'It's the wrong way -'
'Now!'
He turned right on to Stone Canyon.
'Pull into that driveway over there. The dark one,' she ordered.
'Sharleen -'
He heard the rustle of silk as she began to divest herself of her clothes. This was one crazy broad and he loved it!
Quickly he pulled into the darkened driveway and stopped the car.
'Get into the back,' she whispered, peeling off her pantihose.
She didn't have to ask twice.
By the time they arrived on the back seat Sharleen was completely naked, and they started going at it like a couple of horny teenagers. 'Ohhh, Mac, you're the best - the creme de la creme - the absolute best...' she murmured heatedly, her hands roaming over his chest.
Sharleen had a knack for saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment.
Then she climbed on top of him, riding him like a stallion, her fine tits in his face, her musky scent all over him.
This time when he came it was a monster.
Marriage to Sharleen was never dull.
Chapter Twenty
'It's a crock, Charlie,' Jordanna complained, screwing up her face. 'I never see Bobby Rush. How can I be his personal assistant if I'm stuck down in casting sorting through boring actors' resumes and photos?'
Charlie yawned and stretched. 'Hey, kiddo, it's a job. Do you have any idea how many poor schmucks are out of work?'
'Give me a break,' she said, jumping out of bed, angry that Charlie wasn't taking her seriously.
'C'mon back here,' he said, half serious, half joking. 'I got a hard-on that could crack ice.'
'So go crack some,' she called over her shoulder as she headed for the bathroom. 'I can't be late for work.'
She marched into his bathroom totally naked and considered her reflection in the full-length mirror. Lately she'd been suffering from the blonde-hair, big-tits syndrome. Usually so confident about her off-beat slender beauty, for the last few weeks she'd been inundated with big-breasted blonde actresses traipsing in and out of the downstairs casting office like a parade of prize cows. Too bad Cheryl wasn't around, she'd recruit them by the dozen!
It irked her that she'd been hired as Bobby Rush's personal assistant and yet she never saw him. He was giving her a runaround like she was some new kid on the block, and she didn't appreciate it.
Growing up in Hollywood she'd met the biggest and the best. Bobby Rush failed to impress her, although his two partners seemed like OK guys. She sensed that one of them, Tyrone Houston, was on the verge of asking her out, obviously he didn't know she was currently living with Charlie Dollar.
Tyrone was very black and very sexy. If he asked she'd definitely be tempted - only tempted though, because now she was in a monogamous relationship and she wanted to see if it could work.
Of course, Charlie wouldn't care, he was that kind of guy. Yesterday she'd arrived home to find his ex-girlfriend and his three-year-old child in residence. 'You know Dahlia, don't you, kiddo?' he'd asked, stoned as usual. Then he'd gestured to his son. 'An' this is Sport. They'll be stayin' a couple of weeks while their place gets painted.'
No, she didn't know Dahlia, but she certainly knew of her. Dahlia Summers was a regal-looking forty-year-old talented actress with long straight hair and a stern expression. Gossip had it that she and Charlie had been an on-off item for ten years, and when she'd pressured him to marry her he'd promptly bought her a house and moved her out.
'Hello,' Dahlia had said, not cracking a smile.
'Hi,' Jordanna had replied, thinking that this was a strange situation, but one she could cope with.
They'd all eaten dinner together in the big dark dining room. It was an odd set-up, and not one she'd particularly enjoyed. If Dahlia stayed longer than two weeks she was definitely going to get restless.
'How about breakfast?' Charlie yelled from the bedroom. 'I'm ordering bacon and sausages. Want some?'
'No,' she shouted back, 'I don't eat pigs.'
'You could've fooled me,' he chortled.
One thing about Charlie, he had absolutely no ego.
At the studio she sat in her cubby-hole office sorting through endless photographs and resumes, shuffling them from one pile to another, cross-eyed with boredom. At noon, Florrie Fisher, assistant to Nanette Lipsky, the casting director for Bobby Rush Productions, put her head around the door. Florrie was in her thirties, plump and cheerful with braces on her teeth - placed there fifteen years too late - and a crush on every man in sight.
'You're summoned,' Florrie said. 'I've got an awful toothache and I have to run over to see my dentist. There's fifteen actors coming in this afternoon and Nanette needs plenty of help.'
'What kind of help?' Jordanna asked, alarmed.
'You'll do what I do. Meet and greet. Then read through the sides with the actors, unless they're on a look-see.'
'A look-see? What's that?'
'You know,' Florrie said a trifle impatiently. 'When you want to just take a look and see if they've aged ten years or put on twenty pounds. Oh yes, and watch out for love scenes, some of the actors can get quite carried away and it's embarrassing. I once had an actor practically crawl up my skirt. No kissing either.'
'Do I have to do this?' Jordanna groaned, not liking the sound of it at all.
'Yes,' Florrie said. 'It's fun, and at least you'll be in the same room as Bobby. You've been bitching you never see him, now's your chance to impress.'
Impress. No way.
Nanette Lipsky was one of those small, sharp-faced women who'd been in the business for a hundred years and knew it all. She had thinning carrot-coloured hair, a permanent twitch in her left eye and a perennial cigarette dangling from parched lips.
'You know what to do I hope,' she croaked to Jordanna as they headed upstairs to the interview room.
'Sure,' Jordanna replied, wondering if anyone was aware of the fact that she was Jordan Levitt's daughter. Probably Bobby hadn't bothered telling them, which was OK with her. Anonymity was next to godliness. She kind of liked it.
'Bobby and Mac are very particular,' Nanette continued, puffing on a cigarette. 'They do not like to be kept waiting, so get the talent in and out, in and out. No hanging around - whoever they are. When the interview is over, move 'em fast. You got it?'
'I think I can manage that.'
Ah, if only Nanette knew how many actors she'd had in and out, in and out. She stifled a wild giggle.
'Did I say something funny?' Nanette demanded, her left eye twitching out of control.
'Not at all,' Jordanna replied, thinking that this was a double whammy, not only would she get to be face to face with Bobby, but she'd see Mac too. She recalled that he'd been sensational in bed, although she'd only been seventeen at the time and not nearly as experienced as she was now.
Jordanna Levitt. Expert on men.
Stifling another giggle she followed Nanette upstairs.
* * *
Two hours later she was really into it. She felt important and useful and, most of all, she was enjoying herself, and she wasn't even stoned!
They were a team. Bobby, Mac, Nanette and herself. They were focused on the final casting of Thriller Eyes and nothing else mattered.
Jordanna led the talent in, read a scene or two with them if it was required, and then ushered them on their way. She soon picked up the rhythm of how to do it without hurting anyone's feelings.
Middle-aged actresses were the worst to shift, especially if they had a half-assed name. They came in with plenty of attitude, the best part of their physical anatomy on show, and a yen to greet either Bobby or Mac with a big wet kiss.
Jordanna quickly learned how to circumvent that little piece of activity. She stationed herself between the couch where Bobby and Mac sat, and the chair in the middle of the room where the talent parked themselves. She did not move until everyone was settled.
'Very clever,' Mac said admiringly, when she'd done it a couple of times. '
You learn fast.'
She knew that after fifteen minutes she had Bobby's attention. Good. It was about time he realized she existed.
Reading through scenes with the actors and actresses was fun. She got to play a variety of characters - male and female. Her only regret was that she hadn't taken the time to study the script beforehand. It seemed to be an interesting piece of material, but then Mac had a knack of making the right choices. His movies might not all be box-office winners, but his films were always intriguing and on the edge.
The last interview of the day was a long-haired young actor in ripped jeans and cowboy boots. He was reading for the minor role of a security guard. The scene took place between him and the character of Sienna.
It was a short seductive piece, and Jordanna gave it her all, enjoying the twists and turns of the cutting dialogue. When they were finished, Mac and Bobby conferred for a few minutes, then requested they read the scene again. Jordanna and the actor obliged.
Another conference. Another repeat performance.
They must like him, Jordanna thought, taking another glance at the young actor. He did have a certain charisma that was quite sexy.
When she led him from the room he was vibrating with nervous energy.
She eyed him up and down. 'Pumped, huh?'
He cracked his knuckles. 'You got it! They had me read the scene three times, they must've thought I was good.'
'I guess so.'
'You guess? Can't you tell?'
'Hey, I'm new at this.'
'How about finding out what they say and meeting me for coffee at the place across the street?'
What did she have to lose? She was in no rush to go home on account of Charlie's house guests.
'Sure,' she said, 'see you there in fifteen minutes.'
'I'll be waiting,' he said, flashing a Midnight Cowboy smile. Nice teeth. An even better butt.
She hurried back into the interview room. That's it,' she said, 'he was the last one.'
Bobby, Mac and Nanette were all staring at her.
-=O=-
'What? What have I done?' she asked anxiously, sure that she'd screwed up in some major way.
'Jordanna,' Mac said at last, 'have you ever thought about taking up an acting career?'
-=O=---=O=-
'You'll never amount to anything. Do you understand me? You're nothing - a roach - lower than a roach - you're a fucking roach turd. Do you understand me?
Yes. He understood his father. He was ten years old and he understood that he deserved his father's eternal rage. He didn't know why. It was merely a fact of life. Something he took for granted.
His mother never sprung to his defence. She merely nodded sadly, as if every word his father uttered was the truth and nothing but. She nodded in agreement, and stared at him with mournful eyes. And when his father went out she held him to her bosom and crooned old love songs to him in a low shaky voice.
Before she'd married his father she'd been a Las Vegas showgirl, and she hung on to her show-business memories as if she was Marilyn - sometimes telling tales of her great triumphs with men.
The Man didn't know much about feelings. Women were whores, he knew that. Bitches and whores.
This is what his father had to say about women. 'Never, never, let 'em get to you. They're all cheap hookers an' don't you forget it, 'cause if you do, they'll screw you into an early grave an' leave your heart in fuckin' ribbons. They got make-up on their faces an' witchcraft in their two-timing cunts. Remember what I told you, son, an' you'll never go wrong.'
Yes, Dad.
And Dad was right. Women were the betrayers. Women had to be punished. And he was doing an excellent job as he drove down the freeway heading for his third victim.
Of course if he'd listened to his father he'd never have gotten involved with The Girl. She'd lured him with those blue eyes, and that quirky innocent smile, pulling him closer, tempting him, encouraging him. Until one day he'd accepted her invitation to be seduced...
Well, he'd shown her. He'd shown everyone.
Sometimes it puzzled him that he was punished for doing what any sane man would do. He'd put his hands around her soft white throat and choked the breath out of her. Squeezed tight until she'd flopped in his arms like a useless rag doll.
She'd deserved it.
Bitch.
Whore.
A white van, driven by a thin-faced youth with a wasted blonde draped all over him, passed by on the inside lane. The girl leaned over and honked the horn, then the van cut in front of The Man, causing him to sharply apply his brakes. The van speeded up and took off, its occupants doubled over with laughter.
The Man didn't carry a gun. Perhaps he should. If he'd had a gun he could have killed scum like the two people in the van. He could have blown them away. Sent them to join The Girl in the place she rested - repenting her sins.
Ha! If he had a gun he could do a lot of things.
He put it on his shopping list.
The off-ramp beckoned him, telling him he was near his destination. Pasadena. A peaceful place. When his list was taken care of he would have to find somewhere decent to live. Pasadena wouldn't be bad. The tree-lined streets were wide and pleasant enough. He could see himself living there.
He drove down the street full of confidence because he knew exactly where he was going. Previously he'd checked out the house where his victim lived in a downstairs apartment. He'd even gained access and looked around at his leisure while she was out at work. She was a secretary at a local law firm. No more dreams of Hollywood and stardom, she'd got out of the business seven years ago, right after the trial. Sensible girl. Hollywood was nothing but a bargain basement filled with second-hand talent. A cesspool of out-of-control egos.
He should know. He'd seen the things that went on.
Seven years ago he could have become a star if things had gone as planned. He could have been as big as Steven Seagal.
But no, it wasn't meant to be. The Girl had ruined everything, and the traitors surrounding her had helped.
But they were paying for their bad behaviour.
One by one they were paying.
Chapter Twenty-One
'There's a case I want you to come in on,' Quincy said as they jogged through the park.
'I got things to do,' Michael replied restlessly. 'People to talk to.'
'Yeah, things to do. Meanwhile, how you gonna pay your rent? Listen, Mike, if you don't join me, I gotta hire somebody else.'
He knew Quincy was right, he had to work - if just to occupy his thoughts with something other than Bella. 'So what are you offering, a partnership?'
Quincy threw up his arms. 'Don't let's get carried away. First you'll work with me a couple of weeks, see if you like it. Then we can talk partnership.'
'I won't like anything until I find my kid.'
'I know that,' Quincy said, already out of breath. We'll keep doing our best.' He almost tripped. 'Jeez, can we stop? I'm bustin' a gut here.'
'You're out of shape, Q.'
'I'm older than you.'
'No excuse.'
'I'm gonna be fuckin' fifty!'
'All the more reason to stay fit.'
They rested by a tree. Quincy doubled over, groaning and catching his breath.
'OK, so I'm in,' Michael said, making a fast decision.
Quincy straightened up. 'Jeez! It's about time you said yes.'
Tell me about the case.'
There's this daughter of big-shot billionaire, Franklyn Sanderson. He owns TV stations across the country. You've probably heard of him.'
'I know who he is.'
'Anyway, the girl - Marjory - she's been receiving a series of letters threatening to slit her throat or kill her in some godawful way.'
'How many?'
'One or two a week for the last few months.'
'Has Franklyn contacted the police?'
'No publicity. This is strictly low-key. That's why he brought me in.'
What do you have
?'
'Not much. The letters are postmarked from all over the city. The girl's frightened.'
'How specific are the letters?'
'Look, I gotta go see her later today. She moved back home with her old man. Come with me, I'd like your take on it.'
Michael agreed. He had to do something to keep himself busy.
* * *
The Sanderson estate, set way back off Sunset Boulevard, was impressive. Two guards manned the heavy ornate gates, while three fierce-looking Rottweilers patrolled the grounds. Quincy stopped his car and produced identification before they gained entry.
This is like fucking Fort Knox,' Michael remarked as they drove up a long winding driveway, passing an elegant fountain in the forecourt, and acres of immaculately kept grounds. The house up ahead resembled a slightly smaller version of a stately European palace.
A valet ushered them from the car while a formally dressed butler waited at the front door.
'This way, sir,' said the butler in a clipped and very precise English accent.
Michael tried to appear at ease as he entered the magnificent mansion, but he couldn't help thinking to himself, Holy shit! If the guys from the neighbourhood could see me now. How people live in California!
They followed the butler into an enormous living room tastefully furnished with French period furniture and ornate antiques.
'Kindly take a seat,' the butler said, looking down his nose at them.
Michael roamed around, taking in his surroundings, marvelling at the opulence of it all. He whistled softly. 'Some place!'
'Yeah,' Quincy replied. 'You get used to it after a time - most of the big shots live this way.'
They do?'
'It's one of the perks of bein' in the movie and TV biz.'
'I couldn't imagine living like this.'
'Fortunately, my friend, you'll never have to.'
'Yeah, remind me.'
A thin plain girl entered the room dressed all in white. She had long fair hair and downcast eyes.
Hollywood Kids Page 18
