DARK THRILLERS-A Box Set of Suspense Novels (33 page)

"Brad's not going to tell you," Jan said. "You can't push him too far."

"That bastard! I've made more money for him than fifteen of his other clients put together. He owes me." Olivia pulled her peach silk negligee closed over her bosom as if shielding herself from invisible attack.

She could see outside double leaded-glass windows. In the blue wash from the neighborhood streetlights and the rising moon, palm fronds swayed gently in a breeze. Shadows from the palms danced over the softly lighted swimming pool and the terrazzo deck surrounding it. She hated swimming. The pool came with the house.

"Cam made them promise not to tell." Jan had that pleading look, the one she used on Olivia whenever it appeared things were about to get out of hand.

"That fucking Cam." Then Olivia smiled. "I love the hell out of him. Who would have put me in this part, but him?"

"You see? There's a lot to be grateful for. If you can't get Brad to tell you about the script, at least you've got the best part in the film."

"Film!" Olivia spat the word, making it sound like something nasty. "That's what Cam does—films. Know what he said in an interview about Quentin?"

"I can't imagine." Jan shifted the valise of papers on her lap. Fan letters, attorneys' inquiries, stock option reports.

"He said Quentin does movies, which is a far different thing from making films. He insulted him right there in print. One director bitching out another before God and everybody. That's what I love about this town; it eats its young."

Jan smiled at this, agreeing silently. She sat waiting patiently. Olivia knew she was eager to get on with the day's work that sat on her lap, but she'd listen for as long as required. It was part of the job. There were other considerations, too. They had recently slept together, just to get it out of the way. It took years to be honest about the sexual attraction between them and they both thought they should do it and see what happened. Now Olivia only turned to Jan for physical affection if she couldn't find a willing male, but Jan hadn't an ounce of jealousy in her. Sometimes, though she couldn't prove it and didn't possess any real evidence other than the finger-walking creepy feeling up her back, Olivia suspected the other woman of watching when there was a man in her bed.

Which, if it were true, was a turn on.

"So you don't think Brad can be pried open?" she asked Jan again, thinking of the script and wishing, wishing, wishing, she could see the whole thing, all the scenes.

"Not even if you blow him."

Olivia laughed. "That's what I like about you, Jan, how you come right out with my deepest thoughts and most desperate plans." Jan knew she did not find her agent attractive. He wore his gut like a fat belly belt made of diamonds.

Olivia gestured to the valise. "What do I have to sign tonight?" She was tired from the shooting and tomorrow, at dawn, they were going on location again, "somewhere out in L.A." Cam had told them, enjoying the mystery, getting a kick out of keeping them ignorant of the shooting schedule.

Jan had graduated from the University of Iowa in business administration. She'd married an actor wannabe who hauled her off to Hollywood, then promptly dumped her. Olivia had met her at one of the ex-husband's amateur plays where Olivia had gone to pick up another friend, a new, hot producer of teen ghoul movies. They had invited Jan to dinner afterward and hearing of her woes, Olivia had asked if she'd like to handle some personal business. She'd hired her within the month when it was clear the woman was a true find. Honest, hardworking, and most of all, loyal.

Jan shuffled through the papers, telling Olivia what was there and what she was supposed to do with it. Without Jan, Olivia would have had to hire four or five knowledgeable business people to advise her. Like the hot director, Quentin Tarantino, whose "movies" were muscling in on Cam's "film" reputation, Olivia had not gone beyond the ninth grade in school. She couldn't spell, she didn't know how to protect herself from the hounding of fans, and she had to depend on Jan to make sure she kept part of her earnings put away in the stock market for a rainy day.

Sure, she had an accountant, two attorneys, a business manager, an investment counselor—a retinue of handsomely paid guard dogs handling her career and income, but it was Jan who was the pipeline. They all moved the paper through her to save Olivia the trouble of meeting with ten different people.

For the next half hour Olivia half listened to Jan summarizing the paperwork while quickly signing sheet after sheet and studio publicity photos to send off to her fan club president to distribute to the fans who wrote asking for a picture of the star.

When finished, she shook her wrist to get out the cramp. "While I'm working on Pure," she said, referring to Cam's film, "maybe we can do this once a week instead of every night. It tires me out too much."

Jan looked doubtful. "It'll pile up. It'll take you longer to catch up."

"I don't give a damn. I can't be bothered with this stuff all the time. Don't nag me."

"Whatever you say. We'll make it once a week, then."

The telephone rang. Jan rose, folding closed the valise and setting it aside in the chair she vacated. She answered, looking over at Olivia. She said, "Hold on, let me check."

"Who?" Olivia asked. "It's late." It was eight PM. She would be asleep by nine. It had been some years since she could stay up partying all night and still do any kind of decent job on a set the next day.

Jan covered the receiver with one hand. "Karl. He says it's important."

"Gimme." Olivia held out her hand for the receiver. She always had time for Karl LaRosa. Jan scooped up the valise in her arms and left the bedroom for her office on the other side of the house where she'd sort through the papers for the next day's mail.

"Hi, baby!" Olivia's face brightened in anticipation.

"Olivia, I'm sorry to bother you, but I have to know something. Did you get in my house and leave me a note?"

Olivia glanced at the door closing behind Jan. "Why would I do a thing like that?"

"Someone did. You gave me back the key, didn't you?"

He meant the key to his place. They'd had a brilliant affair, so lusty and brawling it made her wet to remember. She had been hoping when he called that he wanted to renew their relationship and here he was asking if she still had the key. Steel slipped into her voice though she tried not to let it happen. How dare he?

"I gave it back, Karl. I don't have your fucking key. I wouldn't go into your house and leave you a note. If I wanted to leave you a note, I'd nail it to your goddamn forehead."

"Don't get that way, I just asked. I had some trouble last night and . . ."

"Well, I'm not the trouble you had and I'm pissed off you called me up thinking I was. Now I have to hang up. I'm shooting early in the morning."

"Olivia? Calm down, I didn't mean it that way."

"Fuck off, baby." Olivia slammed down the receiver, shaking all over in a sudden fury. She stood and the negligee fell open just as she caught sight of her reflection in the full-length mahogany mirror that stood in the corner. Her breasts needed some new work. Her neck . . . goddamnit . . . was already sagging again. She should have seen her surgeon before she took the part on Cam's movie. Those wrinkles in her neck might show up if they didn't get the lighting right. Fuck!

She tried to get hold of herself. If she let anger take over, she'd never get to sleep. She'd look like shit tomorrow. Everyone would notice.

She wished she had invited Jackie home with her tonight. A roll in the hay would have relaxed her. He was younger, of course he was. She didn't like to remember, but half of Hollywood was younger than Olivia Nyad. Although that had never mattered.

She pushed the intercom button on the wall and said to Jan, "You get in that shipment?"

"Sure. It came by courier yesterday."

"In my box? You put it in there?"

"Yes."

Olivia shut off the intercom and crossed the big, open room to her bedside table where the Goodie Box sat. It was an Indian-made box, a foot square, inlaid with mother of pearl and exotic woods. Inside she found the new stuff. Pills, the colors of the rainbow. She fondled the packages and felt her heart rate diminish to a manageable pace. No one could tell her this was bad for her. They were wrong. Without a little chemical help, life was too raw to live. She found the plastic baggy she wanted and reached inside for two little white tablets.

She closed the box and walked into the adjoining bathroom for a glass of water.

Now she'd sleep despite Karl's phone call and the new regret he had stirred in her. That son of a bitch.

8

"People in Hollywood are always donating money to politics and causes. As if to expiate the sin of getting too rich and too famous too fast."

Julia Phillips,You'll Never Eat Lunch In This Town Again

Robyn LaRosa wrote out a check for one thousand dollars and handed it to B.B. Bernie Bardacelli who owned one of L.A.'s most stylish night clubs, the Universe, but his heart was in the redwood forest he came from on the Olympia peninsula. He hit his regular customers for donations to national parks, Greenpeace, whatever organization caught his fancy that week. This was the third such donation Robyn had made in a year.

"If that isn't enough, don't tell me," she said, flashing B.B. a grin.

"Yeah, I saw in the trades you sunk your money in one of Cam's projects." People jostled them, packing into the club. It was a Thursday night, but the Universe never had slow nights. Anyone who was anyone wanted to be seen there. From where they stood, Robyn spotted Travolta, girls hanging off him, and in another group, Wesley Snipes with his agent.

"It's going to make me enough profit to buy my own island if I want. You should have invested in it."

B.B. stuffed the check in his coat pocket. "If you'd marry me, I'd buy you an island. Which one you want? Cayman? Maui?"

Robyn snuggled up to B.B.'s huge chest. She ran long red nails down the front of his white starched shirt. "B.B., I'd wear you out in a week flat. You need to get in shape, you want me."

His laugh was deep and bear-like. He hugged her, then excused himself to handle club business. "I don't watch these guys, they rip me off, fucking gonzo motherfuckers."

Robyn doubted that. No one would screw over B.B., not even a bartender. He had been connected in Seattle and made enough from a string of espresso shops to move down into L.A. and open the Universe. If his size didn't scare you, his friends up in Washington state would.

Robyn looked around. She had to shove off, find a man. She was on the first level. The Universe was really three clubs in one. B.B. had gotten, as in stolen, the idea from a hot Atlanta club. The lower level was Hell. Down here were the heavy metal and punk rock bands. You couldn't hear yourself think. Not that people who came to drink, find bed partners, and gyrate to high-decibel music wanted to think.

Upstairs, on the second level, was Purgatory. Robyn didn't like that room. Country and western music was all the rage—dance instructors had made a killing off Californians giving lessons in the Cotton-eyed Joe and the cowboy twostep—but it sounded like twangy shit to her.

At the top, on the third level, was Heaven. That's where she headed now, threading her way up the wide carpeted stairs. All the new music was played in Heaven. Alternative. Smooth beat and singers with voices like honey.

Two men waylaid her on the way up, but they weren't her type. She knew she kept looking for another Karl, hunting his replacement, and hated herself for it but what could you do. They hadn't had a good marriage, but she kept looking for him in every man she met anyway, like she was programmed or maybe ruined for other men. It was sickening. Hell, she hadn't even taken back her maiden name. She had been LaRosa for seven years and figured there was no point in changing it. During those seven years she'd made all her connections in Hollywood and Burbank. People knew her, remembered her, as Robyn LaRosa. So now that's who she was.

A frail, dark-haired girl was on the stage in Heaven, strumming a guitar and backed by a small combo. Robyn found an open stool at the bar and ordered vodka over ice. She wouldn't look around. Someone would spot her any minute. She knew how good she looked. "Like a doll," Karl used to say. She could pass for twenty-five, though she was ten years older than that. Ten years and ten months, to be precise. It was all due to bone structure, a personal masseur, salad bars and infrequent visits to health farms, but what the hell, wasn't it always?

She felt warm man flesh next to her bare arm and smelled the scent of a familiar spicy cologne just as her drink was served. She kept her gaze forward and said, "Hello. Yes, I'm alone. Yes, I want company. No, I can't give out my number until we have a few dances and drinks."

"I know."

"Karl!" She turned too fast and slopped her drink over the bar. "Jesus, what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. How have you been, Robyn?" He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

She frowned. "I'm fine, Karl, but you could have found that out by picking up the phone. Not that you do that anymore. What's up? This isn't your kind of place."

"B.B.'s a friend of mine, too. We still have friends in common."

"But this isn't your kind of place," she repeated, undaunted. "What do you want?"

"Why do you have to be so hard?" He looked a little sad and disappointed. And nervous. Why was he nervous?

"I think we've had this conversation before. If I wasn't such a bitch, if I wasn't such a ballbreaker, if I wasn't so hard, you might have loved me more."

Karl winced and looked away into the crowd on the dance floor. "I still love you."

"Like hell."

He looked back at her and she felt her color rising. Every time she got around Karl, she got mad. He was her one failure. She had succeeded in everything but marriage, and it was like a canker, festering. It never went away, her failure to make him love her just the way she was. She couldn't have changed! Where would she be now if she'd been easy and good and sweet and . . . lovable?