Lovers and Gamblers (70 page)

Dallas appeared to have fallen asleep. This was getting to be a habit. Only tonight was supposed to be special. He snatched the phone up in a fit of temper. ‘Yes?’

Paul’s voice. ‘Where are you, for Chrissake?’

‘I am at the hotel,’ replied Al evenly. ‘I should have thought that was obvious due to the fact that you just telephoned me here.’

‘Cut it out, Al. Half of Rio has turned out to meet you. Carlos Baptista is getting jumpy.’

‘Am I getting paid to do a show tomorrow? Or am I getting paid to attend Carlos Baptista’s party?’ Al’s voice was icy.

Paul knew the danger signals. Best to placate him. ‘Will you be long?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘As long as I fucking please!’ snapped Al, banging the phone down.

Screw Paul for bothering him. But at the same time he knew he was being unfair to his brother.

He walked to the door, whistled for Luke. ‘Call Paul at the party,’ he instructed. ‘Tell him I can’t make it – he can give them any excuse he likes. And inform the front desk no calls – either my suite or Dallas’s.’

* * *

Nervously Cristina skirted the room. She had danced twice with Louis, once with her father, and where was the famous guest of honour that she was supposed to get to know? Everyone was asking the same question. Where was Al King?

His brother was there. His son was there. His publicity man was there. But where was the star himself?

Cristina spotted her future father-in-law deep in conversation with Paul King. She took a deep breath and walked over.

‘Hello,’ she said gaily, ‘have you seen Louis?’

‘What?’ snapped Carlos, not at all in a good mood.

‘Er – Louis,’ stammered Cristina, ‘I seem to have lost him.’ She turned to Paul King. ‘Hello again, we met at the airport earlier today. Cristina Maraco, Louis Baptista’s fiancée.’

‘Run along, dear,’ interrupted Carlos brusquely, ‘we’re in the middle of a business conversation.’

‘Oh – sorry.’ She felt herself blushing, and was furious with Nino for having put her in such an undignified position. Paul King completely ignored her. The two men resumed their conversation as if she had never interrupted. So much for getting to know the people surrounding Al King. Then she noticed the son; at least someone had
said
it was the son, although she could hardly believe that the spotty, insignificant boy standing in the corner was actually the great Al King’s son. She could not remember seeing him at the airport.

Resolutely she walked over to him.

‘Hello, I’m Cristina Maraco, Louis Baptista’s fiancée. I don’t think we have met.’ Politely she extended her hand to him.

He seemed to back away, hiding his hands behind him.

Cristina dropped her hand. Stupid boy, no manners, and what a horrible skin. ‘Louis is Carlos Baptista’s son,’ she continued by way of further explanation of her position. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your father. Where is he?’

‘Don’t know,’ mumbled Evan, highly embarrassed by this strange girl picking
him
out for conversation.

‘Oh,’ said Cristina, momentarily at a loss for words, then, ‘what’s your name?’

‘Evan,’ he replied.

She smiled, ‘Nice. Want to dance, Evan? You do samba, don’t you?’

* * *

‘Where is the star?’ Evita asked Carlos.

‘My dear Evita, if I knew – he would be here. His brother tells me he is tired and is sleeping. I arrange this party for him. Two hundred of the most interesting people in Rio to honour his arrival in our city,’ Carlos made a gesture of despair, ‘and he is tired. He is sleeping. What can I do?’

Evita smiled sympathetically. ‘You can get me another glass of your delicious champagne.’

Momentarily distracted, Carlos said, ‘You are looking as beautiful as ever, Evita. My God, you are a wonderful-looking woman. Couldn’t we…’

‘Here comes Jorge,’ Evita interrupted lightly. She was used to Carlos’s vaguely erotic suggestions. She laughed them off as she laughed off all the propositions she received. Jorge would never believe how unloyal most of his friends could be when it came to his wife.

Jorge approached, smiling. ‘Where is—’ he began.

‘Please!’ interrupted Carlos. ‘Do not ask. My one prayer now is that he turns up for the concert tomorrow. Two hundred people I can explain to. Two hundred thousand might present me with a problem!’

* * *

Al allowed Dallas to sleep for a couple of hours. He paced the room and wondered what the hell he was doing there. He couldn’t find an answer. He had started off wanting a girl, a body – and now here he was –
concerned
, for Chrissake.

He drank the coffee which arrived, then stood on the balcony gazing out at the breathtaking array of twinkling lights.

The smell of the sea drifted up, and he thought about the evening he and Dallas had walked along the beach at Malibu, and he had swum and she had sat waiting for him. God – she had seemed like a different girl then. Together, sure of herself, in control. He wondered what had happened to get her going on this destructive drug trip. And it was a destructive trip, any fool could see that. OK – a couple of joints never did anyone any harm if that was your scene – but once you started indiscriminately popping pills at the same time – then you were headed in the wrong direction. She seemed to be striving for total oblivion. Where was
that
going to get her?

Christ – he knew about total oblivion. He was an expert. But he had always had people around to look after him. Dallas seemed to have no one who really cared.

When he woke her she was subdued like a small child who has done something naughty and been found out. She huddled in his large bathrobe, legs tucked underneath, and regarded him with watchful green eyes.

‘Hungry?’ he questioned.

‘Starving,’ she replied.

He called room service and ordered her some scrambled eggs and himself a steak sandwich.

‘We missed the party,’ she said solemnly.

‘We sure did.’

‘Is it too late? Couldn’t you still go?’

‘I don’t want to go,’ he replied.

‘But it was in your honour…’

‘I know.’

She shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know why you stayed with me.’

‘I can’t quite figure it out myself. But I intend to find out. You and I are going to talk – I mean really
talk
. No bullshit. I want to know what’s happening with you. I started out wanting to get into your body – now it’s your head I’m interested in.’

‘Settle for the body, Al. I think I owe it to you.’

‘With no charge?’

She flushed. ‘What?’

‘When you’re stoned all you can talk about is giving it away for free.’

She turned her head away from him. ‘Take no notice of what I say when I’m stoned.’

He leaned forward, put his hand under her chin, and forcibly turned her face to look at him. ‘I want to know about you, Dallas. I want to know it all. Everything.’

She laughed bitterly. ‘Why not? Why don’t I tell you the whole pretty story.’

‘Yes, why don’t you.’

She shifted uncomfortably. Her head was beginning to ache. Christ – why was he bugging her? What did he want from her? ‘You really want to know?’

‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’

Fuck it. She would tell him. Get rid of him once and for all. ‘You asked for it,’ she said roughly, then adopting a singsong voice she began.

‘I was born twenty fun-filled years ago in the house back of a crummy private zoo my dear parents owned in a backwater off the main highway leaving Miami. I was a real event in their lives – something else to study – like the chimps or bears. Only I wasn’t kept in a cage – not a visible one, that is. I had no schooling, no playmates except the animals, no toys, no books.’ Her eyes filled with angry tears. ‘I had fuck-all if you want the truth. I wasn’t even allowed to talk to the paying visitors in case they would corrupt me with stories of the outside world where
real
people lived. When I was sweet sixteen my father took me into town to pick up the monthly supplies – the first time I was allowed out. Can you believe that? Some guy rode back in the truck with us – kept on giving me fishy looks. It wasn’t until later I found out he’d been picked as a husband for me…’

Talking about it was like a catharsis. She had never told anyone the truth before. Even with Cody she had tailored the story to suit herself. Now it all came pouring out – everything. Bobbie. The old man in the motel. Her months of degradation in Los Angeles. Meeting Ed Kurlnik. Trying to kill Bobbie. Fixing the judges on ‘Miss Coast to Coast’. She didn’t try to hide a thing. If Al wanted the truth that was exactly what he was going to get.

The food arrived and they both ignored it. He poured her some coffee, and she gulped that as her voice wavered and shook and neared tears as she told her story.

When she reached the part about Lew Margolis and his blackmail attempt, Al stood up and walked to the balcony. She told him about Diamond and Linda helping out with the photographs. Then about Bobbie coming back, Doris Andrews, her short marriage to Cody, Bobbie’s death. She didn’t leave out a detail. Finally she told him about Lew’s latest attempt at blackmail, and the steps she had taken to resolve it.

‘That’s it,’ she said at last, her voice blank. ‘You wanted it – you got it. Can you blame me for wanting to get stoned? Can you blame me for not wanting to know myself? Jesus Christ, my parents knew a long time ago I was worth nothing. They never came looking for me – never gave a shit. I’ve been in every newspaper – on the cover of nearly every magazine in the country. They still don’t want to know. They have never attempted to reach me. I’m telling you – they knew right from the beginning. They must have been delighted when I took off. They didn’t lose a daughter – they lost a maid. I guess they hired a replacement the very next day.’

Al hadn’t uttered a word. He stood by the balcony, his face impassive.

‘Why don’t you go?’ asked Dallas brusquely. ‘Piss on off while you’ve still got the chance. You know all about me now. A hooker. A dyke. A murderer. A blackmailer.’ She laughed grimly. ‘Some record!’

He turned slowly. ‘Do you
want
me to go?’

‘Sure. Go. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I’ve got a cheque for thirty thousand dollars somewhere – I’ll make it back to LA and I’ll see you around. You know, Al, you and I would never have made it – we’re just too different.’

‘Different!’ he snorted. ‘Different! You’ve got to be kidding! So you were a hooker – you slept with guys for money. Well, I slept with women for free – hundreds, thousands probably. I didn’t like them any more than you liked the guys you went with.
But we both had our reasons
for doing it.’
He paused to light a cigarette. ‘You’re not a murderer. You didn’t kill Bobbie. And the old guy in Miami had a heart attack. It was an accident. How do you think I feel about the bomb killing two girls at my concert in Chicago? I feel like shit about it – but it was not my fault – I don’t think of myself as a murderer.
It was an accident.
’ He walked over to her, held her roughly by the shoulders. ‘Blackmail. I blackmail people every day of my life. You do this for me and I’ll do that for you. Only I call it by another name – business. And you want to call yourself a dyke – go ahead. Only a couple of homosexual experiences do not make you into a dyke. We all experiment with sex – when I was a kid I tried it with everything except sheep! What I’m trying to say, Dallas, is don’t pin labels onto yourself. Don’t put yourself down. So you had a rough past – so
forget
it.’

‘How can I forget it when I’m still forced to do things I hate myself for?’

‘Who’s forcing you?’

‘I have to protect myself…’ she began hesitantly.

‘Tear up the photos of you and Doris – destroy the negatives.’

‘But…’

‘It will be all right. I can promise you that. You’ll still be “Man Made Whatever” if that’s what you really want. Forget about yesterday – start living for today. Hey – are you as hungry as I am?’

Softly she said, ‘Yes.’

He phoned room service, but as it was now four in the morning they had closed down.

‘Well…’ suggested Al, ‘how do you feel about a cold steak sandwich?’

The Maracana soccer stadium had been transformed into a vast theatre in the round. In the centre of the pitch a platform had been erected, littered with microphones, amplifiers, and. musical equipment.

Two hundred thousand people chanted and sang patiently. Police guards were stationed all around the inner circle of the stadium a foot apart. Some of them had dogs with them.

Carlos Baptista was justifiably proud of his security arrangements. No star in his care had ever been involved in any kind of riot – he made sure there was always more than adequate protection. That was one of the reasons he was always able to get the biggest stars. That, and the fact that he was always ready to pay top dollar. He was paying Al King one million dollars for two concerts – but he still expected to make money on the deal – what with the entrance fee and the various concessions he had arranged. Television rights alone had fetched in a princely sum. What a stroke of genius it had been on his part to have thought of hiring the fabulous Maracana Stadium as a venue for Al King. Perfect.

The star himself had been charm personified at a meeting that very morning. He had apologized profusely for not turning up at his party, and when Carlos had been introduced to his girlfriend he could understand why. She was the most beautiful, sensual woman he had ever seen. A streaked mass of hair, strong sexual face, burning green eyes, and a body that defied description. Carlos had professed himself honoured to meet her, and he had meant every word of it.

Now she sat next to him at the concert, but alas, on his other side sat his wife – a magnificent seventeen-stone lady.

Carlos sighed, and patted Dallas delicately on the leg. ‘More champagne, my dear?’

She shook her head. Who needed champagne? She was high enough. And without any outside aids. Just Al. He had been so wonderful to her. So understanding and kind.

They had talked until the dawn. Exchanged thoughts and feelings – rapped about themselves until she felt she knew him better than anyone she had ever known. And he certainly knew her. Yet he hadn’t been disgusted. He had listened, and sympathized, consoled, and advised. He had understood.