Authors: Jackie Collins
'I suppose so,' she said reluctantly.
'Good,' he said, lighting a joint and taking a deep drag.
This was a new one, an actor who dared to get stoned in front of a journalist. She admired his balls.
'You really did a kill on Bobby Rush,' he remarked, offering her a drag.
She shook her head. 'It wasn't me, but I guess I have to take the blame.'
Unperturbed, Charlie took another long pull. 'What happened?'
'My copy was changed and expanded. I feel bad about it. Trust me, it will never happen again.'
'I hope not.'
'Don't worry, you're completely protected. I now have a contract that precludes them from changing a word.'
'Bobby's an OK guy,' Charlie said, through a haze of smoke. 'It's a bum rap growing up in this town with a famous parent. He's doin' good.'
'I would say having a famous parent makes life easier. Money, privilege... anything you wish for.'
'I never fight with lady journalists, but you're wrong.'
She decided to change the subject. 'You have a little boy, don't you?'
A pleased grin spread across his face. 'Sure do. His name is Sport, and he's the greatest.'
'On the record, are you planning to marry his mother?'
Charlie chuckled again. 'You'd better ask Dahlia whether
she's
planning on marrying
me
. I simply do what people ask me to. If I make it through the day, then I'm a happy movie star!'
Charlie had an extremely seductive, easy-going manner, his charm was addictive.
'Do you mind if I use a tape recorder?' she asked, reaching into her purse and extracting a small Sony cassette machine.
'Show me yours - I'll show you mine,' he replied, with a stoned smile.
'Yow want to tape
me
?'
'I'm sure neither of us would appreciate the inconvenience of being misquoted.'
He got up and came back with a portable Panasonic recorder which he placed on the table in front of them. 'We're even,' he said.
'Hmm...' Kennedy said, 'and I never had you tagged as suspicious.'
They exchanged a long look.
'
You
are one good-looking broad,' Charlie said at last.
'Broad?' she said with a mixture of amusement and contempt.
'Uh-oh, I smell a feminist in the room.'
She smiled coolly. 'Sweet talk will get you absolutely nowhere.' She activated her tape. 'Can we discuss your movie?'
He leaned forward, clicking on his machine. 'I would deem that a great favour. All people usually care about is my personal life.' He paused, then waved his arms dramatically in the air, taking on a Shakespearian stance. 'Who do I fuck - that is the question,' he emoted, sounding more like a grand stage actor than his usual self.
'Are you going to answer it?'
'People aren't interested in the essence of an actor - all they want is this personal shit. Tabloid to the max, that's America today.'
'I've seen you in the tabloids.'
'Can't avoid it. Wish I could.'
'Let's start with that. What do you think of the stories that appear about you?'
'Fairy stories,' he snorted disdainfully. 'The unfortunate reality is that people believe 'em.'
'You really think so?'
'Talk to any of the maids and everybody's mother. They'll come at me waving a paper sayin', "Did you see what Michael Jackson did?" Or Marlon Brando. Or Jack Nicholson. Like, baby, they are
true
believers.'
'Is everything written in the tabloids lies?'
'Sometimes there's a micron of truth. But them there hacks got a column to fill every week, so they're inclined to make things up. An' if they don't invent, they
embellish
. What a word - embellish!'
He seemed to have a habit of veering off track. She tried to lure him back. 'Let's talk about your movie,' she said. 'Why did you decide to produce it yourself?'
His eyebrows shot up, giving him an even more crazed look. 'Why not? When I'm in a movie I kinda get off on making my own decisions. Wouldn't you?'
'Is this a new trend for you? Do you think that in the future you'll produce all your films?'
'Haven't made up my mind yet.' He took a long beat. 'So... you were married to Philip Chase.'
She was startled. 'Uh... yes... How did you know?'
'Cause I followed his work. Yours, too. Liked that piece you wrote on Anita Hill. And the stuff you got into about the Bush Administration was admirable. But my favourite work of yours and Phil's were the pieces you did together for
National Geographic
. His pictures were outstanding. Lady, you two sure got around.'
'Yes, we did,' she said quietly, impressed that Charlie knew who Phil was.
'I was real sorry to read that he died.'
Inexplicably her eyes filled with tears. It was still so painful to talk about Philip.
Charlie observed her discomfort. 'Hey, I got me an idea,' he said, jumping to his feet. 'We'll drive down to the beach for lunch. I'll treat you to crab cakes at Ivy on the Shore, order you an exotic drink, and we'll pretend we're on vacation. How about it?'
It sounded good. Why resist? 'If that's what you'd like to do,' she said, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable.
He grabbed her hands, pulling her up from the couch. 'C'mon, sweet green eyes, follow me. I'm the king of how to forget your worries an' stay happy. Let's do it!'
Cheryl Landers was on a power trip. She had the attention of some of the most important men in town. All of a sudden she was a major player. No longer known as just Ethan's daughter, she was finally free. And making mucho bucks. What an exhilarating high!
Her girls were the best. Once she'd taken over Donna's list, she'd weeded out the druggies and trouble-makers, and solicited some fine new talent. First class service all the way was her motto. You pay top price and you get top pussy. Everyone was happy. Especially Grant, who not only tried out new girls for her and supplied the drugs that quite a few clients requested, but also did an excellent recruiting job, bringing her would-be talent on an almost daily basis.
Cheryl found there was another advantage to being
the
Hollywood madam. Men. They all desired her approval, and she could play with them the way she'd always wanted.
She and Grant had started a regular exclusive Saturday-night late party at her house and it was a hot ticket. The guest list was exciting. Beautiful girls who got paid for their services, and horny powerful men who seemed to get off on shelling out big bucks. Several movie stars were regular attendees; an English rock superstar who went through the girls by the dozen; producers, studio executives and a scattering of Euro-trash.
She kept her Arab clientele separate. They paid for their own parties, and she made sure they paid double.
Grant was seriously considering dropping out of the agency business and becoming her partner. 'Your entire operation could be bigger and better,' he said, trying to persuade her. 'We'd send girls all over the world - maybe even work out a franchise. The possibilities are limitless.'
She'd been paying him a commission for the girls he found, and since business was so good why not bring him in - not as a full partner, but allowing him to collect a percentage wouldn't bother her. As long as he didn't get too stoned he would certainly be an asset. He could take over many of her responsibilities, and she'd enjoy having him around on a more permanent basis.
He was sulky when she told him her plan - he wanted fifty per cent of her take or nothing.
'OK, nothing,' she bluffed.
He agreed to thirty per cent and quit the agency.
Cheryl was delighted. Nobody knew it - not even Jordanna -but growing up she'd always harboured a secret crush on Grant. It started when she'd hit puberty, and continued over the years. She'd never told anyone because it was painfully obvious bimbos were his women of choice. Grant always went for the exterior - the big-breasted, long hair, fat glossy lips look. He'd never second-glanced her - she wasn't pretty enough, her breasts were too small, and besides, he'd always regarded her as one of the boys - and although they'd had fun together, it had never gone any further.
Over the years Cheryl had sat back, watched and waited. Now she was in an excellent position, she was about to be his boss, and total control would be hers.
Cheryl had decided that if you wanted something badly enough you
could
have it. And she wanted Grant. She'd waited almost twelve years, wasn't that long enough?
Charlie was an interesting man, he did not try to charm - he just did. He seemed totally oblivious to his fame, which made him even more attractive.
People loved Charlie. They waved at him from their cars as he sped down the freeway behind the wheel of his black Rolls, grinning his maniacal grin, playing Sinatra, swigging from a flask of something he assured her was distilled water, although she suspected it was pure vodka.
'I wouldn't expect you to have a car like this,' she said, fingering the expensive leather seat.
He creased his forehead, genuinely puzzled. 'Why do people always say that?'
She gestured vaguely. 'I don't know. It's - it's too... grown up.'
He chuckled. 'Surprise, surprise, I
am
grown up.'
'How old
are
you?' she asked curiously. Reports varied, pegging him as anything from forty-nine to fifty-five.
'Mentally twelve. Physically - a hundred and twelve. Spiritually fifty-three. It's a bitch, but it's better than the alternative.'
Which is?'
'Dead,' he said flatly. 'I lost a lot of loyal buddies in Vietnam.'
'Were you there?'
He lowered the volume on Sinatra. 'Sure I was. Where do you think I learned the valuable lesson that to get through each day you gotta start off stoned?'
'College?' she said facetiously.
A hollow laugh. 'Naw. Never went. Dropped outta High School at fifteen an' hit the road. That's a whole loada higher education right there.'
'I'm sure.'
'How about you, green eyes? Give me the story.'
'High school. College. The entire process.'
'Sounds conventional.'
'I met Phil in college, we got married and travelled the world together. He was a very special man.'
'Ain't it a bitch - it's always the good ones that go first. You must miss him a lot.'
She didn't know what to say. How did you put into words the unbearable pain of losing someone close to you? It was impossible. 'I do,' she said quietly.
Charlie swerved across three lanes of speeding traffic and just about made it to the Santa Monica exit.
'Driving's not your greatest skill,' she gulped, bracing herself against the dashboard.
The trick is,' he said, with a perverse smile, 'never to hit anything, an'
never
to have anything hit you. That's my philosophy. Think about it, it's sure worked for me.'
Their lunch together was enjoyable. She couldn't remember laughing so much in a long time. But there was also a serious side lurking beneath Charlie's light-hearted exterior. Apart from being one of the greatest film actors of his generation, he was also an extremely complex and interesting man. When he suggested dinner the next night she readily agreed. Wait until she told Rosa about
this
one!
After lunch, Charlie drove her back to his house where she picked up her car and headed straight to the television studio. Rosa and the news director were waiting for her. They spent the afternoon going over material for her appearance that night. She got the facts on Pamela March, the latest murder victim. Pamela had been strangled late Friday in West Hollywood - Detective Carlyle territory. She was a small-time actress, divorced with no children. Thirty-one years old, she had been walking her dog when she was attacked. Exactly the same MO as Stephanie Wolff. Only this time there was no death-to-the-traitors sign left on the body.
'But it has to be the same killer, right?' Kennedy questioned, still scanning the information.
'Unless it's a copy-cat murder,' Rosa replied. 'Sometimes that's what happens.'
This time Kennedy fought against make-up and hair. She insisted on doing her own, applying a smoky brown eye-shadow and a deeper lipstick. Then she brushed her honey-coloured hair until it casually framed her face.
Going over her copy she felt surprisingly calm. It read well, she was pleased with what she'd written.
Before the broadcast she wandered into the Green Room, picked up a chocolate chip cookie and nibbled on it.
Rosa entered a few minutes later. 'Everything OK?'
'This is a cinch,' she replied, not feeling at all nervous. 'I think I'm getting used to it.'
'Told you you'd grow to love it!' Rosa exclaimed, grabbing a bottle of Evian on her way out. 'See you on the set. We've got a busy show. Oh, and, by the way, if you bump into Michael, do me a favour and try not to insult him.'
'Michael who?'
'Scorsini. The New York detective with the missing kid. Remember? He's on again tonight.'
'What a coincidence,' she said, shaking her head.
'I told you, you're safe, he's not dating and has no desire to, just like you.'
'Sure.'
Rosa laughed. 'Honestly,' she said, vanishing out the door. 'One of these days you'll learn to believe me.'
Kennedy perched on the edge of the couch and glanced through her notes again. Four women. Brutally murdered.
There was a strangler on the loose and she had to help stop him before he claimed a fifth victim.
After leaving Mac, Michael drove over and talked to the doorman at Club Sirocco about the badly behaved TV star, but his mind was elsewhere. The meeting with Mac Brooks was really bothering him. Women were getting killed, Mac thought he knew who was doing it, and he'd only now decided to say something. Didn't these Hollywood people have a fucking social conscience?
The first thing he'd done after leaving Mac was call a contact in the LAPD asking him to run a check on Zane Marion Ricca. An hour later he'd received the information that Zane had been released from jail three months ago. He'd also scanned newspaper reports on the murdered women. He'd come across a fourth victim, Gerda Hemsley, and wondered if she'd also worked on Mac's movie.