Hollywood Sinners (22 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Los Angeles

‘A
baby.’

The pool cue, carefully chalked at one end and about to break with deadly accuracy, paused in mid-shot. Cole looked at his agent across the table like he was mad.

‘A baby,’ he repeated.

‘That’s right.’ Marty King raised a hand to pat his spongy hair. ‘It’s the only answer. Cole, we have to give Lana a baby.’

‘Are you crazy?’ Cole spluttered, not knowing whether to laugh. He took the shot. It broke cleanly, sending the balls darting across the green felt. Two of them potted with a satisfying
plunk
.

‘No. I’m clever.’ Marty rested on his cue. It was a cool January morning and the men were in the basement games room at Marty’s Bel Air pad.

‘Come on, Marty, listen to yourself.
Give her a baby
. You’ve got to be kidding.’

Marty watched as Cole took a second shot. ‘It’s a radical suggestion, I know. But hear me out. This wouldn’t just be about Lana—it would be about you.’ He raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘Cole, you gotta admit, fatherhood would be a wise move.’

Cole opened and shut his mouth like a fish. ‘This is insane,’ he hissed, realising Marty was serious.

‘I’ve thought about it carefully,’ said Marty. ‘You should, too.’ He leaned his large frame over the table and lined up his aim. ‘Consider Kate—seven years married to you and no kids, then she shacks up with that funny-guy jackass and all of a sudden she’s getting knocked up all over the joint. You’re not getting any younger, Cole.’ In a clean move he pocketed one, careful not to overtake his client.

‘Forget it,’ snapped Cole, ‘it’s kamikaze.’

Marty stood back. ‘Like I said, I’ve thought everything through. We have options.’

Cole shook his head in disbelief. ‘Like hell we do, Marty. Is this all you’ve come up with? You’ve had since the fall to bring something to the table, and this is it?’ He reached for his glass of mineral water, a wedge of green lime bobbing on the surface. Marty stayed quiet, letting Cole turn things over.

After a moment he said, ‘Do you think people have noticed? I mean...’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you think people wonder why I don’t have kids?’

Marty puffed out his chest. He thought about how to say it then settled on a truthful, ‘Probably, yes.’

Panic surged. Seeing Michael Benedict at the Romans’ wedding two months ago had freaked him the hell out. When would the old bastard kick the damn bucket? It couldn’t be long now. He’d take the secret with him and finally it would all be over—that day couldn’t come too soon. In the meantime, it was imperative he keep Lana. She was his shield.

A vein became visible in Cole’s temple. Marty knew it was his time to strike.

‘There’s plenty of ways, Cole,’ he said. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you today, talk through the possibilities.’ He chalked his cue.

‘Which are?’

Marty took a deep breath. ‘You must present Lana with this. There’s no way we can do it under wraps, you’ve got to keep her on board.’

Cole’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

‘Lana bearing your child will be rewarded handsomely in the contract,’ Marty continued, ‘which, naturally, we would extend for a five- to ten-year period. Her career continues to flourish and by close she’s a working woman and a fine mother, an inspiration to women everywhere who want to have it all. When the contract terminates, the child remains with you. Lana has regular access but a hectic schedule means you’re the most stable party. You like that, huh? A real family man, Cole; a good father.’

His agent barrelled on before Cole could object. ‘This must be a biological child—we’re wasting our time with adoption. Too messy, too passé, and, besides, the point is that everyone thinks the kid’s yours, fruit of your loins and all that.’

Cole grimaced. ‘And how do we go about that?’ he asked, tight-lipped.

A pause. ‘You ever heard of insemination?’

A cold draught passed across the back of Cole’s neck. He laughed in good humour. ‘OK, OK, very good, you got me.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘So am I.’ He lined up the black. ‘It’s preposterous. Lana will never agree to it.’

‘Not at first, but give her time. Let me talk to her—after all, it’ll be my kid she’s carrying.’

Cole straightened, disbelief contorting his features. ‘
What
did you just say?’

Marty gulped. ‘Well, I—I guessed we’d have to use my—’

‘Explain to me why the hell
I
wouldn’t do it?’

Marty looked flustered. ‘I just assumed—’

‘You assumed what?’

‘That you couldn’t…’ Marty’s eyes shot to the floor. ‘I didn’t think guys like you could… Look, buddy, I don’t know much about—’

‘You don’t know
shit
, Marty,’ Cole spat.

Marty nodded dutifully. ‘I don’t know shit.’

Cole spluttered a disgusted laugh. ‘To hell with this insemination plan—I bet you thought you could jump straight into bed with her. This is my
wife
, Marty. Christ,
I
haven’t even—’

‘It’s not like that,’ Marty simpered. ‘I just wanted to help. You know I’m the only person who’d do this for you—’

‘Spare me the crap.’ Cole gave his agent a long look. He leaned over and took the shot. The black dropped neatly into the far pocket.

‘I can do it,’ he said quietly, rolling the cue between his fingers.

Marty waited. He cursed his own stupidity—any other day there’d be a price to pay, but fortunately his client was too preoccupied.

‘I’ve got it covered,’ Marty said eventually. ‘Hear me out.’

Cole sat down. ‘Astonish me.’

‘It’s all about you, Cole, OK? A hundred per cent. We use your...’ Marty looked about him ‘...your little guys. Lana agrees with the right financial and career incentives. In a year’s time you’re all set: it’s happy families, good-fuckin’-night, John-Boy. You both sign a new contract—I’m the only one with the information, I sign a confidentiality clause. It’s as good as done.’

Cole sat very still, going through the possibilities.

Michael Benedict can rot in hell.

‘Even if I did consider it,’ he said, ‘
even
if I did, it’s way too risky. Lana’s never going to agree, not in a million years. Soon as I mention anything she’ll go running to Rita Clay.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Marty sagely. ‘Lana knows she’s on to a good thing as Mrs Cole Steel. Security in Hollywood isn’t an easy thing to come by, and that’s not even taking into account what it’ll mean for her moving forward.’ He held his hands up. ‘Just think about it.’

‘I need to think about it,’ echoed Cole, like he hadn’t heard.

‘It’s security for you too, buddy,’ warned Marty. ‘That’s why I know it’s the perfect plan.’ He waited. ‘But, hey, you think about it all you want, take your time. When you’re ready, you know I’ll be here.’

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

S
am Lucas celebrated his sixtieth birthday at
L’Etoile
, an exclusive celebrity hotspot in West Hollywood.

Lana was stunning in a high-neck Valentino dress that showed off her legs and Marc Jacobs heels. The paparazzi were out in frenzy and no sooner had Cole’s security dropped her off than a circus of flashbulbs swooped in like vultures, popping and sparking close to her face. She fought the instinct to shield herself and walked dutifully into the fray, smiling and turning, a routine so familiar that she didn’t have to think about it at all.

L’Etoile
was resplendent. The ultimate playground for the Hollywood elite, it was a festival of colour: sleek recliners and straight-backed couches bordered the gleaming wood-stain deck, more for show than comfort, all sewn up in a variety of elaborate, brilliant fabrics; an extravaganza of glass bottles, every kind of liquor you could imagine, lined the walls behind an L-shaped bar, lit from beneath by fluorescent spot bulbs. Three huge Moulin Rouge-style birdcages hung suspended from the ceiling like pendants.

The place was heaving with Hollywood’s biggest names.

‘Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours tonight?’ asked Lana’s publicist over the noise.

Lana smiled, more with relief that Cole wasn’t there tonight than at Katharine’s flattery. Katharine Elliot was in her forties with a mass of dark hair cut blunt at the chin. She was straight-talking, fast-acting and fiercely good at her job. She was also among the closed set that knew the marriage was contractual, but that was as far as it went: unlike Rita, she knew nothing of what really went on behind closed doors. As far as she was concerned, this sort of thing happened all the time. Lana had got a lucky break getting hitched to one of the best looking in the business—she could have done a
lot
worse.

‘He’s in Boston.’

Katharine plucked a micro-burger from a passing tray. ‘You must wish he was here. Plenty of press opportunity tonight.’ She took a bite out of the burger even though it was small enough to eat in one.

‘We couldn’t make the timings work,’ explained Lana. Briefly she glimpsed Parker Troy out the corner of her eye.

As if reading her mind—though thankfully only apropos the film—Katharine went on, ‘We’ve got fabulous advance reviews coming in; they’re queuing up to talk to you.’ She sipped her cosmopolitan with a neat, cherry-lipsticked mouth.

Lana raised her own drink. ‘That’s good news.’

‘Oh—!’ Katharine spotted a publicist friend and waved keenly, the bangles jangling on her arm. She hugged Lana before being swallowed by a cacophony of exclamations.

Lana weaved through the crowd, nodding to familiar faces as she passed, and made a beeline for a tray of champagne. Throwing back a slug of fizz, she wondered how much it would take to deaden her to Robert St Louis once and for all. Since Vegas she had battled to put him from her mind, back to the dark, lonely place she had kept him all these years. Like having just woken from a bad dream, the outline clung on, refusing to fade.

She tried not to be bitter. How could she be mad at him? She’d wasted no time in getting married herself, and while of course she knew the truth of her pact with Cole, she could only imagine how it must have looked. Her heart ached when she thought of how much pain she’d put him through—it wasn’t enough that she’d disappeared without a word, a letter, a call, nothing, but then only a few years later she’d wed the biggest star in Hollywood. Coverage had been splashed across newspapers and gossip rags, on every TV channel and magazine cover. At the time her lack of contact had seemed like a necessary sacrifice. Now it seemed selfish and unkind.

Karma worked in mysterious ways. Robert had moved on and was happily engaged to the woman he loved. It wasn’t her. There would be no more wonderings; no more what-ifs.

‘Lana, darling, thanks for coming.’ Sam Lucas descended on her, his face pink and damp with sweat. He kissed her moistly and she fought the urge to wipe a palm across her cheek.

‘Happy birthday, Sam.’

‘It is,’ he said, picking his teeth. ‘Woulda been nice if Chloe French could make it.’

Lana looked around. ‘Where is she?’

‘Not well. I spoke to Brock Wilde this morning.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Sure is.’ He grinned. ‘The critics are getting pretty excited about her, I gotta say. She’s gonna make a splash in Vegas.’

The word punched a hole in Lana. She smiled as a tough-guy actor who’d worked with the director in the nineties slapped Sam on the back. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, moving away.

She needed something else to drink—and fast. A tray of champagne swept past and she plucked a flute from its surface, just in time to feel something large and hard bump into her back. She turned. It was Parker Troy.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, looking at his shoes. Handsome as ever, he was wearing a brown tux and open shirt, his muddy-blond hair falling over his forehead. If she concentrated very hard he could almost be someone else.

Instinctively she touched his arm. ‘It’s been ages.’

‘Yeah.’

They looked at each other. Parker felt intimidated, as he always did when he had to engage her in anything other than sex.

‘How have you been?’ asked Lana.

‘Good.’

Wow, we really don’t have anything to talk about.

Parker asked a couple of courteous, couldn’t-give-a-crap-about-the-answer questions. When he drew a Camel from his top pocket and said he was going outside for a smoke, she knew she would go with him. She needed it. Her body needed release.

They snaked their way through the swarm of guests and outside on to the terrace. A high-walled, secluded space, it was hidden from the street and safe from the paparazzi’s prying eyes. It was empty. They were alone.

Parker took her hand and pulled her round the side of the club, into the neck of a narrow alley that was entirely hidden from sight.

They didn’t say a word. Lana’s head was buzzing with the champagne. All she could think about was how this was a new beginning. Soon, after Cole, she would be free. Whatever she had with Robert, she knew now it was gone. The past was over and it wasn’t coming back.

Parker unzipped his trousers with fumbling urgency, grabbed her ass and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around him.

One last time. That’s all this is.

As he drove into her, his breath hot against her ear, somewhere in the distance a weak alarm sounded.

Don’t be stupid, Lana. Tell him to stop.

She felt him move inside her and the rest was history.

PART THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY

Spring, New York

T
he man scraped the bottom of the saucepan with a knife. Brown shavings of scrambled egg peeled off the metal, curly like woodchips. Shit, he’d burned breakfast.

‘Nelson, honey, can you fix me some more coffee?’

The woman at the table looked older in the cold light of day. She was overweight with loose, pasty skin and a nest of black hair, stiff as wire. With his back to her at the stove, the man tensed, but responded to his alias all the same and refilled her cup. He’d been living under the name Nelson Price for ten years now. Ten long, long years. But the wait would soon be over.

‘Thanks, baby,’ the woman said in a whiny voice. She picked up the remote and started flicking channels on the TV. ‘Where’s breakfast?’

‘I’m doing it, aren’t I?’ the man snapped, thinking she could benefit from missing a meal or two. He couldn’t even remember where he’d picked this dyke up—she’d probably come into Club 44 and taken advantage of him when he was drunk.

At thirty-six, clad in his morning attire of stained beige jockeys, he was an alarmingly unattractive man. Years of drink had left him looking closer to sixty than forty, with ravaged skin stretched over pointed, rat-like features. His eyes were squinty, hard and pitiless. His thin brown hair clung stubbornly to the very back of his head, refusing to abandon him completely and concealing a deep, jagged scar that ran from one ear to the other. The front was completely bald and shiny as a wiped-down surface. Lean and crooked in frame, his sharp bones pushed at the skin so that when he was naked it was possible to count the knots of his spine. His nose had grown longer over the years, curved now like a beak.

He dumped the scorched eggs on to two plates and brought them to the table, where the mounds quivered brain-like. The only bread in the apartment was covered in mould, so they’d have to make do. This one, whatever her name was, obviously didn’t give a crap as she shovelled the yellowy-brown stuff into her mouth, chewing loudly and slurping her coffee.

Something on the TV caught his attention. A name, that was all it was. But it was
her
name. The name he hated beyond all others. Two dirty words.

Lana Falcon.

‘Go back,’ he ordered calmly. The egg on his fork balanced uncertainly before dropping to the plate in miserable defeat.

The woman ignored him and continued flicking channels.

‘I said, go back.’ He wouldn’t ask again.

‘What, baby?’ she said, distracted, her mouth full of food.

Lester Fallon snatched the control and punched at the buttons. Seconds later they landed on a celebrity news channel.

And there she was. His sister. It seemed she had an alias, too.

Liar, murderer,
bitch
.

She was rich, she was famous; she lived the life of a fucking princess like she hadn’t got a care in the world.

Like she hadn’t killed her own brother.

The injustice of it made him shake.

‘Nelson, honey, are you OK?’

Lester put down his cutlery. ‘I want you to leave.’ He could feel his rage boiling up inside, threatening to spill. He would warn her once more, but that would be the last time. The mere sight of his sister, the mention of her name unleashed the animal in him. He could not be held accountable for his actions if this lardy-ass broad got in the way.

‘What’s the matter, sugar-pie?’ she bleated. ‘Don’t you want me to suck that fine old dick of yours one more time?’

Under the table Lester wiped his palms on his hairy knees.

‘I said, leave.’

The woman took her time in clearing the last of her plate. ‘Fine.’ She wiped her mouth on the back of her arm. ‘You just give me what I’m owed and I’m outta here.’

Lester’s knuckles cracked beneath the surface. He hadn’t realised that was the deal.

‘I ain’t
got
no money,’ he snarled.

The woman made a face; she’d seen it all before. ‘That watch’ll do nicely,’ she said, her eyes darting to the cheap imitation Rolex attached to his wrist.

In a single swift movement, Lester’s hand shot up and slapped her across the face. She responded quickly, going for his head, digging her nails in and pulling at what hair there was, the table dragged between them so the plates and glasses went crashing to the floor. He punched her once, twice, sent her flying the same way. Slut! Why couldn’t these dumb women control themselves? It was her own fault, coming in here demanding money. She was privileged to spend a night with a man like him—if anything,
he
should be asking for the dough. He pounced on her, not giving her a chance to escape. Fuelled by hatred for his sister, he wrapped his long, skeletal fingers round the woman’s neck, pressing his thumbs hard into her clavicle. She gasped and choked, blood rushing to her face. Her eyes bugged, wild with fear.

A searing pain shot through Lester’s groin. In the struggle she had raised a knee and got him where it hurt. His mouth hung open and he made a wheezing, high-pitched sound, rolling backwards, curled up in a ball. She kicked him repeatedly in the back—the bitch had heels on—then hard in the head, once. He felt a trickle of blood run from his nose. Helpless, he watched as she unstrapped the watch, pocketed it, kicked him one more time in his gut then grabbed her bag and slammed the door behind her.

He lay there a while, nursing himself and groaning. The apartment was quiet and it smelled bad. The trash needed taking out, he hadn’t done it in a week, maybe longer, he couldn’t remember.

For eight years he had lived in New York City, waiting tables at various strip bars, the latest of which was Club 44. He’d arrived in town with enough bucks to get a deposit down on an apartment, dive as it was, on Greenwich Street, with a tiny bedroom, a bathroom whose toilet kept filling up with shit—there was a problem with his drains—and a kitchen coated in fat and grease. Everything was seventies in style, from the sludgy creams and browns of the decor to the fringed, mottled lamps, some of which worked, some of which didn’t.

He could hear the TV reporter chattering on. It was white noise to him—only the sound of his sister’s name could skewer the surface. She was living the life of a queen in Hollywood, a rich and successful film star; that dumb fuck ex-boyfriend of hers a Vegas billionaire. Where the hell was his money? Where were the millions he was entitled to? They had taken everything from him, left him with nothing but the clothes on his back—but soon he would claim what was rightfully his. Two murderers about to pay the ultimate price.

At least they hadn’t stayed together—to cap it all with a sickly fucking love story would have been the final insult. No, instead Laura had married the most famous actor of them all: Cole Steel. It defied belief.

They had escaped from one of the most heinous crimes imaginable and had gone on to live the life that he, Lester Fallon, deserved. Refuge, he decided as he lay on the floor, his ear pressed against the scratchy doormat, could be found only in what was to come. Life had been cruel, but little Laura’s and that Lewis kid’s success was only part of the grander scheme of things. The higher they got, the further there was to fall.

Lester closed his eyes, thinking he ought to try to get up. His head was banging from where that whore had attacked him.

Memories came flooding back. Memories of the night he’d died.

Lester Fallon had been a dead man for ten years now. Killed by a blow to the head then reduced to nothing, burned to ashes by a couple of kids.

Or at least that’s what they thought. Instead he had been resurrected, risen to seek vengeance upon those who’d tried to bring him down. The power he now wielded was infinite: it was what had kept him going all this time. They had no clue that he lived on, under an alias but still the same man, only now he had hatred coursing through his veins like life-blood.

They were so stupid they hadn’t even thought to check he was dead. That kid had knocked him out cold, had probably pissed his pants when he’d thought he’d killed a man.

Lester had come round slowly that night, the weight of concussion confusing things. Swimming up into consciousness, he’d realised he was alone. Voices were talking in whispers, voices all around, telling him he had to move.

Instinct, from wherever it came, had compelled him to wrench open a back window and climb out the trailer. He had fallen in a slump on to the hard ground, where he had thrown up sour, rank-smelling beer. One hand was numb and there were tiny dots springing behind his eyes. He’d reached a hand round to touch the back of his head and felt that bloody pulp, the tip of his thumb disappearing into a pit of soft, wet matter. He’d retched again, but this time nothing had come out. Ripping off his shirt, he had wrapped a torn sleeve around the wound, stemming the blood.

For a while he’d lain still, thinking about all the things he would do to her once he had the strength to move.

Faint voices, panicked, hushed, had reached his ears. It had been difficult to tell what they were saying. Whether it was down to his addled mind or sheer intuition he did not know, but something told Lester to get to his feet; to run. Staggering up, he lurched into the night, the moon hovering above, pale and lonely in the open black sky. When he came to the road he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Sleep threatened to take him.

The explosion seemed to happen in his head, so painful it was that when he looked round to see those bright orange flames dancing in the distance, he thought he was imagining it. It took another moment to connect with the fact that the raging fire was in the direction from which he had just come. His trailer was burning. His funeral pyre.

He kept running, feet dragging on the road, not knowing where he was going. With each stumble he half expected the cops to pull him over—someone, anyone. They never came. Eventually, wandering blindly further and further, deeper into the night, delirious, he fell down on the road and passed out. He had escaped death once. This time it could claim him.

Next he knew, his aching body was being dragged into the cab of a truck. It was light. His eyes were stinging and he had a taste in his mouth like shit, bitter and cloying. His lips were dry and cracked, his head throbbing.

The truck belonged to a long-distance driver named Big Carl. Big Carl wore a string vest and had arms like hams, mapped over with vein-green tattoos. There was a donkey in a sombrero swinging off the rear-view mirror. They drove for what felt like hours, passing the state border as night was creeping in. Lester drifted in and out of sleep, his tongue lolling fat in his mouth, thick like meat. At a gas station Big Carl produced a bottle of water, which Lester drank thirstily.

Big Carl lived in a beat-up house, down a dirt track in the middle of nowhere. He said he’d put Lester up in return for him looking after the house—Lester hadn’t raised a finger in that direction for years but he had neither the energy nor the inclination to object.

Lester passed a miserable two months like this, slave to the demands of his keeper. Something was changing in his head, like he was wired differently somehow. His memory was patchy, he kept falling over; he was forgetting things like his middle name and three times four. Hours passed where he could only stare at a wall, the rest of the world was too complicated, too plural. Weak and confused, he tried to make sense of what had happened that fateful night. It kept escaping him, like sand running through his fingers.

But over time, as his strength returned, Lester slowly put together the pieces. He worked out why no one was coming for him. They thought he was dead, everybody did. His sister would have told the cops that he’d set fire to the trailer himself. She was a good liar.

Surely she would be discovered. Somebody had to know where he was…didn’t they?

He would go back to Belleville. Sort Laura out once and for all.

One morning in June, Lester made his escape—Big Carl was on a long-distance trip and Lester had no intention of ever seeing him again. He was free. Revenge was close.

But, walking the streets of a deadbeat town, feeling conspicuous as only a freed man can, Lester’s resolve began to waver. He caught his reflection in a shop window. He had gained weight. His hair was different; he seemed taller. There was a steeliness in his eyes that he admired. He felt stronger than he ever had.

Lester Fallon had defied death—there was nothing he could not do now.

That night he sheltered under a flattened cardboard box, kicking the rats that gnawed at his ankles. He slept fitfully in short, lucid bursts. Then, around dawn, a voice came to him. The voice was other-worldly, primal, and it spoke to the core of him. It seemed to come from within him and outside him at the same time, and told him simply this—that revenge would come some years from now, and the moment of that revenge would end the world as they knew it.

The end of the world as they knew it…

A new plan began to take shape. What was there to go back for? Belleville and the people in it were as dead to him as he was to them. He would wait for Laura, biding his time. The scene of his vengeance would be all the sweeter for it.

Over the next year, with no possessions or money, Lester decided to reinvent himself. He became Nelson Price, a name he’d seen on a reel of daytime movie credits, and hitched a ride to Bosfield, a town not far outside Indianapolis. There, drinking one night, he had hooked up with a local fraudster named Irvin Chase, owner of a ginger balding head and russet handlebar moustache, as well as a notorious strip joint on East Meridian. In return for waiting tables, Irvin gave him a bed in the house he shared with his wife, an overweight, unhappy-looking broad called Anna-May. The work was hard and unrewarding, but it was a roof over his head.

Things became complicated when Anna-May started spilling her guts, confiding that Irvin hadn’t paid her
that
kind of attention in months.

‘He used to say I had the sweetest ass in the whole of the state,’ she’d slur, shoving her fat hands into a bag of chips. ‘Now he won’t even look at me.’