Hollywood Husbands (30 page)

The front door was still ajar. He made sure he wiped the handle. And the buzzer. And –
shit
! He heard the sound of a car approaching, and threw himself bodily into the shrubbery.

His heartbeat alone was enough to give him away.

Within seconds a police car appeared at full speed and screeched to a stop outside the open front door. Wes could make out two officers inside, neither of whom seemed ready to leave the safety of their vehicle.

It figured.

Set the schmuck up.

Send in the cops.

Schmuck discovered with murder weapon in hand. What would it matter that he had been beaten unconscious? He was holding the fucking murder weapon, for crissake. Book him and throw away the key!

With a supreme effort he tried to breathe slowly, evenly. Once they ventured inside the house, the whole area would be alive with cops. He had to get out fast.

Random thoughts raced through his head. If only he could get rid of the gun it would be a big help. But how could he risk it?

Sweat mingled with the blood dripping into his eye as he slowly crawled along the damp earth, hidden by the thick trees and bushes which tangled with his face and hair and body – scratching and tearing at his skin,

Wes Money had never been a religious man. Only now it seemed quite apt to say his prayers, and he did so with fervour.

One of the cops got out of the car. He was big and burly, the way policemen are supposed to be. He said something to his partner, but Wes couldn’t hear what it was. Fortunately he was on his way, putting distance between himself and discovery.

The other cop got out of the car, and the two of them had a short discussion before drawing their weapons and approaching the front door of the house. They had their backs to him.

With perfect timing he judged it was safe for him to rise, slide into the shadows, and jog sharply away from the scene of the crime.

He ran down the driveway as if the devil were pursuing him. Along the private road. Up the other driveway where he had prudently parked the Mercedes. A feverish grope for the keys. Into the car. Start the ignition. Not too fast. Don’t attract attention.

His breathing was laboured, and his throat felt like he’d just vacated a burning building. A sharp stitch dug into his side, and his head hurt like hell. He hadn’t realized he was in such lousy shape.

Slowly he coasted down the driveway to the private road, only just stopping himself from flooring the gas pedal. When he hit Laurel Canyon he made a sharp right turn, and allowed himself to breathe. Clumsily he took the gun from his pocket and stuffed it under the passenger seat. There was other traffic going down the hill, and he slid in between a Honda and a Jeep. Again he allowed himself to breathe.

Halfway down, coming from Sunset, were two police cars, one behind the other. With sirens screaming and red lights flashing, they roared up the hill.

Along with the other vehicles, he pulled the Mercedes over to the side and allowed them clear passage. Breathing heavily he took a Kleenex from the glove compartment and mopped his head. The blood was drying now, congealing in a mass.

He wanted to throw up again, but he didn’t dare.

He was safe. Temporarily.

Only what the fuck did he do now?

* * *

Angrily Silver glanced at the clock again. It was past nine. She was not used to being kept waiting, and certainly not by the likes of Wes Money.

In a sudden fury she called Dennis Denby.

He was home. She would have been most surprised if he wasn’t.

‘That table at Spago, Dennis,’ she purred. ‘Is it ready and waiting?’

Dennis, who had been trying to contact her ever since the gay restaurant debacle, did not hesitate. ‘For you, Silver, beauty, anything is possible.’

‘Pick me up in fifteen minutes,’ she commanded.

He was one minute late, which was admirable considering he’d had to get rid of a lady friend (the forty-five-year-old raven-haired wife of a director who was secretly into boys), call Spago and request an immediate table. Not easy, but for Silver Anderson they complied. And dress. He wore a white sports jacket from Bijan, Italian trousers, and a light pink cashmere sweater.

‘You’ve forgiven me!’ he exclaimed, kissing her hand, a gesture he had seen George Hamilton employ with great success.

‘I was never mad.’ She looked elegantly casual in a suede jacket and pants, her own hair scraped back, a full studio makeup still in place.

‘You never returned my calls,’ he pointed out.

‘Dennis, dear, you must realize that I don’t even have time to go to the bathroom!’

He understood. Silver was a very busy woman.

On the small hill outside the fashionable Spago, photographers and fans stood in a huddle waiting for a celebrity arrival. Since the celebrities always used the back entrance, the chances of catching a good shot were remote.

Silver chose to have Dennis drive her Rolls. The fans gathered at the entrance to the parking lot and called to her longingly. She gave them a queenly wave, and swept into the restaurant the back way with Dennis trotting obediently behind her.

Before reaching their table – ready and waiting – they went through a parade of smiles and kisses and fond greetings. Spago, with its laid-back atmosphere, mind-blowing pizzas and incredible array of desserts, was celebrity hang-out numero uno. And Wolfgang Puck – the chef and owner – along with his darkly dramatic wife, Barbara, made sure everyone felt comfortable and at home.

‘I absolutely
adore
the glorious flower arrangements here,’ Silver remarked, when safely seated.

‘So do I,’ agreed Dennis.

‘And it’s such a
fun
place.’

‘I agree,’ agreed Dennis.

When did he ever not? He was her yes-man. She could do with him whatever she wanted.

Not so Wes Money. There was something about him… an unknown quality… a lurking danger.

She shivered excitedly. And he was not used goods either. Well, not by anyone
she
knew. It was quite possible that half the women in the restaurant had romped in the hay with Dennis.

Tonight she would teach Wes a lesson. Let him know exactly
who
he was dealing with. She had left explicit instructions with Vladimir that if Mr Money called, he was to inform him that she was out, and to phone back the next day. Alternatively, if he arrived at the house, Vladimir was to send him on his way.

Let Wes know she was not
completely
at his beck and call just because he had a hard cock and a persuasive tongue.

She smiled at the thought of both pieces of his anatomy.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Dennis asked anxiously.

She picked up a piece of bread, looked at it longingly, and put it down again. ‘Nothing that would interest you, Dennis, dear. Shall we order? I’m famished.’

* * *

The men’s room in a gas station on Sunset supplied Wes with an image which frightened the shit out of him. He was wild-eyed, wild-haired, with scratches all over his face. His clothes were dirty and torn, and there was a nasty spongy spot on the top of his head where he had been hit.

Better than being dead, with a bullet through his skull.

He felt the bile rise again, only this time he could supply nothing but dry heaves.

Quickly he cleaned up as best he could. The result was not Paul Newman. Face it – he looked fucked.

Searching through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes he came up with two unexpected items. A large glassine envelope filled with a white powder that looked suspiciously like cocaine. And a wad of used thousand-dollar bills totalling twenty-two thousand.

Shit! Part of the set-up. They had wanted him pegged as a dealer.

Swearing viciously, he stuffed everything back in his pocket.

Just in time, as two Mexicans entered the can, unzipped, and began to relieve themselves.

He hurried out of there, and went over to a pay phone. His first thought was to call Rocky. Just how much did his good friend know?

For a moment he played with the quarter. Should he? Shouldn’t he?

A hooker drifted by in orange fishnet stockings and little else. ‘Wanna visit love city?’ she drawled.

He ignored her. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart move to contact Rocky. After all,
he
was the one responsible for getting him into this mess in the first place.

And then he thought about going home. Was it safe?

Sure it was safe. What could they do to him now?

They could come searching for their money, that’s what. It was hardly loose change. They could come to reclaim their cocaine – there must be at least fifteen hundred bucks’ worth.

He had no intention of parting with either. This money he had
really
earned.
And
the thousand stashed with Unity.

No, going home tonight was not the best idea in the world.

He thought of alternatives. And then he thought of Silver Anderson. Nobody would come looking for him at her house. With Silver he’d be safe.

Chapter Forty-Five

‘We’re having a dinner for Silver Anderson,’ Poppy announced, as she brushed her long hair in front of her dressing table mirror.

Howard, who had returned from Vegas earlier in the day, and was sitting up in bed surrounded by papers, documents, and unanswered memos, looked at her as if she had gone berserk. ‘Why? You hardly know her.’

Poppy continued to brush her luxuriant blonde tresses. ‘Politics, sweet-buns. There may come a day when you want her in one of your movies. A touch of social intercourse never did anyone any harm.’

‘Willya talk English, for crissake?’

She leaned closer to the mirror and inspected her pampered skin. ‘I’m going to give the dinner in the back room at Chasen’s. Who would you like me to invite?’

Knowing Poppy, she already had the guest list planned. ‘I don’t care. How many people you got in mind?’

‘Eight couples. I’d like your input on this, Howard.’

A dinner party for Silver Anderson. Cross brother Jack off the list for a start. Mannon would be okay, but if they invited Mannon he couldn’t invite Whitney, and he really wanted to see her.

‘I don’t know. You’re the social queen. You’ll come up with a good group.’

Just the answer she had been hoping for. She put down her hairbrush and dipped her fingers into a pot of expensive cream, which she then proceeded to massage gently around her eyes. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘with us, and Silver and her escort – I do hope it’s Dennis, he’s so charming – that makes two couples. And then I thought the Whites, and the Goosebergers. Maybe Oliver Easterne, and Mannon and Melanie, and—’

‘I’d sooner you invited Whitney,’ Howard interrupted. ‘I’m still thinking of using her for that script you suggested.’

Poppy finished patting in the cream. ‘Whitney is still seeing Chuck Nielson,’ she informed him. ‘You know you don’t like him. And I’ve already mentioned the dinner to Melanie. I can’t very well
dis
-invite her. I suppose having Mannon
and
Whitney is out of the question, isn’t it?’ She turned around and looked questioningly at him.

He pulled the collar of his pyjama top up. Cleverly he had concealed his Las Vegas love bites with a stick of makeup he had found on Poppy’s dressing table. He could hardly wear a turtleneck to bed. ‘No way,’ he said shortly.

‘Oh, dear…’ Her little-girl voice wavered. ‘I hope I haven’t made a boo-boo.’

He hated it when she came out with baby talk. ‘So we’ll give another dinner,’ he said magnanimously. ‘Big deal. You can plan a special night for Mannon and whatever her name is.’

Poppy thought about it, and decided it wasn’t such a bad idea at all. She could gain a reputation for throwing chic little dinners – maybe once a week – and everyone would fight to be included.

‘Delicious!’ she exclaimed, jumping up and hurrying to his side. She knelt on the bed, completely messing up his profusion of papers. ‘Who’s a clever boy, then?’

He peered down the décolletage of her rose pink peignoir. Perkily waiting were a perfect pair of 36B tits.
His
tits. He had paid for them. They were nothing like the Vegas redhead’s monstrosities. They were lively and upright. Not too big and not too small. Just right, in fact. Before having them done, Poppy had consulted him on his preferences. ‘A perfect handful,’ he had said, and she had obliged.

‘I’m in the mood, Howie,’ she whispered coyly.

I’m not
, he wanted to reply. Only he didn’t. He bundled his papers to the side, switched off the light, and reached for one of his possessions. A perky 36B possession.

* * *

‘I had lunch with Poppy Soloman yesterday,’ Melanie-Shanna informed Mannon.

He paused, mid press-up, and said, ‘What did you do that for?’

‘She invited me.’

‘Oh yeah, and what did she want?’

‘Just to be friendly.’

‘Sure!’

‘No, really.’

‘Everything Poppy Soloman does has a purpose.’

‘If there
was
a particular reason for inviting me, it never came up.’

‘It will.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll see.’

He resumed a punishing set of press-ups, and then moved over to his Nautilus machine, where he proceeded to work on his arms.

Melanie-Shanna watched him pensively. He was so handsome, and she loved him so much. And yet every day – in spite of her pregnancy – he drew further and further away from her. Nothing she could say for sure, just a feeling.

‘Was Vegas fun?’ she asked brightly.

‘Hell, no. I hated it.’

Then why did you go?

She couldn’t ask him. Mannon did what he pleased, and she never questioned.

‘I went shopping with Poppy after lunch,’ she volunteered.

He had lost interest. ‘Good,’ he said vaguely.

‘She took me to Giorgio, and I opened a charge.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

She wondered how glad he would be when he found out she had spent several thousand dollars. Poppy had encouraged her. ‘Spend his money, for God’s sake!’ she had urged. ‘What do you think he
makes
it for?’