Hollywood Wives

by Jackie Collins

  “Who is Buddy Hudson?” he retorted calmly.

  “My . . . my husband,” she said quickly. “He’ll . . . he’ll be home . . . in a minute. He really will be. I promise you.”

  Deke’s black eyes grew angry. “Joey. I do not want you to play your stupid mind games with me anymore. It upsets me.”

  “I’m . . . I’m not Joey. I’m Angel.”

  “I know that. I’ve always known that.” He reached forward to touch her face again.

  “Don’t!” she cried sharply, pushing his hand away.

  He gripped her wrist. “I have killed to reach here. I have done it once and I can do it again.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Please. What do you want?”

  “You, of course. I’ve always wanted you, Joey.”

  “I’m not Joey,” she screamed. But he was not listening.

  • • •

  Halfway to Los Angeles, Buddy observed the black Porsche which had roared past him earlier pulled over to the side, a police car in evidence, lights flashing. Instinctively he reduced his speed. The last thing he needed in his life was more hassles with the police.

  He checked out the time. It was two-thirty. Another hour and a half and he would be back at his apartment. At five, the limo would pick Angel up and bring her to him. He couldn’t wait. They would talk . . . and make love . . . and talk some more . . . and make love.

  He put his foot down hard. To hell with the cops.

  • • •

  The stewardess passed by with a cheery smile and a “Can I get you a drink, sir?”

  Leon knew that he probably looked as if he needed one. He was bleary-eyed and unshaven, with wrinkled clothes, and the faint aroma of stale sweat. If Millie caught a glimpse of him she would have a fit.

  He thought of Millie and dredged up a rueful smile. When she got mad she really went all the way.

  “A drink, sir?” repeated the stewardess, slightly impatient.

  “A club soda,” he said.

  He had not replied to her letter, and had no intention of doing so. What was the use of trying to explain? She would never understand. When it was over he would go home and she would take him back. It was as simple as that.

  And maybe it would be over . . . soon.

  He fell asleep before his club soda arrived and woke just as they were landing in Los Angeles.

  • • •

  She looked different, but that was as it should be. He had disposed of the old Joey, slashed away the squiffy eye, the jammy mouth, and the brazen body. Now she was perfect. A Golden Angel Of Hope. True consort for The Keeper Of The Order.

  But she was being difficult, and he could not allow that.

  Trapped beneath him, she struggled tearfully, so he decided to tie her just as he had tied his mother. This he did quickly, and marveled at how calm they became when the cord restrained them. How quiet and beautiful.

  He left her trussed on the floor while he examined the rest of the apartment. In the bedroom his image awaited him, covering an entire wall. He was not surprised.

  WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  Was he Buddy Hudson? Or was Buddy Hudson Deke Andrews?

  Confusion and anger mixed with the fury that welled up inside him. He took his knife from the side of his boot and ripped at the offending poster. Joey had done this.

  Once a whore always a whore.

  “Are you still whoring?” he demanded, striding back to where Angel lay. “Are you, Joey? Are you?” His eyes glared blackness as he leaned over her. He felt the swell of her stomach on his chest, and wondered if he should cut the baby free. Soon he would have to. But not now. Later.

  “I’ve never been . . . a whore,” she whispered.

  “You were my whore,” he replied slyly. “You did things to me that only a whore would do.”

  He touched her breasts, and she began to cry.

  Why was she crying? Wasn’t she happy to see him? He had been through so much for her.

  Marriage.

  The thought struck him.

  Joey wanted marriage.

  They had discussed it so many times.

  I wanna meet your mother. Whatsamatta, cowboy, ain’t I good enough t’ meet ya mother?

  Abruptly he stopped touching her and rose to his feet. “All right,” he said. “I agree with you. We’ve been together long enough. You shall meet my mother, Joey.”

  “I’m not Joey,” she whimpered.

  He ignored her denial, left her crying, and went back into the bedroom. There he picked up a thick red marker and wrote a message across the tattered poster. Then he stood back, surveyed his work, and returned to his captive.

  He bent over her and held the tip of his knife lightly against her stomach. “I’m going to untie you now,” he said quietly. “Do not cause me any trouble. If you make me angry, you will not meet my mother. Do you understand me, Joey?” He put his knife away and began to loosen her bonds.

  She was sobbing uncontrollably. “Oh, please, God, somebody help me.”

  “And God shall help The Keeper Of The Order,” he said piously. “And I am he.”

  79

  Somehow Elaine got from the beauty shop to the front of the hotel—a ridiculous sight with tinfoil sprouting out all over her head.

  Her stylist followed her. “Mrs. Conti,” she implored. “You can’t drive. You mustn’t.”

  Elaine screamed for her car, ignoring the concerned girl. She did not care what kind of a spectacle she made of herself. The only thing that mattered was getting to Ross.

  “But you don’t even know where they’ve taken him,” the girl wailed. “Please wait. We’ll phone the police. Mrs. Conti, you can’t just rush off like this. You’re too upset.”

  Mrs. Conti could do what she liked. And did.

  • • •

  Disappointment. Frustration. Every negative emotion and more.

  Leon stood in the noontime heat and watched the wreckers remove the Rolls and the Jaguar—or what was left of them.

  He gave a heavy disgusted sigh and spat on the sidewalk. He had hoped it was all going to be over. It wasn’t.

  The chase was getting him down. Especially when the message “They’ve got him” turned out to be just Deke’s carryall bag on the floor of the Jaguar—with his driver’s license to identify it. The bag was better than nothing, although it contained no leads. Leon had already gone through it thoroughly. The only items of interest were the newspaper clippings of the Philadelphia murders carefully preserved between the pages of a car magazine.

  He was tired, rushing from city to city, not eating or sleeping.

  But he wasn’t too tired to go on. The chase was only just beginning.

  • • •

  Elaine turned left on Hartford Way and realized that she had no idea where they had taken Ross, so she drove home with the thought of getting on the phone and finding out.

  A police car stood ominously in the driveway.

  She felt the blood drain from her face and the heat vanish from the day. If Ross was dead, she couldn’t stand it. She loved him too much to lose him again just when she had him back.

  What if he’s crippled, Elaine?

  I’d sooner that than death.

  Suppose he can never work again? No more charge accounts, fancy restaurants, or parties. No more Beverly Hills.

  Get off my back, Etta. I love Ross. Nothing else matters.

  She ran into the house.

  Ross leaned against the bar, a large tumbler of brandy in one hand. There was a small bandage across his forehead, and his left arm was in a sling. A cop stood beside him jotting notes on a pad.

  “Ross!” she yelled ecstatically.

  “Sweetheart!” His famous blues crinkled with pleasure, then he started to laugh. “What are you doing? Auditioning for Star Wars?”

  Her hands flew to her tinfoil-encased head. She looked dismayed.

  “What the hell kind of a Hollywood wife are you?” he teased. “If Bibi saw you running around like t
hat she’d boot you out of the club!”

  A slow grin spread over her face. “Quite frankly—to quote my wonderful husband—who gives a flying fart?”

  80

  Heat. Smog. Sweat. Tiredness. Muscle cramps. A bad day. One Buddy wanted to forget as soon as possible. Wearily he parked in the underground space reserved for him, got out of the car, stretched, and yawned. He’d had it. Physically. Emotionally. In every way.

  It was four-fifteen exactly. In ten hours he had managed to totally fuck up his life—or straighten it out. He’d have to think about which. At least he’d gotten rid of the incest nightmare.

  He paused in the coolness of the garage for a moment and decided that maybe he was lucky after all. No past. No shit. No nothing. Was that such a bad thing, considering former events?

  He rode the freight elevator up, as the passenger one was busy. Seductive scent lingered in the air; it made a change from smelling garbage. Not that the building was kept in bad shape—there was a resident janitor on duty twenty-four hours a day. Some of the female tenants did not think that was enough. He had been asked to sign a resident’s petition demanding a security guard in the basement parking area too. He sighed. What the hell. He wouldn’t want Angel down there alone.

  Angel. He ached to see her. Maybe he would cancel the limo and go and pick her up himself now that he was back early.

  The scent stayed with him all the way to his apartment, and when he opened the door it was still there. His first thought was that the maid had been wearing it. But then he felt instinctively that Angel was there, and his heart quickened pace like some thirteen-year-old.

  “Angel?” he called out. “Hey—baby, where are you?”

  He threw open the door to the bedroom and knew at once that something was horribly wrong.

  • • •

  Angel could hardly breathe. The back of the van was filthy and stuffy, the heat unbearable, and the windows blacked out.

  She clung to the side as the vehicle raced and jolted along, fearful for her baby as random pains stabbed at her insides.

  She closed her eyes tightly and thought of Buddy, repeating his name to herself over and over like a mantra.

  • • •

  His poster hung in tattered shreds. But the eyes were intact—and written across them in heavy marker pen were the words:

  THE FACE IS MINE

  THE ANGEL IS MINE WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  HE CEASES TO EXIST

  THE KEEPER OF THE ORDER

  Chillingly, snatches of Detective Rosemont’s conversation returned to him—brother . . . twin . . . murderer . . . calls himself The Keeper Of The Order.

  And Buddy could remember thinking, What bullshit—who cares? And it’s got nothing to do with me.

  With a feeling of dread he had only to look around the apartment to know for sure that Angel had been there. On a table beside the bed was her alarm clock, next to it a small group of photo frames containing pictures of the two of them together. He wrenched open the closet, and sure enough her clothes hung tidily beside his. In the bathroom her toothbrush, comb, assorted makeup.

  There was no doubt she had been there. And if so—where was she now?

  “Oh Jesus!” he groaned. “Oh, no!”

  • • •

  Leon went to work, with the help of the Beverly Hills Police, the Department of Motor Vehicles, and a comprehensive computer system. The Jaguar was registered to a Ferdie Cartright. There was no reply at his home. A neighbor reported she had seen him leave—in the car, alone—at approximately eleven in the morning.

  Leon spoke to the woman. He was good with witnesses. People trusted him.

  “Did you see Mr. Cartright in the company of this man?”

  He produced two pictures of Deke. One the high school photo—and the other an artist’s impression of how he would look today. Certain witnesses along the way had contributed to that look. Bald head, staring eyes, ragged clothes.

  The woman studied them, squinting slightly. “Mr. Cartright does have a lot of male visitors.” She leaned close as if imparting a state secret. “He’s gay, you know. But please don’t say you heard it from me.”

  Leon nodded somberly. “Certainly not.”

  “What’s Mr. Cartright done, anyway?”

  “His car was in an accident. We’re trying to locate him.”

  “Is he all right?”

  Leon swallowed impatience. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Please. Look at the photographs.”

  The woman studied them again, screwing her face into contortions. “I don’t like the look of that one,” she said, pointing to the artist’s impression of Deke.

  “Was he here?” Leon asked urgently.

  “Him? No, I’d remember him . . .” She trailed off. “There’s something about the other one.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not sure . . . it’s not really like him at all.”

  “Who?”

  “This man who came by early this morning. Very good-looking,” she laughed. “This is going to sound crazy, but he was like an older, handsomer version of this one.”

  She held up the high school picture of Deke.

  Leon felt a chill.

  Buddy.

  “You wouldn’t remember what he was wearing, would you?”

  “Black pants, a white shirt, and a nice sports jacket—also black.” She roared with laughter. “You’re going to think I’m a dirty old lady glued to her window—but it’s better than watching soap operas all day.”

  “I’m sure it is,” agreed Leon, anxious to conclude the interview, already on his way to the door.

  “I can remember thinking,” the woman called out, “if this one’s gay—what a dreadful waste!”

  • • •

  The detective in San Diego had given Buddy some numbers written on a piece of paper. But he had not been interested then, he had shoved the paper somewhere knowing full well he would never need to use it.

  Feverishly he turned out his pockets. Nothing. Then he vaguely remembered screwing up the piece of paper in the car and flicking it on the floor.

  He raced from the apartment, into the elevator, down to the garage, scrabbled on the floor of his car.

  He couldn’t find the goddam piece of paper.

  He turned out the glove compartment, dug around the seats, swore aloud in frustration. Then he hastened back upstairs.

  The door to his apartment was open, as he had left it. He hurried inside and stopped short. There was someone there.

  • • •

  Deke was taking her to meet Mother. It was a good feeling. So different from the time before.

  This time they would get along. They would smile and speak to each other. They would sing his praises instead of criticizing him and laughing.

  “And the Lord shall sing the praises of the dead,” he said aloud. “For only in death shall the soul be cleansed of evil and the devils released.”

  He thought carefully.

  Kill.

  Kill Mother.

  Kill Joey.

  Kill self.

  WHO IS BUDDY HUDSON?

  He didn’t care anymore. He had the solution.

  It felt good knowing exactly what to do.

  And nobody would ever laugh at him again.

  81

  “What’s your involvement with Ferdie Cartright?” Leon asked harshly, before Buddy could say a word.

  “Hey!” Buddy grabbed his arm—not even curious about why he was there, just relieved he was. “Has Deke got Angel? Has that crazy son of a bitch taken my wife?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He was here!”

  “How do you know?”

  Buddy dragged him into the bedroom, where he took in the ripped poster and the scrawled message.

  “What does that shit mean?” Buddy demanded. “Does it mean he’s taken Angel?”

  “Who is Angel?”

  “My wife, goddammit. What are you going to do?”


  “You’d better tell me everything you know.”

  “Angel was supposed to meet me here at five. She came early for some reason, and now she’s gone. I don’t understand. How could he find me? You’re the only one who knows my connection.”

  “Who else has the poster?”

  “Half of America. It goes on billboards coast to coast Monday.”

  “Maybe that’s the key.”

  “What fucking key? Where’s Angel?” Buddy screamed.

  “We’ll find your wife,” Leon said with more confidence than he felt. “But I need information. Who is Ferdie Cartright?”

  “What has he got to do with any of this?”

  “Listen to me,” Leon said sharply. “You visited him early this morning. Later his car was in an accident. By the time the police got there, no one was in the wreck. But Deke Andrews’s bag was in the car.” He paused. “Talk to me, Buddy. Tell me what you know.”

  “Ferdie works for my agent, Sadie La Salle. I stopped by to see him this morning. I wanted him to drop by Sadie’s and give her a message for me.”

  “Did he agree to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there anyone else there?”

  “Some bebop kid.”

  “What was his name?”

  “How the fuck would I know?” he exploded. “Look, is any of this going to find my wife?”

  “I hope so. Because it’s all we’ve got.”

  • • •

  He was careful. You never could tell what forces would try to trap you. Even the air was dangerous. The heat. Enemies were always around.

  This time Deke drove his van right up to Sadie’s front door.

  He walked around the grounds peering in windows.

  The late-afternoon sun was fading under low clouds. He hoped it would rain. He missed the rain. Water was a positive force. Heat came from hell.

  Inside the house he could hear the telephone jangling, but nobody answered it.

  He ran his right hand over the smoothness of his scalp. Then he took the keys he had stolen earlier from the pocket of his shirt and opened up the front door.

  He had always known he would come back to Mother.

  Silence prevailed.

  As it should.

  • • •

  She crouched in the back of the van holding back the screams which threatened to rip from her throat. The pain subsided. She unclenched her fists and breathed deeply. The van was almost airless, causing her to choke on the thick dust. She was soaked in sweat and exhausted from the ride. At least they had stopped. Maybe he had gone away—left her.