Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (68 page)

'You can put a little more effort into it than that.' Ziolko
grabbed her hair and yanked it. Then he leaned back on the
headrest, shut his eyes and moaned as her moist mouth slid
up and down his tumescent shaft.

'You see?' Ziolko asked himself. 'Everything isn't so bad after all. It's all what you make of a situation.'

A half-hour later, Louis Ziolko, with characteristic dauntless
ness and a blase disregard for what anyone might think, scree
ched to a stop in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Then, tossing
the Shetland blanket around him like a matador's cape, he
emerged from the car, ignoring the gaping parking attendant's
openmouthed expression. The doorman, who thought he had
seen everything in his thirty-year career guarding the gates of
America's premier hotels, would have snapped into action
under normal circumstances, hurrying forward holding his
huge protective umbrella aloft. However, he seemed as
incapable of moving as the tubbed topiary bushes atop the steps, and stared at Ziolko with a mixture of incredulity and
shock.

Ignoring their expressions, Ziolko held his head high as he strode confidently up the steps and pushed his way past the
ogling doorman. It was only then that the doorman recognized
this drenched, nomadic-looking apparition. Realization
dawning, he snapped suddenly to, clicked his heels together
respectfully, and held the door wide.

'I'm sorry, Mr. Ziolko,' the doorman called out sincerely to
Ziolko's back. 'I didn't recognize you—'

Ziolko waved away his apologies without turning around
and hurried barefoot into the lobby, seemingly impervious to
the incredulous stares he received as he marched up to the
concierge's desk. Unfortunately it was not manned by any
familiar face, but a man who could only stare at him in shock.
Ziolko glared right back at him. Then the concierge cleared
his throat in one cupped hand and discreetly signalled for the
security guard with the other.

'I want a bungalow—number one if it's available,' Ziolko
demanded of the nonplussed clerk who looked positively apo
plectic. 'And a double cabana by the pool.'

The concierge's shock was immediately replaced by an obvi
ous smirk. 'I'm sorry, sir,' he said smoothly, recovering his
composure, 'but we're booked up.' He busied himself with
some letters he was sorting and turned his back.

'What do you mean, you're booked up? There's
always
a
bungalow available for me. If not bungalow one, then
another.' Ziolko clicked his fingers. 'Snap to it!'

The concierge turned around and sighed with exasperation.
He leaned over the desk, wiggled a forefinger for Ziolko to
draw nearer, and lowered his voice. 'Look, mister,' he said harshly, 'we don't want any trouble here. Understand?'

Ziolko fixed the concierge with his most intimidating glare.
'Straighten your tie, it's crooked.'

Seeing the concierge's hand instinctively fly to his collar
made him feel slightly better. But not for long. He felt a firm
pressure on his bare right arm.

Twisting around, Ziolko came face-to-face with the house detective. He, too, apparently was new and didn't recognize
him.

Where
was
everybody when you needed someone?

'If you'll leave quietly, we won't be forced to call the police,'
the detective said in a firm but soft voice. He spoke out of the
corner of his mouth.

Ziolko shrugged the detective's hand off and brushed the
spot where he had been touched. From his expression, it was
clear that the staff had gone too far. 'Call the police, if you
like, but time is money and you're wasting mine. I demand to
speak to the proprietor this very instant, that is, if you value your jobs.' He raised his eyebrows questioningly and stared
from one man to the other.

And then, before either employee could come to a decision,
he heard a familiar friendly voice. 'Louis?' a man called out
with a good-humoured laugh. 'Is that
you
under that abomin
able blanket?'

Ziolko turned, relieved to see that the proprietor himself, possibly sensing a potential problem through the power of
some secret antennae known only to hoteliers, was bearing
down on him in the flesh.

As he approached, the hotelier snapped his fingers, and the
detective slid silently away and the concierge hurriedly busied
himself sorting the mail in order to hide his embarrassment.

'Yes, it's me under this blanket,' Ziolko said testily. He
shivered, for the first time really feeling cold and wet. 'And
for your information, it's Shetland wool, which can hardly be
called abominable.'

'Indeed. So it is.'

Quickly Ziolko explained his situation.

'The key to bungalow one.' The proprietor held his hand
out to the concierge for the key. 'And have a hospitality basket
delivered to Mr. Ziolko with our compliments. Got that?'

The concierge apparently did. He reddened, gulped, and
sprang into action. He didn't need to be told more.

Two hours later Louis Ziolko, wearing a thick terry-towelling
robe supplied by the hotel, felt completely rejuvenated.
Warmed by a steaming hot bath and a full bottle of vintage
French champagne, which had been furtively delivered by a
room-service waiter—and smuggled into the country by rum-
runners from Mexico—he was comfortably ensconced on a
velvet sofa, his lifeline to the outside world, a black telephone,
at his side. He was feeling better with each passing minute.
His insides were positively beginning to glow, the bungalow
was dry and heated and safe, the rain was kept at bay, and except for the fact that the pool and its famous deal-making
environs were closed due to the weather, he couldn't have
asked for anything more. Even the critical essentials necessary
to a gentleman were on their way. He had telephoned the
proprietor of his favourite haberdashery, which had his sizes
on file, and he would soon have enough clothes to tide him
over while new custom-made ones were being fitted and sewn.
On the coffee table next to him, the enormous hospitality
basket overflowed with polished fruit and fresh cheeses; if it
was less than perfect it was only because it did not contain a
single ounce of liquor. But he couldn't fault the hotel for that:
it was Prohibition, and the champagne was more than
adequate, a pleasant surprise, in fact.

His stomach began growling, informing him that it was past
his usual breakfast time. Never one to deny himself anything, he picked up the phone and ordered a hearty breakfast from
room service. Next, he called Zelda, his mother, who lived in
a house he'd bought her in Pasadena—near enough so she
couldn't complain that he was too far away, and far enough
away that she couldn't simply drop by whenever the whim
seized her. Last, but not least, he called the studio and can
celled all his appointments.

'But you've got three screen tests for
The Flappers
lined
up!' Janice Frauenfelder, his secretary, protested.

'Make them tomorrow. No, tell you what, beautiful. Better
yet, reschedule them for the day after.'

He hung up on her protests.

When room service wheeled in his breakfast, he lifted the
silver domes covering the eggs Benedict, fruit platter, and
bagels liberally swathed with cream cheese and thinly sliced
smoked salmon. Just as he was about to attack the eggs, he
was interrupted by the messengers delivering his clothes and
jewellery. He let his fork clatter back down on the plate and,
once the messengers were well-tipped and gone, poured himself a cup of steaming black coffee and let the food grow cold.

Now that he had clothes to wear and, thanks to the pro
prietor who, without having to be asked, had loaned him $200
out of his own pocket for 'walking about' expenses, Ziolko no
longer felt hungry. Indeed, what he was most in need of was
a prowl, not food. The girl last night hadn't fulfilled him in the
least, especially after the mud slide.

As if to punctuate that fact, his penis grew tumescent under
the robe.

Whistling softly to himself, he quickly pulled on a sweater,
trousers, shoes, and raincoat. Already he could feel himself
rising to the challenge of the hunt. He'd cruise the streets, he
decided, searching the protective doorways for a pickup, and
if he struck out doing that, he'd drop by a few drugstores for
coffee. There were always hungry girls to be found nursing a
cup of coffee or a glass of soda on rainy days. Maybe he'd
strike it lucky and pick up a dreamboat.

Chapter 4

'Ah just wish you'd make up yer mind once and fer all,' Jewel
said testily in her Southern accent. 'We all have to make plans,
ya know.'

Juliet 'just call me Jewel' Haynie was forty-nine, a seasoned
waitress fighting the losing battle against time by dying her
hair a garish flame orange and concealing her ruddy com
plexion under a ton of makeup.

'I know, Jewel, I'm sorry,' Tamara said contritely. 'Really
I am. It's just that today's test was called off. It wasn't my
fault.'

'It ain't never nobody's fault,' Jewel sniffed snappishly.
'Sometimes Ah wonder why Ah'm so good to you kids. It's
always "Jewel this, Jewel that!" ' She squinted her fluttery,
heavily made-up violet eyes.

'Is it all right if I work today and you take over my shift the
day after tomorrow instead?' Tamara held her breath.

Jewel placed a hand on her hip, sighed deeply, and rolled
her eyes in exasperation while nonchalantly popping an enor
mous bubble of gum. 'Oh, all
right.
Just this once, y' heah?'
She waggled a chipped, brightly lacquered fingernail at
Tamara.