Hollywood Husbands (29 page)

On impulse, he drove up the wrong one. It was not your manicured Beverly Hills type driveway. This was pure country, with overhanging trees, and a lot of wild bush.

He reached a ranch-style residence with several cars parked outside. Switching off his lights, he turned his car around, and headed back to the main private road. Halfway there, he pulled the Mercedes tight into the side, killed the ignition, and got out. Pocketing the keys he checked his watch. It was five of nine. The man had said to collect at nine o’clock prompt. He was running on time.

On foot he moved swiftly, having had the good sense to wear comfortable sneakers.

Down the path, up the private road, until he reached the right number, and yet another sign warning of armed patrol and dogs.

Feeling a shudder of apprehension, he made his way up the steep incline towards collection point. Shit! This whole cloak-and-dagger bit was like something out of a James Bond movie!

The house, when he reached it, was silent. Only one light shone in an upstairs room. A silver Maserati, a black Jeep, and an old blue station wagon were dotted around outside. A coyote howled somewhere in the hills.

With trepidation, he approached the front door.
This is a piece of pussy
, he thought.

The hairs on the back of his neck told him it wasn’t.

He groped for the gun. It nestled in his pocket like a security blanket. Not that he would ever use it. As the man had said, just insurance in case of trouble.

What trouble?

Confidently he rang the bell. It was nine o’clock exactly.

Silence. Nothing. Nobody answered.

He rang again.

Repeat performance.

Stepping back he glanced up at the lighted window. No sign of movement there.

Shit!

Drawn like a magnet he reached forward and tried the front door.

It opened. Just like that. Deep down he had known it would.

Inner voices screamed –
Don’t go in, schmuck! Get your ass in gear and vamoose!

Far off in the distance he heard police sirens. They harmonized with the mournful howling of the lone coyote.

As he entered the house he thought about Silver. Her throaty laugh, expensive skin, hot, throbbing—

Jesus! He had known it was a set-up.

Sprawled halfway down the stairs was the body of a man. Blood dripped from him like a faucet, forming a pool on the hall carpet. He had been shot in the head.

Drawn unwillingly, Wes stepped farther into the house, chills coursing through his body.

Face down, half in and half out of a room, lay the body of a female – a fan of yellow hair spread out and spotted with blood.

He felt the bile rise to his throat, and as he turned to run he glimpsed a shadow with a raised arm, and a lead pipe heading in his direction.

‘Oh,
Jesus Christ – no
—’ he began to say, raising his right arm to protect himself.

It was too late.

Blackness descended.

Wes Money was temporarily out of the game.

Chapter Forty-Three

Somewhere between the restaurant and the hotel, Jade changed her mind. Deeply attracted as she was to Jack Python, one-night stands were not her style, never had been. Besides, there were too many complications. She hadn’t made up her mind about Mark. And Jack had admitted he was deeply involved with Clarissa Browning. Nothing was ever easy.

When she told him, he took it with a philosophical shrug. ‘I guess our timing is off, huh?’

She touched her hand to his cheek lightly. Somehow she felt they were intimate strangers. ‘Something like that,’ she said softly.

He understood perfectly. And they parted good friends with no mention of further meetings.

The next day, on the flight back to Los Angeles, Antonio was dying to know everything.

She was noncommittal. ‘We had dinner. We talked. He’s a terrific guy.’

‘
And
,
bella
? You make love with him?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ she said firmly.

Antonio sulked. He hated being left out of anything.

She thought about Jack Python quite a bit on the way home. And then she thought about Mark. And she realized it wasn’t over. Not yet anyway.

Mark had left several messages with her answering service. There was also a call from her brother, Corey, which made a pleasant change. She telephoned him first.

‘What’s up, bro?’ she asked cheerfully.

‘Nothing.’ He sounded wistful. ‘I was thinking about you. Thought I might take you out to lunch.’

She glanced at the time. It was almost six on Sunday evening. ‘A little late for lunch,’ she said lightly. ‘How about dinner?’

‘Can’t do it. I’m all tied up.’

You’re always tied up
, she wanted to say.
Don’t you remember how close we used to be?

‘Where are you going?’ she asked, a trifle stiffly.

‘There’s this party… business.’

Sometimes he really pissed her off. If
she
was going to a party and knew he was alone, she’d ask him to go with her. But no such offer was forthcoming.

‘You know something? I still haven’t seen your house
or
met your housemate,’ she said, and before he could answer she continued with, ‘Look, I know you think I don’t approve. And I have to admit that I
was
upset when you told me about you and Marita splitting. However, I love you, and whatever you do… well… it’s your life. When can I meet her?’

‘Who?’

‘Your housemate, densehead!’

A long pause. He obviously wasn’t insane about the idea.

Too bad. She had waited long enough. She might as well get a look at the woman who had broken up her brother’s marriage.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said. ‘Why don’t I take you both out to dinner next week? My treat. How about Friday night?’

He was silent.

‘Can I get an answer around here please?’ she persisted.

‘Let me check. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he finally said.

Anyone would think she was inviting him to a funeral!

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Hanging up, she put a little Bruce on the stereo. Springsteen always cheered her up; he could do no wrong.

Then she realized she was going to have to do something about Mark, and reached for the phone again.

‘Lord Mark Rand checked out at noon,’ said the hotel operator.

‘Are you
sure
?’

‘Quite sure, madame.’

‘Did he leave a number where he can be reached?’

‘One moment please. I’ll find out for you.’

He certainly hadn’t hung around waiting for her. What enthusiasm. What tenacity. What a bastard!

You’re being unreasonable, Johnson, You were the one who took off.

The operator came back on the line. ‘No referral number.’

‘Thank you.’ She put down the phone, and wondered where he was now. She’d played games with him. He was merely returning the compliment. English asshole. He knew she hated playing games.

* * *

Jack couldn’t fault Jade for changing her mind. After all, it was a woman’s prerogative, and he had always tried to be a gentleman about such things. Only it didn’t alter the fact that he still wanted her. And when Jack Python wanted, he usually got.

He returned to the empty suite, and placed a call to Clarissa in New York. She was staying with a girlfriend in the Village. Not for Clarissa the large hotel suite or penthouse apartment. ‘I enjoy living among ordinary people,’ she had told him. ‘Nobody takes any notice of me in the Village. I can wander around and not be bothered.’

Sure she could. Because nobody recognized Clarissa
off
the screen.

She answered the phone herself.

‘Hi, babe,’ he said. ‘I was just sitting here thinking about you.’

Her voice sounded muffled. ‘Who is this?’

Christ! You go with a woman for over a year and she doesn’t even recognize your voice!

‘Phil Donahue,’ he said dryly.

‘Oh, God. Jack. It’s two-thirty in the morning here. Where
are
you?’

‘You’ll never believe this.’

‘Try me.’

‘Las Vegas.’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘When have you ever seen me drunk?’

‘You must be if you’re in Las Vegas.’

‘I am sober. And missing you. I’m calling to say hello.’

‘You
are
drunk. And you’ve woken me. Really, Jack, you can be very thoughtless at times. A broken night’s sleep disturbs my bio-rhythms.’

‘Spoken like a true Californian.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m going to try to get back to sleep. Call me tomorrow if you want.’

Hey – give the lady the prize for Ms. Romantic of the year
.

He poured himself a brandy. Thoughtfully he sipped it, took a cold shower, and went to bed.

Some nights you just couldn’t win.

* * *

Failing in the pursuit of the prettiest of Susanna’s three friends, Howard settled for a short redhead with enormous silicone boobs and a silly smile. When he got her back to the suite and undressed her, even
he
was turned off by her two jutting great globules of flesh. They felt like movable cement before it hardens, and looked like a couple of giant melons with a cherry on top of each.

‘I’m fighting a cold,’ he announced, with a phoney sneeze. ‘You’d better go home.’

‘Let me fight it with you,’ she begged. ‘I’ve got the cure of the century!’

‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I feel sick. I think I’ve got a temperature.’

Dressing reluctantly, she confided she was working on a screenplay with a friend. ‘Can I send it to you?’ she asked hopefully.

Trapped again. ‘Yeah, of course.’

As soon as she left he tracked down the woman from the night before. An answering machine picked up, but she called him back five minutes later.

‘Come over,’ he said. ‘Let’s continue what we almost didn’t finish.’

She hesitated. ‘I’m busy.’

‘What could make you un-busy?’

She decided he could take the truth. ‘I get a thousand bucks a night. Last night was on the house – the hotel picked up the tab. How about it, sport? I take American Express.’

He was outraged. ‘Are you a pro?’

‘No. I’m Mary Poppins. Can’t you tell? Do you want me to come over or not?’

He slammed down the phone. Howard Soloman didn’t sleep with hookers. Howard Soloman had never paid for it in his life!

God damn Dino Fonicetti. Who did he think he was dealing with?

* * *

Mannon went back to Carlos Brent’s magnificent house after the party. The entourage trailed them, plus they picked up a few strays along the way.

Carlos took him on a tour of the mansion, which had sixteen bedrooms, a full recording studio, two Olympic-sized swimming pools, and its own golf course.

‘This is just my little ole hang-out,’ Carlos boasted. ‘My
real
home is in Palm Springs. I’d like you and your lovely wife to come and stay with me for the weekend sometime soon.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Mannon said agreeably.

‘I’ve seen that wife of yours on television. She’s some gal!’

When was Melanie-Shanna on TV?

‘Whitney Valentine Cable,’ mused Carlos. ‘What a pretty lady!’

Mannon scowled. ‘We’re divorced,’ he said.

Carlos looked amazed. ‘Any man who lets
that
filly go has
got
to be
in
sane!’

Mannon nodded. There were some statements you just couldn’t fight.

* * *

The Klinger plane took off from Las Vegas earlier than expected. All three passengers were aboard, and anxious to get back to L.A.

Chapter Forty-Four

There was a blue haze somewhere in his head. And a pain of ferocious intensity. And when Wes opened his eyes he had no idea where the fuck he was.

Oh shit. He had to quit with the one-night stands. Waking up in strange women’s beds was getting to be a drag.

Only he wasn’t in a bed. He was on the floor. And clasped in his right hand was a gun. And… oh shit… the blue haze lifted, and he knew he was in big trouble.

Trying to coordinate his body with his mind, he made an effort to rise, first dropping the gun to the floor.

He was in the entry hall of the Laurel Canyon house, and his companions were the same two bodies that had been there before.

Vomit threatened, and he staggered into a nearby toilet and threw up. Blood trickled into his eye from a gash on his head, and he realized a rapid exit was in order. For some unknown reason he had been set up, and he did not care to wait around to find out why.

A fast look at his watch told him only seven minutes had elapsed since he’d arrived at the house, which meant he must have a skull made of fucking concrete.

There was an eerie stillness. A loud silence screaming
GET OUT
.

Still feeling, disoriented and sick he picked up the gun. It had his prints on. Whoever hit him over the head had wanted it that way.

Was it the murder weapon?

Probably.

We want no connection with this bad boy an’ his sweetie-box
.

Sure. No connection. Murder the two of ’em, then send the schmuck in to take the blame. Schmuck gets caught red-handed and the man walks away with no connection.

Fuck!

They had bought him for a thousand dollars. The perfect patsy. Who was going to believe Wes Money’s side of the story?

His heart was beating so fast and so loud he hardly dared to move in case it exploded. Grimly he tried to remember every murder mystery he’d ever seen.
Prints. Get rid of all the
prints.

He shoved the gun into his pocket. It was no good trying to clean it now. The gun was important evidence, and he had to dispose of it properly, to be absolutely sure it could never be connected with him.

Frantically he raced into the toilet again, grabbed a handful of tissues, and cleaned anything he might have touched.

GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!