Lovers and Liars (14 page)

19

J
ack and Abe Glassman stared at each other from across the room while Jack fought potent, painful memories.

Jack clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might grind his teeth to the gums. But he didn’t look away. He recognized the challenge. And damn, he wasn’t afraid of that bastard. Glassman couldn’t touch him now. Right?

Jack became aware of how tense he was, and he forced himself to relax, to smile and act cool. As if seeing this man again—who had almost had him killed, who had cost him six months in the hospital, who had then ruined his chances in New York—meant nothing to him.

But the shock of being in the same room with a man he hated made his pulse pound and his brow sweat.

Abe had his arm around Nancy and was pulling her with him as he approached. Jack looked at her for the first time and saw the horror in her eyes, which were riveted on him. She was as white as a ghost—as if she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she’d thought he’d died, after all. Had she once come to inquire about him when he’d been recovering in the hospital? Maybe they’d both thought he’d died—and then Jack immediately corrected himself. Abe Glassman didn’t deal in
assumptions
. He had known exactly what he was doing when he’d had Jack beaten up to within an inch of his life. Just as he knew exactly what he was doing now. The fear was just a stabbing, like the prick of a needle. He controlled his expression. He wasn’t about to give anything away.
What did Glassman want?

His heart was pumping erratically.

“If it isn’t my old driver,” Glassman sneered.

“If it isn’t Abe Glassman, Upright Citizen of the Year,” Jack said coolly. He couldn’t control the trickle of sweat at his temple. But he didn’t brush at it.

“You remember my wife,” Abe said, holding Nancy tightly by the arm.

Jack met Nancy’s eyes briefly and was shocked by the hatred he saw blazing there. For a moment he couldn’t look away, and neither could she. “Abe,” Nancy whispered weakly, but she didn’t take her gaze from Jack’s.

“Maybe you two have some catching up to do,” Abe sneered.

His cruelty appalled Jack and angered him. “What in the hell do you want?”

“Still the tough punk.” Abe grinned. “Once a punk, always a punk.”

If it had been anyone else, anyone other than this man, Jack might have been amused. But amusement was the farthest thing from his mind right then. “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other,” Jack said, turning away.

“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Abe warned.

Jack froze. Then slowly, so as not to appear intimidated,
he turned back. “If you have something to say, then say it. If not, I have a date.”

“Oh, I have something to say, all right,” Abe said, grinning. “I wanted to give you some advice.”

In that instant Jack knew. Knew that Glassman was about to go for his jugular. Knew it wasn’t over, that it had never been over. Dread filled him. “I can’t wait.”

Glassman laughed. “Stick to your own league.” He laughed harder. “Know what I mean? You’re bush league, Ford, and you always have been. You can’t make the majors—
you won’t
. I’m the Man in this town, just like I was the Man in New York. Ring any bells?”

The sweat was pouring now in a steady stream. “You can’t touch me, not now.” But he felt as if he were free-falling through space.

Abe laughed. “No? Just wait and see, boy. Just wait and see.”

Falling.

God, why?

PART TWO
Lovers
December 1987
 

20

H
e hadn’t had the dream in years.

Not since he was in his mid-twenties, but he’d been having it recently, and he had it that night. He was a boy—it was years ago. He was walking home. His block stood out crystal-clear in his mind. An empty lot, dirt and debris taking up half of one side, the chain fence partly torn down, so easily circumventable. Rows of rotting, squalid, wood-shingled homes, porches crumbling, paint gone, shutters hanging crookedly. Rats escaping from overturned, overflowing garbage cans. Wrecked and stripped jalopies dotting front yards and the sides of the street.

His own house was on the corner. It was no different from every other house on the block. One side of the porch sagged precariously. White paint had long ago flaked away, revealing green and gray patches beneath. One of the front windows was boarded up; the glass had been shattered. His father had thrown something at it—years earlier—with his mother screaming hysterically and Jack hiding under the stairs. The other front window had a jagged, gaping hole. The screen door had a myriad of tears in it.

As Jack approached the house, getting closer, his mother appeared on the front step. A voluptuous woman, clad in short shorts and a halter top, with dyed blond hair, showing dark roots. She laughed at him.

Jack called to her, wanting to show her something, something important, something that would make her
happy, proud, something that would make her love him. He didn’t know yet what that something might be. He quickened his pace, and the house started drifting away, with his mother laughing on the porch.

Jack started running.

The house moved away faster.

He ran faster. Calling her.

His mother’s laughter grew louder.

Now he was running as hard as he could. He could barely breathe. He tried to shout, wanted to shout, Mom, wait, Mom! but he had no air. The house was moving so fast now. It had almost disappeared from his view.

He woke up.

Sweat covered his naked body. Breathing hard, Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicking on the light. Sweet Jesus.

His hands were trembling. And he could barely breathe—as if he’d actually been running.

He now knew that it really was his mother who had called.

He knew it was her for a very distinct reason—one day Melody had brought her to his office.

What had taken her so long to try and reach him? It was a question that haunted him, a question he hated for its power over him. For the past three years he had been on a weekly TV series. A show that had gotten tremendous PR—even its cancellation had been a major controversy. His face had appeared on the cover of
TV Guide
the first year. Since then he had made the cover of
People, Playgirl, Esquire
, and
TV Guide
again. God only knew how many times he had made the front page of the gossip rags on display at every goddamn supermarket counter in the country. So why now?

What did she want?

What did everyone want? Money. Now that he was a big star, they all wanted money, directly or indirectly. Every guy who tried to become his pal wanted him to read a script or endorse a product or put in a word with whoever for a part. It was the same thing with all the broads. Hollywood
was a plastic place. Everyone was on the make. Everyone used whoever they could sink their claws into.

He was on the top of every A party list there was. Turned down invitations left and right, only picking those parties that Melody insisted he go to, to advance himself with the right people. Even he had to play the fucking game. He hated it. And everyone knew it.

But it was play or never work.

Every woman he screwed wanted a piece of the pie.

Now she wanted a piece too.

Well, fuck her.

Jack looked at his watch, a gold Rolex. Eight thousand dollars. He had always wanted a Rolex, during all those years when all the people who now begged him to attend their parties and read their scripts and consider their roles had looked down their phony noses at him and told him to go flush himself down the toilet. He had always wanted a black Ferrari. Now he had both. Now he could look down his nose at most—but not all—of those pricks.

What did she want?

Why had she wanted to see him?

And he still hadn’t forgiven Melody for her betrayal, not in his heart, and he didn’t think he ever could. He would never forget that day. Even now, for the thousandth time, it was like the rerun of a favorite movie, the images crystal-clear.

“Don’t hate me,” Melody said from the doorway, taut with apprehension.