Hollywood Kids (15 page)

Quincy was starting to get fidgety. 'Tell you what, whyn't we come back,' he said, cracking his knuckles - a nervous habit which drove Michael nuts.

Daly glared at them both. 'I suggest you don't,' he said, slamming the door in their faces.

'Goddamn it!' Michael said furiously.

'Let's get outta here,' Quincy suggested. 'Before he calls the real cops.'

'He knows where she is,' Michael muttered, almost to himself.

'Yeah, an' he ain't telling us.'

'He will.'

'Not tonight.'

'We'll see.'

'Mike,' Quincy pleaded. 'Tomorrow is another day.'

Michael turned on him angrily. 'No shit?'

Early in the morning Michael was back without Quincy, who was busy working on a blackmail case for a studio honcho. He parked across the street staking a prime spot for himself, enabling him to watch all the comings and goings from Daly Forrest's building.

He'd slept fitfully, knowing that today he was finally going to find out where Rita was. How he hated her for taking his kid and putting him through this. As soon as he found her he planned on consulting a lawyer to see if he could get full custody of Bella.

Yeah, and how was he going to pay for it? He had to rent an apartment, hire a part-time nanny, and God knew what else.

Major priority - get a steady job. Quincy had offered him a partnership in his PI business, and it wasn't such a bad idea. They were a good team, and Quincy had assured him that working for the studios was nice and easy - nothing life-threatening like their days in New York. He was considering it. After all, he had a year to make up his mind whether he wanted to go back to New York or stay in LA.

I need a drink.

The thought nagged at his subconscious, forcing him to pay attention. Almost immediately he felt a dryness in his throat and the urgent desire to down something cold and alcoholic.

Christ! This was not good. He'd been sober almost four years and he didn't need to be thinking about breaking the pattern of sobriety. Although he
did
think about it. Once in a while. When things got tough and he knew there was an easy answer to dull the pain.

The good thing was that the programme had taught him to be smart enough to know it was the wrong answer and would eventually destroy him if he succumbed. It was about time he got himself to a meeting.

It hadn't been easy getting sober and there was no way he was going to blow it - however strong the temptation.

Lighting a cigarette he desperately tried to curb his subconscious, choosing to think only positive thoughts. Had to work the programme again, he hadn't attended a meeting in months. He needed validation.

Daly Forrest emerged at ten forty-five and got into a chauffeur-driven Lexus.

Michael followed the car as it left the driveway and sped along Wilshire going towards downtown.

Early in the morning he'd had a friend in the department in New York run a check on Mr Forrest. He'd found out that Daly was a sixty-three-year-old naturalized American who'd lived in LA for fifteen years. During that time he'd written and produced a slew of soft-core porn films, moving into the real thing three years ago. He wasn't doing anything illegal, but he was dangerously close. Two years earlier he'd been arrested in a dramatic case involving an imported snuff movie, but the prosecution were unable to prove he was sufficiently connected and he'd gotten off.

Daly had no wife, no family and he was rich. That's all Michael knew. It was enough to scare him. Rita was a wild card, a wealthy man like Daly Forrest could persuade her to do anything.

He followed the Lexus all the way to Hancock Park, slowing down while he watched it pull into the driveway of a large house on a quiet side-street. Daly emerged from his car, spoke to his driver for a few moments, then sent the car away. He entered the house with a key, slamming the door behind him.

Michael parked across the street and sat in his car for five minutes before getting out and approaching the house.

It was a beautiful morning, no smog and the birds were singing. The front porch of the house was alive with a breathtaking display of purple and orange bougainvillea. A skinny black cat slunk around the corner and vanished from sight.

Instead of approaching the front door Michael decided to follow the cat around to the rear, keeping an eye out for anyone watching him.

He had that gut feeling again, like something was about to happen he couldn't quite control.

The night he'd gotten shot he'd had that same feeling, and what should have been a simple drug bust had ended up with him nearly dying. He'd never forget
that
night.

Moving stealthily, he reached the surprisingly large and well-landscaped back garden. Several swaying palm trees overshadowed him.

The door to the kitchen was open and he could hear a child's voice.

His heart soared, he felt certain it was Bella.

He edged forward, getting closer to the open door. He thought he saw the back of a little girl.

Relief flooded through him, he'd found his daughter and nothing would ever separate them again.

As he took another step forward something smashed down on to his head and he descended into blackness.

The last thing he heard was a child's scream.

The Man kept a scrapbook. Every so often he took it out and added to the contents. He'd bought scissors and double-sided tape at Thrifty's, and worked on his scrapbook diligently whenever he had something new to add to his collection of clippings.

The woman in Agoura Hills did not rate as much newspaper space as he'd hoped, and that made him angry. He knew that to get the attention he craved he would have to start leaving a strong message so they would know exactly who they were dealing with.

He thought about it for days. What would Steven Seagal do? How would the mighty movie star handle such a dilemma?

The Man honestly didn't know.

The other night, a woman living in the house had attempted to talk to him. He'd immediately tried to put a stop to her inane chatter, but it didn't seem to prevent her from accosting him whenever she could.

I'm an actress,' she'd informed him. 'What do you do?'

'Businessman,' he'd replied, not looking her in the eye as they'd stood awkwardly in the front hallway.

What kind of business?' she'd asked.

He'd walked away from her without replying.

His rudeness didn't seem to bother her, because whenever she saw him she acted as if they were old friends. Yesterday she'd stopped him on the way to his car. 'It's funny,' she'd said cheerfully, 'we live in the same house and I don't even know your name.'

He was forced to reply. 'John,' he'd lied.

'John what?' she'd asked, edging closer.

John Seagal,' he'd replied, backing off.

She'd smirked coquettishly. 'Don't you want to know
my
name
?'

He'd had no desire to know her name, but she'd told him anyway. 'Shelley. That's with an "ey". When I make it big you can say you knew me when.'

Would-be actresses. They were everywhere in Hollywood. They littered the streets. They filled the clubs. They drove on the freeways. Their hungry eyes watching... wanting... waiting...

If it wasn't for that bitch of an actress who'd lured him with her tantalizing smile, and her bouncy tits and her long yellow hair, he'd never have lost seven years of his life.

Pulling aside one of the black-out blinds that now covered his windows he peeked out, watching the maid as she trudged wearily down the path carrying a heavy sackload of garbage. She stayed away from him now. He had her trained not to go near his room.

His solitary existence suited him fine as long as he had everything he needed. A bed, television, VCR machine, a stack of movies, and his dreams of the future.

The future would be a better place when he'd dealt with the scum who'd so foolishly betrayed him. The female scum. They had to learn a lesson. A harsh lesson perhaps, but there was no other way.

It was time to check off the second name on his list. Six women altogether. Five to go.

It was an exciting game and he was enjoying playing it.

'No, Rosa, absolutely
not
,' Kennedy said, cradling the phone under her chin. 'I refuse to subject myself to one more blind date.'

'But Kennedy,' Rosa pleaded, in her usual
you've-got-to-do-me-this-one-big-favor
voice. 'Look what happened last time. You ended up enjoying yourself - I mean
really
enjoying yourself. What's so bad about that?'

True. Her one night with Nix had been memorable, but it was not something she wished to repeat.

'Nothing,' she said, 'I simply have no desire to do it again. Besides, I have to work.'

'What work?'

'I'm writing the
Style Wars
piece on Bobby Rush.'

Now she had Rosa's interest. 'Did you interview him?'

'Sort of.'

'What's he like?'

'He's OK,' she said. 'In fact, he's really a nice guy for an actor.'

'Does he have a girlfriend?' Rosa pressed, dying to find out everything.

'We didn't get into his personal life.'

Rosa was disappointed. 'Why not? That's what all your women readers will want to know.'

'Rosa,' Kennedy said patiently. 'You present the news
your
way, and I'll do my interviewing
my
way.'

'So you won't come with us tomorrow night?'

'No.
Capiche
?'

'Your loss.'

'According to you it always is.'

Once rid of Rosa she called her father in the nursing home. He was cheerful as usual. Eighty-five years old, riddled with cancer, and yet he always managed to make her feel better.

'I'll drive out to see you on Sunday, Dad,' she promised. 'Anything you need?'

'Just your lovely face,' he replied. 'And a fine Havana if you can smuggle it past these damned nurses.'

'I'll fly to Cuba.'

'Dunhills will do.'

She hung up smiling.

On Sunday, the long drive to the nursing home in Agoura Hills gave Kennedy plenty of time to think. With the Bobby Rush profile on its way to New York via Federal Express she could now concentrate on the first big story she planned to write for
Style Wars
.

Living in Los Angeles, the movie industry was a tempting subject. Women on film. Women and violence. Women in Hollywood. Equality or sexism? Who's winning?

She'd been considering the women with power in Hollywood, and the two she most wanted to interview were Sherry Lansing, currently the boss at Paramount, and Lucky Santangelo, a woman with major clout who owned and ran Panther Studios. Under Lucky's ownership, the studio was producing some pretty interesting movies depicting women as real people, instead of merely the girlfriend or the whore.

Kennedy knew there were many directions she could take. The battle had been written countless times before, but never her way. Maybe if she wrote a powerful enough piece she could influence a few of the so-called Hollywood executives to change their sexist ways.

Ha! Extremely wishful thinking.

She decided to call Mason in the morning and discuss it with him. He had good instincts, and it was essential that her first real story for
Style Wars
made an impact.

Nurse Linford, a middle-aged black woman in her forties with a huge bosom, mischievous smile and a crush on Kennedy's father, greeted her at reception. 'Your daddy's an incorrigible flirtin' dog!' she said, beaming. 'An' the truth of the matter is I enjoy every second of his bad-boy behaviour!'

Kennedy had never considered her father to be either a bad boy or a flirt. It was obvious there was another side to the studious professor of literature she'd grown up with. He'd always been a wonderful and caring father, and even though she was an only child, neither of her parents had ever allowed her to feel lonely. Every summer they'd travelled extensively together, exploring Europe and exposing her to all kinds of different cultures. At nine she was reading Dickens; at twelve Trollope and Dostoevsky; and by fourteen she was into Henry Miller and Anai's Nin. She'd certainly experienced a rounded education.

Nurse Linford led her into her father's room. He sat on top of the bed, a smile on his face, a pile of books on the bedside table and a notepad of paper balanced on his lap, pen poised. He was always jotting down notes with the intention of writing another book. He'd already published three academic studies and now he was planning a fourth.

Kennedy gave him a hug and a kiss. 'How are you doing, Dad?' she asked warmly, thinking he looked thinner and more gaunt than last time she'd visited.

'How would
you
be doing if you were stuck in a nursing home?' he said, sounding cross but not really meaning it. He'd accepted his fate with as good a grace as he could muster.

'Not as well as you,' she replied.

'Take no notice of his complaining,' Nurse Linford said, clucking her tongue. 'He's a grouchy old boy today.'

'I never complain,' her father said indignantly. 'If I did you'd be the first to hear me.'

'I'm sure about that,' Nurse Linford replied, adjusting his bedcovers. 'How about taking a walk around the garden with your daughter? It's a beautiful day out there.'

'An excellent idea, nurse,' he agreed. He wasn't bedridden, it was just that the pain was so intense that most of the time he was hooked up to a morphine drip to relieve his suffering.

'I'll set you up with your portable power pack,' Nurse Linford said, fussing around him as she helped him off the bed. 'That'll keep you going for a while.'

'
You
keep me going, nurse,' he said, wincing with pain as he straightened up.

Nurse Linford favoured him with her mischievous smile. 'You'd better believe it!'

Once outside, Kennedy and he strolled slowly around the well-kept grounds arm in arm.