Hollywood Husbands (44 page)

Poppy and Howard Soloman walked in, followed by Ida and Zeppo White.

Beverly was on her feet in a flash. ‘Zeppo!’ she shouted. ‘It’s me. Your new star, babee!’

Zeppo paused, undecided as to whether he should kiss Zachary’s ass, or greet Beverly D’Amo. He chose Zachary. One of the first lessons you learned in Hollywood was whose ass to kiss first.

‘Just a minute, kiddo,’ he said with a distracted wave, hurrying to pay homage to Zachary.

‘Who are those two women?’ Zachary demanded, ignoring Howard and Poppy, who were both busy apologizing for being late.

‘That’s Beverly D’Amo,’ Zeppo said. ‘Lovely girl. Good actress. She’s expensive, but if Orpheus has something for her I’m prepared to talk a deal.’

‘And the other one?’

‘I don’t know. Do you want me to find out?’

‘Later. Sit down. I’m ready to order.’

Across the room Beverly sank back into her chair and watched the action from afar. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed.

‘What’s the matter?’ Jade asked.

‘The little mouse is not coming over. He’ll pay for that.’

Sipping her wine Jade said, ‘Don’t you think you’re taking this all a bit too seriously?’

‘Hell, no! Hollywood is a combat zone. And baby –
I
fight to win!’

Poppy’s bright eyes darted around the restaurant. She wore her new cabochon ruby and gold necklace like a badge of honour. Howard loved it. He hadn’t seen the price-tag yet.

‘Thank you for the gorgeous flowers, Zachary,’ she gushed. ‘So
thoughtful
of you. I’m
mad
for orchids. How did you know?’

He gazed at her blankly.

Go on, light up a cigar, you ill-mannered pig
, she thought. The least he could do was tell her how wonderful her party was.

She glanced around the room again with a feeling of pride. Mrs Howard Soloman. Hostess supreme. Nobody knew what a struggle it had been to get where she was today.

Nobody knew how hard it had been…

Chapter Sixty-Three

At night the pounding of the waves thundered on the beach. Heaven decided she never wanted to be without that sound again.

‘How long is your uncle gonna be away?’ Eddie asked, comfortably stretched out on the deck listening to an old Elvis album, a can of beer nearby.

She shrugged. ‘I dunno. He’s gonna phone tomorrow. A few days, I guess.’

‘We should throw a party,’ he suggested.

She had to admit the thought
had
occurred to her. ‘Who’ll pay?’ she asked.

‘We’ll make it a bottle party. Everyone brings their own.’

Hesitantly she said, ‘Gee, I don’t know…’

‘We could have it out here on the deck an’ on the beach. Nobody would havta go in the house.’ Digging in the pocket of his shorts he produced a sorry-looking joint. ‘Whaddya say?’

‘When?’

‘It’s too late to get it together tonight. How about tomorrow?’

She was angry that Rocky hadn’t shown. Dumb geek. He was probably a loser anyway. ‘Yeah, let’s do it!’ she agreed, knowing full well that Uncle Jack would be pissed off if he ever found out.

‘Right on! Let’s go for it!’ exclaimed Eddie. ‘We’ll get the group down, an’ some of the other dudes. We can tell the Fish to pick up pizzas. It’ll be a full blast!’

‘Like no more than fifty,’ Heaven warned. ‘And
not
in the house.’

‘No way,’ Eddie said adamantly.

* * *

Jack Python was drunk. Uproariously, rip-roaringly drunk. And he did not care. In fact, he felt great as he sat at a back table in Elaine’s and held court. At least he wasn’t sloppy drunk, he was talkative and very funny.

Elaine herself watched from afar, as she kept an eye on all her famous clientele to make sure none of them was bothered. Occasionally she came and sat, tossing back a drink or two and missing nothing.

Jack shared a table with a couple of writers, ace publicist Bobby Zarem, a publisher, and a wicked-tongued socialite. Elaine’s mixed group. She enjoyed shaking up her famous singles at a large round table.

Getting drunk, Jack decided, was not the act of a desperately unhappy man. It was an act of celebration. He was out of a relationship he had been reluctantly hanging on to because it was good for his image.

Well, screw his image. And screw Clarissa Browning. Jack Python was back on the field.

He couldn’t help laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked the socialite. She had red hair worn in a bun, sharp cheekbones, and dazzling diamonds.

‘Just thinking,’ he explained, reflecting on the irony of it all.
He
was the one with the supposed stud reputation. Clarissa had told him how all her friends warned her he would never be faithful. And
she
was the one screwing around. Unbelievable!

‘Thinking about what?’ she persisted, determined to attract his interest.

He looked her over, slowly, lazily. She was old money, an heiress to a billion-dollar fortune.

He lowered his voice so only she could hear his reply. ‘I’m thinking about how I’d like to fuck you.’

Billion-dollar heiresses did not have to play games. ‘What are we waiting for?’

And so, later on, he ended up in the socialite’s bed in a Park Avenue penthouse, with the scream of police sirens outside, and the clink of diamonds inside. ‘I never take them off,’ she announced with a restless smile.

She was an insatiable woman, but that was Jack’s speciality. Once he got on for the ride he never quit until the lady asked him to.

Later, when he awoke, he had a relentless hangover, and a strong desire to be elsewhere. The woman slept beside him. Red hair, naked white skin, and gleaming diamonds at her ears, wrists, and throat.

Not wanting to wake her, he dressed hurriedly, and let himself out of her sumptuous apartment.

Early morning light filtered through the tall buildings as he walked briskly to the Helmsley Palace Hotel, where he had a suite.

The desk clerk in the private tower section greeted him warmly, as did the pretty elevator operator.

He rode up to the forty-eighth floor thinking of the lucky escape he’d had. If he hadn’t flown to New York and caught Clarissa cheating on him, he might never have known. And he had actually given serious consideration to marriage!

Christ! One mistake in his life was more than enough.

‘I love your show, Mr Python,’ smiled the elevator operator.

‘Thank you.’ He smiled back, his hangover receding.

In the privacy of his suite he clicked on the televison, stripped off his clothes, and allowed a cold shower to wash away the faint aroma of Private Collection.

Jack Python was back where he belonged. Single and up for grabs.

* * *

Found out and unrepentant, Clarissa studied the script of
The Murder
, along with an incredible financial offer, which was really quite ridiculous and very tempting.

She read the script twice. Carefully.

And then she called Cyrill, collect. Clarissa had never been known for her loose purse strings.

‘Well?’ asked her agent anxiously. ‘I know it’s garbage. However, for five days’ work, at that price… Clarissa, I have to leave it entirely up to you.’

‘It’s not garbage,’ she replied crisply. ‘Not at all. It’s a very interesting and provocative thriller, with a fine relationship between the two main characters, and a strong line of humour.’

He sounded relieved and surprised at the same time. ‘Does this mean you want to do it?’

‘I most certainly do. Only listen to me carefully, Cyrill. I will not play the victim. I desire the leading role. It’s
exactly
the kind of part I’ve been searching for.’

Chapter Sixty-Four

‘Hello,’ Wes said. ‘Make yourself comfortable – Silver’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Thank you,’ said Quinne Lattimore, a stocky man in his fifties, with a florid complexion. He regarded Wes warily. Like all Silver’s friends and acquaintances he viewed the new husband with deep suspicion. Who was he? Where had he come from? And what was he after?

‘Silver tells me you’ve got good news,’ Wes said amiably.

‘Excellent,’ replied Quinne, full of confidence. ‘I have something to tell Silver that will make her a very happy woman indeed.’

Wes drifted over to the bar. Vladimir had already served an English tea, but he felt like something a touch stronger, so he poured himself a hefty scotch, added a couple of ice cubes, and turned to check out the agent.

The man did not look big-time. The man looked comfortable but not affluent. He didn’t give off any energy, and he certainly didn’t have killer eyes.

Wes remembered his own short career as a singer. The group he was with had an agent who made big promises and never came through. More-successful groups had agents with energy. The big boys had agents with killer eyes. Wes always remembered the look. Zeppo White had it written all over him.

Chuck Nielson had warned him, ‘Lattimore’s nowhere city. Silver can be with whoever she wants. You should get her to change.’

Silver made her entrance a few minutes later – hair swept up, makeup perfect, simple lounging pyjamas in gold lurex. She enjoyed creating impressions. Even in her own house, with only her agent for an audience.

‘Quinne, darling!’ She kissed him on each cheek, European style.

‘You look gorgeous as usual,’ he said. Quinne had always had a little bit of a hidden crush on her.

‘I feel outrageously
wonderful.
’ She reached out her hand for Wes. ‘It’s marriage, you know, it agrees with me. I adore it!’

Quinne chortled uncomfortably.

‘Pour me a glass of champagne, darling,’ she said to Wes, and then lowering her eyes coquettishly she added, ‘I think I deserve it, don’t you?’

He moved into the role of barman easily. It didn’t bother him.

Quinne took Silver’s arm and led her over to the couch. ‘Sensational news,’ he announced, puffed with pride. ‘Orpheus wants you to co-star with Carlos Brent in
Romance
. It’s a definite offer, and wait until you hear what they’re going to pay us!’

Silver, who had quite resigned herself to being a television star, and did not consider movies – because they did not consider her – shrieked with delight. ‘I can’t believe it! When did this happen?’

Wes poured the champagne and kept a steady ear on the conversation.

‘Today,’ Quinne said happily. ‘Out of the blue. Shooting starts in ten days, and the schedule fits right into your
Palm Springs
break.’

‘I’m
thrilled
!’ she exclaimed. ‘When can I see a script?’

Ambling over, Wes handed her a glass of cold champagne. She looked up at him, glowing with delight. ‘Did you hear, darling? They want me for a movie!’

‘Why shouldn’t they? You’re a star, aren’t you?’

‘A
television
star,’ Quinne said pointedly.

‘The biggest female television star in America,’ Wes replied, equally pointed. ‘I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before. What movies have you suggested her for? It’d be interesting to know exactly who’s turned her down and why.’

Quinne began to stutter about movies never being their goal, and timing, and how great this deal was.

Silver went to say something, and Wes silenced her with a look. He knew he had the agent on the defensive.

‘Were you out hustling this deal, or did it just turn up on your desk?’ he asked.

Quinne was a truthful man. It was probably his downfall as far as his relationship with Silver Anderson was concerned. ‘I didn’t exactly chase after them. I must admit they came to me.’

Wes just looked at Silver as if to say –
This is an agent?Agents are supposed to be out there selling. Getting more money for their clients. Hustling. Hustling. Hustling.

Quinne Lattimore was useless – and by the time he left the house twenty minutes later, they both knew it.

After he’d gone, there was a meaningful silence. Silver walked over to the large terrace windows, opened them, and walked outside.

Wes followed her.

‘Quinne’s been very good to me,’ she said.

‘Do you pay him commission?’

‘What kind of question is that? You know I do.’

‘Then he’s been well compensated, hasn’t he?’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That we move on up.’ He put his arm around her. ‘You’re a huge star, baby. You belong with Zeppo White. He can do things for you that Quinne Lattimore can’t.’

It was the first time since the death of her mother that somebody was telling her what to do, making decisions, and really caring. ‘Do you think so?’ she asked tremulously.

‘I
know
so. And I don’t want you to worry. I’ll take over. Tomorrow I’ll go see Zeppo. We’ll hand the movie deal over to him, and make a generous settlement with Quinne. You can bet your ass Zeppo’ll get you better terms. And then I want Zeppo to check out your contracts with City Television. I don’t know what they’re payin’ you, but whatever it is, I bet it ain’t enough.’

‘Will you really take over everything?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do.’

‘The accountants and the lawyers and all the boring stuff I hate, hate, hate?’

He rather liked the idea of being in charge. ‘Everything, Silver. You just act. I’ll look after every single thing.’ He paused and hugged her tightly. ‘After all, if you can’t trust me, who
can
you trust?’

Chapter Sixty-Five

The ambience at Le Dôme, on Sunset, appealed to Mannon. The restaurant attracted a mixed clientele of music people, producers, agents, and entertainers. The tables were not on top of each other, and in the back the restaurant divided into several sections so you could always hide if you so desired.

Mannon strode through the bar to Sadie La Salle’s table. Sadie was a powerhouse agent. Short, dark, with one hand poised forever near the jugular. A scandal had rocked her life a couple of years before when two murders took place at her mansion. Sadie had survived the storm, and gone on to bigger and better deals.

She regarded Mannon with a critical eye. ‘You’re still the best-looking sonofabitch in this town,’ she announced, downing a shot of straight vodka. ‘How would you like to walk away with eight million buckeroonies for one lousy movie?’