Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  He found a bar he knew and pulled into the parking lot.

  A couple of decent brandies couldn’t possibly hurt; they would probably do him more good than harm. It was a well known fact that brandy was a medicinal aid.

  The first one was like nectar. And the second merely a complement to the first. His capacity was huge. In Paris he had thought nothing of killing a bottle a night. Of course, that was years previously, but you never forget how to handle your liquor. Or your women.

  He laughed hollowly at that, and ordered another drink.

  • • •

  “Move in,” suggested Gina, the morning after their night of passion. She was rushing to get ready for her lunch appointment with Montana.

  Ross lay in bed watching her. He grinned lazily. One thing was for sure, he certainly didn’t need asking twice. Her house was fabulous, her tits perfection. Besides, the Beverly Hills Hotel was costing him an arm and a leg.

  • • •

  Montana arrived for lunch at El Padrino in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel on time. She looked around, ordered a Pernod on ice, and sat back to wait. She knew for sure that Gina would make her wait.

  True to form, Gina made a typical movie-star entrance thirty-five minutes later. She wore yellow silk slacks, a diaphanous blouse, huge white sunglasses, and a fluffy red fox jacket, although it was seventy-five degrees out.

  “Goddam!” she exclaimed, flopping onto the banquet seat. “Did I have a night! Ross Conti is everything they say—and more.” She giggled. “Several inches more! Best lay I’ve had in a year!” She grabbed a passing waiter. “Rum & coke. On the rocks. Lots of ’em.” She lifted her sunglasses and peered at Montana. “So what’s with the meeting? I could have slept another two hours.”

  Montana shook her head, trying to hide her deep annoyance. “Gina,” she said slowly, as if talking to a recalcitrant child, “I told you to lose twenty pounds, get your hair fixed, play down the sexy image. Didn’t you understand me?”

  Gina retreated behind her sunglasses and glanced restlessly around the dimly lit restaurant.

  “Montana. Dear. You must realize I have a certain image to project. My public expects me to look glamorous.”

  “I don’t give a good goddam what your public expects. I, as your director, expect a hell of a lot more. And if I don’t get it, you’re out.”

  “I’m out!” She laughed disbelievingly. “Dear. Let us not forget who the star of this movie is.”

  The waiter brought her drink and she nearly downed it in one gulp.

  Montana sipped Pernod and considered how best to deal with the situation. She felt surprisingly calm, because she knew she was going to win. Gina would toe the line. She didn’t know how she was going to manage it, she just knew that she was.

  She regarded the blond woman coolly. “Okay,” she said. “Fine. Have it your way. I guess I’ll be busy enough taking care of Buddy, and I know Ross is going to be great. I think he may surprise everyone.”

  Gina had not expected retreat so quickly; it knocked her off balance. She shrugged her fox jacket off her shoulders—causing several nearby males to choke on their drinks. “I’m going to surprise a lot of people too,” she said petulantly.

  “Sure you are,” agreed Montana. “Voluptuous Gina Germaine does it again. Tits-and-ass wins the prize for nonperformance of the year.”

  “I resent that remark,” Gina snapped. “Just because I screwed your husband don’t think you can talk to me any way you like.” Montana’s eyes flashed dangerously, but she kept her temper.

  Oh, Neil! With this? She was never worthy of you.

  “Whatever you did with Neil is his affair, and your affair too. I never believed in putting on the shackles,” she said quietly.

  Gina took off her sunglasses and narrowed her protruding blue eyes. “You’re really strange, you know that?”

  Montana shrugged. “I believe everybody has his freedom. Neil wanted you. He had you. Big deal. Look where he ended up.”

  “God! That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “Why not? It’s true.” She signaled for the waiter. “Check, please.”

  “We haven’t had lunch yet,” Gina objected.

  “No point to it,” Montana said crisply. “I wanted to talk to you about the role, try to help you with it. But I can see I’m wasting my time. You just want to play power games, and that’s not my trip. I’m a working woman, Gina, not a Hollywood wife.”

  “You’re really a pistol.” A grudging admiration entered Gina’s tone.

  “Nope. Just a professional who wants to make the best movie I can. I told you that at our first meeting—I thought we had the same goal in mind, but obviously I was mistaken.”

  She accepted the check from the waiter and fished in her purse for a credit card. “If you don’t want to cooperate, I’m certainly not going to force you. I’ll just concentrate on Buddy and Ross. They’ll be so good that nobody’ll notice Miz Germaine. It’s a shame, because you could have been dynamite. It’s all there, Gina. Hidden beneath the hair and the boobs and the makeup.” She paused for a moment. “You just need someone to work with you—someone who cares about what you’re doing. I could bring it out in you, and you know it.”

  “I don’t work well with women.”

  “Bullshit. When have you ever tried? You might find you enjoy the experience.”

  A slow smile spread across Gina’s face. “Y’know something? You remind me of me!”

  God forbid! Montana thought.

  “Yeah,” enthused Gina. “Fast with the mouth—and you got balls, kiddo. You can make it happen—I bet you can.”

  “Does this mean you’re going to listen to me?”

  “Why not?” Gina said decisively. “Yeah. Why not indeed? I’ve been listening to schmucks who wanted to get their rocks off all my life—so who knows? Working with you might make a change.” She leaned forward confidentially. “I’ll tell you something, Montana. Neil and me—it didn’t mean a thing. Just sort of a business arrangement.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “And you would be right to be sure, because I am here to tell you that all men are unfaithful bums. All of them, honey. Never trust ’em as far as you can spit.” She nodded wisely. “I know. I have been out on my own since I was fifteen years old, and let me tell you—it has not all been a pot of honey. How would you like to hear about some of the things I had to do to get where I am today?”

  When Gina talked, she talked. Two hours later she was still talking. And Montana listened. Quietly.

  Actors. Actresses. They were all the same. Give them a little sympathy, a little understanding, and they were yours.

  When the movie rolled, Gina would be putty in her hands. And she would get a performance out of her the like of which her horny public had never seen before.

  If Neil could do it, so could she.

  58

  Leon went immediately to work. He made some vague excuse to Millie and returned to Barstow. There he checked out police files, newspaper reports, and adoption agencies.

  A day was not enough to do everything, so he took a room at the Desert Inn Hotel and called Millie. She was not happy. “This is our vacation,” she reminded him flatly. “You’re not supposed to be working.”

  “I know. But it’s important. And I’ll make it up to you—I promise.”

  “Captain Lacoste phoned. He wants you to contact him.”

  He was too caught up to notice the sullenness in her voice. “Thanks. I’ll probably be back tomorrow.”

  “Don’t rush,” she muttered coldly. But he had already broken the connection.

  The captain had news that made Leon’s skin crawl. Deke Andrews had struck again. This time in Las Vegas. The victim was an old hooker who cruised the downtown bars and casinos. “He left enough signs to let us know it was him. Prints, saliva, semen. The same distinctive knife wounds. And his shirt. The police in Vegas have a couple of witnesses who may or may not have spotted him leaving the scene. We’re send
ing his photo over the wire. Are you prepared to go there?”

  Leon didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I am. I want to be taken off vacation and declared officially on the case.”

  “That’s what I hoped you’d say. I’ll contact Vegas and let them know you’re on the way. They’ve promised full cooperation.”

  Leon’s mind was already racing. Why Las Vegas? Somehow he had thought that Deke was heading for Barstow. Just a hunch . . . something . . . someone in Barstow. But what if Deke had already visited Barstow?

  As soon as he got off the phone he decided to check out all local homicides over the last four weeks. And then he would head for Vegas—fast.

  59

  “Where is he?” demanded Maralee, blue eyes anxious and concerned.

  “He stole my car,” stated Nurse Miller dourly. “Assaulted me, and used foul language. I wish to tender my immediate notice.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” Maralee said vaguely. “He’s not allowed to drive.”

  “I know that, Mrs. Gray. But I couldn’t stop him. He was like a madman.”

  Maralee almost stamped her foot. “I wanted him to be here. It’s important. How could you let him go?”

  “I expect two weeks’ severance pay. And you are most fortunate that I am not planning to sue for bodily harm. If my car is not back here within the hour I am reporting it as a stolen vehicle to the police.”

  • • •

  Before long two or three drinks turned to four or five, and his heart began to thunder in his chest, but it didn’t bother him. Nothing bothered him.

  He was going to have it out with Montana. Tell her the whole story. Lay it on the line, as the Americans so charmingly put it. Come clean. Confess. Beg her forgiveness.

  Only Montana wouldn’t buy it. Montana, so clear-headed and cool. “Forget it, Neil,” she would say. “I don’t need your jerk-off excuses.” And she was so right, for that’s all it would be . . . stupid excuses explaining several acts of lust for which he had no excuse.

  He was going to order another drink, thought better of it, and walked unsteadily outside.

  • • •

  Shelly was still in residence when Buddy returned. She was stretched out on his couch painting her toenails bright scarlet.

  “Hiya, star.” She picked up the Los Angeles Times and waved it at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged, irritated that she hadn’t made a nice quiet exit in his absence. “We had other things on our mind. I was going to.”

  “You and Gina Germaine. Wowee! Like it’s the big time, man.”

  “Hey—listen. I got a lot of work to take care of. Why don’t I drive you back to your place?” Before you move in, he wanted to add, but controlled himself.

  “I don’t have to go,” she said. “I quit my job last week, and with Randy gone . . .” She held her leg in the air and admired her newly painted toes. “Besides, I can help you. Read through your script with you. Then maybe we can drop by Maverick’s and knock ’em all out. Just looove to see those green faces, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’ll be better if I take you home,” he said bluntly.

  “For you it’ll be better,” she said, glaring at him balefully. “Why can’t I stay?”

  “Because I’m expecting Angel.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  She jumped off the couch. “Okay. Take me home, bigshot. I can live without you.”

  “What makes you think that I’m not expecting Angel?” he repeated.

  “Forget it,” she muttered.

  “I don’t want to forget it.”

  “Well, I suggest you do.” She grabbed her purse and slung it roughly over her shoulder. “I’ll get a cab—star. Wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  “Did Angel call? Did you answer my phone?” he demanded furiously.

  She reached the front door and turned, one hand on her hip, a sneer on her lips. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  She slammed the door on her way out.

  He was already reaching for the phone.

  • • •

  When Maralee refused to loan Elaine ten thousand dollars, it was just as well, because Little S. Schortz failed to turn up for their second meeting, which was okay, because Elaine would never file for a divorce anyway. If Ross wanted out, let him make all the moves.

  Lina quit, but Elaine was able to cash a check at Ron Gordino’s establishment (it would bounce—but so what?) and she bribed Lina back with a bonus.

  A television actor in shorts and a UCLA T-shirt picked her up at the checkout counter of the Hughes Market on Beverly, and she rather rashly invited him back to the house. Once he got a sniff of luxury he pounced.

  She fought him off and sent him on his way.

  He did not go quietly.

  Lina quit again. She was a Catholic, and there was only so much she could take.

  Elaine consumed four straight vodkas and passed out in front of her beloved Merv.

  She missed the news flash which informed Los Angeles that Neil Gray had suffered another massive heart attack and collapsed and died in the parking lot of a Santa Monica drinking establishment.

  60

  Las Vegas behind him now, the glittering city in the desert fading into the distance as he spurred the van toward Los Angeles. He wanted to fly—to take off along the deserted road as he knew the van could. But he did not do that. He kept within the speed limit. Had to be careful.

  His mind was full of ugly images. Hate flowed through his veins. Yet he knew that Joey was watching over him. Kind, sweet Joey.

  Where is the whore?

  For a moment he couldn’t remember, and fury engulfed him.

  The harlot is with another man.

  The van screamed to a stop. He couldn’t see anything; red flames engulfed him. Red . . . blood . . . Nita Carrolle’s blood . . . Joey’s blood.

  It was all right. She was safe. He had saved her from sin.

  He had stopped at one of the big hotels before leaving Vegas and purchased black wraparound sunglasses—so dark that his eyes were not visible through the protective lenses.

  He liked them. They were windows to the world outside, while he remained safely behind them, hidden and anonymous.

  Joey would say he looked fine. She often complimented him. She was the only one who knew the true person behind Deke Andrews.

  The thought of his name infuriated him.

  “I am not Deke Andrews,” he screamed aloud.

  Then he alighted from his truck and pissed across the empty highway.

  He knew who his mother was.

  He was going to Los Angeles to kill her.

  61

  Neil Gray’s death was a shock. But Buddy felt sure it would have no adverse effect on Street People. Everyone knew Montana had taken over. The word was that the start date would be postponed by a week.

  He realized that now was the time to make the San Diego trip and square things with his mother. But first he wanted Angel back. He had waited long enough. Reaching her, however, was no easy task. He called. She was never there. He called back. She was still not there. He requested her home phone number and was refused the information. Eventually he got in his car and cruised slowly past the salon hoping to spot her. Some guy with a halo of wild curls sat at the glass-fronted reception desk.

  Buddy parked the Mustang and sauntered in. “Hey,” he said casually. “Is Angel around?”

  Koko knew without a doubt that this must be Buddy. The looks were dazzling. “She no longer works here,” he said, playing with the zipper on his orange jumpsuit. It was no lie. He had decided she should stay home until after the baby was born. She had protested, of course, but he had finally convinced her that Adrian needed the company.

  “Where can I find her?”

  “I don’t know.” Koko had never been the best of liars. He cracked his knuckles nervously.

  Buddy slid his hand over the desk, a folded t
wenty conveniently placed. “Where?”

  Koko shoved the money away from him. “Really!” he snorted. “You’ve been seeing too many movies!”

  Raymondo chose that moment to appear. His flashing brown eyes took in the scene. “Koko! You is bad momma. You is sellin’ it! On the premises, man!”

  “Piss off,” iced Koko.

  Whistling and cat-calling, Raymondo did just that. But first a parting shot: “Wait until I tell pretty Angel,” he sang. “She no like!”

  “Cut out the shit,” said Buddy angrily, leaning across the desk. “I’m her husband. Where is she?”

  “She wants a divorce.”

  Buddy reached for the zipper on Koko’s jumpsuit and pulled it up sharply until it dug into the flesh beneath his neck. “Where . . . is . . . she?”

  Bravery was not one of Koko’s attributes. He squealed in pain. “She doesn’t want to see you,” he gasped. “Why don’t you leave the poor girl alone?”

  “And why don’t you just butt on out?”

  “Angel is my friend. And God knows she needs friends after the way you’ve treated her.” He wrenched himself free. “If you don’t leave the premises at once I shall call the police.”

  Buddy picked up the phone and smashed it down on the desk. “Go ahead. I have every right to look for my wife. And another thing—I’m gonna be here every day until you tell me where she is. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  Koko understood, all right. But he wasn’t prepared to reveal her whereabouts until he had checked with her. “Very well,” he said tightly. “I’ll contact Angel and see what she says. If she refuses to see you, will you stay away?”

  “If she tells me so herself.”

  “Tomorrow. The same time.”

  “Six o’clock tonight, my friend. I’ll be back.” He stalked out.