Lovers and Gamblers (10 page)

The sun at Nice Airport was blazing down. Photographers were jostling for shots of Al as he disembarked from the Air France plane. Tourists were gaping. Officials were pushing forward to greet him.

He wore a white sports shirt, white trousers, and a thin black alligator belt that clasped together with his initials in gold. His black hair was just long enough and carefully tousled. His black eyes hid behind grey-tinted shades.

He had spent the previous week at his home in London lying by the swimming pool and acquiring a perfectly respectable golden tan. London had been having a heat wave, and Al had taken full advantage.

Paul, by his side, was more conservatively dressed. But the women, when they had stopped eyeing Al, turned their attention to him and wondered who he was. He was a couple of inches taller than Al, leaner, with finer bones and smokey eyes. The brothers were by no means plain.

Al was in a very good mood indeed. Dallas had been booked for the show, and everyone seemed pleased about it. The producer had been delighted, and the only person who was somewhat put out was Katy May.

The English press played the whole thing up to the hilt, with photos of Katy in a swimsuit looking dejected, and recent shots of Dallas.

Bernie Suntan had telephoned from California. ‘Ace publicity – great starter.’

With Melanie’s coaching Edna had finally said to Al that she would like to come to the South of France with him. ‘Forget it,’ he had replied. ‘I’ll be working all day, you’ll be stuck in a hotel, and I’ll be worrying about you.’ That had been that. No Edna. No Melanie.

A convertible Cadillac met them at the airport and sped them off to the Hotel Voile D’Or at St. Jean Cap Ferrat.

‘This is the life!’ exclaimed Al. ‘Give me the sun and I could become a real beach bum.’ He admired the passing girls. ‘Place is jammed with little darlings!’

He had not mentioned Dallas to Paul since the night he had told him to get her for the show. It was almost as if he had forgotten all about her, and when Paul had told him it was arranged he had just nodded. Paul understood. The girl had said yes and that was that. Al knew that he could have her, so the thrill was gone.

They arrived at the hotel, and Paul went off to meet with the director and camera crew. Al changed into white swim shorts and a short towelling jacket, and sauntered down to the pool. He enjoyed the buzz that went up when he appeared, but it was a sophisticated group and no one came running over for his autograph.

He acquired a beach bed and lay out. A girl in an orange bikini was openly staring at his crotch. The myth of Al King and his tight stage trousers was alive and well and bulging in his swim shorts.

The sun was delicious, burning into his dark skin and causing thin rivulets of sweat to moisten on his hairy chest.

He tried to empty his mind and think of nothing. But the tour kept on drifting uneasily into his thoughts, and his stomach turned mildly in anticipation of the ordeal. He had spoken to Edna of his fears. He had lain next to her warm comfortable body in the night, and confessed his terror. She had held him close and crooned, ‘Don’t go, stay with us, stay with Evan and me.’

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He wanted encouragement. He wanted building up. And if Edna couldn’t give him that, who could? Who else knew the real Al King? They all saw the strutting, cocksure, virile star. They didn’t want to see just another man with insecurities. They wanted glamour. He gave them what they wanted. Why else did he force himself to diet, have plastic surgery to remove that extra chin, re-cap his teeth so that the famous Al King smile remained whiter than white.

* * *

Later Al hosted a dinner at an open-air restaurant called The African Queen for some of the crew, and an assortment of local talent rounded up on the Croisette in Cannes.

It was a boisterous evening, the wine flowing freely and food likewise. Around midnight Al got bored, and he brushed aside the girls swarming round him and suggested to Paul that they split and carry on to Monte Carlo, where they could indulge in a little gambling.

Paul was only too pleased to oblige. He discreetly settled the bill, and they escaped.

Al wanted to drive. He handled the Cadillac restlessly and drove it too fast along the winding coastal road.

‘Let’s get there at least,’ muttered Paul.

‘You nervous?’ laughed Al, putting his foot down harder and nearly colliding with an oncoming Citroën.

‘Cut it out,’ mumbled Paul.

‘Trouble with you is you don’t want to live dangerously. You live a safe life – you’re even faithful to your girlfriend! Didn’t you fancy
any
of them tonight?’

‘Didn’t you?’

Al sighed. ‘I don’t fancy any of them any more. They’re all a bunch of scrubbers. Get the clap as soon as look at them.’

‘So don’t look.’

‘Do me a favour. You know the score. I’ve got them comin’ out of my ears! Who has to look? They’re grabbing at me before I even fart in their direction!’

They drove straight to the Casino in Monte Carlo.

Al could feel the adrenalin flowing. He headed over to the nearest roulette table and surrounded twenty-six and twenty-nine with fifty-franc chips. Seventeen came up. He repeated the procedure, doubling his bet. Six came up. He piled some chips on black, and once again chevalled twenty-six and twenty-nine. Zero came up. He changed tables and piled chips on number five. He was lucky first time, and the croupier pushed stacks of chips in his direction.

‘It’s my night, boyo!’ he gleefully told Paul.

Two hours later they left. Al was three thousand pounds down.

‘It’s a mug’s game,’ announced Paul.

‘Horseshit. I’ll come back tomorrow night and beat the shit out of ’em.’

Dallas sat on the Pan American jet, sipping champagne and marvelling at the events of the previous week.

So much had happened. So many exciting things.

Now here she was sitting on an airplane heading for Europe. She could hardly believe it.

A passing stewardess smiled in a friendly fashion and asked, ‘Everything all right, Dallas?’

She nodded to indicate that everything was fine. In the space of a week people recognized her, they treated her with that special kind of deference reserved for the famous.

Getting the Al King show had been a terrific break – all she had to do in the show was look pretty – but it was a beginning, and everyone had to start somewhere.

The photos that Linda had taken of her were selling well, and Linda was nice, easy to work with, friendly, and someone to rap with. Of course Dallas wasn’t into the confiding bag, she had too much to hide, but just discussing what was happening to her now was a relief.

Ed had taken her sudden rise to mini fame in a different fashion. He was used to having her completely available, and now that she was in the limelight it made things more complicated. Strangely enough, he was pleased when he heard about the trip to Europe. ‘I’ll meet you there,’ he promised. ‘I’m about due on a business trip to London, and I’ll fly down to the South of France after.’

She had not been exactly thrilled, but then again why not? It was progress, and why was she with Ed Kurlnik if not to make headway in the affair? If he ever left his wife for her… Well, that would be worth more than all the transient fame could ever be.

The ‘Fasten Your Seatbelts’ sign was flashing on. They were due to land in London where Dallas had a one-day stopover to organize her clothes for the television special. She had managed to dump Mrs. Fields. ‘This whole chaperone scene is not for me,’ she had flatly informed Beauty Incorporated. They had not been pleased, but Dallas carried the scent of success, and they stood to make a substantial amount in commissions, so for once they relaxed their rules. Mrs. Fields had muttered ominously, ‘This girl means trouble.’ But money spoke louder than words.

At London’s Heathrow airport Dallas was met by a bevy of photographers.

She was wearing a white suit; and she obligingly shrugged off the jacket, and posed provocatively in a tubular, strapless sweater which clung like glue round her sensual unfettered breasts.

The picture was on the front of all the evening newspapers. In England she was an instant celebrity.

By the next morning she was on another plane to the South of France. Briefly she thought about Al King, wondered what he would be like. Linda – who knew him – had merely commented, ‘Steer clear, he’s a prick.’ The way she had said it gave Dallas the impression that she didn’t like him at all, but further questioning had produced nothing, so Dallas had dropped the subject.

She didn’t much care anyway. They were all the same. Men. Sonsofbitches. Perverts. Sex-mad little boys.

And stars. The worst kind.

She should know; in her former business capacity operating in the heart of Beverly Hills she had met enough of them.

Case one. A hero of the West. Always the good guy, never the villain. What would his loyal faithful public do if they knew that in private he indulged in horseback activities that would
never
find their way onto the screen?

Case two. Baby-faced former child star. He liked nannies and governesses, and a good solid beating daily.

Case three. A football player. Adored by women the world over. Could
only
get it up when clad in women’s clothes with a dildo up his ass.

Dallas knew of many more examples. Where were all the
normal
people? She had certainly never come across any. But then of course she hadn’t exactly led what could be termed as a normal life.

At Nice airport, things followed the same pattern. Photographers. A press agent to meet her. She posed, this time in a clingy red dress. God, but there was something mesmerizing about a camera lens. She could communicate with a small piece of engineering, much more so than with people. Mouth slightly parted, moisten lips, head back so that hair flowed, body muscles tensed. She had it down to a fine art.

‘I’m Nicky,’ said the television assistant who accompanied the press agent. He was a young man with pimples and red hair.

Dallas smiled, and Nicky was immediately captivated.

‘I’ll take you to your hotel. They want to do a rehearsal after lunch. Was it a good flight?’

Dallas nodded. She was busy looking around her and taking in the strange sights and sounds. It was a thrill to be in Europe, something that she had never expected to happen to her. She had known that Ed Kurlnik would be the passport to a better life, and now – just a few short months after meeting him – things were moving at a pace almost too fast for her to keep up with. Occasionally she was bothered by the thought that her past might catch up with her. Some sly-faced man from the shadows might see her photo and step forward to announce, ‘That girl is a hooker, nothing but a common little whore.’ She was prepared if that ever happened. She would just smile sweetly and deny it. After all, who could
prove
her former life style?

Bobbie. The name stuck nervously in her throat. She had neither seen nor heard from her since the night at the pool. But Bobbie must have seen her picture in the paper, she must know what had happened to her. And it was not like Bobbie to miss a going opportunity. Dallas was quite prepared for the fact that she would eventually appear, and she was alert for when it did happen. She wasn’t about to be blackmailed and have her whole new life hang on a thread. If Bobbie reappeared she was ready for her. And this time she wouldn’t screw it up.

* * *

‘Al King,’ he announced coolly.
So you’re the bitch that stood me up for lunch
.

‘Dallas,’ she replied, equally cool.
Conceited bastard. I have met your type before. Linda was right.

‘Did you have a good flight?’
If you play your cards right I’ll take you back to my hotel and give you a glimpse of Al King cock.

‘Fine, thank you.’
He wants to get laid. They all want to get laid
.

‘Good.’
Christ, but she’s a knockout. Green eyes. Soft lips. Soft hair. A body that should be labelled instant hard-on.

‘The Atlantic crossing was a bit bumpy.’
If I was into men, I guess this is what they would look like. Dark and hard. Bastards.

They had met at the scene of the location. The opening shot of the particular sequence they were to do together was of the two of them in an open sports car driving along. The camera crew were busy setting up.

Nicky had escorted her to the location, and Al had sauntered over and introduced himself.

‘Dallas, dear,’ announced the director, an effeminate gentleman in tomato red trousers with a bandana round his head, ‘can we have you in the car, dear.’

‘I’ll have her in the car!’ joked Al.

Dallas shot him a frosty look. I only do it for money. Ed Kurlnik’s money.

‘You too, Al,’ continued the director. ‘I want to start with a long shot of the car, nice scenery, hair blowing, everyone wishes they were there. Then we come in for close-ups. Dallas gazing adoringly at you – you singing. Sound – put the machine on, let’s get some atmosphere here.’

The sound mechanic switched on a portable machine, and Al singing ‘Lady’ came blaring into the afternoon sunshine. It was a funky soul song, with Al’s incredibly sexy gravelly voice playing sensually with the lyrics.

Al leapt into the car and started miming:

Lady you are pretty

Lady you are witty

Wanna be my Lady

Wanna drive me crazy

You got eyes like hot molasses

Hey baby

Hey maybe

Hey Lady

Lady Lady Lady

You are foxy Lady

Dallas climbed into the car and openly yawned.

‘Great!’ exclaimed Al. ‘A yawn I get.’

‘Now, darling,’ fussed the director, ‘I want you to gaze at Al. Don’t take your eyes off him. I want love, romance, a touch of sex.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a touch of that,’ interrupted Al.

‘I’m sure you’ll never go short,’ sniffed the director. ‘Dallas, sweetie, you understand what I want? Every woman watching should be aching to change places with you.’