by Lee Goldberg
CHAPTER FOUR
There was no way Esther Radcliffe was setting foot in a Winnebago. Even though the studio called it a dressing room, as far as she was concerned it was still a mobile home. Economy-size coffins for the living dead. Tin cans for the sardines of humanity. There wasn't a more heinous pairing of words in the English language.
Mobile home. The words immediately evoked images of TV dinners and Barcaloungers. Wink Martindale and Kmart. Fast food and slow death. Trailer parks with names like Sunny Acres, Paradise Pines, and Valley Vista collecting like weeds along the freeways of America. The white-trash Beverly Hills.
She hadn't worked all her life to set herself apart from them just to end up in a mobile home herself. That would have been the ultimate indignity.
So she made the studio fork out half a million dollars on her dressing room—a Greyhound bus converted into an estate that just happened to be on wheels. Pity the losers retreating to their Formica and vinyl boxes. Between scenes she retired to opulence that rivalled her own home. With her brass fixtures and marble countertops, Persian rugs and mahogany paneling, no one would mistake her dressing room for a mobile home.
But right now the most noticeable feature of her dressing room was not the Hockney on the wall or the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. It was the plain manila envelope propped up in a chair like a bored guest.
She saw it the moment she came in. She didn't have to open it to know what was inside, but she did anyway. A dozen eight-by-ten photos that could have been a Penthouse spread on sexual positions. Or a Playgirl tribute to the male sex organ.
Only the limber lass cavorting with the endowed stud wasn't some airbrushed centerfold beauty. It was Esther. Her immediate reaction to the photos was always the same. First came pride. She looked fucking incredible. Was it any wonder this Adonis, thirty years younger than she, was hard enough to cut diamonds? Hell no. She was, and always had been, a spectacular lover and a devastating beauty. Esther was half tempted to ask for blowups. The photos should be published the world over, so men could dream of having her and women could dream of being her. Even Madonna could learn a few things.
After three or four minutes of self-adulation came the deadlier reaction. The one that stayed with her through all her waking hours. The one that gnawed at her like some ravenous parasite. The one that motivated her to do terrible things to innocent people. Rage.
Sharon Stone could be caught giving three guys blowjobs at the same time and it would only make her more popular. Madonna could fuck a horse and it wouldn't hurt her career. But get a snapshot of kindly Miss Agatha holding a man's face between her legs, and civilization would come to an end. Certainly her career would. Other stars could fuck and be admired for it, but not her. It was grossly, horribly, unspeakably unfair, an inequity made all the more unbearable because it had a price tag. Each roll of film cost her $50,000 in small bills stuffed into a canvas Pinnacle Studios tour bag.
This was the third time the blackmailer had asked for $50,000 and it was going to be the last. She knew damn well who was doing this to her.
Charlie Willis.
It had to be him. The photos started showing up as soon as he arrived on the lot. It wasn't enough that the studio gave him a series. He had to soak her, too.
Well, that was going to end. The same way it began.
She was envisioning her revenge when there was a knock on her door. Esther stuck the photos in a drawer and sat down in one of her Pierre Deux upholstered chairs.
"Enter," she commanded.
The door opened and Boyd Hartnell tentatively stuck his celerystalk head in. "I hope we aren't disturbing you, Esther."
"We?" she asked imperiously.
"Yes, I've got Sabrina with me. She's very eager to meet you." Boyd stepped in, expecting a vase or a knife to come sailing his way at any moment. "You've been her idol for—" He caught himself before he could make a fatal reference to her age. "—for obvious reasons," he stammered. "You're an inspiration to actresses everywhere."
When Boyd had told Esther she was getting a co-star, and that there was nothing she could do or say about it, the old crone went crazy—destroyed everything in Boyd's office. He had to hide under the desk as if riding out the Big One. Now he had no idea what she would do. He certainly didn't expect what came next.
Esther broke into the warm, grandmotherly smile that made Miss Agatha welcome in millions of living rooms. "Well, don't leave her standing there in that heat. Bring her right in. Let me give you both a nice glass of iced tea."
Boyd stepped in and motioned outside to Sabrina, who stood a few feet away, staring at the cavernous soundstage as if it were the Vatican. She had finally arrived. This wasn't another crummy refurbished warehouse in Van Nuys or Valencia, this was a real studio where real shows were made. Where professionals plied their craft in an atmosphere of mutual respect. Where nobodies become international stars. Her nipples were already stiffening on their own.
She turned to the Greyhound bus, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. Her agent had warned her about Esther Radcliffe. But could this old lady be any worse than the predatory, drooling pack of producers, agents, and has-been actors she'd survived already?
Sabrina was expecting the Tasmanian Devil in drag—she wasn't prepared for the kindly grandmother who greeted them, pouring two tall glasses of iced tea from an enormous, frosty pitcher.
"Have a refreshing glass of tea, darling, you look positively blanched." Esther handed Sabrina the glass and gave her a quick once-over. All pert and pretty in a short-sleeved, white T-shirt and vest. Long-legged and slim in faded blue jeans. Baring her perfect boobs on film hadn't hurt her any.
"Thank you very much, Miss Radcliffe." Sabrina took the glass and smiled. "That's very kind of you."
"I can't have my niece fainting from sunstroke." Esther gave Boyd his glass of tea. "You didn't tell me she was so sweet. Shame on you, Boyd."
There was no way Boyd was drinking anything Esther handed him. He tried to think of a way to warn Sabrina.
"We appreciate the tea, but you know it's not a good idea to drink something so cold immediately after coming in from the heat," Boyd said. "I read that somewhere."
"Nonsense," Esther said to Boyd, her eyes flashing, for just a moment, with the malice he knew thrived in her soul. But when she turned to Sabrina again, Esther was angelic, harmless Miss Agatha.
"Next thing you know, he'll say fresh-baked cookies are bad for you, too. I just made a batch, if you'd like some."
What a nice woman, Sabrina thought. It figures. Hollywood is run by men, so naturally they are scared to death of a woman with power, even when it's a gentle lady like Esther Radcliffe. Of course, they had to portray her as a queen bitch or face their own fears of impotence. Someday, Sabrina hoped, she'd be popular enough that the men in charge felt so threatened they'd concoct ridiculous stories about her.
"No thank you," Sabrina said. "I'm trying to watch my weight."
I bet you are, you little slut, Esther thought. But she said, "Oh, isn't she darling." She smiled at Sabrina. "I am so happy you're going to be on the show. Finally, I'll have someone to share girl talk with. We are going to have a marvellous time."
"I'm certainly looking forward to it," Sabrina said. "I've been a fan of yours since I was a little girl."
Boyd winced. Sabrina didn't know it, but she had just committed suicide—and without even taking a sip of her drink. It was bad enough Esther had to share the screen with a young beauty, but he knew Esther couldn't stand being reminded she was an old bag by comparison. Esther would ruin her. Then Sabrina had to go and make it worse.
"I can't believe I'll actually be working with you. It's like a dream come true. When I was six, I adored you as Sally Sweetcake. I wanted to grow up and live with you, and Santa, and all your cartoon elves," Sabrina said, recalling with genuine fondness Esther's famous role as Santa's happy-go-lucky, singing nanny in the Disney classic. "And now here I am."
Esther loathed the part, a
nd had been trying to escape it, without success, her entire career. But instead of choking the life out of the little bimbo, Esther surprised herself and Boyd by feigning bashful pride. "I'm so glad."
"Of course, I didn't think I'd be wearing black leather and delivering judo chops." Sabrina giggled. It was an infectious, joyous burst of laughter that endeared most people to her immediately. Boyd was instantly aroused, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by Esther. She saw the pathetic bump in his trousers. A ball of cotton could make a bigger impression. Esther was aroused, too, but in a very different way. Sabrina's innocent laugh made Esther want to grind her thumbs into the bitch's blue eyes until they squished.
"Well, sweetheart, I want you to think of me, on screen and off, as your loving Aunt Agatha," Esther said. "If you have any problems getting settled in, or you just want to have a slice of homemade pecan pie, drop by and see me."
Sabrina glanced down at her glass. Oh shit, Boyd thought. He had to think of a way to stop her from drinking whatever hell brew the witch had cooked up in her cauldron.
"Thank you, Miss Radcliffe," Sabrina said. "I'll do that." Sabrina was bringing the glass to her full red lips when Boyd came up with a solution.
"Well, we'd better run along, the producers are expecting us." He stepped forward as if to set his glass down. Instead, he purposely stumbled, falling forward into Sabrina and spilling his drink, and her own, all over her T-shirt.
Sabrina shrieked as the cold tea touched her skin. The wet cotton became almost translucent, clinging to her breasts like Saran Wrap, her large, round nipples drawing into tight, sharp points.
The view wasn't lost on Boyd or Esther. He wanted to pull her wet shirt off and dry her breasts with his tongue. Esther discovered a body even she had to admit was better than her own. "Oh, Christ." Boyd reached for a towel, but Esther grabbed it first. "I'm terribly sorry." Meaning that he didn't get to the towel first. That he didn't have a chance to use it as a cheap excuse to fondle Sabrina's fantastic breasts. That he wasn't born with a wondrous mane of hair.
"No, don't apologize," Sabrina said. "Miss Radcliffe was right, the tea's very refreshing."
Sabrina laughed again, like a gleeful child, not an ounce of scorn or anger in her. Boyd and Esther had an epiphany just then. Boyd knew he had to have her. And Esther knew Sabrina had to die.
# # #
Andre Blauson didn't struggle through Le Cordon Bleu to end up slinging burgers at a movie studio commissary and preparing steaks for Boo Boo, the sitcom dog. Then again, he never foresaw a glut of first-class chefs and a dearth of high-class restaurants to employ them.
The good old eighties were over. Extravagant excess was harder and harder to find. With Reagan gone, Milken in a halfway house, and leveraged buyouts bankrupting America, there were fewer and fewer people who could pay $26 for a dinner salad and $50 for a hamburger. Where trendy French bistros and Italian trattorias once dotted Melrose and Ventura, Burger Kings and El Pollo Locos had taken their places.
So now Andre worked at Pinnacle Studios, merging his culinary creativity with assembly-line food service. And, of course, preparing special meals for the exacting tastes of individual stars. Like the steak tartare for Boo Boo, a particularly finicky eater with a nasty temper.
But rather than feel humbled by his unfortunate position, Andre considered what he was doing a shrewd political move. The people he served here were, ultimately, the people who would make or break a fine restaurant. If he could ever launch another one. Here, he had a captive audience comprised of the rich, the famous, the influential, and, including Boo Boo, the canine. The elite of Los Angeles social life. By dressing up their hamburgers and calling them Hachis de Boeuf Dijonnais au Saint Amour, he was making invaluable connections. An investment in the future. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to ogle some of America's most attractive women.
Which is what he was doing right now.
Sabrina Bishop stood before him in only her vest and jeans, a script under her bare arm, her nose crinkled in thought as she surveyed his luncheon offerings. Without a T-shirt, her tan skin and deep cleavage tantalizingly revealed by the plunging lines of the vest, she was positively intoxicating.
"How may I serve you, mademoiselle?" he asked her cleavage.
She smiled and surprised him with: "Mes seins voudraient seulement de la salade verte avec des crevettes, si'l vous plait." Which meant her breasts would like a shrimp salad, please.
Red-faced, Andre turned to prepare her meal.
"If you don't want them noticed, you ought to wear some underwear," said a voice beside her. She turned to see Charlie Willis holding a tray.
"You speak French?" she asked.
"No, but I've seen a lot of dirty French movies," Charlie replied. "Want to hear what else I learned?"
Andre unceremoniously dropped her salad plate on her tray with a curt "Merci." When he got his own restaurant again, there was one starlet who wasn't going to get a good table, unless she wanted to be seated in the bathroom.
"It was an accident," she mumbled to Charlie. "Boyd Hartnell splashed a glass of iced tea on my shirt."
"I know Mophead, and I guarantee you it was no accident," Charlie said.
She headed for the cash register, Charlie a step or two behind her. But before she reached the machine she turned to face him, a tinge of anger in her cheeks. "But what would be wrong if I was proud of my body and wanted to show it? Does that justify someone talking to my breasts instead of to me?"
Charlie thought about it for a moment. "Yeah."
Despite herself, Sabrina smiled and glanced down at her outfit. So did he. "I suppose you're right." She looked up again and shrugged. "I didn't think anybody would notice. I mean, the lot is fun of shows, full of actors. There are people dressed like hookers, Vikings, bums, hideous monsters. What's one woman without a shirt?"
"An eyeful," Charlie said.
When they reached the register, Charlie pulled out his wallet. "Allow me, ma'am."
Ma'am? " It seemed to her he didn't even notice he said it. If it didn't sound so genuine, so natural, she wouldn't have found it charming. She would have thought he was a putz. "You don't have to do that."
"It's my way of welcoming you to Pinnacle Studios." Charlie pulled out a few dollars and handed them to the cashier. "Or as the French say, bienvenue. "
He held out his hand. "Charlie Willis."
She shook it. "Glad to meet you, Charlie." Her skin was unbelievably soft, yet her handshake was surprisingly firm. "I'm Sabrina Bishop."
"You are new here, aren't you?"
"My first day." She picked up her tray and sought out a table. Charlie followed, amused and attracted. There was something childlike about her and yet, at the same time, tough and experienced. It was a heady combination, especially combined with that body, her casual sexiness. No need for makeup or special effects to make her look good.
"Let me guess," he said. "D girl."
She whirled around, shocked, but before she could cut his head off, he said, "D girl, not D cup. I knew I shouldn't have said it. I'm kind of new around here, too. Fact is, I just learned the word today myself. It's slang for development executive who happens to be a pretty woman. I saw the script under your arm and took a guess."
"You're forgiven." She sat down at a table by the window. "I just joined the cast of Miss Agatha."
Charlie nearly dropped his tray, which would have sent a Hachis de Boeuf Dijonnais flying into her bosom, but he recovered just in time. He took a seat across from her as she set her script down on the table. The episode was titled Agatha's Niece.
''You must have a death wish." Charlie glanced at the script.
''That's what everybody keeps telling me," Sabrina said. "I don't get it. She's such a sweet lady. I think people are simply terrified by a successful woman."
Charlie picked up his hamburger. "She's a lunatic. Believe me, I know."
"Of course you do," she said good-naturedly. "You're a man."
Charlie was about
to take a bite, but suddenly lost his appetite. He set the burger down and looked at Sabrina. The oath he once took to protect and to serve didn't lapse because he'd turned in his badge. At least, it didn't feel as if it had. He couldn't let Sabrina walk blindly into danger. So he reached down and began untucking his shirt.
Sabrina, curious, raised an eyebrow. "You always undress before you eat?"
"I wasn't always an actor."
"I didn't know you were an actor."
"I'm the star of My Gun Has Bullets," he said. "But for fifteen years, I was a uniformed police officer in Beverly Hills."
That explains the ma'am, she thought. "So you took acting classes at night, did some equity waiver in your spare time, and it finally paid off?"
"No, I just did my job, went home at night, got up the next morning, and did my job again." Charlie pulled off his shirt and handed it to Sabrina. "Here, the shirt off my back."
Sabrina laughed. Charlie's actions were attracting looks from all over the commissary. "I can't."
"You wouldn't be the first woman to take it," Charlie said, his chest bared. "You can put it on later. Truth is, it belongs to the studio anyway. Which brings me to my point."
"This noble act of chivalry wasn't the point?"
Charlie stood up so she could see his stomach. He pointed to the scar. "This is how I became an actor."
She glanced at his body, her eyes pausing on the scar, and then she shrugged. "Don't take this personally, those are nice pecs, but you're not Arnold Schwarzenegger. I'm not even sure you're Don Adams."
She wanted to let more than her eyes wander his body, but she wasn't going to let him know that. Sabrina had writhed around with so many perfect bodies on screen, she found imperfection far more attractive. The fact he wasn't hard-bodied, and that he had a scar, only made him more desirable. That, and his surprising chivalry.
Charlie sat down, leaned toward her, and spoke in a low voice. "Esther Radcliffe shot me."
Sabrina just looked at him. "Excuse me?"
