Lovers and Gamblers

by Jackie Collins

  ‘Why not?’ he persisted. ‘We can afford it.’

  ‘We can?’ questioned Plum. ‘I’m holdin’ the bankroll, man, and we are almost busted.’

  ‘But what about my two hundred dollars and the other money we had?’

  ‘S’nearly gone.’ Plum was unconcerned by this fact.

  ‘How can it have?’

  Plum fixed him with a mean look. ‘You want a written account? We spent it, man – like used it, y’know. Sleeping bags, food, an’ how do you think Glory’s bin payin’ f’all the goodies she’s scored?’

  He didn’t argue further. But he thought with a certain longing of a warm bed, a juicy steak, and a hot bath.

  They were riding in the back of a truck and Glory, asleep in a huddle, suddenly awoke. ‘Where are we?’ she asked, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

  ‘Who knows?’ snapped Plum. ‘I’m gettin’ a big heavy question session ’bout where all the bread’s gone.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Glory was not really interested. She was reaching in her jeans’ pocket and digging out some pills. She stuffed several in her own mouth and then offered the remaining few to her friends. Plum shook her head. Evan took two, swallowed them. Without water they stuck in his throat, but he knew they would eventually dissolve and then he would feel better – much better.

  * * *

  ‘You motha fucker!’ screamed Rosa at Al. ‘You stinkin’ motha-fucking sonofabitch!’

  Bernie had called the hotel to locate Nellie. The car was still out front waiting for her. There was no answer from her room. An assistant manager at the hotel had been dispatched to her room with a pass key. He had found her on the bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood. She was still alive, but barely. At the same time that Bernie was being informed on the phone an ambulance was rushing to the hotel.

  Within five minutes Nellie was receiving emergency treatment on her way to the hospital.

  Bernie had broken the news to Rosa who had gone mad with fury. She had stormed into Al’s dressing-room and started screaming at him.

  Assorted news media gathered in a fascinated group outside the door.

  ‘Pig!’ screamed Rosa. ‘If it wasn’t for you… You white piece of shit! You hear me, prick – you hear me!’

  ‘The whole of Tucson hears you!’ intervened Bernie. ‘Please, Rosa, it’s not Al’s fault.’

  She shook free. ‘Don’t give me that shit. Ever since the day that mothafucker crept into her bed, she ain’t been the same girl. She loves him – this piece of white crap – she loves him. The kid lived for a look – a smile. I could kill him.’ She sprang suddenly, like a pouncing tiger, all red sequin dress and clawing fingers.

  Bernie dragged her off Al, who just sat there staring at himself in the mirror.

  ‘Enough,’ said Bernie, holding her against his massive bulk.

  She went limp in his arms. ‘Get me a car to the hospital,’ she muttered, ‘and get me out of the sight of that mothafucking prick.’

  Bernie half carried her from the room and back to her dressing-room.

  Sutch had her head cradled on the dressing table and was sobbing. Make-up ran in colourful rivers down her face.

  ‘I’ll arrange a car,’ said Bernie. He didn’t feel too good himself. Nellie had been everyone’s favourite. ‘What about the show?’

  ‘Fuck the show!’ spat Rosa. ‘Let superprick do it on his own. I ain’t never sharing a stage with him again as long as I live!’

  * * *

  A little more scotch. Gargle. Spit out. Got to do the show alone. So what? Why not? He was the star, for chrissakes. He was the one they had all piled in to see. Al King. Number one with a bullet. Number fucking one.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Paul.

  ‘Sure,’ laughed Al. Why shouldn’t he laugh?

  It wasn’t his fault some silly little girl had slit her wrists. It wasn’t his fault – no matter what anyone said. So he had given her one. So what? If all the girls he had ever given one to slit their wrists… He laughed. Jesus! What a sight. There wouldn’t be room for them in all the hospitals!

  He went to swig from the scotch bottle again but it was empty. Empty! Would you believe that? A star with an empty bottle.

  ‘Hey, Paul – bring another bottle.’

  ‘You’ve had enough, you’re going on in five minutes.’

  ‘Don’t tell me I’ve had enough.’

  ‘You’ve drunk the whole bottle yourself, goddammit.’

  And another half bottle with Sutch. And two fine joints. And a touch of coke to keep him in peak condition. And some pretty good fucking. Just like old times. Why hadn’t he discovered Sutch earlier?

  ‘More, Paul,’ he demanded, and he stood up and the room swayed. But that was OK. The room had rhythm – just like him. He laughed aloud. Paul’s worried face swam before him.

  ‘Point me to the stage,’ he demanded. ‘Wait a minute – gotta piss.’ He unzipped his fly and let out a stream of urine in the general direction of the wall.

  ‘Al!’ Paul turned to Bernie. ‘He’ll never make it. We’ll have to cancel the show.’

  ‘Cancel and we got ourselves a riot,’ pointed out Bernie.

  ‘The show muss go on…’ slurred Al.

  ‘Let’s get him on and let’s get it over with,’ said Paul quickly.

  Bernie shrugged. What the fuck… It wasn’t his funeral.

  * * *

  Evan awoke stiff and uncomfortable. He wriggled out of the sleeping bag and surveyed his surroundings.

  The girls had got them all invited to a party in an empty house. When the party had finished they had stayed on, utilizing the bare floorboards as a home for the night. Some party. A lot of drugged people swopping partners. Evan had huddled miserably in a corner. He did not want to join in. He did not feel like one of them.

  Glory had jeered at him – ‘Poor little baby mommy’s boy,’ she had taunted. ‘Frightened to show his pee pee!’

  Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to have decided to travel to Los Angeles with them. His parents never taunted him – never. They were a pain – but from what he had heard all parents were the same.

  He prowled around the empty, depressing house, and his thoughts turned to bacon and eggs, sizzling sausages, and hot coffee. His stomach grumbled with hunger. He had eleven dollars. If he didn’t wake the girls, that would be enough to buy himself a decent breakfast. He glanced at his watch. It was only eight a.m. and the girls never stirred until ten at the earliest – wherever they were sleeping.

  He pulled on his jeans and crept from the house. He didn’t even know what town he was in, but he set resolutely off, and within two blocks spotted a drug store.

  He took a stool at the counter, and was just about to study the menu when the headline of the newspaper on the rack caught his eye. ‘AL KING SENSATION’ it screamed in heavy black newsprint.

  * * *

  The show was a near-miss disaster. Somehow Al managed to stagger his way through it. A performance punctuated with raging expletives, half-forgotten lyrics, and general sloppiness.

  The screaming fans prevented themselves from seeing the real truth. But the press were there with their pencils sharpened.

  The worst point was when Al fell. Sprawled happily in front of thousands of people, gave them the V sign, and staggered back on to his feet. There was almost a moment when Paul thought Al might repeat his bizarre performance in the dressing-room, and pee all over the audience with the famous King Cock. But he restrained himself, albeit reluctantly.

  Once off stage he was wrapped in towels and rushed to the hotel where Paul had a doctor waiting to see him. The doctor examined him and pronounced him on the verge of a complete breakdown.

  ‘Bullshit!’ screamed Al. ‘Bring on the girls!’

  The doctor injected him with a sedative and warned Paul that he should have complete rest for at least a month. ‘Impossible,’ Paul muttered under his breath. He knew Al was as strong as a horse. But there had been a lot of additiona
l strain. The bomb. The riot. Edna’s arrival. Evan’s disappearance. Nellie’s suicide attempt. He wished that Linda was around to discuss things with. She had a habit of always coming up with the right decision.

  Maybe he should cancel a few of the concerts. Give Al a rest. After all, going on like he had tonight was going to do him no good at all. And they did have to replace The Promises. Even if Nellie recovered – and it was touch and go at the moment – she wouldn’t be able to work again for months. Besides, Rosa had threatened never to appear with Al again.

  Maybe if he cancelled all the gigs before Los Angeles that would give Al a break – enough to get himself together. He could always do the cancelled gigs later – something could be worked out. Yeah – that might be the answer. With the single at number one it wouldn’t do Al any harm – and Jesus – the state he was in, it could only do him good.

  ‘I’ll order you some food,’ he said, ‘then you should get some sleep. Edna wasn’t feeling well – she’s sleeping in another room.’

  ‘Fuck Edna!’ slurred Al truculently. ‘Frigid bag! Get me another bottle of Jack the Lad.’

  ‘Listen, Al…’

  ‘Listen, brother,’ mimicked Al, weaving round the room, ‘I did the show, didn’t I? I did the fucking show. That’s all anyone cares about, isn’t it? Now piss off an’ leave me alone.’

  Reluctantly Paul left. He knew better than to argue with Al when he was in that mood. Luke was stationed outside the door. ‘Don’t let him out,’ Paul warned. ‘I’ll be in my room if you need me.’

  In the middle of the night they needed him. A terrible crashing noise was coming from behind the locked door of the suite. By the time the manager was called, the passkey found, and they managed to get in, the crashing had stopped. Al had completely wrecked the entire suite. Slinging what he could out of the window, breaking and smashing whatever else was in his way.

  He lay in the middle of the wreckage fast asleep, snoring and smiling.

  In the morning he remembered nothing about it.

  ‘I’ve often wanted to do what you did myself,’ sighed the manager, as they tried to work out the cost of the damages.

  ‘Double whatever the bill is,’ Al said magnanimously. ‘Wreck a room on me!’

  The next morning the papers screamed news of Al’s bizarre concert performance and Nellie’s attempted suicide, and without actually saying so they managed to give the impression that Al was responsible.

  Paul kept the newspapers away from both Al and Edna, and after a conference with Bernie he issued a joint statement from Mr. and Mrs. King expressing their deepest sympathy about Nellie, who was a dear and close friend of both of them.

  * * *

  Evan never spent his eleven dollars on breakfast. In fact he never had breakfast at all. He read with a sweeping horror about Nellie. His Nellie. And his heart lurched at the filthy allegations about her and his father.

  He had to get to Tucson. He had to get to the hospital.

  He spent his eleven dollars on phoning Tucson and tracking down Uncle Paul. He didn’t care if they were angry with him. He didn’t care about anything except getting to the hospital and seeing Nellie.

  Paul seemed relieved to hear from him, and gave him instructions on what to do.

  Whilst Evan hung on the phone Paul looked up a car hire firm in the area – which fortunately was only about a hundred miles away – and arranged for a car to pick Evan up. ‘Don’t get lost on the way,’ he warned.

  Get lost! No way! Nothing would stop him getting back to Nellie.

  He had forgotten about Glory and Plum safely tucked up in their sleeping bags. Even if he remembered, it wouldn’t have worried him. They could look after themselves. Nellie couldn’t.

  * * *

  Paul broke the good news to Edna. She was perfectly composed. ‘Book us on the next flight to London,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ ventured Paul.

  Al was still under sedation in the bedroom.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Edna quietly. ‘Very sure.’

  This was a different Edna to the one Paul had known for so many years. The other Edna wouldn’t have dared make such a decision without consulting Al.

  ‘Melanie will go with you,’ said Paul.

  ‘I’d prefer she didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I don’t like her. I’m sorry, I know she’s your wife, but I have to be truthful.’

  Paul stared at her with a sudden admiration. He didn’t like Melanie either – but he would never have the nerve to say so. What had happened to Edna? Had she suddenly sprouted balls?

  ‘That’s fine, Edna. I’ll just book seats for you and Evan.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m going to pack.’

  He watched her leave the room and felt good for her. She was walking tall for the first time since he had known her.

  * * *

  The car ride to Tucson took three hours. Evan sat stiff-backed and anxious all the way. He told the driver to go straight to the hospital where Nellie was.

  ‘I’m supposed to take you to the hotel,’ the driver complained. ‘Deliver you personally, not let you out of my sight.’

  ‘I have to go to the hospital first,’ Evan insisted.

  Reluctantly the driver agreed. The kid looked desperate.

  They stopped him at reception at the hospital. He knew he must look a scruffy sight.

  ‘I’m Al King’s son,’ he told the receptionist. ‘I have to see Nellie – she’s expecting me.’

  The receptionist eyed him suspiciously. She didn’t believe him. She had been bugged by press and fans all morning. ‘She’s dead,’ she said coldly, ‘died this morning at eight o’clock.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The first reaction Dallas had was to turn and run – get the hell out of there.

  But how could she go? How could she leave Bobbie in the state she was in?

  One part of her warned, ‘Don’t get involved.’ On the other hand you wouldn’t leave a dog like this. After all, at one time Bobbie had befriended her – abortive as that friendship had turned out to be.

  Decision made, Dallas slammed the door behind her, shutting out the muffled sounds of love-making coming from the other apartment.

  She didn’t know what to do. Should she try to move Bobbie? What if something was broken?

  An Indian bedspread was draped across the window, secured only by string. Dallas removed, it and covered the shivering black girl’s body. She couldn’t help noticing the gnarled tracks of heroin addiction covering both of Bobbie’s arms. The veins were bruised and discoloured, covering old scars where she had injected herself over and over again. Unable to find more space on her arms she had started on her legs. Dallas shuddered.

  Bobbie was rolling her eyes around and around. Dallas placed a dirty pillow under her head. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘Hey,’ mumbled Bobbie, focusing at last, ‘The man, baby. Who else? I tole him I was gettin’ the bread – I tole him.’ Her head rolled to the side. ‘Get me a shot of scotch – s’over there – kitchen.’

  Dallas took quick stock of her surroundings. A small, dark room. Couch that doubled as a bed. Table littered with makeup, magazines, clothes. A jagged piece of glass propped up in the middle to do duty as a mirror.

  The kitchen consisted of a cracked Formica unit in the corner.

  Amongst crowds of empty bottles littering the top, Dallas located one a quarter full of scotch.

  She handed it to Bobbie, who sucked greedily from it.

  ‘Is there a phone here?’ Dallas asked.

  ‘You don’ wanna phone, sugar,’ mumbled Bobbie. Her voice was very weak.

  ‘But you need a doctor.’

  ‘Yeah. But I don’ need the shit goes with it. I’ll be fine. You just hand me the bread and get out before they come back.’

  ‘Before who comes back?’

  ‘Whadda you care? I’m leanin’ on you for bread – t
hat’s all. So be wise – like I taught you.’ She tried to sit up, but couldn’t make it. ‘I need some stuff… I got a beeeg need… Be a nice girl – reach outside the window – there’s a ledge – pass it to me. Those cocksuckers don’ know it all…’ She wiped blood from her mouth and looked at it with surprise. ‘One shot and those bastards can take a flyer up their own assholes… I’m gonna own the world… the world, man. Like I’ll have myself a house. Best fuckin’ house in LA. Best fuckin’ girls…’ Her eyes were rolling again. ‘You wanna come an work for me, sugar… Wanna be my star… Wanna be my lover…’ Her mumbling was becoming incoherent. ‘Nevah was given a fuckin’ thing in my life… Worked ass… Hey – get me the stuff – get me the magic…’ Her eyes closed. She had passed out. The bottle fell from her hands, gurgling the remains of its contents out on to the threadbare rug.

  Dallas picked it up. This was it. This was the bottom line. Bobbie had sunk pretty low – but whose fault was it? She had started off with none of the breaks. Hooking at thirteen. And now hooked in another direction. Heroin. The land of peace and glory for those that had nowhere else to go.

  Dallas cradled her head and tried to remove some of the blood. ‘It’ll be OK, Bobbie,’ she crooned, ‘I’ll look after you. I’m going to get you into a hospital, get you cured.’

  Bobbie’s eyelids fluttered. But she didn’t open her eyes. She seemed to be breathing in a very laboured way.

  ‘I’ve got to get help,’ Dallas muttered. She ran from the apartment and hammered on the next door.

  ‘Get lost!’ shrieked a woman’s voice.

  ‘I need help!’ pleaded Dallas.

  ‘Honey, don’t we all!’ replied the voice.

  ‘Please! The girl next door is very sick.’

  ‘That little junkie! She can drown in her own piss for all I care.’

  Nice place. Was it worth trying the other apartments, or should she go down to the street and try to find a phone? She decided to try the street and started off down the stairs. On the second floor her way was blocked by two men coming up.

  ‘You know where’s the nearest phone?’ she asked.

  They made no move to let her pass. One was a heavy-set black, the other a tall skinny white man with yellow hair and jumpy eyes.