Beauties and the Beast (6 page)

Diana's eyes locked in on Billy, a smart bomb, right on target. “What about your problem?”

Billy returned her stare. “What?”

“Your addictions.”

“Crap.”

“Heroin, cocaine, angel dust. You're the king aren't you?”

“Yeah, I'm the king.”

“I always thought Elvis was the King.” Mickey broke in.

A mouldering look from Angela shut him up.

“King of the narcotic cocktail; leaving no turn unstoned in your search for the ultimate trip. It means more than the music now doesn't it Billy, more than life itself.”

Billy leapt to his feet. “I don't have to take this crap. I don't owe you nothing. Let me out of here. What are you up to? Where's Genghis ?”

“It's all right Mr Winter.” Diana's voice became as soothing as whale song. “Your problem won't affect your suitability for the role.”

So why bring it up then?”

“It's part of the process.”

“What process?”

“It doesn't matter.” Angela's words cut through the whale song like a cracking iceberg.

Diana cast a reproving glance at Angela. “The roles you... gentlemen will be playing are complex. By helping you to look inside yourselves this process will sift out the inner power each of us possesses and lift it to the surface to help you give performances you could only dream of.”

Mickey sniffed. “Sounds a bit hocus-pocus to me.”

Chapter Six

In the shadows in the wings, there was a small sound among the rustling of the creatures of the dark. It was a barely audible chuckle from the man in those shadows; the man who stood listening, a dark and brooding presence that even the rats avoided. He was a man with the power of life or death over this production; the Angel, the money man, the backer. Mr Joshua Lucy was one of the names he was known by. There were many others. Angela heard the tinkle of approval and preened. It was good to know the boss approved.

***

“The process is quite scientific,” said Diana. “It's called the psychological insight technique. It's quite new, but the best drama institutions use it now. Only when your complete inner self is revealed can you release your full power.”

“Well you can stick it,” said Billy. “You're getting too personal.”

“You mean you have something else to hide?” Angela's ice-breaking voice was back.

Billy paced to the computer desk table and slammed his fist hard on the smooth grey plastic surface. His eyes opened wide with shock. It was like hitting, marble. Hard, smooth, cold, but it didn't throw him off his course. “Why are you picking on me all the time? What about him?” His arm shot out arrow straight, index finger quivering and pointing at Mickey. “You let him off the hook pretty quick. What about that act he pinched?”

Mickey lifted his portly self from the chair angrily. “It's not true,” he protested. He avoided the reproving, all-knowing look from Diana. “I never stole anything. We both came up with the idea at the same time - and you can't copyright an idea. I got in first. I made it. He didn't. I topped the rating years after year. What a time I had.”

There was a moment's silence as Mickey savoured his glorious past. The critical raves after the preview of the pilot show. It had a working title of Friday Night is Fun Night, but Mickey's agent soon had that changed to The Mickey Finnegan Show. There was none of the old fashioned jokes, sketches, and songs with this. Mickey was up there, playing a role, playing the vaudevillian of past days. Telling those old jokes, but telling them with such style, such panache that even the youngsters laughed at them. He had guests of course and made a public reputation for giving new talent a go.

And there was a cornucopia of ambitious young female singers, actors and comedians to keep Mickey satisfied after each show. He licked his lips at the memories. Oh, those nights in his huge dressing room, big enough to party in, even to show movies: whatever movies he wanted to show.

That was when he developed his taste for blondes. And there were plenty willing to become blondes, just to get onto the show. It became a gimmick, and one that worked for the ratings. They rocketed into the stratosphere. There was no other show could touch him.

His fame reached the point where he couldn't walk in a street without being mobbed. To those close to him he complained bitterly about his lack of privacy, but inside he revelled at the adoration. He was a star and nothing he had ever experienced compared with that. Even his old man paid attention to him.

But Mickey didn't let him off easy. His father had a lot to pay for. Mickey rubbed absentmindedly at his back. The scars had long gone, but memory of the pain and humiliation hadn't.

Angela's frosty voice cut through his thoughts. He marvelled at her changes of mood. Were they real? Or was she a supreme actor? He felt his pulse quicken. Maybe she'd appear on his...

His shoulders slumped. For one moment he thought... but it was all gone, the show, the adulation, everything... everything. He sat slowly down, his mind drifting a mist.

“Who did you cheat Billy?” said the beautiful blonde.

Billy Winter slid down in his seat, folded his arms stared into the lights. “There you go again, picking on me.” He sat upright suddenly and stared right at her, for the moment unafraid. “I paid my dues sweetheart.”

“Don't call me sweetheart.” There was an edge to Angela's voice? But what edge, annoyance? No, it was something else, humour? Billy felt he was being tested. She couldn't be one of those aggrieved feminists. Not her. He held his stare. “I paid my dues
sweetheart
. I did the pub gigs, played with rotten bands of no talent musicians. I sweated and I starved. I've worked for what I got. I took nothing from nobody.”

Angela held his stare, amusement in her eye. Billy turned away. He'd past his test.

The little exchange of views had passed unnoticed by Diana. Her brow was furrowed, a small sacrilege Mickey thought. She was beautiful enough to sway him from blondes. The furrow melted and she smiled.

“What about you Mr Thornton, any skeletons in your career closet? You did achieve spectacular fame,” she said. Thornton gave a condescending nod of the head. “And was that too achieved by hard work?”

“All great artists dedicate themselves to their work. They must.”

“And that is it?”

“Indeed - that and a certain determination to succeed.”

“Which is a necessary attitude in your business?”

“If you want to survive,” concurred Thornton.

“And you certainly wanted that didn't you?”

There it was again, the all-knowing undertones. What
did
she know?

Then the strange conversational tones of Angela took him off guard. How did she do it?

“And was the way strewn with bodies?” Her eyes feigned innocence.

“What on earth does that mean?” Panic had edged into Thornton's voice.

Billy sensed it, and sensed that the lionesses were ready to pounce. He decided to help them. “She means who did you knock off on the way? Who did you kill?” Mickey joined in Billy's laughter when he saw the discomfiture of Thornton, whose face began to redden. His anger was mounting. He shot to his feet and strode to the women at the card table. “How can you expect me to work with those creatures?”

“It's a fine role.” Diana's reply was flat, a simple statement of fact.

“But of course.” Honey tones from Angela. “You've played many fine roles haven't you?”

Thornton gave a sigh of resignation. “I only play fine roles. I can't afford not to, not if I am to maintain my box office appeal and my personal popularity.”

“Oh!” There was genuine surprise in Angela's voice this time. “You are popular?”

Mickey and Billy edged forwards on their seats, fascinated by this exchange of words. They were both happy that the inquisition was aimed at the bellicose and opinionated actor rather than them. But both carried a sinking feeling in the pit of their stomachs. They knew that, inevitably, their turn would come.

Thornton pulled himself to his full, impressive height. “I am Belvedere Thornton. People seek me out.”

Diana frowned again and studied the file. “According to our information you live a friendless existence.”

“I could believe that,” cut in Mickey, grinning.

“Nonsense,” Thornton's lips tightened into a thin line, “my home is always filled with people. There's seldom an empty day. People call from all walks of life. I've been lionised, patronised, idolised ...”

“Sodomised!” Billy's cry was a triumphant bray. He burst into laughter. Thornton lifted his head and glared at the rafters. Fluttering, bats? He dragged his mind back. “Of course I have friends.” Then he turned and fixed the baleful glare at Billy. “And you will pay for that remark, sonny.”

Billy laughed. “You don't scare me you fat old fraud.” The eyeballed each other, neither willing to let go but Angela broke the tension.

“Could a man like you, with so many
friends
, play an entirely friendless person, Mr Thornton?”

“My dear did you not see my Ebenezer Scrooge?”

“Oh Mr Thornton,” crooned Angela. “He is a loveable man compared with the character we have in mind.”

“I can do anything a script calls for, if I agree to do it,” said Thornton. He turned away to escape the gaze and strode to the back of the stage concentrating with exaggerated body movements on the remnants of the set.

The enjoyment of watching the arrogant actor being put through the pepper grinder was cut short for Mickey when Diana threw him a curved ball. “What about you Mickey?” the question was curt. Sharp. “You lived the high life too didn't you? Always surrounded by a crowd, always with plenty to spend?”

Mickey bridled. “I did all right, on what was left after paying the alimony.”

“Yeah,” cut in Billy. “Bloody Mr Blue Beard! Five wives!”

“All that alimony... unless they all died. Did they all die Mickey?” said Diana.

“Bloody shut up. No they didn't. It was show business. It's hard to make a go of it. Anyway what's my married life got to do with a show? It's what I do on stage that counts.”

“Not quite,” said Diana. Her voice was placating, soft. “We need to see the man underneath, every facet of your personality. We need you reveal your soul. The acting power you will need is immense. We must expose your inner self completely.”

“It's that big eh, that big a part?” Mickey's eyes wide opened in comprehension. Then the look firmed into decision. “Okay then. Fire away, as the actress said to the bishop.”

“The things some people will do for a part.” Thornton's remark cut through the atmosphere like an air force jet.

Mickey glared angrily at the big man's back, but before he could say anything Angela had thrown in another strange question. “Do your children love you?”

“Shit,” sniped Billy. “The old fart's got kids?”

The kids, where were they? He saw just grey images. Where they him or his kids? It was hard to separate the two. How old? Michael Junior 24, Julia, 22, just the two. When did he last hear from them? Three years, five? Then...his father...

Chapter Seven

“What have you been up to?”

Mickey flinched and looked up at the big man who stood in front of him. There was nowhere to hide. He was dressed up in his mother's pyjamas with a sheet round his head held in place by an Alice band. “Nothing dad.” He was nine years-old and playing the role of an Arabian prince.

Mickey saw the huge brown forearms reach out. The eagle tattoo shimmered like it always did when the muscles tensed to strike. “Don't tell me nothing, you little poofter. Look at you, dressed up like a tart at a funeral.”

The arm whistled down. There was the reek of sweat and stale beer. The hand struck - on Mickey's back where the marks wouldn't show. Mickey shot forward; the sheet tangled in a chair leg and was pulled from his brow. He covered his face in horror. The garish make-up, taken from his mother's dressing table, was stark and shining in the light from the chandelier that hung in the centre of the room.

“Bloody make-up, I don't believe it.
Janice
!” The shout was a command studded with anger. It was a shout to instil fear in the timid. In seconds Mickey's mother was in the room, wiping her hands on an apron.

“Now what's up?” Her irritation was obvious. She became angry with Mickey when her husband became angry with him. They were a pair. Nobody was on his side.

“Just look at him,” bellowed his father. “He's got bloody make-up on his face and he's wearing your clothes. And you ask me what's up?”

Young Mickey hung his head. He knew it was a waste of time saying anything.

“For God's sake!” The cry from his mother was sheer exasperation. “He's dressing up. All kids do it. He's acting for Christ's sake.” The sudden burst of protecting came completely out of the blue, taking Mickey unawares.

“Bloody acting! You want him to grow up queer? How do you think he'll go on getting a job of he keeps on dressing up and play-acting?”

“He'll be all right; he's not doing anybody any harm.”

Mickey sidled to his mother, but comfort was cut short. “Well I think he's doing himself harm. And I'm going to do something about it.” The belligerent tone told Mickey he was in for it. He huddled closer to his mother, but she pushed him away. “Do what you want I've got other things to worry about.” she gave a huge, hard-done-to sigh and left the room.

Mickey stared fearfully at his father, waiting for the blow. But it didn't come.

“Son,” said his father in a conciliatory tone of voice. “You and me are going outside into the garden and we're going to work out an understanding. Come on.” He grabbed Billy by the hand and half dragged him into the garden. There he ripped off the covering of clothes and Mickey cried inside as the Arabian Prince was dashed into the dirt. Mickey stood, shivering in the autumn breeze, watching his father.

He picked up the garden hose and turned it on. He toyed with the spray attachment until it was pushing water out of the nozzle at full force. Then he advanced on the boy. He turned the water full onto Mickey's face. “And when we've got you clean, we'll play some football.”

There were women, dozens, maybe even hundreds. But they never penetrated the wall Mickey built around him, pain by pain. The more they chased him, the harder his shell grew, and the more they chased him. They masochistically tackled the wall. They were curious. What was inside? It was a challenge too great to be missed.

The maintenance cheques went out. But he never saw his children.

“Ungrateful bastards,” he muttered.

“Sorry?” It was a gentle probe from Angela.

“I said ‘ungrateful bastards,'” repeated Mickey. “I fed and clothed them all their lives and they don't even send me a Christmas card.”

“Do you love them?”

Mickey gave a bitter laugh. “Love, what's that? I was out every night working my butt off making a crust. When did I ever have time to love anybody?”

Angela turned her back and moved the mouse. She clicked on an icon on the screen. A picture came up. Mickey couldn't see what it was. Angela flicked a look at Diana who nodded thoughtfully.

“Five marriages Mr Finnegan,” she crooned, “and yet no time for love?”

“I did my best,” said Mickey.”

“They just couldn't take the strain is that it?”

“There's not many women can cope with the life.”

“And none of yours?”

“I told you, I did my best.” Mickey glared defiantly at the women.

Angela swung round and fixed a bloodsucking gaze on Thornton. The actor saw ice blue eyes turn red, pupils dilate to empty orbs. He steeled himself for an impact. What did she know?

The words when they came were innocuous. “You didn't get married at all, did you Mr Thornton?” Thornton whirled round from his inspection of the ancient wall.

“Funny he never married,” sniggered Mickey.

“He's an old queen,” ventured Billy.

Thornton ignored the remark and strolled slowly to the front of the stage, as he manfully controlled a rising tide of impatience. “My career was too important, my life too frantic, too peripatetic for such emotional attachments. I hardly lived a normal lifestyle ...”

He froze then, felt his skin crawl. Blood drained from his face as he saw the look of triumph in Angela's eyes, ice blue again now and intently focused like prosecuting attorney set for the final thrust. It was the wrong word. Normal! He shrank back as Angela left the computer stand and slinkily gyrated towards him.

“That's right,” she muttered. The voice was a muffled chainsaw. “Your lifestyle was never
normal
.” She drooled over the word. “You lived in a private world of sexual perversion and unlimited power which you used without compunction. Power and perversion were a way of life for Mr Belvedere Thornton.”

Thornton forced away his fear. She was guessing. She had to be. And yet... he stared at the computer... the images. “Nonsense!” The word was meant to be strong. The volume was forceful, but not the conviction. It was white-anted by an undertone of fear.

“Power is a relative thing. One has it, one uses it. It is the way life is - and I do not consider my sexual preferences to be perverted. My bedroom is my private domain. You must respect my preferences, just as I would respect yours.”

“Thank you for your assurances.” The voice was gentle, but the smile was not.

Thornton grunted.

“But mine are not the issue here,” Angela continued.” yours are - and particularly your lusting after little boys with angelic faces. You have that down to a fine art don't you?”

Thornton gasped and sat down with a thump. “I beg your pardon,” he managed to stutter.

“You're a conjurer with children aren't you? You talk to plump little boys and then spirit them away silently into your bed don't you? Show them a bit of Thornton magic?” Her suggestion was painted bright with lewdness.

Thornton's face flushed scarlet and Billy Winter pulled his face into a look of disgust. Thornton looked away into the anonymity of the lights. “Madam,” he said bleakly. “I've taken plump little boys, plump little girls, mothers, fathers, actors, actresses, even bus drivers to my bed, but I fail to see where it enters you arena of concern.”

“You are a popular man, Mr Thornton.” The actor tried to ignore the ice in the voice. He nodded his head condescendingly. “I suppose it was, now let me see... a stream of willing victims continually batting their way to your bedroom.”

Thornton stirred. “Victims are always willing,” he said. “That's why they are victims.”

Angela's voice cut through the air, rasping like an excised demon. “Did you never force them Mr Thornton?” Pictures formed in the aura of the lights. A boy... He shook his head. No. No. No.

“Never used your power to create an
unwilling
victim?”

“People do what they want to with me. Rape isn't in my repertoire.”

All eyes were focused on Thornton, each enjoying his discomfort in their own way. Angela turned and for a full minute the only sound was the click of a keyboard and the whirr of microchips. The air became heavy with static, expectant static, apprehensive static.

Angela's voice when it came was edged in honey, mildly reproving. “But Mr Thornton, didn't you use your charm and - conjurer's tricks - to seduce insecure young men? Take them away from their girlfriends. Taking advantage of their confused minds?” She fluttered her eyelids like an innocent faun.

“Nonsense!” barked Thornton. “Such people came willingly. It was not me who confused them. I was not the one who frightened them away from their
natural
inclinations. Blame that on pressures of society. I'm pleased to say that I helped many of those poor creatures to realise their full potential.”

He had a brain flash and smiled at the memory. The young man, hardly more than a boy; pretty with luminous, sweetly innocent eyes. The blond hair falling to his shoulders and eye-lashes any woman would die for. He was as slim as the girl he was with and just as beautiful.

He was a drama student, Californian brown, and in with love life, theatre and success. His jaw had dropped in awe when he was introduced to Thornton. It was 1976. Thornton was the sun in Hollywood's kaleidoscope of a firmament. He outshone everyone. His magnetism could bring a throng of a thousand people to silence as he entered a room. What chance did the boy have - or his girlfriend of two years.

The party followed the UCLA Berkeley Academy of the Arts production by graduating students. Thornton was guest of honour. He received many invitations, but accepted few. Among those he did were university arts graduation productions. The picking there were ripe and firm and always available. It was a smorgasbord of perpetual delight for a man like Thornton.

Rory was the man's name. He revelled in the personal attention he received and eagerly soaked up the compliments and the drinks from his never empty champagne glass. Even the girlfriend was swept along in the miasma. After all Rory had been impressive in the graduation play, starred even. Thornton had a movie script. He was sure there was a part for Rory. Why not come back to Beverley Hills and look it over?

Beverley Hills!

“You and your... er ...”

“Susan ...”

“Susan.” Thornton flashed a glinting smile. “You're both welcome,” he said.

They were. There were drinks first and a gentle, tasteless sedative for the girl. Oops. She's drunk too much. Pop her in the bedroom. They carried her, floppy bodied with Rory giggling, and feeling good. They laid her on the bed. What a bed! There was room for four. Often there were more.

Thornton lay back on the bed, laughing and pretending to pant from the exertion. His body was lean and well muscled. Excesses had not yet begun to show. His jeans were tight, moulded to his crotch. He saw Rory glance down. Thornton sat up and rested on is elbows next to the girl, who was snoring. She was slack-faced, and drool sat at the corner of her mouth. Her make-up smudged and she looked unattractive and undignified. Thornton looked at Rory, eyes twinkling, mouth curved in a grin. “See something you want?”

Rory dropped his eyes, but Thornton saw the swelling in his jeans. He switched his expression to one of adoration. “God you are beautiful,” he muttered. Rory stood still, eyes still downcast. Thornton sat up and reached out. Took his hand and pulled gently. Rory's resistance was light.

“I'm not gay,” he whispered. But he did not stop Thornton's hand from wandering. Nor did he fight when he was pulled gently onto the bed, next to the girl...

“Did he realise his full potential?” Angela cut into his thoughts like a mind reader.

Thornton, mind still steeped in the taste, the smell, the feel, smiled. “He certainly did.” Then he snapped into reality and swung round to stare at Angela. Her expression was innocent again. The blonde hair swung over her shoulders that glowed with the California tan.

“Who are you?” asked the bewildered actor.

“
You're
a dirty old bastard.” Billy Winter spoke before Angela could.

Thornton looked at him, chill-eyed. Was he in the dream too? Did he know what Angela obviously did?

He had a mild attack of panic and struggled to regain control. Attack, was his thought, divert the flack. “And you're an innocent?” He finally snarled.

“He's 28 years-old and a world superstar.” It was Diana's resonant tone.

“Yeah,” Billy stood and strode to the woman who basked in the reflected light of the computer bank. “And I'm expensive. Can you afford me for your show? You'd need millions.”

“My fee is 3.4 million and four percent of box office for any movie,” snapped Thornton.

“Ah, but this isn't a movie,” said Diana. “This is legitimate theatre Mr Thornton. The art you make sacrifices for.” She clicked a key and the monitor window changed. “‘I went to Hollywood to make enough money to survive and to be able to work in the only art form that mattered - theatre. With the money I make from films I can afford to work for nothing if necessary to perform a theatrical role that is a challenge to my talents.' Time Magazine, April, l978.” She smiled. It was a strangely
nice
smile.

“True,” said Thornton.

“So if the role is right, we don't even have to discuss a fee.”

“I don't discuss fees. My personal manager sees to all that.”

“Like Genghis.” cut in Billy. “Look. I'm getting pissed off, you know what I mean? So what's this gig all about?”

Angela sat on the edge of the computer desk, skirt riding up showing leg to kill for. Billy licked his lips. He had to have that woman. She looked at him and laughed. “Naughty boy,” she said.

Billy turned abruptly and looked at Thornton and then back to Angela. How did she know? “Are you a mind reader or something?”

“Just a student of the psychological insight technique,” said Angela. The women laughed and they created a maelstrom. There was a roaring of wind, lightning strikes, and thunderbolts crashing. But nothing moved. Not a paper was disturbed. Not a hair ruffled. The laughter stopped. There was silence. Four hungry questioning eyes stared at the men.