Glamour Puss

by R. J. Kaiser

“I don’t see why. You’re right.”

  Aubrey St. George’s grayish-beige Persian, G.P., came slithering along the deck just then, rubbing against Stella’s ankles. She gently nudged it away with her foot and then crossed her legs, showing lots of thigh. Looking at her, even with the banged-up eye, Mac’s heart had kind of gone ping. She was as pretty as any woman he’d ever seen. She had a fabulous body. She was soulful…needy. She touched him.

  He took a long drink for courage, then said, “I know it’s none of my business, but why do you put up with the abuse?”

  “I put up with it because I don’t have a lot of choice, unless I want to become a salesgirl at Frederick’s of Hollywood. Aubrey has a lot of juice in this town. And he’s also got a very favorable prenup.”

  “Favorable what?”

  She’d smiled as though he’d said something funny. “Prenuptial agreement. Under the terms, if I divorce him, I get fifty thousand per year of marriage, regardless how much he makes. If he divorces me, it’s double that. We’ve been married two and a half years. You figure it out.”

  “You wouldn’t exactly be on the street.”

  Again she smiled. “I have to put up with some unpleasantness, but I live well. This life would be hard to walk away from,” she said, waving vaguely at her big house. “Besides, I’m still hoping for my chance in films. Glamour Puss keeps telling me he’ll talk to some people at the studio, but he doesn’t want me hanging around like a hungry starlet who’ll do anything for a role because he’s afraid it will make him look bad. And that means I’m sort of stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’m totally at Aubrey’s mercy.”

  Mac could see her dilemma, but he sure didn’t like what she had to endure. Maybe he liked it even less than Stella herself.

  After finishing his beer, Mac thanked her. But before he’d managed to get to his feet, she’d reached over and patted his hand. “You’re a nice man, Mac. Not many guys are as concerned and thoughtful.”

  He hadn’t known what to say because he didn’t see himself as particularly special. In fact, he was just a “regular Joe,” an epithet which got him some laughs whenever he used it.

  That night Mac had lain awake for hours, thinking about Stella. It wasn’t like him to get obsessed with a woman, but he had a terrible urge to drive over there, drag her out of that house and bring her home. Not that he expected she’d want that. In the end, he decided that if St. George ever whacked Stella in front of him, he’d knock the SOB on his ass.

  The day after that, he’d hung around the job site after the boys had gone home and, sure enough, Stella had come out onto the deck again with a couple of mugs of beer.

  Her eye looked a lot better after a night’s rest. When he told her that, she said, “Aubrey was in a better mood this morning.”

  Mac wanted to say, “Well, hooray for him.” But didn’t. He hated the guy.

  Stella had on shorts and a little halter top and bare feet the second time they had a beer together. She had her hair piled up on her head, exposing her long neck. He kept staring at her skin, thinking how he’d like to kiss it. For a minute, the idea went through his head that she might be a tease, but then he realized that the wife of a big-time movie star wouldn’t have any interest in a nobody swimming-pool contractor.

  They’d joked around some, but mostly talked about serious things. Stella told him she was from Ames, Iowa, that her real name was Judy Miller, and that after a year of community college, she couldn’t hack small-town life. So, a week before the start of her second year of college, she’d gotten on a bus and headed for sunny Southern California to find fame and fortune.

  “Things seemed to have worked out,” Mac said.

  “Not without a struggle. I didn’t have much money and my parents weren’t well off. My father worked at a grain elevator until he got injured in a fall and went on disability. They sent me a few thousand dollars, but the cost of living being what it was in California, I was going through money like it was water. I waitressed a little, hustled drinks until I got fired for being too slow. Took as many acting lessons as I could afford. Shared an apartment with four girls and finally got so desperate I signed a contract to do a nude photo spread for a men’s magazine.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “No, the next day I met Aubrey, and when I told him about the photo spread, he said that if I was going to debauch myself, better I do it with him. He took me back to his place and seduced me. I became his mistress…I should say his live-in mistress. He was seeing other women on the side, even then.”

  “Forgive me, but this guy sounds like bad news. I don’t care if he is a famous movie star.”

  “Mac, you’re an idealist.”

  “Well, are you happy? Do you love him?”

  “You’re definitely an idealist.”

  “Seems to me that shouldn’t be a hard question for a wife to answer.”

  “You know something, your innocence is really appealing.”

  Mac hadn’t liked that comment, but he was in no position to complain. Stella St. George was giving him free beer and she thought enough of him to sit and talk. All he could figure was that she must be awfully lonely.

  Still, Mac’s instincts, which were usually pretty good, told him Stella wanted something, he just didn’t know what. That afternoon she brought out a TV tray with some snacks, in addition to the beer.

  “What would your husband say if he knew you were socializing with the help?” he asked.

  “Oh, he’d be royally pissed.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Because I like you, Mac. And also because you make me feel safe.”

  He took that to mean she enjoyed friendly conversation without having to be afraid of getting hit on, which was both a compliment and cause for disappointment. Mac had really started getting the hots for Stella St. George, fantasized about her a lot, imagined her making a serious play for him, though other than showing him some tit and leg, she kept things proper. If she strayed, it was mostly in the way she talked to him.

  The first major step in that direction was when she started asking questions about his love life. “Do you have a girlfriend, Mac?”

  “No, I go out with one girl some, but it’s not serious.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Airline stewardess.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “What color hair?”

  “Blond.”

  “Have you been intimate with her?”

  He’d blinked. “Isn’t that kind of a personal question?”

  “Yes, very personal,” she said.

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  “Because I was wondering if you think of me in sexual terms.”

  He fingered his beer mug. “What are you trying to say?”

  “It’s more a matter of what I’m trying to get you to say. I want to know what you think of me.”

  “I think you’re beautiful.”

  “And what else?”

  “I’m thinking some things your husband wouldn’t like. And you probably shouldn’t like them, either.”

  “Would it matter if I said I don’t give a damn what Glamour Puss thinks?”

  They’d heard Aubrey’s Porsche out front just then, and Stella quickly gathered the tray of snacks and, giving Mac a naughty grin, went into the house. Mac went back down to the pool site, fiddled around for a while, mostly waiting to see if Aubrey St. George was going to beat the hell out of his wife.

  As he put away his tools, Mac heard a meow behind him. Spinning, he found G.P. glaring at him and baring his teeth. The Persian meowed again, then slinked off toward the house.

  Mac listened hard for signs of a ruckus going on inside the house. But all was quiet. So he packed up his things and left.

  The next day had been a Friday. Mac and his crew took off early. He hadn’t seen Stella so he assumed she’d taken things as far as she dared. Either that, or Aubrey had put the fear of God in her. Saturd
ay he took Linda Maas out to a movie, telling her she could pick whatever she wanted to see. She’d chosen Aubrey St. George’s latest flick, thinking that would be neat for him. Mac hated every minute of it. That night he’d decided maybe he was in love with Stella St. George.

  Mac had always thought love and sex ought to go together, not that he was a prude or anything, but intimacy, he believed, should mean something special. The whole time he’d been in Nam, he’d been with a prostitute only once. He didn’t like it because it made him feel guilty— guilty for selfishly using another human being. He’d given the girl three times her price and apologized, a response that seemed to amuse her. Sure, what he’d done was easily rationalized, but he’d always cared more about what was right.

  Which made the situation with Stella St. George a problem. Mac was in a quandary. He knew where things were headed and, for the first time in his life, he felt helpless to do anything but let it happen.

  It was a Wednesday when they’d first made love. Stella had made it easy for him by taking the initiative, maybe sensing he needed to be seduced. She’d been very loving, and the sex had been incredible. Every time after had been great, too, but the desperation of that first time was best. Stella called him her “gentle lover.” But they’d made love with abandon, too. “You make me feel free and fearless, Mac,” she’d explained.

  Afterward they were usually breathless and clinging to each other in a tangle of arms and legs. They’d lie on the rattan chaise longue in the pool house, their bodies spent, and he’d say things like, “Why don’t you leave him?”

  “Because there’s more to life than sex, Mac,” she’d replied. “I’m going to be a star,” she’d say. “That’s why I came to Hollywood, and that’s why I stay. My time will come. I know it will.”

  “With Aubrey?”

  “You got a better idea?”

  That was the only thing about Stella that had given him pause. There was a part of her—her obsession with stardom—that existed separately, that he couldn’t touch, no matter what. And that had bothered him.

  Even so, they had drifted toward this day, this Friday the thirteenth, existing on the stolen hours they had together with no plan or goals or clear intentions. Mac was acutely aware that the job was coming to an end. He wasn’t sure that Stella was capable of thinking that far ahead. For all he knew, once the pool was in, she’d let him walk away with nothing more than something like, “Thanks for the memories, you big lug. It’s been fun.”

  Just then the sliding door off the deck opened and Stella stepped out. She had on her high-heel, strappy sandals and not another stitch. She came walking toward the pool house, caring not a lick about anybody who might happen to look her way from the nearby hill, walking along the huge hole in the ground where she could soon skinny-dip.

  Mac got to his feet when she reached him. He took her in his arms, kissing her deeply. She kissed him back, biting his lips, moaning through her teeth. “I got wet just watching you work, Mac,” she said. “Did seeing me in the window turn you on?”

  “Me and the guys. I wish you wouldn’t do that, sweetheart.”

  “You’re as bad as Aubrey, Mac. Why do men want to control every move a woman makes?”

  He couldn’t say. Was it because he loved her?

  “I don’t want to talk,” she said, taking him by the hand to the pool house. “Aubrey’s going to spend the weekend at home, so I won’t be able to be with you again until Tuesday.”

  “Are you going to have sex with him?” he asked her.

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Like this is none of his concern?”

  “Just make love with me, Mac.”

  Stella was more assertive than usual, which in his experience meant she wanted to be taken forcefully—not hurt, but gently overpowered. She pulled him down on the floor and he took her there. They screwed long and hard until she was bathed in sweat—his and her own. Flushed by the time it was over and fighting for air, she said, “Damn, you’re good.”

  That was when they heard him.

  “Stella!”

  He was outside. It sounded like he was coming toward the pool house.

  “Oh my God!” she cried. “It’s Aubrey.” She practically threw Mac off her and rushed around, looking for something to wear. She found an old Hawaiian shirt and was slipping it on as Mac pulled on his shorts. Then the door flew open.

  Aubrey St. George stood in the doorway, sunshine backlighting his body. Mac could make out his features well enough to see his eyes round and his nostrils flare.

  “What the hell?” His voice was strong and resonant, making him seem a bigger man than usual. Mac could see the flash of gold in the thick rope chain at the open neck of his sport shirt. Aubrey stood akimbo, the crease in his tan slacks a perfect line, his dark blow-dried hair coiffed to perfection. His expression hardened and he bared his capped white teeth. “So,” he said, “fucking the pool man, are you, Stella?” He laughed contemptuously. Then, “Goddamn slut!”

  St. George slowly moved toward her, gliding with the cautious deliberateness of a gunslinger. Stella frantically worked the wooden buttons of her oversize Hawaiian shirt as though fastening it would somehow make a damning situation less disastrous.

  “Please, Aubrey,” she cried. “I…I can explain…I… Aubrey…”

  “What’s to explain, you cunt? You think I’m blind?”

  Stella moved behind the chaise longue. Cowering, she backed against the wall, her head bumping on a basket hanging there. Aubrey unfastened his buckle and ripped the belt from his pants.

  Stella began to whimper. “Please, Aubrey, please.”

  Mac, who’d been so shocked he hadn’t moved, prompted himself to action. “Mr. St. George, this is not your wife’s fault. It’s mine.”

  The man whipped his head in Mac’s direction, pointing his finger like a gun. “You shut up, you sonovabitch! In fact, get off my property and don’t come back. I never want to see your worthless ass again! Get out!”

  “Mr. St. George—”

  “Listen, asshole, if I were you, I’d get in that truck of yours and I’d head back to Oklahoma or wherever it was you’re from, because you’ll never work again in this town. Now clear out of here before I get a gun and shoot your worthless ass!”

  Mac, his anger building, picked up his jeans and quickly slipped them on, all the while watching Aubrey, who’d turned his attention back to Stella. She’d started crying.

  “You despicable whore,” he said, pulling his belt taut between his hands. “This is the thanks I get.”

  “Aubrey, you never pay any attention to me,” Stella sobbed, her fists clutched at her throat. Black streaks of mascara ran down her cheeks. “Don’t you know how hard it is for me, how lonely my life is with you always off with somebody? Don’t you think I know what people are saying?”

  “Oh, it’s my fault you’re fucking this hillbilly?”

  “If you’d just show me a little kindness.”

  “I’m going to show you, all right.” He struck the chaise longue with his belt, making a loud pop.

  “Oh, please, Aubrey, please. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll never do it again. Never.”

  “You’ve got that right.”

  St. George started around the chair. Stella covered her head and wailed. Mac, who’d gotten his pants on, knew he’d wronged the man and maybe deserved to be beaten, but he wasn’t about to allow him to hurt Stella. He stepped over and grabbed hold of the belt as Aubrey swung it back to strike his wife.

  “Don’t do that, Mr. St. George. I told you, it’s not her fault.”

  The man turned bright red. “And I told you to get your ass out of here!”

  “I won’t let you beat her, I don’t care what you say.”

  “You aren’t telling me what to do in my house!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. He was purple with rage.

  St. George tried to jerk the belt free, but Mac wouldn’t let go. He yanked harder, but Mac was unrelenting
. For a moment they tugged on the belt, each on opposite sides of the chaise longue.

  “Don’t do it, I’m telling you,” Mac warned.

  Aubrey leaped across the chair and grabbed Mac by the throat, cursing and shouting. Mac threw him back onto the chair but Aubrey scrambled to his feet and snatched a teakwood figurine from the table next to the chair. Then he charged, swinging the statue like a club, hitting Mac on the wrist with his first swing, his shoulder with the second.

  Enraged, Mac grabbed the bastard by the shoulders. “Hit me again and I’ll break your fucking neck,” he shouted.

  St. George raised the figurine to strike again. Mac gave him a violent shove, but at the same moment the actor spun, his hand with the statue coming around and cracking Mac on the side of the head. Everything went black and Mac went down in a heap.

  The next thing Mac knew, Stella was bent over him, saying his name. He opened his eyes, seeing the horrified expression on her face.

  “What happened?” he mumbled.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said, pressing her cool fingers to his face.

  Mac, remembering Aubrey, lifted his head. Peering over, he saw the man lying motionless a few feet away. “Is he hurt?”

  Stella’s face was contorted with pain, in tears. “Oh, God,” she sobbed.

  The anguish in her voice sent a stab of fear through him. He again peered over at St. George’s motionless body. “Is he badly hurt?”

  A spasm of sobs came from her. Mac sat up with some difficulty and looked at Aubrey.

  “Mac,” Stella said, choking on her tears. “Aubrey’s dead.”

  Saturday, October 14, 1978

  West Los Angeles

  Mac McGowan listened to the rumble of the cement truck out front as he stared down at the mesh of rebar lining the hole. Looking closely, he could see the slight variation in the color of the soil where he’d dug the grave. Was it as obvious to anyone else? he wondered. He was grateful now for the web of steel masking the hole. But as he’d worked long into the night, first removing, then replacing a section of mesh so that he could get beneath it, he’d cursed the stuff.

  It had taken him over three hours, working with nothing but a flashlight, an acetylene torch, a pick, shovel and welder. Fortunately the only house within hearing distance was still under construction. The big danger, as he saw it, was that somebody on the hill across from them had seen the welding flashes. But that was unlikely at three o’clock in the morning.