Hollywood Husbands (9 page)

Watching him make up the story as he spoke was pure theatre. He was the best instant liar she had ever seen.

‘Yes?’ She wanted more.

He tightened the towel around his waist. ‘It was her birthday. She drank too much champagne. When we went to bed that night she was crying, and came to me for comfort. I didn’t have the heart to reject her. It was only once in six years, and the result was Archibald.’

‘
Archibald
!’

‘It was her uncle’s name,’ he said sheepishly. ‘She wanted to remember him.’

Jade began to laugh uncontrollably.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said, believing all was forgiven.

She managed to control herself enough to say, ‘Take off the towel.’

‘What?’

Touching her fingertips to his nipples, she brushed them lightly. ‘I said, take off the towel. Or do you want me to do it for you?’

‘Do it for me,’ he replied, feeling the swell of relief followed by a generous erection.

She pulled the knot on the towel and it fell away from his body. ‘My, my,’ she said admiringly. ‘Look what you brought me back.’

Relaxing, he leaned against the tiled sink.

With practised moves she stroked his chest, then his belly, and as she reached lower she sank to her knees and teased his excitement with her tongue.

He leaned back even farther and surrendered to the sensual caress of her luscious mouth, his enjoyment mounting as she increased her rhythm.

Just as his pleasure was reaching lift-off, she bit down roughly with scissor-sharp teeth.

He yelled in agony.

Calmly she released him, and stood up. Catching him off balance and unprepared, she pushed him into the scalding water of the bathtub.

‘You bloody maniac!’ he screamed.

‘You goddamn liar!’ she replied. ‘Her birthday, indeed! That line is older than George Burns!’

Marching to the bathroom door she turned for one final look. He was struggling from the burning tub like a hyper fish. With satisfaction she noticed the faint trace of teeth marks on his rapidly shrinking penis. ‘Goodbye, Mark,’ she said. ‘I’m going to dinner. When I come back I want you and all your worldly shit out of my life forever.’

He was gone when she returned three hours later.

Once she split from him she found out he had been cheating on her all over town. Why hadn’t anyone told her? The general excuse was that it didn’t seem proper while they were together.

She felt duped. Getting out of town was the best tonic she could think of.

* * *

Sipping her wine, Jade went to the closet and chose a suitable outfit for the night’s activities.

A party with Antonio. It might be fun, it might not.

Whatever. It was better than sitting home.

Chapter Ten

‘Lighten up,’ Wes Money said. He was speaking to his landlady, Reba Winogratsky, who had arrived unexpectedly to collect two months’ overdue rent. ‘I’ll have it for you next month.’

‘Wesley, Wesley!’ she sighed despairingly. ‘One of these days I’m gonna have to throw you out.’

With an appealing look he said, ‘You wouldn’t do that to me, Reba, would you?’

She ran her tongue slowly across her top teeth. ‘I might.’

He tried to ascertain whether she was in line for a screwing, decided that if she ever turned up alone she would be. Today she had what appeared to be her son with her – a fat boy of about ten with a sulky expression. They had arrived in a new Mercedes which she quickly explained belonged to a friend. He didn’t believe her. The car was hers and she didn’t want anyone to know lest they struggled even more about paying her exorbitant rent demands. She wore a tight halter top, shorts, and stiletto heels. Her legs were waxed and so was her moustache. She was no beauty. From her left shoulder hung a huge leather purse. She was obviously out on a rent-collecting binge.

‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’ he asked politely. If the kid wasn’t with her he would have offered her more than that. Last time she turned up it had been with a Mexican maid who cleaned the kitchen floor while they argued over a rent increase.

‘Come up with some cash soon or you’re just gonna have to go,’ Reba decided.

‘I will.’

‘I hope you mean it, Wesley. You owe me two months, an’ next Saturday I’m sendin’ the collector.’

‘Who’s the collector?’ he asked, alarmed.

‘Better you should never find out,’ she replied, absent-mindedly scratching her crotch.

I could cure that itch for you
, he wanted to say, but curbed the impulse.

She ran a finger across a table top, leaving a fresh and shiny trail through the dust. Then she peered into the cramped kitchen, which was stacked with filthy dishes and half-eaten food. ‘The way you keep this place is an open invitation to rats,’ she remarked, without too much concern.

‘Can we go?’ whined the fat kid.

‘Clean up your act, Wesley, an’ get me my money.’

He followed her to the door. ‘Yes,
ma’am
.’

She gave him an appraising stare. ‘Y’know, you’re not bad lookin’ if you took better care of yourself. You’ve got a kinda Nick Nolte quality.’

Nick who
? ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m working on it.’

‘Get a job,’ she scolded.

He decided to impress her. ‘Tonight I’ll be at Silver Anderson’s house helping her out. She’s havin’ a party.’

‘
The
Silver Anderson?’

‘No. Silver Anderson who works as a checker at Vons Market,’ he said sarcastically.

‘Huh?’

‘Of course
the
Silver Anderson.’

‘Really?’ She didn’t quite believe him, but she gave it a shot anyway. ‘Get Timmy here’ – she patted the fat boy on the head – ‘an autographed picture, an’ I’ll knock ten bucks off the money you owe.’

‘lf I can.’

‘Good.’ She took the boy’s hand and clicked her way across the wooden porch out onto the boardwalk.

Hazy sunshine caught Wes’s attention as he watched her go. A pretty Chinese girl skate-boarded by. He thought he might grab a few rays and liven up his complexion. Somehow, in his busy schedule of screwing, boozing and partying he never found time for the sun.

His nextdoor neighbour emerged from her house at the same time. She had moved in six weeks ago, shortly after the previous tenant overdosed on heroin and was carried off in a body bag. He’d never seen her before, but sometimes he’d had to hammer on the dividing wall in the middle of the night (when he was home) for her to turn down the godawful classical music she liked to play. It figured. She looked like a school teacher: brown hair in a bun, baggy clothes, and John Lennon glasses. She appeared to be surprisingly young, probably only early twenties.

‘Hello, neighbour.’ He waved a friendly greeting.

She pretended not to notice, and set off along the boardwalk.

Snob. She was no doubt pissed off he’d banged on the wall. He followed her because he had nothing better to do.

She turned up a side street and climbed into an ancient Volkswagen. Bored, he headed in the other direction, across the sand, down to the sea. It was a mild day and the ocean was calm. He liked it better when the surf was up, and the waves came belting in. He loved it when it rained. And a storm was a special treat.

He sat down on the sand, and the next thing he knew he must have nodded off for a couple of hours, because when he awoke, water was lapping his feet. Nearby, a lone dog sat on the sand staring at him.

Wes was not partial to animals. An old girlfriend had once kept a monkey. It pissed and crapped everywhere, and for a grand finale jerked off whenever they made love. No more pets after that.

He consulted his copy of a Cartier tank watch. Fifty bucks from a travelling Iranian. It lost five minutes a day and sometimes stopped altogether. He ascertained it was late afternoon and hauled himself up. Rocky would be getting panicky. Better put him out of his misery.

Chapter Eleven

Poppy Soloman was getting dressed, and when Poppy got ready for a party – watch out!

Howard repaired to his own bathroom, locked the door, and had his second snort of the day. Cocaine. A little habit he had been indulging in for a few months now.

Carefully he laid out the white powder on a special mirror-topped tray, coaxed it into two neat lines, and with the help of a straw, snorted it into his nostrils. One long, deep breath and the rush was incredible. Better than sex. Better than anything. Howard felt like he could own the world. He
did
own the world. He owned a fucking studio, for Christ’s sake. Well, not exactly owned it, ran it. The same thing. It gave him the power he wanted, only to really enjoy the power he needed an occasional snort. Nothing habit-forming, mind you. Howard knew when enough was enough, and duly limited himself. Once in the morning to get off on the right foot. And once in the evening
only
if they were going out or entertaining at home. Since they went out or entertained every night, he regularly snorted twice a day. Not such a terrible thing. Some actors, producers and studio people couldn’t get through a meeting without visiting the john three times.

Howard considered himself a very conservative user, one who could certainly never get hooked. Stopping was no problem. But why stop something that made you feel so goddamn good?

Howard had concerns. Once you reached the top, where else was there to go but down? And the pressure was on.

A huge conglomerate owned Orpheus Studios, headed by Zachary K. Klinger, a major powerhouse. Zachary K. liked Howard – in fact it was he who had chosen him for the top position. But that was now. What if Howard was unable to deliver? Zachary K. wanted box office giants in whammo grossing movies. He wanted Howard to turn the failing fortunes of Orpheus around, and he wanted him to do it fast. Maybe too fast.

Picking a movie that’s going to soar is like singling out a puppy from a large litter. You could end up choosing the runt – whatever its pedigree.

Howard sweated every time he had to make a decision. But now, with the coke to fortify him, he decided that in the few months he had been at the helm he had done a marvellous job. His first move had been to pick up a couple of sleepers for distribution – which meant he took two small independently produced movies, and had Orpheus distribute them as they were short of product. The results were sensational. Both films went through the roof. Howard was a hero.

Now all he had to do was oversee some hits of his own. Just make absolutely sure that every new picture he gave the green light to was a potential smash.

The following month Zachary K. was coming to town to check up on progress. Not that he didn’t get a daily report from one of his spies. Howard knew for a fact that there were at least two stationed in key jobs.

He wasn’t going to let it bother him. Nothing bothered him. Look what he had done with his life. He was a genius, for crissakes.

* * *

Howard Soloman was born when he was sixteen, and his mother divorced his father, fled from Philadelphia to Colorado, and shortly after, married Temple Soloman. He couldn’t wait to change his name from Jessie Howard Judah Lipski to the much more simple Howard Soloman. What an escape! His natural father was a rabbi, a cruel, hard man who treated both his wife and son as if they had been put on this earth solely to do his bidding, and he made sure that their lives were pure misery. When Howard – or Jessie as he was then – reached his teenage years he begged his mother to get out. ‘I’m going,’ he told her, ‘an’ you’d better come with me.’

She didn’t take much persuading, and one dark night they fled to New York, and from there to Colorado, where an old school friend of his mother’s put them up. It was like getting out of prison, and when his mother married Temple Soloman six months later, it was as if God had smiled on them for doing it. Temple was an easy-going mild-mannered man. He was the senior partner in a clothing manufacturing business, and while he wasn’t exactly rolling in it, he had enough money to buy Howard a second-hand car and send him to college.

Howard felt like a Russian who finally saw America and all it had to offer. He was alive and free. And so was his mother. The early years were just a bad dream.

As a teenager Howard was plump and plagued with acne, until he discovered girls. Once that happened his weight soon dropped, and the acne vanished overnight. Temple sat him down one day and gave him a lecture. ‘Always use a johnny,’ he said, snapping a Durex in front of his stepson’s face. ‘And give the girl a good time too.’ Big wink. ‘Only don’t get anyone pregnant.’

Howard thought about Temple’s remarks. What did he mean by ‘give the girl a good time’? Wasn’t she having a good time just by being in his company?

The next time he had a young lady in the back of his shined-up old Buick he asked her casually as he humped away, ‘Hey – you havin’ a good time?’

‘You’re heavy,’ she whined. ‘Why is your back so hairy – it’s… ugh! My mother will kill me if she ever finds out I’m doing this.’

So much for conversation. He almost lost his erection. God forbid!

It took Howard’s first wife, the fierce black activist whom he married when he was nineteen, to teach him the joys of getting a woman off too. ‘Just go for the button an’
liiiiift-off, babee
!’ she instructed while clasping him around the back of the neck with ebony legs he thought might strangle him.

Hitting the button on his third attempt, he realized there was a difference. Instead of the female being a reluctant participant in the act of sex, she turned into a stark raving maniac! Why hadn’t Temple mentioned buttons to him! Look at all the time he had wasted!

One day Howard read a book about Howard Hughes. He liked it so much he reread it three times. Temple had told him – early on in their relationship – that he was the heir to the manufacturing business of which Temple was the senior partner. ‘When you graduate,’ his stepfather had said, ‘I’ll teach you everything I know. You’re like my own son, and when the time comes I’ll hand the business over to you.’