Lovers and Gamblers (50 page)

* * *

Linda picked up the key and drove her rented Mercury up to Dallas’s house. The sun was shining. The Californian disc jockey blathered on about nothing on the radio. The attendant in the supermarket she had stopped at had given her a ripe juicy cantaloupe as a gift along with the big bag of groceries she had bought.

Los Angeles was a nice city. Warm and friendly. Fun. She wanted to have fun, she had been working much too hard. She was planning to relax, take it easy, photograph a few movie stars.

A man was putting suitcases in a car outside the house, and she recognized him as Cody Hills. God, she hoped he wasn’t moving out on
her
account.

She honked the horn. ‘Hello there,’ she shouted.

He turned to look at her. Blank. No recognition.

‘Linda Cosmo, Dallas’s friend,’ she said, jumping out of the car.

‘Oh, hi.’ He looked glum.

‘I’m coming to stay for a few days – just ’til I find an apartment.’

‘Good.’ He was about as interested as a frog.

‘Gorgeous weather,’ Linda remarked. She had always had a compulsion to make inane conversation.

He was busy slamming the boot down on his car. He was quite attractive really, a little more hair, lose a few pounds… She tried to remember what Dallas had said about him –something about him being nice… too nice… Was there such a thing as a man who was too nice?

As she was thinking, she was carrying the groceries from the car, trying to manage her large Gucci hold-all and all of her camera equipment. It didn’t work. She tripped and dropped everything. Oranges and apples were rolling about everywhere. A yoghurt lost its top and spilled out. A carton of eggs smashed.

‘Shit!’ she exclaimed.

Cody got out of his car. He had been just about to drive off.

‘You want me to help you,’ he stated.

‘I want you to help me,’ she agreed.

He looked at her properly for the first time. She had the most direct, deep, interesting eyes. She looked like the sort of woman you could
talk
to.

She smiled. He smiled back.

‘You chase the oranges,’ she said, ‘and I’ll get the eggs before they turn into an omelette!’

Suddenly he was very, very hungry.

* * *

Doris Andrews’s well modulated nasal twang said, ‘I want you to come to a party I am having on Saturday night. A very
special
party.’

Dallas held the phone away from her ear and made a face. She had just walked into the house and been caught by the phone ringing. She was grimacing at Linda, who was waiting to greet her.

‘Hey – listen – I really
hate
parties,’ Dallas said.

Doris chuckled. ‘I know just how you feel, dear. But there are certain parties you have to be seen at, and I’m sure you’ll agree that mine is one of them.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘You’re not turning me down, are you?’ chided Doris softly.

‘It’s just that…’

‘I won’t take no for an answer, dear. Nor will Lew. There will be many important people here, people you should meet.’

‘OK,’ Dallas agreed reluctantly, ‘but I have a houseguest. Is it all right if I bring her?’

‘Is she pretty?’

‘Not
your
kind of pretty!’

‘Dallas! What we discussed was between us.’

‘I know, I know, I was only kidding. Can I bring her?’

‘Of course. What’s her name?’

‘Linda Cosmo.’

‘Fine. Placement, you know. If she’s pretty I’ll seat her next to Aarron, with you on the other side. Oh, by the way, the party is for Al King. Lew is trying to get him for a picture. See you Saturday, my dear, between seven and seven thirty. No later.’

Dallas put the phone down.

Linda rushed over, hugged her. ‘Good to
see
you. Am I a surprise?’

‘Tonight is full of surprises,’ said Dallas. ‘That was Doris Andrews…’

‘The movie star?’

‘Who else? I only get calls from stars now, you know.
Anyway
– party on Saturday night for – guess who?’

‘Al King.’

‘How did you know?’

Linda shrugged. ‘Girlish intuition or some such crap.’

‘Are you and Paul…’

‘Split. Yes. Weeks ago. His wife caught us in bed together. How do you like
that
little scenario?’

‘Sounds cosy.’

‘
Not
a trip to be recommended.’

Dallas smiled. ‘Tell me a trip that is? Are we going to the party?’

Linda shrugged. ‘Whatever… I don’t care…’

‘We’ll go, then,’ Dallas decided. She couldn’t resist the opportunity of seeing Al King again. Not that he meant anything in her life… But what was there to lose?

Two days of interviews, photographs, television, and work. Rehearsing with Hot Fudge. Ordering some amazing new outfits from Nudies – the renowned Beverly Hills tailor shop. Catching up on all the latest albums – sent over to him with a magnificent stereo music-centre by his record company. Meetings with a producer he wanted to use on his new album.

‘I spoke to Dallas and her answer is still no,’ Paul lied, ‘but has Bernie got some numbers for you! I…’

‘Forget it,’ snapped Al. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

Paul had never known a time when Al was ‘not in the mood’. Especially after three sexless weeks in Arizona. Especially with a big concert coming up. Why wasn’t he demanding a big-breasted dumb blonde? Some rock stars sniffed coke, got high, shot speed, to get it on just before a show. Al’s vice had always been a woman. A faceless, big-breasted blonde. Now, in Los Angeles – city of the quintessential ding-a-ling – he didn’t want to know. Paul couldn’t understand it.

Al had spoken to Edna once a week since her return to England. Short, flat conversations, dealing with the trivia of domesticity. Had the garage sent a man to wax his cars? Did she forward all the tax forms on to the accountant? How was Evan?

Evan was in bad shape. He was in a state of extreme nervous tension, although Edna thought he was his normal surly self and, as part of her new policy, left him alone.

His arm was better. His bruises had faded. But he had a new, more pressing problem. Something terrible had happened to him. Something so horrible that he was at his wits end about what to do.

He had a venereal disease.

Oh, he knew what it was all right. He could remember in vivid detail the films they had shown at school during a sex education class. The frightening pictures of a diseased penis –withered, dripping, covered in sores. And of course he remembered the teacher’s warning words about impotency and pain and sometimes even death!

God! He had it. He knew he had it. He would probably
die
from it!

He couldn’t possibly tell anyone. The shame and embarrassment would be too much to bear. Perhaps dying would be the best thing.

He sat in his room and brooded over his symptoms which seemed to get worse. If he did die, his mother would surely find out. If only his father was home… He would understand. He might even be sympathetic. He would certainly help him.

Three and a half weeks of pain culminated in the fact that he couldn’t even pee any more without going through the most excruciating agony. That decided him. He forged his mother’s signature on a cheque, cashed it – there was no problem as they knew him at the bank. He then told Edna a friend had invited him to stay in Scotland for a few days, hiked out to London Airport, and got on the first available flight to Los Angeles. It was the first time in his life he had gone to his father for help.

* * *

The concert at the famous Hollywood Bowl was a sell-out.

‘Every fuckin’ celebrity in town bin fighting for tickets,’ exclaimed Bernie happily, ‘don’t know how I’m squeezing ’em all in. You think I’m gonna turn away Streisand and Beatty? Best fuckin’ turn-out this city’s seen for a long time. Is Al in good shape?’

‘He’s sober, straight – don’t know what’s the matter with him,’ Paul replied. ‘I’ve never seen him put on such a low profile.’

‘Don’t knock it,’ urged Bernie. ‘We don’t need another Tucson scene. I got a truckload of photographers grabbing my balls for a piece of the action tomorrow. You think Al would mind if
Newsweek
came in the helicopter?’

‘Ask him.’

‘Come on, Paul, you ask him. I can’t talk to him – nobody can talk to him any more except you.’

Paul hadn’t realized it before, but what Bernie said was true. Al had retreated into a non-communicative state with everyone. Maybe it had been a whole better scene when he was drinking – maybe not.

‘I’ll ask him,’ said Paul. ‘If there’s room I’m sure he’ll say yes.’

‘There’ll be room,’ wheezed Bernie. ‘Now about tonight, I’ve arranged for the car to pick you up six forty-five. I think as guest of honour Al should arrive early. Doris Andrews won’t have any photographers in the house – except
Women’s Wear Daily
– but she’s laying on facilities for the press outside – and if her guests don’t mind having their picture taken that’s straight with her. She’s not a bad broad – the old man’s a pain in the ass…’

‘I know,’ interrupted Paul, ‘I had a meeting with him yesterday.’

‘Anything exciting?’

‘He’s got a property he wants Al to do.’

‘Shall I leak it?’

‘Hold back, Bernie. I don’t know – Al’s not in the mood for making decisions. He’s going to read the script – I’ll let you know the strength in a day or two.’

‘Right on. Karmen Rush’s boyfriend bin buggin’ the shit outta me ’bout
their
party for Al tomorrow. Should be some wild gig.’

Paul nodded. ‘As long as they know it’s got to be after the concert.’

‘Sure they know. They’re all gonna be
at
the show.’ Bernie smirked with pleasure. Had he done a job on Al. His city –
his
fuckin’ town – and he had made Al a hero. Tonight the Doris Andrews/Lew Margolis bash would have the crème de la crème of Hollywood society. The older group. A mixture of the A and B groups – the elite Beverly Hills moneyed talent. The respectable movie stars and their suitable partners. The moguls and their wives, with a beautiful girl or two thrown in for added flavour.

The Karmen Rush party after the show tomorrow would be pure freaksville. The young side of Hollywood. The new Hollywood. Millionaire rock stars and their old ladies. Groupies. Druggies. Models. Designers. Promoters. Hustlers. Porno magazine chiefs. And Girls Girls Girls.

Bernie was looking forward to it. Karmen Rush had made her home in a fantasy mansion on the beach at Malibu. She had started off owning one smallish house, and over the course of five years and much fame had gradually purchased six neighbouring houses and joined them all together making one wide strange incredible mansion. Karmen’s house was almost as famous as she was.

Bernie had only ever attended one party there – but it would remain in his mind forever. He had gotten stoned out of his head – the drugs were flowing – and had woken up in a rubber dinghy in the
ocean
with a spaced-out starlet!! Fortunately they had not been too far from shore, but he could still summon a shudder at the memory. The ocean for chrissakes! What the fuck – that’s what living was all about.

* * *

‘Why are you wearing that?’ asked Linda.

Dallas turned in front of the mirror. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘For a snack at a drive-in it’s perfect. But for the party tonight?’

Dallas frowned. ‘Why should I get all dressed up? A room full of dirty old men leering all over me – ugh!’ She was clad in a huge black mohair sweater over trousers. She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail and scrubbed her face of make-up. ‘Do you think I look awful?’ she questioned. ‘Maybe if I look awful they’ll all leave me alone.’

‘Kid –
you
could never look awful. If that’s your kick for the night do it. I should care. But – and please take this in the way it’s meant – isn’t being the Mack girl more than your photos all over the magazines? Isn’t it creating some sort of image? I mean Aarron Mack might take one look at you tonight – clap himself on the head – and say “holy shit! I made a mistake!” And then you’ll be out how many zillions of dollars?’

Dallas couldn’t help laughing. ‘Very funny. Do you mind hanging around getting drunk or something while I change. It means we’ll be late – probably ruin Doris’s “placement” – but I guess you’re right.’

She inspected her clothes. If she was going to change she may as well do it in style. There was a little white jersey number – a Halston – understated and clinging. She slipped into it – it was no longer understated.

She untied the rubber band holding her hair back, and bending forward brushed it vigorously. Then she sat at the dressing table and smudged kohl round her eyes, gold on her cheeks and eyelids, shiny lip gloss on her mouth. She added emerald earrings – the one gift of Ed Kurlnik’s that she had kept – and she was ready.

‘Why did I tell you to change?’ sighed Linda. ‘I looked pretty good before. Now I feel like the poor relation!’

‘Nonsense. You look great. I wish
I
had your kind of looks.’

Linda laughed. ‘You’re such a flatterer.’ As it happened she did feel pretty good about the way she looked. Two days in the sun had taken away her New York pallor, and she had gained a few pounds in places where it flattered her. Most women had to diet, but Linda was a natural-born skinny. It didn’t bother her – clothes always hung better on thin women – but sometimes she yearned for the kind of curvy body that most men lusted after.

Screw it – men had never been a problem to get. It was marrying them that was the trick. She thought of Paul, tried to blank him out, couldn’t, wondered if he would be there tonight. Hoped he would, wished he wouldn’t. ‘Are we ready?’ asked Dallas. ‘We’re ready. Whose car?’

‘You can drive if you don’t mind – they’ll have parking service.’ They set off. Both beautiful in their individual ways. Dallas, tawny and sunstreaked – all teeth, hair, and body. Linda, slim and chic, darkly arresting.

They were good friends –
close
friends. In the last few days they had both done a lot of talking. Dallas had confided to Linda about Cody – unaware of the fact that Cody had already told Linda – but she didn’t give him away. In fact she didn’t tell Dallas she had seen him. He had asked her not to, and she had respected his wishes. She could understand and sympathize with both of them.