by Brenda Joyce
She got up and padded naked into the bathroom. God, Vince was right—the house was a total pigsty. Maybe she should pick up some coke and get inspired to clean it. She turned on the shower. The scale on the bathroom floor stared up at her. She debated weighing herself. She was positive she had gained two pounds this week. She knew if she got on the scale and saw it there, in bold numbers, she’d get depressed. I won’t eat today, she thought. The weekend was coming up and if she dieted hard for a couple of days, she could knock off the two pounds.
The problem was, she’d put them back on during the weekend.
Her mother had called yesterday. She wanted to see her this afternoon. Mary was definitely not going. The first words out of her mother’s mouth would be a comment on her weight and advice about diet. Her mother was thin. Maybe anorexic. She lived in Beverly Hills, not on the flats, and she was on her third divorce and working on her fourth marriage. She was a fanatic about health, exercise, diet, clothes, and her looks. Her current husband was only five years older than Mary, some nothing actor. Her last husband had been a hotshot director and closer to her mother’s age (whatever that was). Her first husband, Mary’s father, produced avant-garde documentaries. Right now he was somewhere in Thailand. Last year he’d been in the Australian outback, the year before in China. Mary saw him once or twice a year.
After a shower she made a phone call and found she was in luck. She drove over to her friend’s house. Well, Ben wasn’t exactly her friend. Vince would shit if he ever found out about their relationship.
Ben owned a nice home, nothing like the small place they had. It was tastefully furnished too. Ben had made a lot of the furniture. He worked as a carpenter—when he felt like it. He greeted her and led her into the living room.
It had high ceilings and huge windows. In front of a gray leather couch was a glass-and-brass coffee table with a large pile of cocaine, a razor, straw, and a foil packet. “Have a line,” Ben said.
“Thanks.” Mary grinned. Ben let her do the honors, and she cut four fat lines, two for each of them. She instantly began to glow with self-love and jubilation. Life was grand.
Mary reached into her pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Vince would die if he could see her now, she thought. She counted them out, three hundred and twenty-five dollars.
Forty-five minutes later Mary was walking out the door. She climbed into her car. Feeling fucking wonderful. Beth was working today. She was a bartender. Mary decided to go down and have a drink. And sell what blow she could.
12
Belinda slowed, cruising in her red MR2 at twenty miles an hour, looking for the job under construction. She had to concentrate. Coming here to see Vince for lunch was a spontaneous thing. She had never come down before, and she probably never would again. But she couldn’t keep her mind on work. Right now she wanted him. She wanted him pumping away inside her.
Last night had been a drag. There had been nothing interesting, no one she’d even consider taking home. And she had called Nancy from the bar. A few glasses of wine and she always seemed to lose her armor and she knew it. Nancy hadn’t ever defended her against Abe, not once in the twenty-eight years she’d been alive, so why did she hope for it now? Besides, she’d been doing well enough, coping with him on her own.
Abe had called back. He had demanded she meet him in Los Angeles tomorrow. He was flying in for a day or so, which wasn’t unusual; he frequently came to California on business.
“I can’t get down there tomorrow,” Belinda said tightly.
“Bullshit. You live forty-five minutes away. Have your ass over at the condo at eight A.M. for breakfast.”
“Why?”
“Because we have a discussion to finish and another one to begin.”
He rarely presented her with a summons. Belinda hated being ordered around. “Have you ever heard of the word please?”
“Oh, Christ! Would you please come over tomorrow morning? And your mother wants to see you.”
“You’re bringing Mom?” Belinda was surprised. Nancy never accompanied Abe on his business trips.
“That’s right,” Abe said. “I’m taking her to a party.”
The construction site loomed before her, across the road. Belinda hung a U and pulled up in front of the chain fence. The house was framed, the roof under construction. A couple of bare-chested, tanned carpenters banging nails up there saw her and whistled. Belinda smiled and slowly got out of the car.
She was wearing a white denim miniskirt, high-heeled sandals, and a thin white tank top that clung to her bare bosom. Lots of gold bangles and black Anne Klein shades. She started through the gate. The hammering had stopped.
She looked up at the three men who were checking her out. “Vince around?”
“He’s out back,” the blonde called down.
Just then Vince appeared around the corner, bare-chested, his torso gleaming with sweat. He saw her and stopped dead.
She smiled wickedly and sauntered forward. Vince hurried to meet her. “Hi,” she said softly, putting her arms around his neck and pressing every inch she could against him.
He groaned, crushing her. “God, what are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” she said in a low voice, sliding her hands into the curly black hair at the nape of his neck. She held his head and kissed him, forcing his mouth open and thrusting her tongue in. Her nipples were hard from the contact with his skin—even through her cotton tank—and she rubbed them sensually against his sweaty chest. He clasped her buttocks and pulled her against a raging hard-on. He returned her kiss wildly, frantically.
They pulled apart. “Shit,” Vince said. “What are you doing to me?”
On the roof the guys whistled and stamped.
“I need you,” Belinda said. “Badly, Vince. Badly.”
He could hardly breathe. “You haven’t called. I haven’t heard from you all week—Christ, Belinda, it’s been five days!”
“It’s been an awful week,” she said, sliding her fingers into the mat of hair on his chest. “It’s almost noon. There’s a motel five minutes from here. Meet me there.” She didn’t wait for his answer. She turned and started back to her car. She heard him exhale loudly.
He was at the motel at five minutes after twelve—exactly fifteen minutes later. Belinda opened the door, wearing nothing but her tank top, which just covered her hips and left an enticing amount of pubic hair revealed. Vince took one look and grabbed her, pushing her backward onto the bed.
He held her head in his two thick, calloused hands and kissed her again and again. Then he knelt, running his hands down over her breasts, to her waist, her hips. He spread her thighs wide apart. He groaned, raising her and lowering his head.
His breath was soft and warm, his tongue sliding slickly over and between the folds of swollen pink flesh, searching.
“Vince,” she moaned.
He reared up and thrust into her powerfully. They clung together and thrust and pumped and pushed and panted.
Afterward they lay together, regaining breath, drenched with sweat. Vince raised his head. “What time is it?”
Belinda looked at her Rolex. “Twelve-twenty.”
He pulled off her top and began sucking her breasts. They made love again, starting slowly, leisurely, until Vince’s pace became frantic. He always made love to her as if there would be no tomorrow.
“I love you,” he rasped as he came violently inside her.
Vince was a regular Romeo when he was between her legs. Men were like that. Spouting Shakespeare.
“When will I see you again? Tomorrow night?”
“I’m going to a party tomorrow night,” Belinda said truthfully. Vince had learned about the Outrage sale when it was being negotiated. “It’s a North-Star party. Maybe Saturday.”
“Shit,” Vince said. “I could never get away from Mary on a Saturday.”
“Oh, I forgot,” Belinda said, standing and smoothing down her white skirt. She hadn’t forgotten, and she felt a bi
t rotten. “Well, after the weekend.”
“I never see you,” Vince said, his jaw ticking.
“I’m not the one who’s married.”
“You’re right.” He turned away. “Maybe I’ll have to do something about that.”
Belinda was aghast. “Don’t do anything rash, Vince!”
“I’m sick of sneaking around,” Vince said. “Mary disgusts me. Things can’t go on like this. Maybe I should just tell Mary—”
“No!” Belinda sat down hard on the bed. “Vince.” She stopped and sighed. What could she say? She had always been up-front. Hadn’t she made it clear that it was just sex—and that’s all it would ever be?
“You’re not even jealous,” he said. “You don’t even care that I spend five nights a week with another woman.”
Belinda didn’t know what to say, so she checked her face in the mirror.
Vince rubbed his jaw. “What about that party? Can I take you to it?”
Belinda wasn’t a liar. Yet she didn’t want to hurt Vince. She had never even considered him as her date, and for a moment she felt guilty. Adam Gordon had immediately come to her mind the instant she had learned of the North-Star party. But then she reminded herself that Vince was married, and their time together was stolen, literally. “A friend is taking me, Vince. I’m sorry. But I assumed you’d never be able to leave Mary on a Friday night.”
Vince moved away, clearly hurt. Feeling like a heel, Belinda wrapped him in her arms from behind—a sympathy hug. When he turned back to her to kiss her, she could tell she had eased the situation, but she was thinking that Adam was the perfect date for a big Hollywood bash. Adam was slick and elegant and a Hollywood lawyer from a top L.A. firm. He really was the perfect choice.
13
Adam Gordon paused at the front receptionist’s desk. “I have an appointment with Mr. Glassman.”
She smiled. “Please go through.”
He knew the way, of course, and was told to sit down in the waiting room near Glassman’s private office. He was tall and slim, impeccably tailored, dark-haired and blue-eyed, elegantly handsome. He was perspiring just a touch.
Glassman made him nervous. And mad.
A kind of mad frustration.
Even though Glassman was the answer to it all.
Adam was the fourth and youngest son of the Gordons of Boston. His family were authentic blue bloods, his great-great-grandfather having come over with his bride before the American Revolution. He had supported the British in that war, a fact that the Gordons had fastidiously buried; the current Mrs. Gordons were both members of Boston’s Daughters of the American Revolution.
His oldest brother was heir to a small industrially based conglomerate. He was married, with two children, the epitome of Boston society. The second son was an investment banker, having tripled his million-dollar trust already. The third son had died in Vietnam, but only after numerous feats of heroism and even more medals.
Adam had always been the black sheep.
Too young to go to ’Nam, he had been old enough to march in Washington, protesting U.S. involvement. He had dropped out of college as a senior, hitchhiked across the country with a girlfriend who turned him on to all the drugs he hadn’t tried, and to group sex, which he loved. They wound up in Oregon on a commune led by a religious fanatic. Adam secretly thought that the Maharajah—as he privately referred to him—was a nut and a con artist, but there was a ratio of about three girls to one guy, and his bed was always warmed, usually by two at once. He drifted through the days in a haze of pot, THC (which they were now saying was acid), speed, and hash.
His father had died of a heart attack ten years ago. Adam hadn’t cared then—he had been high on opium at the time—and he didn’t care now. His father had always looked down his long, aristocratic nose at his youngest son, had always shown how much he disapproved of him, how much he resented fathering a failure. His mother, ever the obedient wife, followed her husband’s cue exactly—when she wasn’t doing her charities or going to her dressmaker or the hairdresser. In fact, she had less time for her youngest than her husband did, which said a lot.
It all ended when Adam overdosed and nearly died on his way to Emergency. His older brother flew out and never said a word of recrimination. His face was set with worry and fear—not disgust. Adam had always worshiped his older brother Fred, the ten-year difference in their ages making that easy to do. Fred was everything Adam was not. He was responsible.
Still in withdrawal, Adam had broken down and cried on Fred’s shoulder. Fred actually held and soothed him, and Adam at that moment knew he had been a fool. The one thing he wanted to do more than anything else in the world was to make Fred proud of him. He went to a rehab program in Tucson, then to the university to finish up his B.A. Excelling at his studies, he was accepted into law school, and he graduated number two in his class. Fred and his wife came to the graduation, and Fred was beaming. Adam felt it had all been worth it.
Fred got him his first job in L.A. as a corporate lawyer, and four years later Adam joined one of the most prestigious firms in the city, Benson, Hull, and Krutschak. For six years he had risen through the ranks because he was bright—something he had always been told but had never believed. He had never bothered to use his intelligence until he had gone back to school.
Now he had made it, in a sense. He made two hundred grand a year, not including the interest from his million-dollar trust. He wore seven-hundred-dollar suits. He drove a Mercedes. He had a house in Malibu. He saw Fred and the family at least twice a year in New York, and Fred came out to the West Coast at least as often.
It wasn’t enough. Before, he supposed in retrospect, he had been afraid to try to compete, afraid to fail. Now he was competing, and he was doing well. He was up there, but he wanted more, much more. He hadn’t known he would ever be ambitious, but he was. Money, success, power, respectability—they went hand in hand. He wanted to be bigger than he could possibly be as a corporate lawyer.
He wanted to be Fred’s equal. He could imagine the day, the day he walked into Fred’s office as chairman of a powerful conglomerate, controller and manipulator of millions. The feeling of being equal, of having made it, the look on Fred’s face, his warmth, his love.
He had met Abe Glassman last year as they sat at opposite sides of a deal being negotiated here in L.A. Cannily, Adam had pointed out a few points in favor of Glassman Enterprises, to Glassman’s sharp irritation. Adam then—as he could now—felt the weight and intensity of Glassman’s black-eyed stare. The man had a charisma that he had never encountered before. The aura of power—it frightened him, thrilled him, mesmerized him, and he was unable to deny it.
He knew the call would come, and it had. A discreet meeting with Glassman in his blacked-in limo. They had discussed the project obliquely, but by the time Adam was dropped off, they both knew he had become Glassman’s man. The deal was renegotiated later, without Adam’s sharp and timely interference. He merely gave his approval to the board.
He thought about the day Glassman would die. With a smile. The man was fifty-three. Even if he lived another thirty years, he had to die sometime. Adam could wait—he would wait. He would use the time to increase his power, day by day, bit by bit. For when Abe did die, he, Adam, would be in a position to have it all.
He had never been married, and now he knew why. The right prospect had never come along. He thought of Belinda Glassman, and his smile grew.
And funnily enough, it was Abe Glassman who had suggested it. Strongly.
A marriage made in heaven.
By two mere mortals.
With Abe on his side, how could he lose?
And that was just it. He couldn’t.
14
She would never forget the summer of 1971.
The aching loneliness and emptiness had begun early in her marriage, a few years after Belinda was born. Or even earlier. Nancy loved Abe. There was no question of that. But she never saw him. He was never there. Oh, he would
come home at night, flash a vague smile at her, but then he’d lock himself into his study until late in the evening. Sometimes he’d wake her with his hands and mouth, in the middle of the night when he came to bed. It seemed like those moments were the only times they shared.
She knew she was a fool to complain. She had everything any woman could ever want. She had a dynamic husband who loved her and showered her with furs and jewels and homes. She knew Abe was proud of her. They went out several nights a week. Abe’s friends were all business associates; their wives were like her, attractive, dripping diamonds, perfectly coiffed. Abe always had a boastful comment: “Doesn’t she look great?” Everyone always agreed with Abe.
Other evenings, Abe went out alone. “Strictly business,” he said.
Nancy knew better.
She knew it wasn’t always business. She knew there were other women. She told herself she didn’t mind. Because Abe loved her and no other woman would ever take her place.
And there was Belinda. Her beautiful daughter. Nancy loved her fiercely from the moment she was conceived. Abe was ecstatic that she was pregnant, for there was nothing he wanted more than a son. During her pregnancy he treated her like a princess, the way he had during their courtship. Nancy had never loved him more, had never been happier. She pretended other women didn’t exist. And then Belinda was born.
Nancy knew—although Belinda didn’t—that Abe had never forgiven his daughter for not being a son.
He was so disappointed he couldn’t hide it. He was so disappointed he was angry. He was so disappointed he was indifferent to the tiny human being who was his own flesh and blood.
Nancy told herself he would get over it. She loved her tiny daughter. She wanted to do everything for her. But she was Mrs. Glassman, and Mrs. Glassman had to have a nursemaid and a nursery and was not allowed to be like other mothers. She was not allowed to change diapers or feed her daughter or answer her cries at two A.M.
