. He knew that things weren’t going to work out, and that he was going to lose the one person who had ever meant anything to him.

  “Wow!” Joey exclaimed. “What a neat place ya got here. It’s so—wow! Like it’s so homey. I love it!”

  A nerve twitched beneath Winifred Andrews’s left eye. She was an austere-looking woman with gray hair and a pious expression. Her husband, Willis, was so drab and downtrodden it was possible to be in the same room and not even realize that he was present.

  Joey had done exactly that. She had concentrated all her energies on Mrs. Andrews, determined to be liked. “Where’s Mr. A?” she asked coyly. “Is he as good-lookin’ as my Dekey?”

  Winifred turned and glared at Deke, still hovering in the doorway. “Introduce your . . . friend . . . to Father.”

  Reluctantly he entered the room and awkwardly performed the introduction.

  “Ooooh, Mr. A. I never saw ya sittin’ there.” Joey oozed pertness. “Wow! You’re a looker too! Can I lay a kiss on ya?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but bussed the colorless little man on both cheeks.

  Willis shot a nervous look at his wife.

  “Sit down,” Winifred said, her voice freezing. “It’s Josephine, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Joey replied. “But all my pals call me Joey. Like it’s a nickname, y’know?” She plumped herself down on a narrow brown sofa and beckoned Deke to sit next to her.

  He did so reluctantly.

  Silence.

  Winifred broke it. “You are very late, Deke. Why is that?”

  “I told him we was late,” scolded Joey. “I kept on telling the dumbo but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Deke was listening now. How dare she call him names in front of his mother? How dare she?

  Winifred said, “It’s no good telling Deke anything. He never listens, just goes his own way, the wrong way, without a thought or feeling for anyone else.”

  Joey nodded understandingly.

  Winifred gave a long-suffering sigh. “We’ve done everything for him. Sacrificed ourselves beyond reproach. Did he tell you that I nearly died giving birth to him?”

  Joey shook spiky locks.

  “Why should he consider it important?” Winifred continued. “It was I who almost died, not he.”

  “Gee, that’s a bummer,” interjected Joey, delighted at the way Mrs. Andrews was confiding in her.

  “You might think that after what I went through I would have borne a considerate son, a boy who cared about his mother. But no. Deke has caused me nothing but pain and worry. He has . . .”

  Deke could hear his mother’s harsh accusing words pouring from her thin tight lips. He had heard them so many times before—all of his life.

  Useless, good-for-nothing, weak, uncaring.

  Joey was hanging on to every morsel, jammy lips parted, squiffy eye darting this way and that. She was nodding in agreement. She was siding with his mother.

  He felt horribly betrayed. They were making him nothing. Only, with Joey, he had been a big man. Her cowboy, her lover. Had the whore been lying to him?

  Very slowly, rage began to envelop him. He would not allow his mother to destroy what he and Joey had.

  Abruptly he stood up. “We’re going to be married,” he said.

  Willis Andrews scuttled over to the television and switch
ed it on as if his very action would avert the argument to come.

  Winifred looked at Deke as one would regard a putrefying body.

  Joey clapped her hands together like a child with a new toy. Then she said the wrong thing. “Y’see, Mrs. A., when we’re married I’ll straighten Dekey out. You an’ I—we’ll get him together.” She giggled inanely. “We’ll have him cut off that gross hair, an’ buy some decent clothes.” Her eyes were shining. “Mrs. A., I promise I’ll make you a terrific daughter. You’ll love me.” Hope oozed from every pore. “Really y’will.”

  Winifred Andrews gazed first at Joey, then at Deke.

  “Is this what you want, son?” she asked in disbelief. “This . . . this . . . tramp?”

  Joey’s face clouded over.

  Willis Andrews stared at the television.

  “Yes,” said Deke.

  Her thin lip curled. “Did I hear you say yes?”

  “She loves me and I want her.”

  “Loves you. How could anyone love you?”

  His head began to throb. “She does.”

  “Have you ever looked at her? She’s trash.”

  “Hey—” Joey began, but neither of them took any notice.

  “She’s kind to me. Nice.”

  “She’s poor street trash. And still she’s too good for you. Any woman is too good for you—you know that, don’t you?”

  Joey shrank into the old brown sofa. Somewhere she must have overplayed her hand. Best to shut up until she could steer things back onto the right track.

  Winifred continued to debase her son, her voice rigid and unbending as she heaped abuse upon him.

  All of his life he had taken it. And never once defended himself or answered back. Even when they made him sell his car—his pride and joy. But with Joey sitting there, listening . . .

  “I hate you,” he suddenly screamed. “I wish you had died when you had me. I wish you’d fucking died. You’ve ruined my life.”

  Winifred was stunned into only a brief moment of silence.

  “You ungrateful parasite,” she seethed. “Gutter language from gutter filth. We took you from nothing. Gave you a home and food and clothing. Even though you were not of our flesh. Your mother didn’t want you—”

  “Winifred,” objected Willis.

  “Be quiet,” she blazed. “It’s time he knew the truth.”

  Deke shook his head. What was she talking about? He was confused.

  “We bought you,” she said, her dull eyes almost alive. “As you would buy a dog. We chose you—the pick of the litter. Ha! Some pick.”

  “What are you talking about?” he whined pitifully.

  “One hundred and fifty dollars. A lot of money then.” Her face glowed triumphantly as though she had experienced some glorious relief. “What do you have to say about that?”

  He trembled. “You’re lying.”

  “I am not.”

  He yelled, “Liar!”

  “I am not,” she repeated stubbornly. She crossed the room to the desk she always kept locked and opened it. The only noise in the room came from the television set. Willis Andrews placed his head in his hands and mumbled incoherently.

  Joey sat transfixed. What a bad trip this had turned out to be. Some loving family to welcome her with open arms.

  Winifred produced a piece of paper and thrust it at him.

  “Here,” she said. “This is the name and address of the woman we bought you from in Barstow, California. A baby broker. God knows where she found the likes of you.”

  He thought he was dying. His life flashed before him like a film. The beatings, the humiliations, the constant torture of being told he was no good . . .

  And the guilt . . .

  I NEARLY DIED HAVING YOU. YOU COULD’VE KILLED ME WHEN YOU WERE BORN.

  All of his life the guilt.

  For nothing?

  She wasn’t his real mother. Oh Lord no she wasn’t . . .

  The throbbing in his head, the haze around his eyes. He felt choked with frustration and fury.

  Winifred Andrews. Stranger. Began to laugh mirthlessly.

  IT’S NOT SO BAD . . . IT’S NOT SO BAD.

  Joey joined in. A nervous reaction.

  YES. IT IS BAD. YES. I MUST DO SOMETHING.

  Willis laughed too. Or was he crying? No matter.

  Three pigs. Three laughing faces. Teeth and eyes and hair. Three pigs.

  • • •

  The information was there in the file among the yellowed letters of complaint. Dry rot. Damp. Mice infestation. Mrs. Nita Carrolle had lived in the house from 1956 to 1973, whereupon she had moved to Las Vegas. Her forwarding address was typed neatly on a tattered white card.

  Mrs. Nita Carrolle.

  He hoped she was still alive. He desired the pleasure of killing her after he had found out the information he needed to survive.

  47

  Friday lunch at Ma Maison. Enter Gina Germaine. Every eye in the restaurant turned to stare. Silence. Only for a second. Then normal business resumed.

  Gina joined Oliver Easterne at his regular table and spat venom. “What the fuck are they looking at?”

  “You, of course,” replied Oliver, dabbing at a mark on the tablecloth. “You should be used to it by now. How many years have you been in the movies?”

  “Long enough to know that in this restaurant, on a Friday, at lunchtime, nobody stares. Racquel Welch could walk in naked and they wouldn’t bat an eyelash.” Her eyes popped alarmingly. “Everyone knows, Oliver, don’t they? The word is out.”

  He patted her hand reassuringly, and wondered how she could possibly think that she and Neil being rushed to the hospital—locked in combat, so to speak—could be kept a secret. Everyone was talking. Big deal. If she was smart she would just brazen it out and enjoy the notoriety.

  A week had passed. Neil Gray still languished in the hospital. The prognosis was not good. Oliver had not been idle. He wasn’t about to let the film go down the drain just because Neil was out of action. Conveniently he had forgotten about the girl at the beach and reconsidered using Gina. A few discreet meetings had shown him the viability of the film starring George Lancaster and Gina Germaine. The two of them together spelled money in the bank. He had been offered a record-breaking cable deal if he could deliver the goods. And that’s just what he intended to do.

  If Neil and Montana didn’t like it, fuck ’em. They were hardly in a position to fight.

  Gina summoned a waiter and ordered a Bloody Mary. She wore a white strapless dress which emphasized her magnificent breasts. Oliver did not find them magnificent at all; he found them disgusting. But as a showman he knew that you must give the public what they wanted, and one thing about Gina—the unwashed masses loved her and she was big big box office.

  “Why the lunch, Oliver?” she asked pointedly.

  “I’m reconsidering on you playing Nikki.”

  “Oh!” She gave a little gasp. “You are?”

  “I always liked the idea, but Neil and Montana didn’t think you were right. Frankly, I think you could do it.”

  She purred softly. “I always said you were a smart son of a bitch. Whenever anyone put you down I always stood up for you.” She fluttered long false eyelashes, and squeezed his hand. “I’m very fond of you, Oliver.”

  He quickly removed his hand. “Thank you.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  She fluffed out candy-floss white hair and lowered cornflower-blue eyes. “I’m really embarrassed about the other night. The whole thing was so . . . degrading.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he consoled. “Just think of your future.”

  “Yes. I must.” She looked determined. “The thing is, I’m always so concerned about other people. For once in my life I must think about myself.” Deep sincerity entered her voice. “I want to do Street People very much, but when will it start shooting? With Neil in the hospital and all . . .” She trailed off. “What are your plans?”


  He cleared his throat, waved at a few people. “Well, Gina,” he began. “Business is business, and as bad as I feel about Neil’s . . . er . . . unfortunate illness, the show must go on, as someone once said. I’ve got ideas. Another director, maybe. Don’t worry, just imagine the marquee.”

  “Gina Germaine and George Lancaster,” she giggled.

  Silently Oliver said it his way.

  AN OLIVER EASTERNE FILM

  AN OLIVER EASTERNE PRODUCTION

  GEORGE LANCASTER AND GINA GERMAINE IN STREET PEOPLE

  “Right,” he said. “I’ll call Sadie after lunch.”

  “What are you doing later? Why don’t you come by my house for a drinkie?”

  He shuddered. The very thought of going to bed with Gina gave him the horrors. “I’ll take you up on that invitation another time.”

  “Bet on it,” she flirted.

  “I certainly will.”

  • • •

  Elaine’s attempts to get Ross back under the marital roof were fruitless. First it took her two days to find him, and when she did track him down to the Beverly Hills Hotel he refused to return her calls.

  She could not believe her stupidity in throwing him out. The big question was how to get him back without causing a public scene. That was the trouble with Beverly Hills, everyone knew your business.

  The house looked like a flower shop. Yellow roses from Pamela and George—somewhat faded now. Orchids from Bibi and Adam. Tulips, lilies, palms and yucca plants . . . a never-ending delivery of exotic blooms with short notes thanking the wonderful Contis for a wonderful party. Flower Fashions must have had a field day. Normally Elaine would have been thrilled. But without Ross she felt disoriented and empty. She had no one to talk to. Only Maralee, who was more interested in keeping her ridiculous vigil at the hospital.

  “You’re divorced from Neil,” Elaine had pointed out firmly.

  “It makes no difference now,” Maralee had replied tearfully. “I still love him and I want him to know that.”

  Randy had been cast by the wayside, and Maralee refused to talk about him. Occasionally Elaine stopped by the hospital to keep her company. But she didn’t feel comfortable, especially when Montana appeared and strode around as if she owned the place.