Glamour Puss

by R. J. Kaiser

  Looking in the rearview mirror, Troy could see it was a Toyota. The driver appeared to be alone. Troy got out of the car and walked back. The window on the driver’s side of the car slid down. Troy saw the smiling face of a man in his late thirties to early forties. He was dark-complected, but didn’t appear to be Indian—more a person of mixed race.

  “Evening, mate,” he said cheerily.

  Troy came up beside the car. “What are you following me for?”

  “Actually, I’d like a word with you, if you don’t mind, Mr. Hampton. You are Troy Hampton, are you not?”

  “Yes, who are you?”

  “The name’s Gaylord. Percy Gaylord.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “I’m a journalist. A freelance journalist. Working on a story about your friends, Amal Kory and Venita Kumar. Thought perhaps I could ask a few questions. Buy you a cup of coffee?”

  Troy shook his head. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”

  “It appears you’re headed up to Venita’s place now.”

  “What if I am?”

  “My sources tell me that you and Miss Kumar are romantically involved, mate. Is that true?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

  “Perhaps it’s not, quite right. But my readers do have a keen interest in the lady and all the people in her life.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you,” Troy said, starting to turn away.

  “You’ve been seen with one of the most famous women in India and you have nothing to say?” Gaylord called after him.

  “That’s right,” Troy said over his shoulder.

  “Would you have a comment on the rumors about Miss Kumar circulating back in India?”

  Troy stopped. “What rumors?”

  Gaylord seemed pleased to have piqued his interest.

  “She hasn’t mentioned Ramda Bol to you then?”

  Troy wasn’t sure whether to ask who Ramda Bol was. Judging by the man’s tone, the association was nothing to be proud of. Troy opted for being vague. “No comment.”

  “No comment on one of the biggest scandals in modern Indian history?”

  “That’s right, no comment.”

  “Do you have a comment on Amal Kory, perhaps?”

  “What kind of comment?”

  “Out of curiosity, mate, have you ever seen this chap Kory’s papers?”

  “Papers?”

  “His identification, passport, whatever.”

  “No, why would I?”

  “Just curious, that’s all. Mr. Kory’s the reclusive sort. Seems odd he’d turn up in such a high-profile place as Hollywood.”

  Troy realized he best keep his mouth shut, at least until he’d had a chance to talk to Venita. “You’d have to talk to Amal about that.”

  “Right you are, governor. You are going up to see Mr. Kory and Miss Kumar now, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Capital. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to pass along a message. Please tell them that Percy Gaylord is in town and that he’d fancy an interview.”

  “Sure, I can tell them.”

  “Thanks ever so, Mr. Hampton. And when you do speak to Amal, tell him his fans in India will be happy to hear he’s alive and well and enjoying himself in America.”

  Troy gave Gaylord a quizzical look, not understanding.

  “I think he’ll get my point,” Gaylord explained. “And please tell Venita I’ll give her a jingle.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hampton, since we’re chatting, would you mind a photograph?”

  “Huh?”

  Before Troy knew what was happening, Percy Gaylord produced a camera and snapped a picture, the flash going off in his face. Troy recoiled.

  “Cheerio!” Gaylord said, and the window next to him slid up. He grinned through the glass and started the engine.

  Troy went back to his car and Percy Gaylord drove off, giving him a little wave as he went by. Unsure of what the hell had just happened, Troy drove up the hill to Venita’s.

  “Don’t worry about it, my dear,” Venita told him after listening to his account of his meeting with Percy Gaylord. “You handled him perfectly. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Who is he, Venita?”

  “Percy Gaylord is a major pain in the ass, if I may be blunt. He basically stirs up trouble in hopes of making news of it. Sells his garbage to the British tabloids and to the Indian papers as well. He’s all charm on the surface, but in truth he’s a snake, a dreadful man.”

  “Is he English or Indian?”

  “Both. English father who lived his entire life in India and a Scots great-grandfather on his mother’s side. The rest of his ancestors are Indian. Got the worst of both races, to be frank. If he should approach you again, Troy, don’t even speak with him.”

  “That’s no problem.”

  She smiled appreciatively.

  They were in the front room. Venita still had the roses Troy had brought her cradled in her arms. She smiled confidently, but Troy sensed she’d been shaken. He hadn’t even mentioned the Ramda Bol scandal Gaylord had alluded to, thinking it was best to bring up one thing at a time. But it seemed like a good time to mention it now, so he did.

  Venita looked at him with a sober, if not icy, expression. “What, exactly, did Percy say about Ramda?”

  “Nothing much except that it was the biggest scandal in the modern history of India.”

  “That bloody sot. What a gasbag.”

  “I really have no idea what it’s about,” Troy told her in full innocence, “and it’s none of my business.”

  “Maybe you should hear about it. With Percy scandal-mongering, it’s bound to come out. I’d rather tell you myself. The whole affair is of little consequence outside India, though I grant you it was a cause ce´le`bre there. It was a political scandal, Troy, and I got sucked into it. Not completely blamelessly, I admit. You see, I had an affair with a man named Ramda Bol. That is not particularly newsworthy in itself, apart from gossip value, but there was one small problem. Ramda happens to be the son-in-law of the prime minister and a rising politician in his own right.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Actually, love, you probably don’t, but I shall enlighten you. It’s not particularly unusual for a man of power to take a celebrated film star for a lover. We did, after all, move in the same rarefied circles in Delhi. What was unusual was that the wife and her father’s political henchmen chose to make a stink about it. Soon the whole bloody business became grist for the press’s mill. Percy Gaylord was one of the most insistent and bloody dishonest of the lot. There was more fiction than fact in the stories that appeared in the papers. It was truly disgusting and, frankly, I soon had my fill of it. The timing was such that Amal and I, having laid our plans for America, decided to come straightaway. I was happy to take my leave of the lot and let them consume one another. I hate politics, Troy, and shall never get involved with another politician again, not so long as I live.”

  “What’s Gaylord doing in L.A.?”

  “I suspect he’s come in hopes of getting a rejoinder to some charge or accusation leveled against me, but I shan’t give them the satisfaction. I’m through with that bloody business.”

  “I’m sorry you have to put up with it.”

  “Oh,” she said dismissively, “the price of fame requires a very strong stomach. But enough of that. I really can’t be bothered.” She smelled her roses. “Allow me a few minutes, Troy. I want to have Cala put these lovely flowers in a vase. And I shall need a word with Amal. He’s no fan of Percy Gaylord and needs to be put on the alert. Why don’t you fix yourself a drink. I should only be a few minutes.”

  “No problem.”

  Troy watched her go. Venita was cool as a cucumber, but his news had shaken her. Whether there was more to the story, he didn’t know, but it was nice to know Venita had an Achilles heel. God knows, he had his own vulnerabilities. In his limited experience, he’d learned that
it was best when neither partner had a decided advantage. He’d also learned it was good to have a little dirt on one’s lover. As he thought about it, maybe he’d been a bit too quick to send Percy Gaylord away.

  Venita moved through the house with all the grace she could muster. The mere fact that Percy mentioned Amal proved he was onto her, and that meant she was dead— they both were. Her mind spinning, she found Cala and gave her the flowers. “And where is Arjay? In his room?”

  Cala told her that he was in the pool.

  Venita went to the sunroom, then out onto the terrace. A full moon illuminated the yard, and she was able to see Arjay doing slow, rhythmic strokes, leisurely moving from one end of the pool to the other. He liked to swim at night, then do his yoga and read. He rarely took much supper, taking his main meal in the afternoon, between lunch and tea.

  “Arjay,” Venita called, marching up to the edge of the pool, the fabric of her sari billowing in the breeze. “I need a word with you. Arjay!”

  He stopped swimming and faced her, treading water, his gray hair scalloped bangs across his broad forehead. “Must it be now, my dear, in the middle of my training?”

  “Yes, it must. We have a crisis and it must be dealt with promptly.”

  Arjay waded to the ladder and climbed from the pool. He was naked, his dark skin glistening in the moonlight. As he reached for his robe lying on a deck chair, Venita turned away out of respect, though she felt little true respect for the man—admiration for his acting ability and chutzpah, perhaps, but not genuine respect. In a minute, Arjay, swathed in terry, joined her.

  “What urgent crisis has befallen us?” he asked, sounding somehow like a man forced to deal with tedium.

  Venita motioned toward the umbrella table and they sat in the cushioned chairs. She crossed her legs and lay her arm on the table. She promptly began drumming her nails on the glass. “Percy Gaylord is in town,” she said. “And he wants to talk.”

  His brows rose. “Bloody hell.”

  “Yes, bloody hell, indeed.”

  Holmby Hills

  “You know what, Manuela?” Mike O’Gill said. “You fuck every bit as well as you dance.”

  “Thanks, Mike.”

  “That’s a sincere compliment.”

  “And it was a sincere thanks.”

  Mike was lying on his “Olympic-size” water bed, which filled most of his large master bedroom. He was naked and looking like a beached whale. Not the prettiest sight she’d ever seen, but there was no denying the guy had a hell of a sex drive, even if he always looked like he was going to blow a gasket when he came.

  “You’re going to kill yourself someday, Mike,” she’d told him. “You really got to lose weight.”

  “Did you have a good time, Manuela?”

  “Yeah, I had a good time.”

  “Then don’t worry about me, okay?”

  Mike always let a girl be on top, which was a good thing because if he was on top, a girl could get killed. Actually he wasn’t a bad guy, just oversexed. He was only thirty-seven and had a handsome face. Just fat. He did have pretty blue eyes and curly blond hair that, as one of the girls said, made him look like a Roman emperor, whatever that meant.

  “I’m having a party Friday night,” he told her. “After your shift, why don’t you come over and join the fun?” Mike’s parties were really orgies. She’d seen as many as seven or eight people on the water bed at one time. Mike loved it.

  Manuela got up from the bed and went into the bathroom to wash herself off. When she came back, Mike was eating grapes from a bowl on the bed next to his huge pink-and-white body—that had something to do with emperors, too.

  “You taking off, then?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah, but let me ask you something,” she said. “What would I have to do for you to get you to loan me ten thousand dollars?”

  “Ten grand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hell, be my sex slave for life.”

  “Seriously.”

  “What do you need ten thousand for, Manuela? A new car?”

  “No, I want to pay to have somebody killed.”

  Mike O’Gill threw back his head and laughed. He popped a couple more grapes in his mouth and a couple of cookies from the bag on the other side of him. “That’s rich,” he said.

  “What would I have to do?” she asked.

  Mike got a half-serious look on his face. “I don’t know. You obviously don’t like the sex-slave idea.”

  “How about for three months?”

  “You serious?”

  “I need the money, Mike.”

  “Let me think about it and we’ll talk, okay?”

  Manuela beamed and started getting dressed. The whole time she was humping him, she’d been thinking about it. Getting the money was very important to her, especially after her conversation with Angel.

  “Say, I want Mac and his girlfriend dead,” she’d said to her brother. “What will it cost me?”

  Angel, who’d been lying on the sofa cleaning his fingernails with his pocketknife, looked up at her and said, “Ten each.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Killing somebody’s not like washing a car.”

  “Promise you won’t hit me, Angel?”

  Her brother glanced up, his brow creasing with a deep furrow. “What?”

  “Promise?”

  “Okay, I promise. What?”

  “That day I went to Mac’s and he told me he didn’t want me. You know when I mean?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, I lied to you. Mac fucked me first.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did. Swear to God.”

  “How come you said he didn’t?”

  “Because I knew you’d kill him and I didn’t want you to…then. But I changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I seen them together this morning.”

  Angel’s face turned all red and, thinking he was about to explode, she took half a step backward. But he didn’t get up and pop her. “This true?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Angel’s face got still more red and the muscles in his jaw started to twitch. “I won’t kill the sonovabitch for nothing,” he said, “if that’s what you’re thinking, because I’d need enough money to go away for a while.”

  “How much?”

  He thought for a minute. “Ten for the both of them.”

  “Can you do it so nobody will know who?”

  “Do I look like some kind of idiot? What do you think? That I’d leave my name on the bodies?”

  “No, I know you’re a professional. When can you do it?”

  “When can you have the money?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” her brother said. “I like to do these things when I’m really pissed.”

  Manuela had finished dressing, and Mike, having finished off the cookies, crumpled the sack and tossed it toward the wastebasket across the room. He missed.

  “So, when can you tell me when I can have the money?” she asked him.

  He frowned. “Eager beaver, aren’t you?”

  “It’s important, Mike.”

  “We’re talking a loan?”

  “How about fifty-fifty? I’ll pay you back half and work off the rest.”

  “Like doing what?”

  “Like I do you and your brother at the same time.” That was something none of the girls ever wanted to do because Mike’s brother, Arnold, was just as big as Mike and not as nice. Besides, a person could get killed doing both of them.

  Mike’s brows rose with delight. “We definitely have to talk, Manuela.”

  “What’s the soonest for the money, Mike?”

  He considered her question. “How about you stay late Tuesday night. Arnold will be here. If things go well, you can have it then.”

  “Okay, fine. Can you give me cash?”

  “Ten thousand in green? That can be arranged, I guess
.”

  Manuela blew him a kiss. “Bye, Mike.” She headed for the door.

  “Love your moves, babe.”

  She waved goodbye over her shoulder, only then aware how sore she was. Screwing Mike was a chore, and she could see she would have a lot more of it to put up with. God, did she ever hate Mac McGowan. He’d taken her happiness and given her this.

  Monday, August 28, 2000

  Pacific Palisades

  For the first time in months, Venita dreamed of her husband, Ranjit Govind. But she awoke next to her twenty-year-old American lover, Troy Hampton. That was hardly the story of the typical Indian woman, modern or otherwise. Ranjit was her past, the father-husband who had defined her world and made her a queen—fashioned from his own imagination and will. But then he’d died and Venita’s life had begun its gradual decent into infamy. Perhaps the Hindu wives of old who’d practiced sati, climbing upon their husbands’ funeral pyres, knew what they were doing. Perhaps the British, in abolishing the custom, had done the Indian widows no favors. What, after all, was a few minutes of agony in the flames compared to the water-torture life of a woman struggling to make it alone in a man’s world?

  Of course, Venita hadn’t bowed to the will of the vengeful male gods. She’d bid Ranjit farewell, and then gone on to pursue her dreams. Ramda Bol, unfortunately, had proven to be a grave mistake, a dream become a night-mare—a nightmare presently in the guise of Percy Gay-lord.

  From the moment Troy had uttered Percy’s name, Venita figured the game was over. All that remained was to plan her exit. There was no way she could hold things together with Percy trumpeting her story. Once he’d gotten to the bottom of the Arjay-Amal business—if, indeed, he hadn’t already—all of Hollywood would see her as a fraud.

  What she couldn’t absolutely be sure of, though, was what Percy was really up to. Like most journalists, he loved dirt—anything to feed the prurient minds of the reading public. And, like most journalists, Percy would gladly—cheerfully, even—provide the necessary corpses to feed the dogs.