Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  “Stay here and be quiet,” he commanded.

  Silently she nodded.

  • • •

  Ferdie’s immediate instinct was to step sharply back at the sight of Deke. “Who are you?” he asked, shocked.

  Before Deke could reply, Sadie began to scream.

  Ferdie’s reaction was unfortunately slow. He did nothing.

  In one smooth action Deke stepped forward, knife in hand. He plunged it into the startled man, puncturing him through the heart. Ferdie’s eyes bulged with a mixture of sorrow and surprise as Deke dragged him through the doorway and threw him down on the hall floor. He was dead before his head hit the tiles.

  Deke kicked the door shut and went back to the kitchen.

  Sadie’s screams turned to a whimper when she saw him. His clothes were soaked in blood.

  “Please,” she moaned. “Don’t hurt me.”

  “You made a lot of noise,” he said mildly. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  She began to shriek wildly. “What did you do to Ross? What did you do to him?”

  “And the Lord giveth. And the Lord taketh away. Mother. You must realize, I am The Keeper Of The Order. A man of honor.” Her voice rose even more hysterically. “You killed him, didn’t you? You bastard.”

  “Am I a bastard . . . Mother?”

  “If I’m your mother,” she screamed, “then you just killed your own father.” Wild laughter fell from her lips. “How do you feel about that . . . you . . . you fucking stupid moron?”

  His eyes were insane with black anger as he walked toward her.

  • • •

  “Hi, Ross.” Montana slid onto the stool next to him in the coffee shop.

  He glanced up from reading about himself and Gina in the morning paper. “How are you?”

  She shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  He put the paper down. “I was really distressed about Neil. I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the funeral.”

  “Thank you.” She touched his arm lightly. “I’m sorry about the movie.”

  “Yes, well, I’m sorrier than you are. That was one hell of a part you wrote. I really could have made an impact with a role like that.”

  “I’m sure you could.”

  He shrugged. “Although, with Oliver producing, who knows what would have happened?”

  She nodded her agreement.

  “What’ll you do now?” he asked.

  “I’m going back to New York on Monday.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll miss the sunshine, but really I’m a city person. I figured a last breakfast in the coffee shop of the Beverly Hills Hotel was a fitting goodbye.” She glanced along the curved counter and laughed. “I’ve gotten some of my best dialogue in this very room!”

  He laughed with her.

  “And how about you?” she inquired. “What next?”

  He smiled a crooked smile and projected with the famous blues. “Something between Love Boat and death.”

  “Huh?”

  “An actor’s joke.”

  “Oh.” She ordered a double chocolate milkshake and an apple danish.

  “Some breakfast,” he said admiringly.

  “I’ve always been an eccentric eater.”

  I bet she gives great head, he thought, and then scolded himself for having such a thought. Wasn’t it possible to sit next to a woman and not think about sex?

  No.

  Elaine did not like dipping her head to him. Maybe it was because he never returned the courtesy. He thought they might experiment. Together. It was never too late.

  “I’m back with my wife,” he remarked.

  “Good,” she replied with enthusiasm. “I never did see you as just another of Gina’s consorts.”

  A bellboy arrived to inform him that his car was fixed. He tipped a couple of bucks and decided to stay for more coffee. Talking to Montana was no hardship. Besides—let Sadie wait. He didn’t have to jump the moment she called, did he? He was still a star, wasn’t he?

  • • •

  The voices in his head told him he had done the right thing. But he wasn’t sure. Doubt crept over him like a dark hood as he moved from room to room in the big house. Restlessly he walked around muttering to himself. All rules of logic, time, and reason were suspended. He had traveled toward a goal and achieved it. But now what?

  His head hurt. He felt disoriented. There was a throbbing in his temples, and the stroke of death surrounded him.

  Where was Joey?

  Out whoring, of course. Whore . . . whore . . . whore.

  She thought he was ugly. She thought he was a nobody.

  She didn’t want him anymore.

  He screamed with anger and kicked open the door to Sadie’s study.

  The scream died in his throat and he stood stock-still, transfixed.

  Oh, if Joey could see what he could see . . . oh, yes . . . oh, yes.

  Tentatively he entered the room and approached the giant cardboard poster propped against the wall.

  He reached forward to touch, to marvel.

  It was him.

  The picture was of him.

  74

  Buddy’s mother gazed at him levelly. “I thought you were dead,” she said. “Like your friend Tony.”

  He laughed hollowly. For the first time he began to see things from her point of view, and whatever she had done to him, he knew that he must have hurt her terribly. “Still breathing,” he said, trying to make a joke out of it.

  She nodded.

  He shuffled his feet uncomfortably, feeling like some young jerk. “Can I come in?”

  “No,” she replied flatly.

  “Look,” he said, “I’ve come back to make my peace with you. We both did things we shouldn’t have—but what’s that old saying—blood is thicker than water. Right?”

  She glanced anxiously around, noted one neighbor watering her garden, another gossiping with the postman. “I suppose you had better come in,” she said reluctantly. “But don’t you say anything in front of Brian. Do you understand?”

  He followed her inside the house and took a deep breath. It smelled the same—faint minglings of garlic, musky perfume, and clean linen. Nostalgia enveloped him. He was prepared to forgive and forget if she was. One day he might even bring Angel here.

  She led him into the formal living room, the one reserved for guests, and said, “Sit down.”

  On the black piano stood her collection of old silver photo frames. Grandma and Grandpa in sepia-tinted Italy. Their beautiful daughter dressed in white, her hair braided to the waist. A wedding picture, the man in the photo not his father. Brian, at a younger age. No photos of him. No Buddy Boy, once the light of her life.

  She noticed him looking and said, “I married again.”

  He was shocked. Yet why should he be? She had her life to live too. “Hey—that’s great.” Sincerity was not in his tone. “So I guess I got me a brother—I mean like a half brother. That’s . . . uh . . . terrific.”

  “No,” she said coldly. “Brian is nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

  He needed a family and a background again. “I know you’re mad. I should’ve contacted you, but I had to work things out my way. You’ve got to admit that what happened between us wasn’t normal.” He paused, then continued insistently, “Hey—you’ve got to accept some of the blame.”

  Her eyes were cold. “For what?”

  His voice rose. “Don’t do this to me. You know what.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”

  “Look—I’ve worried about it for ten years. Now I just want to forget it.”

  “Incest. Is that what you thought?”

  Her callous way of saying that forbidden word shocked him. He’d had enough. He wanted out. Inexplicably he felt like crying—a sentiment he hadn’t experienced in years. “Why?” he managed.

  “Because you are not my son, Buddy. You were adopted by us when you were four days old.”

  He could not believe what he
was hearing.

  “It wasn’t a legal adoption,” she continued calmly. “We bought you for a sum of money because we desperately wanted a son. I was told I could never have children.” She paused. “But I gave birth to Brian, so you see—the doctors were wrong.”

  He didn’t know what to do or say. So many thoughts, such a mixed bag of emotions. And in a way—although it was a tremendous shock—relief almost. “Who am I?” he asked at last.

  “I was never told,” she said coldly, then added, “I don’t feel responsible for you, Buddy. You saw fit to leave me ten years ago. Let’s just make believe you never came back.”

  • • •

  Elaine showered, then made an appointment at the hairdresser. She had tried tidying the house, but cleaning had never been her forte—so she phoned Lina and graciously requested her return.

  “I have ’nother job, señora,” Lina said stoically.

  “But I need you,” Elaine insisted, as though there were some special bond between them. “Mr. Conti is back, and you know how upset he’ll be if you’re not here.”

  “Mebee I find you someone else.”

  “Not good enough, Lina. He’ll want you here, first thing Monday. Please don’t let him down.”

  She replaced the receiver firmly and made herself a cup of coffee. Fleetingly she was tempted to add a little shot of something, but the temptation passed as soon as she considered her new situation. Ross was back. She had standards to maintain.

  She phoned Bibi. “Guess what?” she announced dramatically, ignoring the fact that they hadn’t spoken in weeks.

  “What, sweetie?” inquired Bibi, barely disguising her annoyance at being caught.

  “Ross and I are back together. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “How you together?” Surprise spilled from her voice. “Last night he together with Gina. I sorry, darling, you make a mistake.”

  “Bibi,” said Elaine assertively, “I am not a fool. Last night he may well have been with Gina, but this morning he came back to me. To stay.”

  “You sure, sweetie?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  Bibi’s voice warmed up. She thrived on exclusive gossip. “So what happened with Gina?”

  “How about lunch on Monday and I’ll tell you all about it.” “I busy Monday, but I think I change it. Yes, sweetie, for you I change it.”

  “Wonderful. Jimmy’s, one o’clock?”

  “Jimmy’s so boring, darling. I find new place, very nice. Chinese. My secretary call you early Monday with the address.”

  “Perfect.” Elaine put the phone down and smiled. Lunch with Bibi. A fitting reentry into the swing of things.

  • • •

  Angel waited until the maid left the premises, then launched into action. Out came the Lysol, Ajax, and cleaning equipment. She tied her long blond hair away from her face and earnestly set about cleaning Buddy’s apartment the way it should be cleaned. Thoroughly. Not a lick and a spit. When he came back she wanted everything perfect. And it would be.

  Humming softly to herself, she started in the bathroom.

  • • •

  Leon Rosemont arrived at the house in San Diego just as Buddy was leaving. Sometimes perfect timing occurs, and although Leon did not know it he was in exactly the right place at the right time. Five minutes later and he might have missed Buddy altogether.

  They passed on the front steps.

  “Excuse me,” said Leon sharply. “Are you Buddy Hudson?”

  Buddy was in no mood for conversation. The guy had cop written all over him. Shit! They had pulled the file and now they wanted to investigate the case. “Yeah. But listen—I made a mistake this morning. I was blowin’ steam, y’know?”

  Leon looked at him strangely. “What?”

  “I got bombed last night,” he insisted. “You can put the file away. I don’t even know what I was talkin’ about.”

  Leon frowned. “What were you talking about?”

  “Hey—you are a cop?”

  Ponderously Leon produced his identification. Buddy looked at it quickly. All he wanted to do was get back to Angel and let a little love into his life.

  “Can we go inside and talk?” Leon asked.

  Buddy indicated the house. “In there? You gotta be kiddin’. I’m about as welcome in there as the clap.”

  “It’s urgent we talk. And I want your mother to hear what I have to say.”

  “She’s not my mother, man.”

  “That’s one of the things I want to talk about.”

  • • •

  And he took off his blood-soaked clothes and ran them through the washing machine.

  And he removed the inky writing from his forehead and the blackness from around his eyes.

  And naked, he knelt before his poster and touched the hardness he felt.

  And climaxed, throbbing with ecstasy.

  And wondered why the words WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON? defaced his poster.

  • • •

  “I’ve got to go,” Ross announced.

  “I’m glad we had a chance to talk,” Montana said. “Who knows . . . if I ever get the rights to Street People back . . . raise the finance . . .

  “You’ll think of me.”

  “Naturally.”

  He alighted from his stool and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re one hell of a lady.”

  She smiled ruefully. “That’s what Neil used to say.”

  • • •

  And it became clear. An impostor had taken his face, his image, his countenance, and pretended to be him.

  Rage swept over him.

  WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  He went to her desk and picked up the leather-bound address book.

  WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  He flicked through the neatly typewritten pages searching for the letter H.

  WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  There were many names listed under various cities. He ran his finger down the page marked Los Angeles.

  WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  He snapped the book shut.

  He knew where to find him.

  • • •

  “Nothing much wrong with it, Mr. Conti. As you said, the engine just flooded.”

  Ross climbed into his Rolls and transferred a twenty into the doorman’s palm. A middle-aged tourist recognized him and nudged her husband. The two of them stared.

  Ross started the Rolls and moved out of the hotel driveway. After all these years it still pleased him to be recognized. In his rearview mirror he observed Karen Lancaster and her English rock star zoom up in Karen’s bright-red Ferrari. He figured he had had a lucky escape from that one. And from Gina Germaine. He had hardly been circumspect in his choice of women. Still, he had enjoyed himself, for a while anyway.

  He wondered what Sadie wanted. Was she going to apologize for the way she had treated him? Or was she going to try to grab him back in the sack and then attempt to humiliate him all over again?

  He did not wish to speculate. All he required from her was her business services, and if she had anything else in mind she would just have to forget it.

  • • •

  Clothes still damp, but they would do.

  Outside a white Jaguar with the keys in.

  He put on his black shades and slid behind the wheel.

  Oh, mother.

  Oh, Joey.

  If you could see me now.

  He turned the ignition, revving the engine until it roared like a tiger raring to pounce. Music blasted out from all four speakers. Rod Stewart. A fitting growl.

  He steered the car down the long and winding driveway, stopping when he got to the street. His van was parked beside a ditch, partially concealed by a clump of trees. He reached inside for his carryall bag, then returned to the Jaguar. He took out a map of Los Angeles and studied it until he was satisfied he knew exactly where he was going.

  The Jaguar had the power he desired. Together they ripped off down Angelo Drive fusing together in a
blur of speed.

  • • •

  “Wolfie, are you up?”

  “Always for you, Bibi. Although it is a trifle early for a Saturday morning.”

  “Darling, it nearly twelve. What you do?”

  “I’m in bed. Where is Adam?”

  “Oh, Adam. He so boring. One day I leave him.”

  “You’re always saying that.”

  “So what? I mean it.”

  But they both knew she didn’t. Who else would put up with Bibi and her deliciously bitchy tongue?

  “Sweetie, guess what?”

  “Tell me. Put me out of my misery.”

  “Ross Conti, he leave Gina, he go back Elaine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know everything first, darling.”

  • • •

  Ross was not a bad driver. But his attention wandered, he hogged the middle of the road, and drove too fast. He especially drove too fast as he and the Rolls progressed up winding Angelo Drive, a twisting street which meandered its way up into the hills, narrowing as it advanced.

  Sadie’s house was near the top. Normally two drivers heading toward each other would be aware of the fact that the street was dangerous, reduce speed, and keep a foot prudently near the brake.

  Ross, racing up the treacherous road, did not do this.

  Deke, speeding down, did not do it either.

  By the time they saw each other coming it was too late.

  75

  Buddy drove back to Los Angeles in a daze. So much had happened in a very short time. He had gone to San Diego with one purpose in mind—to find his mother and make peace.

  He had found her, and the truth. That was soul-destroying enough—but what had happened next was so bizarre and quirky that he was still in shock.

  Leon Rosemont. A cop. But not come about the Wolfie Schweicker identification as he had thought.

  The two of them returned to the house and his mother (no, not his mother. Estelle—that’s how he must think of her from now on) allowed them in only after Leon produced his identification and mentioned the name Nita Carrolle.

  He thought of the words which once again changed his life. “. . . brother . . . twin . . . murderer . . . will strike again . . . searching for mother . . . calls himself The Keeper Of The Order.”

  What an odd twist of fate. Searching for mother. Hell, it could become a national pastime.