Glamour Puss

by R. J. Kaiser

  “That’s certainly convenient.”

  “Yes, but don’t be complacent,” she warned. “He’s a successful businessman, which means he understands money perfectly well.”

  “And likes spending it, I trust.”

  “He won’t be stuffing our pockets, at least not lightly. Those who have vast sums usually spend with the utmost reluctance. Profit, vanity and women are the reasons men of wealth spend, you know.”

  Her companion turned his silver-topped head in her direction, his heavy lids drooping. “You would know, love. But if I may be allowed to offer a suggestion…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do be careful not to upstage me. When you seem to order me about, the illusion of me being in charge is lost. Supposedly you are but the actress.”

  “I don’t need to be told about acting, Arjay. That’s the area where I reign supreme.”

  “Ah, but I act not for the cinema, but for life. There are similarities between the life of a charlatan and an actor, I grant you, but the object of my vocation is deception, yours is merely entertainment. Trust me in this, Venita.”

  “Don’t worry, I will show Amal the proper deference,” Venita assured him, “but I also know that in the end, it is I these people must trust and believe in. Amal is here to give me credibility and nothing more. He will fade away, but I shall become a fixture in Hollywood, a celebrated director in my own right. And nothing, absolutely nothing,” she assured him, “shall deter me.”

  Arjay drew a long slow breath, raising his brows superciliously. “I take you at your word, and I shall do my utmost to make it so.”

  Considering what she was paying him—not to mention the cut of the project he was to receive—she certainly hoped so. He’d done a masterful job of seducing Stella Hampton, but their real prey was neither Stella nor Troy. It was Mac McGowan.

  Venita tried not to worry about Arjay, though. Her immediate problem was to get from point A to point B without going into bankruptcy. Her funds were desperately low, with creditors already beginning to queue. Unless she got some “cash in the till,” as the Americans say, and soon, it would be all over.

  “I wouldn’t have engaged you had I not believed in your capacities,” she told her companion, judging a stroke was in order. The last thing she needed to do was offend him.

  Arjay wore an amused but haughty look of disdain. “I was charming British aristocrats when you were still in nappies, my dear. I am the least of your worries. From what Stella tells me, our Mr. McGowan will be a tough nut to crack.” His brow arched as he peered out the limousine window. “How rich is the gentleman, anyway? Stella wasn’t certain, but she thought about thirty million, U.S.”

  “My sources indicate closer to fifty,” Venita replied. “He has sufficient capital for our purposes, let me put it that way.”

  What she didn’t tell Arjay was that she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that McGowan was their one best— perhaps only—hope. Every other lead she’d pursued had turned cold. Not that she had expected it to be easy, but she would have thought the other potential investors’ curiosity value would be greater and that that would have led to interest in the project. But it hadn’t worked out that way.

  Still, if they got McGowan to put up the first money, the rest would surely come. People, she’d learned in her thirty-six years, were sheep. More so in Hollywood than anywhere else. So, having one fat sheep in the fold would almost certainly bring more. They badly needed Mac McGowan to show the way.

  Venita couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of resentment toward these damn, insular Americans, though. The Hollywood crowd knew nothing of the world beyond their studios. The name Venita Kumar meant nothing to them, despite the fact that more human beings on earth would recognize her face than Marilyn Monroe and Sophia Loren combined. And yet, here she could walk down Rodeo Drive and not a soul would turn a head, unless it was to look at her sari. Jugnu drew much more attention than she. How could she not feel bitter?

  Still, America was her last hope. Her own country had little to recommend it, as far as she was concerned, not considering the disgrace and humiliation she’d suffered at the hands of her countrymen. After Ramda Bol there was no returning to India, not unless it was to be a glorified prostitute. Here she could use her fame and ignore her past. Americans allowed themselves to be used that way. Maurice Chevalier had done it. But she still had a mountain to climb. A huge mountain with Mac McGowan standing atop it.

  Angel Ordon˜ez wasn’t sure what was going on. First, McGowan goes to this big, fancy-assed place in Beverly Hills. Through the window Angel can see him with the blond lady, her acting all kissy-face. Then these Arabs show up in the limo and they’re all talking and laughing. If this blonde is McGowan’s broad, Angel thought, seems like he’s planning on fucking her in front of the United Nations.

  Angel returned to the Chevy he’d gotten in exchange for Manuela’s, to wait and see what happened next.

  If Angel had his way, he’d just put a shiv in McGowan’s gut and let the fucker slowly bleed to death. But that wasn’t what Manuela wanted. “You want to know the truth, Angel? I would marry him right now if he wanted to. He really is a nice man.”

  “I thought you said he was an asshole. Him and Conti both.”

  “Maybe he didn’t mean to hurt me. The problem is the girlfriend. If he didn’t have someone on the string already, I bet he’d have hopped right in the sack. I seen the way he stared at my boobs. I could tell what he was thinking.”

  “You’re saying if he didn’t have no girlfriend, he’d love you?”

  “Could be.”

  “So what the fuck do you want? To get rid of her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That was last night. Angel had been in no mood to fuck around. “When you figure it out let me know, okay?”

  That morning, Manuela had made him coffee and sat with him at the little kitchen table. “Okay, this is what I want. Scare them, Angel, Mac and Art both. Don’t kill nobody, just scare them. And I want to know who Mac’s girlfriend is, too. I want to know what she’s like.”

  “How the fuck am I supposed to find that out?”

  “Can’t you follow him or something?”

  “That bullshit takes time, Manuela. You want me to put somebody in the hospital, now that’s a no-brainer. Maybe an hour or two of my time. But, you’re asking me to play fucking cop. I look like a cop to you?”

  “If you don’t do this for me, who will?”

  “How you going to pay me and pay the bank when you don’t got no job?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Maybe I’d like to know, Manuela.”

  “So maybe I’ll go back to the Bottoms Up Club.”

  “O’Gill will make you suck his cock.”

  “You think I never done that before, Angel? That’s how you get the good jobs. Where you been?” Then she said, “Never mind, I know where you been.”

  “And you don’t want to hear how you get the good jobs there.”

  The point was, Manuela didn’t know what she wanted, but she was giving him a hundred dollars a day to do it. For that he’d fart around a while. But he’d much rather stick McGowan with a shiv and watch him squirm. Rich gringo bastard.

  Pacific Palisades

  The limousine wound its way up the curving street, passing the large homes terraced on the hillside with their magnificent views of the L.A. basin, Santa Monica, Venice, El Segundo and the Bay. Venita Kumar contemplated the check in her hand, repressing her delight. True, it was at best a consolation prize—fifty thousand dollars—but it would keep them going a few more months. God knew, the funds she had at home in India would be tied up in the courts for years, and the chances of getting more than a pittance out of the country were nominal at best.

  Arjay looked over at her, watching her fondle the check. “It surprised me how little resistance he offered, considering the depth of his resentment.”

  “Our Mr. McGowan didn’t give that mo
ney to me. It was a gift to his wife. He was buying her gratitude, assuring himself of her loyalty. He knew that we’re using Stella.”

  “I quite agree. I think it proves she is the key.”

  “And you did remarkably well with her, Arjay, I must say. You have the woman eating from your hand.”

  “No small challenge with a husband present, if I do say so.”

  Arjay’s diction was perfect, his accent practically nonexistent. He exuded such confidence that half the time even Venita believed him. “Mac McGowan is protective,” she said, “but I don’t sense profound affection between them. If I were to hazard a wager, I’d say they are married in name only.”

  “And did you get any vibrations from our Mr. Mc-Gowan aimed in your direction?” Arjay asked.

  “No, not really. He’s a man and there are always certain marks of awareness—unless of course the person in question is homosexual—but I sensed more hostility than anything else. He did not like me. Or you. More even, he did not like what we do.”

  “Then Stella wasn’t exaggerating when she said Hollywood has been a problem for him. Considering his attitudes, I should say the afternoon was something of a success.”

  “Thanks to Stella,” Venita said.

  “I wonder what McGowan was after.”

  “To be a hero would be my guess.”

  Arjay considered that. “You’re probably right.”

  “But we weren’t going to get another penny. He’d budgeted fifty thousand and Stella had her choice. She could have a new diamond, a car or us. That’s why I took the money and ran.”

  “Could you have given up a trifle soon? In my experience a refusal to expect money will induce an offer of more.”

  “I think we’re best advised to leave that to Stella. She has something up her sleeve. I don’t know what, but she has a confidence that’s more than simple whistling in the dark.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I’m not used to taking a passive role. In any case, it’s never wise to overplay one’s hand,” he said with an ironic smile. “A lesson well learned, wouldn’t you say?”

  It was an oblique reference to the scandal that had caused her to flee India in disgrace. Venita did not appreciate the allusion. The mere thought of it set her blood to boiling. She could scarcely abide the mention of Ramda Bol’s name. It pained her immensely even to think of him. The sod.

  She often regretted not having killed the bloody bastard, though had she done, no question she’d be rotting in a stinking jail cell at this very moment. Fate and a bit of luck had given her a second chance. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would stop her this go-around. Not even Mac McGowan.

  Reaching the crest of the hill, the limo entered the gate to the sprawling modern dwelling with its flat roof, its angular lines. It was where, for the past two months, they had lived. The vehicle continued along the drive lined with sago palms and cactus until they reached the portico of the house, stopping behind Troy Hampton’s gimpy Mazda.

  “Ah, and now the son,” Venita said cheerily.

  Troy Hampton, she’d decided, was the unknown piece of the puzzle. She knew the boy and his father were at odds but, as best she could tell, he was still the heir. Which made his role somewhat ambiguous. Stella seemed the key, but there was a great deal going on in Troy Hampton’s head that left Venita wondering. He was very young, but he had a dark, mysterious quality that had caught her imagination. Of course, the real question was whether he had access to his father’s wealth. Or was he just a pretty boy with pretensions? She sighed. One thing was certain, Troy Hampton was a far cry from her last lover. Ramda Bol, the son-in-law of the prime minister, had been both the greatest conquest and the greatest disaster of her life, one that would surely torment her to her dying day.

  Still, Troy Hampton did bring her pleasure. Just looking at him and watching him watch her was a source of joy. He was not so tall and imposing as his father, but he had his mother’s refinement and beauty. A prettier young man she’d never seen in her life. A blond Adonis.

  “I shall leave young Master Hampton to you, my dear,” Arjay said, leaning toward her, his voice taking on a confidential tone. “It’s safe to say he has little use for me apart from my cinematographic prowess.”

  “You can’t take that personally, Arjay. He loves me, you know. In a young man there’s nothing so potent as his sex drive.”

  “Everybody’s in love with you,” he replied diplomatically.

  The remark brought another glance at her from Jugnu, who then got out of the limousine. Venita smiled modestly, though of course what Arjay had said was perfectly true.

  “Still in all, you can’t ignore him,” she said to Arjay. “Troy’s serious about his film career and we must cater to both his mind and his heart. The lad’s more shrewd than you might think. He might adore me, but without the prospect of a role in our film, who knows how long I could keep his interest. Conquest, as you know, is ninety percent of it, especially in a young man. A woman must have skill to hold a man’s interest if she has nothing to offer but her body. To be safe, we both must titillate him, Arjay. You with work, me with play. Don’t forget, if we lose him, there’s no hope of enticing the parents.”

  “Stella wants fame just as badly as her son.”

  “But Troy is the lever she uses with her husband. Can’t you see it? There is something profoundly emotional going on there. I’m not sure what.”

  “Yes, I sensed a ghost,” Arjay said.

  “Precisely. And we must make this ghost our friend.”

  Jugnu held the passenger door for her, but she ignored him. “Arjay, why don’t you chat up young Master Hampton a bit?”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, I shall warm him up for you, get his juices flowing. You can have a beer with him and tell him some stories about filmmaking. Tell him about your triumph, The Night of the Tiger.” She gave him one of her delighted laughs. “He’ll be interested if only because I starred, if you’ll recall.”

  “You’ve recounted it so often, how could I forget?”

  Venita slid to the door and took Jugnu’s proffered hand. He helped her out of the vehicle. She barely came to his armpit, he was so large. Glancing up at him, she said, “I think I should like a massage, Jugnu. Prepare everything.”

  He bowed slightly in acknowledgment. Venita moved past him, heading for the house. Even before she reached the double doors, one swung open. Cala, the shriveled, toothless maid Venita had brought from India, admitted her. Venita breezed past her, pausing on her way through the house at the entrance to the family room. Troy Hampton was seated on the floor cross-legged and watching a video of one of her films on the large-screen TV. That pleased her immensely.

  Troy had a man’s body, but his manner and image were more that of a boy—the jeans and white T-shirt, the Armani sunglasses pushed up into his bleached hair. His face was narrow and dominated by large blue eyes and dark lashes. His mouth, the slight fullness of his lips, gave him a pouty air. Though Venita had always been partial to men rather than boys, there was something about the lad she found quite stimulating. Perhaps it was because at thirty-six, she was getting to an age where younger men had their charms.

  “Troy, my darling,” she said, “how fortunate you’re here.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. “Hey, Venita.”

  “We’ve just come from your mother’s home.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Come with me for a walk in the garden and I’ll tell you about it. Oh, you might wish to stop the tape there, my darling. You’ll fancy the next scene. It’s very sensuous.”

  Troy gave her a rakish smirk, apparently confident that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Venita found it odd how in some relationships one was as much the hunted as the hunter. The symmetry in that appealed to her. She, after all, had her needs. It was not always enough to be goddess to others.

  Troy got to his feet, and she examined his body as he came toward her. He was a fine specimen. He had talent, a
s well, but only a modicum. The role of Llewellyn would be a stretch for him, and she might have to cast him in a lesser role before all was said and done, but for now, until they had his father’s money, he was her star.

  Troy savored the spicy richness of her perfume, the way she lightly bumped up against him as they walked toward the sunroom. Venita was exotic and she turned him on. Her mysterious nature appealed to him. What he wasn’t sure of was whether she was coming on to him, or if she was just a flirt.

  The thing was, he didn’t want to misread her. Troy knew that actors nearly always wanted attention, to be worshiped even, and sex was often part of the mix. God knew, it was that way with him. But Venita and Amal had given him a fantastic opportunity and he didn’t want to blow it. The thing to do, he’d decided, was to take his cue from her.

  The only indication she might have romantic thoughts was a remark she’d made about being closer to his mother’s age than to his. Why would she have said that unless she was thinking of being with him? And she hadn’t been trying to discourage him, because her body language, her looks, all said the opposite.

  When they entered the sunroom, Venita stopped. “Oh my, the sun’s still quite bright out in the garden. I’ll just have Cala fetch a parasol. Cala!” she called.

  The shriveled little servant, her skin dark as mahogany, came running. Venita and Amal always spoke to her in Hindu, or whatever the language was. Cala knew no English but “please” and “thank you,” so everything else she said was unintelligible to Troy. She couldn’t have been more than four foot ten and was so thin that she looked as though she could be carried away by a good stiff breeze. Venita had explained that Cala was a necessary member of the household, if only to clean the toilets, for Cala was an untouchable and no Indian of a higher class would deign to clean a toilet. Certainly not a Brahman such as Venita, who would die before she’d come in contact with a toilet brush. “Why not hire a cleaning lady?” Troy had asked.

  “It’s not just the cleaning of the toilet that’s important,” Venita explained. “It’s also who in fact does it that matters. I want someone like Cala cleaning my toilet, changing my bed linen, doing my wash. I know that sounds strange, but some things simply can’t be explained. But before you look down your nose, there are things about your culture that we find curious, as well.”