Hollywood Kids (17 page)

He'd received bad news about the woman who usually headed his make-up team.. She'd been murdered, somewhere in Agoura Hills near where she lived. Christ! The violence out on the streets today was lethal. He would miss Margarita, she'd worked with him on four movies. He'd sent a huge white wreath and did not attend the funeral. He didn't believe in funerals - when someone was gone that was it, keep only the sweet memories.

Having spent a week with Bobby, Mac was pleasantly surprised - he'd known he'd be professional, but he hadn't expected to like Bobby as much as he did. Gary and Tyrone were great to work with too.

Making movies and having fun at the same time was the best experience you could possibly have. Who needed home life when work was all consuming?

The phone rang and Gary handed it to him.

It was Sharleen. Naturally. 'Where
are
you?' she wailed, sounding upset.

'You know where I am,' he replied patiently.

We have to leave the house in twenty minutes.'

'I'll meet you there.'

There was a quaver in her voice, 'Mac - '

'Yes?'

'It's black tie. I reminded you this morning.'

'So?'

She was trying to be nice in the hope that he'd come running. 'So that means you'll have to stop home and change before you meet me.'

'I know.'

Nice wasn't working. She snapped. It didn't take much. 'You
sonofabitch!
You're not coming, are you?'

'I'll make it if I can.' But he had no intention of doing so.

Slam. Down went the phone.

Christ! Women!

'Trouble?' Bobby asked casually.

'Nothing I can't handle,' Mac replied. 'You ever been married, Bobby?'

A big grin. 'Hey, I might be an actor, but an idiot I'm not!
'

When Charlie Dollar wasn't working on a movie he indulged himself - doing exactly what pleased him. Sometimes he didn't get out of bed until noon, and then he'd emerge from his bedroom and wander around the house in his black silk pyjamas and white tube socks, playing ball with his dogs, reading a variety of books, eating tuna-fish sandwiches and watching videos of classic movies or reruns
of Taxi -
his personal favourite.

Around five he was into his receiving mood. Usually friends dropped by and hung out, smoking grass and drinking margaritas. Charlie got off on holding court, expounding his theories on every subject to anyone who'd listen. They all listened, because he was Charlie Dollar, superstar, and this was Hollywood. If you were lucky enough to be in the great man's inner circle, you listened good.

Jordanna turned up in the middle of one of his entertaining sessions. His housekeeper, Mrs Willet, a brusque Welshwoman, answered the door, thought she was a fan, and attempted to get rid of her.

'Excuse
me
,' Jordanna said, pushing past her with a determined expression. 'Mr Dollar is expecting me.'

'Really?' Mrs Willet said, in hot pursuit. 'We'll see about that, young missy.'

'Allow me to jog your memory,' Jordanna said imperiously. 'Madonna, Prince. Outside his bedroom door in the middle of the night.'

Mrs Willet knew when to retreat. Making a rude snorting noise she stalked off.

'Old bag,' Jordanna muttered, opening the door to the living room and marching boldly in.

Charlie lazed on the couch smoking a joint. Arnie stood behind the bar fixing margaritas. Melinda Woodson sprawled on the floor wearing black leather and wraparound dark glasses, her expression sour as usual.

The two dogs rushed over to greet Jordanna, sniffed her crotch and quickly retreated when Charlie snapped his fingers. 'Kiddo!' he exclaimed, beaming. 'You don't believe in returning phone calls?'

'Huh?'

'Alexander Graham Bell. I've called you three times.' He stood up, treating her to his slightly off-centre crazed grin. 'Rejection is not good for movie stars. We ain't used to it, kiddo. We get kinda pissed.'

'I didn't know you called,' she said, realizing that since she'd moved out of the guest house she hadn't checked her machine.

Arnie had been watching this exchange with a bitter expression as the love of his life re-entered Charlie's. Stepping out from behind the bar he immediately said the wrong thing. 'Levitt. You look tired.'

She barely glanced in his direction. 'Thanks, Arnie, you always know how to make a girl feel her best.'

Charlie caught the friction in the air and knew just the way to defuse it. 'Arnie and Melinda were on their way outta here,' he announced.

Both looked at him with surprise - this was news to them.

Charlie took Jordanna's hand in his. 'Come up to the bedroom, kiddo, I got something to show you I think you'll appreciate.'

Melinda and Arnie exchanged looks. Charlie was usually so laid-back, it was unlike him to exhibit this kind of interest in a woman.

Arnie wasn't going quietly. 'Thought you were coming to the club tonight, Charlie,' he said in a whining voice.

'Maybe not,' Charlie said mysteriously, and with that he led Jordanna upstairs.

She was flattered and confused - both unusual emotions for her. She certainly hadn't expected Charlie to be this pleased to see her, and yet it was nice that he was.

'How've you been, kiddo?' he asked, as they entered his chaotic bedroom hand in hand.

'Not great,' she replied listlessly.

'How come?'

She shrugged. 'Nothing important.'

He turned her so that she faced him. 'If it bothers you, it's important. Spill. I'm a very dedicated listener.'

Sure. She was back in his life and the first place he dragged her to was his bedroom. It wasn't listening he had in mind.

'I repeat, nothing important.'

Swooping down, he picked up two Tower Records bags stashed in a corner and handed them to her. 'Presents,' he said, with a big wide grin. 'Thought I'd wasted my money, but here you are in person. See if I did good.'

She peered into the first bag - it was jammed with every tape and CD Madonna and Prince had ever made. The second bag contained Bobby Brown and Coltrane. For a moment she almost lost it. This was thoughtful shit, she wasn't used to thoughtful, and it affected her. 'Thanks, Charlie,' she said softly. 'I'll have to get my CD player back.'

'From where?'

'My dad's guest house. I finally left home.'

'Good move.'

'Not so good. I moved in with a friend who decided I was a slob and threw me out.'

He raised his bushy eyebrows. 'A slob, huh?'

'Yeah.' She smiled and gestured around his untidy bedroom. 'Kind of like you.'

'You need a place to stay?'

She hesitated, Well...'

'I got guest rooms comin' out my ass. You can move in here.'

'I do plan on getting my own apartment,' she said quickly, 'but first I guess I have to find a job - so if I
can
stay here for a few days...'

'A few days, a few months, who gives a shit as long as you don't bug me.'

'I promise I'll leave you completely alone.'

Grabbing her, he pulled her in for a big wet kiss.

'Let's not get carried away, kiddo. I had an interesting time the other night, didn't you?'

'It was... memorable.'

'So why didja sneak off before I woke up? Maybe I needed glowing reviews.'

'I didn't want to disturb you.'

'Hey -' He pressed her hand between his legs. 'You can feel how you disturb me, and it's a good thing, a
real
good thing.'

'I'm not a blonde, Charlie.'

He frowned. What did you say?'

'Nothing,' she said, sinking to her knees.

She knew exactly what he required, and she didn't mind obliging.

For over a week Michael drifted in and out of consciousness lying in a hospital bed. When he finally opened his eyes for a sustained period of time he had absolutely no idea where he was.

He lay there, trying to collect his thoughts, realizing he was connected to tubes, that his head ached like a sonofabitch and that he was unbelievably thirsty. And then it suddenly came to him. He'd been shot. He'd been fucking shot!

Struggling to remember, it all became clear. A drug bust. Two guys. One of them retreating. He'd known something was wrong, spun around searching for danger and nearly got blown away.

He groaned. His head felt like it would bust wide open and he'd kill for a glass of water. 'Anybody around?' he croaked.

A nurse appeared at his bedside, an earnest little thing with cropped brown hair and sparkling eyes. 'Mr Scorsini,' she said, 'I do believe you're with us again.'

'Got shot,' he mumbled.

'No, you didn't,' she replied gently, patting his arm reassuringly.

'Yeah, yeah, I got shot,' he insisted.

'
No
, Mr Scorsini,' she said, placing a cool hand on his forehead.

'Gotta have water,' he managed.

'Only if you promise to drink it slowly.'

She fetched a paper cup half full of water and held it to his lips.

He sipped it slowly, savouring every welcome drop.

'I have to go call Mr Robbins now,' she said, withdrawing the cup. 'I've alerted the doctor. He's on his way to see you.'

'Quincy's here in New York?'

'You're in LA, Mr Scorsini.'

Yeah, sure, what did
she
know?

His head felt like a launching pad for rocket ships. Gingerly he reached up, touching his shoulder, knowing that's where he'd been shot.

There were no bandages - nothing. Goddamn it, they weren't looking after him properly. Had to get the hell out of
this
hospital.

After a few minutes the nurse returned to his bedside. 'Mr Robbins is on his way,' she said. 'He's very happy to hear you're awake.'

'Where's my bandages?'

'What bandages?'

'I told you - I got shot.'

'No, Mr Scorsini, you were in a car accident.'

He attempted to sit up, but couldn't quite make it. Falling back he mumbled, 'I know who did it. Bin workin' this case for months. Where's the Captain? I gotta talk to him.'

'Please relax, Mr Scorsini.'

Squeezing his eyes shut he tried to remember more. Yeah, he and his partner had been working undercover when the shit went down. They'd met in a warehouse on 42nd Street and everything should have gone real smooth. But no, there was this one Puerto Rican guy who'd gotten suspicious and ducked out of sight. Sensing danger, he'd called to his partner to cover him while he went after the asshole.

And then the gunshot - so fucking loud, busting into his body, breaking it apart. And after that - unbelievable pain.

He remembered hitting the ground. The ambulance ride to the hospital. Frantic faces leaning over him.

Then he recalled waking up and somebody telling him they'd removed the bullet.

So why was he still in the hospital?

'Mr Scorsini. Delighted to see you're awake.'

He focused on the doctor, a short bald man with beady eyes.

'Where am I?' he asked.

'In hospital.'

'New York, right?'

'No, Los Angeles.'

'And I got shot.'

'No.'

'You're telling me I
wasn't
shot?'

'No, Mr Scorsini, you're confused, concussion does that. You've been in and out of consciousness for over a week.'

'No shit?'

'Yes. But it seems you're past the crisis point.'

'Get these tubes outta me, doc. I'm allergic to hospitals.'

'All in good time,' the doctor replied, leaning over and shining a pencil-slim flashlight into his eyes. 'You're fortunate,' he commented. 'No broken bones. Lots of bruises and a bad head injury, but that's about it.'

Bella. The memory of his daughter's voice came crashing back. And then everything clicked into place. Rita. The photographs. Club Erotica. Daly Forrest.

He hadn't been shot, that was past history. He'd been following Daly Forrest when he'd gotten hit on the head. He'd been behind the house in Hancock Park, heard Bella's voice and then... blackness.

Once again he attempted to sit up. 'I gotta go,' he mumbled urgently.

The doctor was Mr Authority. 'You're too weak. We'll have to keep you here under observation for at least another forty-eight hours.'

'I don't give a shit, doc, I gotta leave.'

'Not today,' the doctor said firmly.

After the doctor left, the nurse returned and disconnected him from the tubes. 'We'll have to help fatten you up,' she said cheerfully. 'I'm bringing you some nourishing chicken broth. Only liquids today. Tomorrow we'll start you off with scrambled eggs.'

Fuck the scrambled eggs. By the time Quincy arrived he was ready to move, his strength coming back by the minute. 'What happened? How'd I get here?' he demanded impatiently.

'You're asking
me
? Quincy said, waving his arms around. 'I was expecting
you
to explain it. Your car flipped over the side of Mulholland, and you got thrown out. They found you halfway down the hill. You're goddamn lucky to be alive.'

'I wasn't anywhere near Mulholland. I followed Daly Forrest to a house in Hancock Park. He went inside, and I made my way around the back. That's when I heard Bella's voice. I was about to go for her when I must've gotten hit on the head.'

Quincy looked skeptical. 'You sure?'

'Course I'm sure.'

Then how do you explain the car wreck?'

They wanted me out the way. It was a set-up.'

Quincy scratched his chin. 'Who's they? An' why would they go to all this trouble?'

He was already halfway out of bed. That's what we're gonna find out when you get me outta here.'

They won't release you, I already checked.'

'Get me my clothes. And my gun.'

'You'll have to make a police statement.'

'What'll I say? That I was driving up Mulholland and zipped over the edge by mistake?'

'Yeah, that's it, 'cause if you go with the other story nobody's gonna believe you.'

'Find my clothes, Q. I told you, we're outta here.'

Quincy knew better than to argue.

Getting past the downstairs porter in Daly Forrest's apartment building on Wilshire was no problem, by this time they were old friends.