Sara’s sweet voice droned on – heaping praise upon praise. Superlative after superlative.
Listening carefully, Bobby couldn’t help being delighted by all the extravagant praise. It was good to be number one again. Real good. Especially since everyone had counted him out, said he was finished, written him off as a has-been.
Everyone.
Except Sara.
And Marcus Citroen. Damn him.
Bobby felt the hate envelop him like a noxious cloud. He loathed the man, and for good reason. But he had to admit that Marcus Citroen was the only one who had given him a chance to come back, and back he was – with a vengeance.
‘Enough, Sara,’ he interrupted quietly. ‘I want to get some rest before tonight.’
‘I don’t know why you agreed to do this dumb fundraiser,’ she grumbled. ‘Marcus Citroen and his rich friends don’t deserve to be entertained by the likes of you. Especially your first live appearance since the accident.’
How come everyone – including Sara – referred to his loss of sight as an accident? It was no accident, goddammit. It was a crime. And one day he would find out who was responsible.
‘It’s for an interesting event,’ he said shortly.
‘Her event,’ Sara sneered, taking his arm and guiding him towards the door of his bedroom.
Her event. Bobby hadn’t seen her since it happened. Nor had he heard one word from the cold-hearted bitch.
Nova Citroen. Marcus Citroen’s wife. The thought of being in her company excited and disgusted him. He wondered what she would do . . . say . . .
Oh Christ. Don’t tell me I’m still hung up, he thought. I can’t be. I mustn’t be . . .
As if sensing his thoughts of another woman, Sara withdrew. Her voice became shrill and businesslike. ‘The limo will be here at three o’clock. What time shall I wake you?’
‘Make it one-thirty.’ His hand reached for her smooth cheek. ‘An’ I’ll have a bacon sandwich with all the trimmings. Okay?’
‘I’m not your resident cook,’ she said stiffly.
‘I know, baby. But nobody – like I mean nobody – makes a better bacon sandwich than you.’
Letting out a deep sigh of resignation, she realized she would do anything for Bobby Mondella and he knew it. Whether he appreciated it or not was another matter.
Left alone, Bobby made his way over to the bed, took off his shirt, unzipped his pants, and lay down.
Nova Citroen. Now that he had started he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Removing his dark glasses, he realized with a dull feeling of hopelessness he would never be able to set eyes on her again.
* * *
Nova Citroen could not decide which important piece of jewellery to wear that night. The Harry Winston emeralds were inviting, so green and rich looking. A single huge stone surrounded with diamonds for her neck, matching earrings, outrageous ring, and a magnificent bracelet. But she had worn that set in February to the great annual Niven/Cohen/Moss Valentine party, and again to Irving and Mary’s Oscar event. Twice in one year was enough, so she discarded the emeralds, moving on to the Cartier rubies.
Ah, such nice bright baubles, but a touch too jazzy for her requirements tonight.
Without hesitation she turned to the deep burgundy box which housed her new diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings. No contest. She had known all along that the evening cried out for nothing less than dazzling diamonds to complement her upswept white-blonde hair and the stylish Galanos dress she planned to wear. So appropriate for a simple summer evening by the sea.
Nova Citroen’s idea of a simple summer evening by the sea and the rest of the world’s might possibly differ. Nova and her husband, Marcus, lived part of the year on Novaroen, a magnificent twenty-five-acre estate, perched on the top of a high bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean a few miles past Malibu. The estate boasted two separate mansions – one especially for guests – an Olympic-size swimming pool, three north-south tennis courts, a recording studio, a fully equipped gym, a luxurious movie theatre, stables for their expensive Arabian horses, and garage space for Marcus’s collection of immaculately restored antique cars.
They called it their weekend hang-out. Only this particular weekend a little more than hanging out was taking place. Nova and Marcus Citroen were hosting a fund-raiser for Governor Jack Highland – the fund-raiser of the year. An exclusive black tie affair for fifty couples, each of whom had paid a hundred thousand dollars per couple for the privilege of being there. It was called protecting their future. And a very select group they were too. Nova had been ruthless in her choice of whom she would allow to attend. Once word got out that it was an impossible ticket, everyone clamoured to part with their money. After all, those in the know felt that Governor Highland was a sure thing for the next President.
Nova was suitably pleased with her final guest list. Only the crème de la crème. The richest, the most powerful, the most talented, and the most famous. She had not wanted too much Hollywood – her desire was to attract the real power, with just a scattering of rare stardust. And she had succeeded. They were flying in from all over the world.
The evening she had planned for her guests was spectacular. A five-course open-air dinner catered by the ultra chic Lilliane’s restaurant. Followed by a surprise concert, where three of the biggest recording stars in the world would appear. The legend – Kris Phoenix. The comeback – Bobby Mondella. And the rising star – Rafealla.
One night. Five million dollars raised for Governor Highland’s forthcoming campaign, and that was before the silent auction and raffle, where anyone – for a thousand dollars a ticket – could win prizes ranging from a case of Cristal champagne to a Mercedes coupé.
Clasping the magnificent diamond necklace to her throat, she decided it was perfect for later, and carefully replaced it in its velvet-lined box. After all, she had a certain reputation to live up to. She was known for her fabulous jewellery collection.
Nova Citroen was an elegant-looking woman in her early forties, with lightly tanned skin, fine aquiline features, and mesmerizing violet eyes. Men got lost in Nova’s eyes. They were her greatest asset. She was not beautiful, but seductively attractive, with a body slim to the point of anorexia. It suited her, enabling her to look wonderful in clothes.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Citroen.’ Discreetly, Norton St John, her personal assistant, entered the room. ‘Mr Citroen would like to speak to you. He’s on your private line.’
‘Is he?’ For a moment she considered telling Norton to inform Marcus he could go to hell. It was a pleasurable idea, but one she thought better of. Marcus Citroen was her continuing ride to the top, and much as she detested him, she was aboard for the entire trip.
* * *
Speed liked money. Only one snag. Money didn’t seem to like him. Every time he made a bundle – something happened. He’d win at the track and some big-boobed bimbo would take it all from him. He’d score in Vegas. Whammo! A showgirl or two would step into the picture and it was all over. When he worked legitimately, which wasn’t a steady activity, his ex-wife’s lawyer was on his case within hours of his first paycheck. What was it with him and his freakin’ luck? He just couldn’t figure it out.
And then, one day, a meeting came to pass with a dude named George Smith, and Speed finally knew his fortunes were about to make a drastic U-turn. There was a big job going down, and George Smith wanted him in, because, goddammit, Speed was the best freakin’ driver in the whole of Southern California, and let nobody forget it.
There had been several meetings since the first one, and now today was D-Day, and Speed knew exactly what he had to do.
Dressing carefully in the grey chauffeur’s uniform he had hired from a Hollywood costumiers, he admired his reflection in the long hall mirror of his one-room apartment.
So he wasn’t very tall. Big freakin’ deal. Nor was Dustin Hoffman.
So the hairline was receding. Big freakin’ deal. Mr Burt Reynolds had the same problem.
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So he had the features of an inquisitive ferret. Was Al Pacino a matinee idol?
Speed creamed over the way he looked. As far as he was concerned he was a real ladykiller. And when he had the money to back up his imagined charm, he was a hotshot with women. All women except his ex-wife – a platinum blonde stripper with bazoombas to break a man’s heart, and nagging to break a man’s balls.
Speed thought the uniform looked pretty ritzy on him – he admired himself for quite a few minutes before turning to other matters at hand. There were things to do before the evening’s big caper.
He nodded to himself knowingly. This was the big score he had been waiting for all his life, and there was no way he was going to blow it.
* * *
Vicki Foxe had a strong urge to kick the grinning jackass security chief in the balls. Men. Sex. That’s all they ever thought about. Most of them, anyway. There were exceptions – few and far between, and those always turned out to be the ones who played hard to get.
For a moment Vicki allowed herself to think about Maxwell Sicily – now he was an exception. Of course, he’d crap in his pants if he ever thought she knew his true identity – but who the hell did he think he was dealing with anyway? Some dumb dingbat with big tits? Oh no. When Vicki Foxe got involved in a business caper, she knew what it was all about.
George Smith, my ass, she’d thought, when he first contacted her. And it didn’t take her long to find out his real name. It never took Vicki long to find out anything.
‘Are y’all wearin’ a bra, sweetie?’ The beefy man leered, staring bug-eyed at her greatest assets.
Up yours, dickhead, she thought. What a cretin!
If he ever saw her at her best he would go into cardiac arrest without pausing to make a will. Right now, skilfully disguised as a maid, she looked her worst. Her bright red hair was scraped back in a bun. She wore little makeup on her face. And her truly sensational body (39D cup, small waist and accommodating hips) was mostly concealed beneath a drab maid’s uniform.
‘Don’t be so nosey, Tom,’ she scolded, flirtatiously batting her eyelids at him, forgetting that she was not wearing the sweeping false lashes she usually favoured. ‘It’s none of your business, big boy.’
Tom was chief of security on the Citroens’ vast ocean-side estate, and already – after Vicki had only worked there for six weeks – he was hot to do anything she might ask in exchange for a sexual favour or two.
‘I’d sure like ta find out,’ he drooled.
‘Well . . .’ Suggestively licking her lips, she gave him a little body brush. ‘Whatcha doin’ later?’
They both had a good laugh at that one. Later was the big concert . . . the giant event. Tom would be up to his eyebrows handling massive security arrangements.
‘If only we could watch the concert together,’ Vicki sighed, deliberately popping a button on her uniform, and then another, and then – very slowly – another.
Tom almost choked on his coffee. ‘You’ve got great ti—’ he began.
Somebody walked into the service kitchen and he shut up.
Vicki quickly turned away, doing up her buttons. She could hear Tom’s heavy breathing all the way out the door. And when the time came to take care of him, it would be no problem. Absolutely no problem at all.
* * *
Across town, Maxwell Sicily reported for work at Lilliane’s, the exclusive Beverly Hills restaurant. Maxwell Sicily was twenty-nine years old, five feet eleven, one hundred and forty pounds, and of Sicilian origin. His hair was patent-leather black and greased back. His eyes were brooding and close set. His nose was too long, and his mouth too thin. But the overall effect was of a certain cold handsomeness. He looked like the son of a mob boss.
He was the son of the infamous Carmine Sicily – one of the top drug king-pins in Miami.
Father and son did not speak. Maxwell had come to California to make it on his own. He’d certainly had the right training.
‘Hiya, George,’ said Chloe, the pudgy woman supervisor who sat behind the desk at Lilliane’s answering the phones and keeping a sharp eye on the waiters as they punched in.
Maxwell nodded. At work they knew him only as George Smith – a suitable pseudonym.
‘Hot today, isn’t it?’ Chloe said, coquettishly fanning her drooping bosom with a copy of People magazine.
Maxwell ignored her, thought better of it and nodded a curt ‘Yes.’
‘I never got to ask you before,’ she said quickly, glad of an opportunity to chat with the handsome waiter whom she’d had her eye on ever since he started work there. ‘You’re an actor, aren’t you?’ She gazed at him hopefully. ‘I’m right, huh? I can always spot ‘em.’
Maxwell repeated his nod. Thank God this was the last day he had to put up with this. Tomorrow he would be on a plane to Brazil with a king’s ransom supplied courtesy of Mr and Mrs Marcus Citroen. Maxwell Sicily couldn’t wait.
Kris Phoenix: London
1965
Chris Pierce celebrated his sixteenth birthday three weeks after being expelled from school. He hit the streets with a vengeance, changing his name to Kris Phoenix because he wanted – more than anything else in the world – to be a rock star.
His entire family thought it was the dumbest thing they’d ever heard. Out of school and out of work, he was not the most popular member of the household. Both his older sisters called him a lazy layabout. His stepfather said he should get himself a job and throw away the third-hand guitar he’d been strumming since he was thirteen. And his brother, Brian – considered the prince of the family because he’d landed a job as a bank clerk the moment he’d left school four years earlier – said, ‘Come off it, deadbeat. You’re never goin’ to get anywhere with your lousy voice and stupid guitar. Pack it in, make mum happy for once.’
Mum. Kris wondered why it always had to come back to mum. Everyone knew she ruled the family with her loud voice and sarcastic tongue, but she hardly ever gave him a hard time and it pissed them all off. Especially Brian, who liked to think of himself as her favourite.
The truth was, Avis Pierce was secretly pleased her youngest son showed signs of wanting to do something different. She had worked as a cleaner in other people’s homes since she was fourteen, and was proud of the fact she’d done that and raised a family. Shortly after Kris was born his father was killed in an industrial accident, and for six years Avis had got by on her own. It was tough with four hungry kids to feed, but she’d managed, until eventually she met and married Horace Pierce, a bus driver, and a brave man to take on the responsibility of a woman with four children.
Kris had no memories of his real father. Just a faded snapshot of himself balanced on his dad’s knee when he was a few months old. His father appeared to be quite a lad with his spiky hair and crooked grin.
‘Ah, yes,’ Avis would often say, a faraway gleam in her eyes. ‘’E was a real caution – your old man. Give ’im a beer an’ a smoke an’ ’e was ’appy as a pig in muck. H was a wicked bugger!’
Avis had a way with words.
Kris wished he’d known the father he looked just like. He never seemed to be able to communicate with Horace – who spent most of his waking hours glued in front of the television.
While he was growing up, Kris spent a lot of time with his mum. When he was a kid she used to take him with her on her rounds. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays she cleaned the Edwards’ house on smart Hamilton Terrace. And Tuesdays and Thursdays, around the corner on Carlton Hill, she ‘did’ for Mr Terry Terence, a show business agent.
The Edwards lived in a five-storey luxury house, with a permanent maid and butler. Avis was brought in to do the hard work, such as polishing floors, cleaning windows, and taking care of the laundry. Kris liked it best when the Edwards had one of their frequent dinner parties, and early the next morning he was sent around the living room and the library to empty all the ashtrays. At eight years of age, pocketing the cigarette butts and producing them at school made him quite
popular with the other lads.
The Edwards had two daughters, snobbish little fair-haired girls. Kris developed a crush on both of them, but they never gave him the time of day.
Mr Terry Terence was his favourite. Avis liked him too. ‘A real gent,’ she was fond of saying.
‘He’s a pansy!’ Horace used to sneer whenever his name came up.
It wasn’t until Kris reached the ripe old age of ten that he found out what a pansy was.
Mr Terence was an interesting man. He had an autographed picture of Little Richard in a pewter frame on his desk, and a large poster of Johnnie Ray in his hallway.
‘Who’s Johnnie Ray?’ Kris asked one day.
‘Johnnie Ray is the best bloody singer in the whole bloody world!’ Avis replied with gusto. ‘I saw ’im at the Palladium once. Nearly wet me pants, din’t I.’
Mr Terence thought that was most amusing. He gave Kris two Johnnie Ray singles, and threw in an Elvis Presley for good measure.
Kris listened to them on his sister’s record player. He hated Johnnie Ray, was crazy for Elvis, and decided then and there – he was eleven years old – he would be a singer and learn to play the guitar.
Now, five years later, he was trying to do just that. Only it wasn’t easy. In 1965 teenage boys with aspirations to rock and roll were everywhere. Ever since the giant success of The Beatles and The Rolling Stones every Young Turk in England fancied himself as a future international rock star. The only difference was that Kris was dedicated, and thought of nothing else. Not even girls.
‘Ain’t it about time yer got a leg over?’ his best friend, Buzz Darke, asked one day. ‘I got two little darlin’s lined up fer later. Whyn’t yer come with?’
Buzz was always trying to drag him along on his girl-finding missions. Kris preferred to practise his guitar in the dank and dusty back garage attached to the old house Buzz lived in with his divorced mother.
‘I thought we were goin’ to play tonight’, Kris said accusingly. ‘You promised me.’
‘Not every night we can’t,’ Buzz replied in exasperation. ‘Cor! I don’t believe it! Ain’t yer interested in crumpet?’
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