L.A. Wars (6 page)

“And I'm getting a nice feeling from you, too, Trixie.”

She cuddled closer. “Don't you think these parties are kinda silly? Out in the car I've got a couple of nice grams we could sniff. Then maybe we could slip into the Jacuzzi downstairs before it gets too crowded.”

“Crowded?”

“Oh, I don't mind a few people watching, but I don't want a whole audience. I'm kind of a prude that way.”

“Why, James Hawker—as I live and breathe,” interrupted Melanie St. John, thrusting out her hand as if she were one New England farmer meeting another. She wore a slate-blue blouse of satin, and her blond hair was combed boyishly back, as if styled by the wind. She was beautiful.

Hawker untangled himself and took Melanie's hand, rolling his eyes.

“His name is
Doug,”
Trixie McCall pouted.

“I'm a Leo,” offered Hawker.

“And he's with me,” said Trixie, glaring like a cat about to fight for its prey.

“There, there,” said Melanie, as if soothing a child. “You'll find someone else to play with, Trixie. This man's a doctor. He needs his rest.” Melanie slipped her arm through Hawker's and led him away.

“I knew you were a doctor!” Trixie McCall called after them. “I could
sense
it!”

Melanie made her way through the crowd, smiling and nodding, fending off conversation. Outside they walked down the steps and across the lawn to the beach.

The air seemed fresher after the smoke and noise of the party. The surf rolled through the darkness, crashing on the reef.

“Hope I didn't spoil your plans for the evening,” she chided.

“I couldn't tell if Trixie wanted me for dessert or the main course.”

“She does have a healthy appetite, and strictly carnivorous.” She turned to him. “If you want to go with her, I certainly won't—”

“I'm funny about women,” Hawker cut in. “They have to be reasonably intelligent, or they leave me cold.”

“My, don't we have high standards?”

“Reasonably intelligent means being able to spell ‘tree.' I think Trixie would have had a tough time.”

“So you were really about to turn down America's hottest new sex symbol?” She gave him a look of appraisal. “Damn—I think you would have.”

“Don't be too impressed. The night's young. My standards shrink in direct proportion to the amount of beer I've had. Even so, I began to lose interest in Trixie when she suggested we go out for a little snort of cocaine.”

Melanie St. John was no longer smiling. “You don't approve?”

“No, I don't. I don't approve one little bit. I'm too much in awe of the human brain to think we should drug it for recreation. As far as other people go, I think anyone has the right to do to themselves what they damn well please. There are all kinds of ways to commit suicide, and it's a free country. But when someone begins to sell, or give, or even offer their brand of suicide to someone else, that's when it becomes a criminal act. And I think it's wrong.”

As he spoke, her head lowered and then she turned away from him.

“I'm sorry if I offended you, Melanie,” he said. “It's your house and your party, but I've got a bad habit of saying what I think. I'll leave if you like.”

“No,” she said softly. “Don't leave. Stay.” She reached out and took his arm, and they began to walk back toward the house. They walked for a time in silence. She said, finally, “Drugs are a way of life out here, Hawk. And if you spend any time in L.A., you'll learn it's true. God knows, I did. I got my first film part seven years ago. I was twenty-three and a little naive. People offered me drugs, so I took them. Everybody was doing it. I thought it was a requirement for stardom, or some damn silly thing like that. I got more and more involved. I made a bad marriage. I'd like to blame it all on drugs, but I can't. I was a bitch of a wife, and my husband was the star of a smash TV series who spent more time looking in the mirror than I did.”

Hawker stopped walking. “There's no need for you to tell me this, Melanie.”

“I want to,” she said. “You're a stranger, and somehow it's easier to talk to a stranger. The right stranger, anyway.” She squeezed his arm briefly. “Why is it I feel like I can trust you, Hawk?”

“It's called ‘transference.' A doctor-patient phenomenon. It happens every time I fix someone's foot.”

She chuckled softly. “Anyway, the marriage broke up. And I started using drugs more and more heavily. Last year I got involved with”—she hesitated—“I got involved with another actor. He lived for drugs. I think it's a business with him.

“Anyway, I moved in with this guy. He has a place at Malibu. From what I remember, every day was a party. He has a lot of friends who aren't in the business. Rough-looking guys. They loved it. They feast on starlets. People on the outside don't realize it, Hawk, but Hollywood—meaning the film world—is a nasty, nasty place. There are a lot of sickos around. Fanatics. They hang around the outskirts of the business like sharks. Charles Manson types. You never know when these freaks are going to bust into your place and start shooting people, or cutting people. They take strange drugs, and they join even stranger cults. For some weird reason this guy I was living with courted these types. He said they were ‘interesting studies.' You know, that ‘actors are really artists who must study' bullshit.”

“So what happened?”

She stopped in the darkness of the driveway. From the house came the sound of wild laughter and the driving electric rhythm of the band. She shrugged. “One night we had a party at his place. A friend of mine, an actress who was into drugs not even as heavily as I was, came. I found her the next morning. She was outside, stark naked. Three or four of my boyfriend's sicko friends were taking turns on her. She was drugged out. Didn't even know what was happening. My boyfriend kept a gun, and I ran the sickos off. My girl friend didn't wake up for another hour. And you know what the first thing she said was? She said, ‘Hey, great party, Melanie.' The poor thing didn't even know what had happened to her.

“That was eight weeks ago, Hawk. That's when it finally dawned on me; that's when I realized what I had become. I moved back into my place that day. Didn't even tell my boyfriend I was going. All that night I stayed up ranting and raving like a madwoman. The next night was tough, too—but not as tough. I told myself I'd stay clean or die. And I stayed clean, because I knew it was true. I
would
have died, sooner or later.

“I gave it all up: drugs, alcohol, even cigarettes. And you know what? For the first time in many, many years I feel good. I really
like
myself. I get up at dawn and go for my run. I work hard all day, and then I come home and run again. I think the poison is finally gone from my system, but it took a hell of a lot of sweating to do it.” She chuckled and motioned toward the house. “This party is like an official release from my own private clinic.”

“A celebration?”

“No. I think I had to prove to myself that I could suffer through a party without taking a drink or sniffing some coke. So I decided to throw a test party—and invite the wildest partygoers I knew.”

“You're not even tempted a little bit?”

“That's the weird thing—I expected to be, but I'm not. Those people in there used to be my world. Now they're like strangers. Just silly, spoiled kids who can't grow up; adult kids who have to play their game of ‘the tortured artist' or ‘life in the fast lane' because they think that is what's expected. The games used to be important to me. Now they just seem tragic.”

Her arms were folded across her chest, and she was looking out toward the Pacific. Her eyes glistened. Hawker put his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned against him, her head on his chest. “Thank you,” he said gently. “I don't know why you told me, but I'm glad you did.”

She sniffed and wiped her nose comically. “Maybe it's because you're the only one square enough around here to appreciate it.”

“Hah! Square, am I?”

She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him quickly on the mouth, and took his hand. “Anyone not in the movie business is square, buster.” She pulled at him, grinning. “Help make a tour of my health spa, and I'll prove it to you.”

“You have a health spa?”

“Hell, yes. My manager says I'm rich, so why not? Come on.”

Hawker followed her around the house and through a tall redwood gate. There was a tennis court, lighted. The light spilled over into the lime-green swimming pool. About a dozen men and women swam naked. They shouted and laughed, treading water to keep their drinks safe. Someone switched the underwater lights on, and they laughed louder.

Another group of people hunched intently over a table. Four neat lines of white powder had been separated on the glass top. Trixie McCall sat at the table. She had stripped off her dress and now wore only sheer bikini panties. Her hair was wet, and water glistened on the famous breasts.

Concentrating mightily, she rolled a bill into a tight tube. Hawker noted that it was a twenty-dollar bill. He turned away before she used the bill to pipe the cocaine up her nose.

Beyond the pool was a full bar. Beside the bar was a massive Jacuzzi whirlpool bath.

The lights were on in the Jacuzzi, and Hawker watched a muscular blond-haired man and a black woman, both aroused and glassy-eyed, locked in pounding intercourse.

The man seemed to take strange pleasure in stopping just as the woman was at her climactic peak. He made a show of stopping to reposition her, plainly enjoying the chance to exhibit his freakish size.

Other men and women, chest-deep in water beside them, watched idly.

Melanie wrapped her arm around Hawker's waist. Her voice seemed small and far away. “How about it, James? Are you square or not?”

Hawker made a confused motion with his arms. “Where's the weird stuff you wanted to show me? This is just a typical Saturday night back in Illinois.”

She laughed, relieved. “Thanks for not being shocked. Anyway, this is the last big party I'll ever have. And I'm already anxious for them to leave. So how about doing a lady a favor. How about sitting with me out on the beach until a reasonable time rolls around and I can tell them all to get the hell out.” She grinned at him, her blue eyes crisp and clear. “You can tell me your life story, okay?”

Hawker didn't get a chance to answer.

As he was about to speak, a hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him roughly away. Hawker had no trouble recognizing the man who stood before him.

It was Johnny Barberino. Hawker had never seen any of his movies, but he had seen the advertisements. Barberino had started out as a teen-ager in television dramas and then gone on to become America's heartthrob by doing a series of discotheque rock operas. His screen image consisted of dancing, loving, and fighting.

Hawker had the uncomfortable realization that this was Melanie St. John's unnamed boyfriend.

“I want to talk to you, Melanie,” he commanded. He gave Hawker a brief, burning look, then ignored him. “I want to talk to you
now
. Alone.”

Hawker felt the woman draw near him, holding his arm. “No, Johnny. I told you I wasn't going to talk anymore, and I told you to stay the hell off my property. Now go, damn it, before I call the police.”

Hawker admired the bravery in her voice all the more because of the fear he saw in her eyes.

The pool area was suddenly silent. People were watching and listening.

Hawker got the impression they were hoping for another freak show.

Behind Johnny Barberino his two rough-looking friends stood easily. They wore mild, drugged-out grins on their faces.

“Goddamn it, Melanie, you're going to come with me right now! Either that, or tell all of these schmucks to get the fuck out so we can—”

“They're not going anywhere, Johnny. You are. You're leaving right now. I'm going to call the police.”

She turned and stalked off toward the stairs. Hawker saw Barberino's hand spear out to grab her, and he intercepted the actor's hand midway. Squeezing his wrist, Hawker said easily, “Shouldn't grab, now, should we? Why don't you let the lady make her phone call, like a good boy.”

“And why don't you fuck off, asshole!” Barberino jerked his hand away. He glanced around, as if to make sure his buddies were behind him. They were.

Hawker had no desire to get involved in a fight with a movie star—and he especially didn't want to be around when the cops came to break it up. He held his palms out, saying, “Look, there's no sense in fighting about this. Why don't you and your friends just take off?”

Barberino took it as a sign of fear. He flashed an evil grin. “Too late to try and talk your way out of it now, fucker!” He held his fists up in the stance of a fighter. It was like a pose for a movie poster. He spoke louder now, so everyone could hear how he was making the red-haired stranger back down. “You give
me
shit, man, and I'll jam it right back down your throat!”

Hawker turned to walk away. A hand grabbed him from behind and swung him around. Barberino threw a series of fast jabs at his head. He was too far away to connect. Hawker didn't even flinch.

“Playing badass, now, huh?” Barberino was bobbing and weaving as he talked. “Why don't you try to turn and run away again, dumb shit?”

“Naw,” said Hawker as his hands made slow fists. “You had your chance. I think it's time someone kicked that famous ass of yours.”

Barberino shot out another series of jabs—these, too close. Hawker knocked his fist away and ducked under the awkward right cross. He planted his left foot on top of the actor's shoe, then slapped him three quick times in the face, hard.

“Don't you hit my face, you son of a bitch!” Barberino roared, outraged.