Authors: Jackie Collins
'I got it, Bobby,' Nanette Lipsky said at last, flicking thick cigarette ash on the floor. 'It's a helluva idea, but knowing you, you'll probably spit in my face.'
'Let's hear it,' Bobby said. 'I'll try not to spit too hard.'
Nanette took another long pull on her cigarette, inhaled deeply and said, 'Your old man.'
'My old man?' he repeated blankly.
'Jerry Rush. He's your father in real life - what could be better?'
'Jesus!' Bobby said, slapping his forehead. 'Don't even suggest it.'
Nanette's expression was inscrutable. 'You want to spit now or later?'
But the seed was planted. And Bobby knew in his heart that Jerry would be perfect for the role.
Somehow or other Jerry's name slipped out of the room and reached the studio honchos. One of them called to offer his congratulations. 'Bobby, this is the best piece of stunt casting I've heard in a long time. Will Jerry do it?'
We haven't made a decision,' Bobby said edgily. 'I'll have to talk to Mac, he's unreachable right now.' And then he came up with a brilliant idea. 'Tell you what,' he added. 'If I hire Jerry Rush to play my father, can we work out a way to pay off Barbara Barr? I feel strongly that she's not right for the role, we made a bad choice. Plus I got this strong hunch she'll cause us nothing but trouble.'
'You saw the story in the tabloids, too, huh?'
'What story?'
'Apparently she had a fight with a girl outside a club, and now the girl is suing her for ten million bucks.'
'I'm telling you, if we can pay her off and come out of this clean, we'll be better off.'
'So we'll cut a deal, Bobby. You get us Jerry and we'll let you go with who you want for Sienna.'
'Sounds good to me.'
The Man had been busy. Tracking Cheryl Landers was no mean feat.
First he'd visited the address he had for her in Bel Air. He'd watched and waited for two days, but there was no sighting of her.
On the third day she'd appeared at lunch time driving a silver BMW. Shortly after arriving she left again - this time with a woman who looked like it could be her mother in the passenger seat of the car.
He followed them to The Bistro Gardens on Canon where they had lunch.
When they were through there they went shopping. He trailed them to Sak's and Magnin's. Rich women idling away the afternoon - how he loathed them both.
Eventually Cheryl drove back to the Bel Air house, where she dropped off her mother, and drove away, heading back to Beverly Hills.
The Man was right behind her.
She stopped at Thrifty's on Canon Drive. He parked his car and followed her into the large drugstore - eyes covered by his black-out Armani shades, hair neatly scraped back in a ponytail.
Cheryl would never recognize him. Even if they came face to face in one of the aisles she would not know who he was.
He liked that. It made him feel powerful. He knew who she was, and yet he was able to remain totally anonymous.
Taking a basket he filled it with a few items as he trailed Cheryl around the store.
She wheeled a cart, throwing in boxes of Kleenex, packets of candy, a whole bunch of magazines, cartons of cigarettes, condoms and several cans of bug spray.
Then she went over to the liquor section, where she filled the cart with three giant bottles of margarita mix and two bottles of tequila.
He stood in the check-out line behind her and observed as she paid with a gold credit card. Then he followed her out to the parking lot where he watched her load her car.
Go home, bitch! he thought to himself. Go home so I can find out where you live.
When she set off he was right behind her as she drove up Benedict Canyon, turning on Beverly Grove Park Road.
She drove up into the hills and turned into a private driveway. He parked and waited a few minutes, then he left his car and scurried up the driveway on foot. He was in time to see Cheryl at the front door of a country-style house, unloading her shopping bags, being helped by a Mexican maid.
Now he knew where she lived.
Plans. He had to make plans. Because it was not going to be so easy for Cheryl Landers. She would suffer before the final cleansing - just as he had suffered in jail.
Soon he'd have to move out of the house. The last cheque he'd received from one of Luca's companies had been for six thousand dollars. He'd carefully changed the amount to sixty thousand and deposited it in an account he'd opened with a phoney name. Over the next few days he'd withdrawn the cash. Once his uncle found out about the cheque he'd be after him.
He'd already started making preparations for the future. A week ago he'd purchased several guns - one of them an Uzi automatic - and a good supply of bullets. Now he had money and weapons. It made him feel invincible. Nobody could touch him ever again.
Driving back to the house he was suddenly overcome with bad vibrations. Something was amiss. In prison he'd developed an antenna for trouble, it never let him down.
Before entering the driveway he parked on the street, and once more made his way carefully up the driveway on foot, staying near to the shrubbery.
Parked outside the entrance to the house was a long black limousine. Leaning against it, puffing on a fat cigar, was Bosco Nanni - one of his uncle's associates.
The Man felt a shiver of fear. Did this mean that Uncle Luca was somewhere in the vicinity?
Had he found out about the cheque?
It was more than likely.
The Man edged back down the driveway until he reached the safety of his car. Then he drove a block away and parked, keeping the entrance to the house in sight.
He was mad at himself. He should have moved days ago. Bad timing on his part.
He'd wait until they left, collect his things, and never come back. He could outsmart his uncle any day. Where to go, that was the question. He pondered, thinking hard. Several days ago he'd found a note from Shelley stuck on his door. She'd written that she'd moved, and would love him to come and see her one day. She'd included her new address.
He'd stuffed the piece of paper in his shirt pocket, thinking nothing of it. Now he removed the note and read it through again.
Shelley was about to have a visitor.
Michael filled Quincy in and got his input. Once Quincy heard the Mac Brooks story he wanted immediate action. We have to do something about those other two witnesses,' he said.
Michael agreed with him.
'You can watch the Levitt girl,' Quincy said. 'I'll keep an eye out for Cheryl Landers.'
'How'll you do that?' Michael asked, shaking loose a cigarette. 'In case you've forgotten, your arm's in a cast.'
'I can handle it,' Quincy said. 'I'll drive over to her house and sit in the car outside. Tomorrow I'll put a guy on it.'
Michael lit up and took a drag. 'What if anything came down?'
'Relax. It's my left arm - besides, I'm carryin'. And put that cigarette out, you know Amber doesn't allow it.'
Michael took another drag and searched for an ashtray. 'The smart move would be to alert the detectives working this case,' he said.
'No way,' Quincy said sharply. 'A private investigator has a privileged relationship with his clients, the same kind of confidentiality a psychiatrist has with their patients. We can't break it. The business wouldn't be worth shit if we did.'
'So we gotta sit back and let this go on?'
'If what you tell me about Kennedy Chase is true the cops'll figure it out soon enough. They'll break the case without our help.'
'I hope so.'
'In the meantime, take my beeper, give the number to Marjory and the Levitt girl. Tell her she might need to reach you on account of Marjory.'
Michael headed back to the Sanderson mansion. Marjory was thrilled to see him, as soon as he walked through the door she presented him with a gift-wrapped package.
'What's this?' he asked uncomfortably.
'A small present for taking such good care of me.'
He frowned. 'I can't accept it, Marjory.'
'Why not?'
'Because I'm getting
paid
to take care of you.'
'I know. But I can do something nice, can't I?'
He opened up the package. It was a special presentation set of the
Godfather
movies. 'That's very thoughtful,' he said warily. 'But I told you, I can't accept it.'
'Yes, you can,' she insisted. 'And tonight I hope you'll have dinner with me.'
He thought about Kennedy, she'd said she was busy, but he decided he'd call her anyway. What time will Jordanna be back?' he asked, switching subjects, not even acknowledging her dinner invitation.
'You're always asking me about Jordanna,' she said snippily.
'Since she's staying here I've gotta know her movements,' he explained.
'I have no idea, and quite frankly I don't care.'
'Are they working today?'
'I'm not the production office.'
She was a big help. 'You know what, I'll be back later,' he said, and much to her annoyance, took off.
Luca had not visited the house he owned in California for many years. He'd originally bought it twenty-five years ago as a secret hideaway for a Hollywood actress, who, at the time, was his West Coast mistress. She'd lived there until he'd flown in unexpectedly one day and discovered her in bed with a brawny stuntman. First he'd had them both beaten up, then he'd had them thrown out.
After that the house stood empty for a while, until a friend who was going to LA asked if he could use a room there. Luca said yes. Then the friend asked if another acquaintance could take up residence. Luca agreed. And somehow, over the years, it had become a crash pad for friends and acquaintances.
Luca had always intended to do something about the big empty house, but he'd never gotten around to it. And when Zane came out of prison it seemed to be the perfect place to stash him.
When Luca entered the grounds he frightened the shit out of the old Japanese gardener, who leaped to attention. 'Mr Carlotti,' the gardener exclaimed, eyes bugging with surprise. 'You remember me?'
Luca stared at the weathered old man whom he could swear he'd never set eyes on before. 'Yeah, yeah,' he said cordially - always be nice to the little people, you never knew when you might need them. 'It's Juan... or Chico... right?'
'Tikyo, Mr Carlotti,' the gardener said, beaming through his wrinkles, thrilled that the owner of the big house was actually paying a visit.
'Yeah, sure it is. I'm gonna take a look around, Taki, check out you bin doin' a good job.'
The old gardener's head bobbed up and down. 'I do the best for you, Mr Carlotti. Always.'
'Glad to hear it, Toko. How many people we got livin' here now?'
'Only one, Mr Carlotti. There was a young lady staying, but she left a few days ago.'
'Only one, huh?' His voice hardened. 'Where is he?'
The gardener pointed at the house. 'In the back room.'
Luca nodded and entered the house, Reno close behind him.
'You want me to take him out soon as we see the prick?' Reno asked, impatiently cracking his knuckles.
'No, not here,' Luca replied. 'Not in my house. We'll take him for a ride.'
'Will he give us trouble?' Reno asked, always hopeful.
'No chance,' Luca replied confidently. 'Cause
I'm
the one handin' him money.
I'm
the one supporting the fucker.'
Eldessa approached, lugging an ancient vacuum cleaner behind her. She stopped as soon as she saw them.
'Where's the guy that's livin' here?' Luca demanded.
She pointed to Zane's room a few feet away, her face impassive. 'It's locked,' she said. 'He don't allow nobody in there.'
'You got a key?'
'No, sir.'
This is my house,' Luca said. 'You know that, don't you?'
'You bin payin' me twenty-five years.'
He reached into his pocket and slipped her a hundred-dollar bill. 'I was never here today.'
'I din't see nobody,' she said, taking off, dragging the vacuum behind her.
Luca turned to Reno. 'Break down the fuckin' door.'
Reno inspected the door. 'I need tools,' he said, scratching his head. This is a heavy-duty lock.'
'Shit!' Luca said.
'If I have tools I can do it.'
Luca stomped down the hallway, found a side door, and walked outside.
He peered into Zane's room from the garden. There were iron bars on the window precluding entry.
The cocksucker ain't home anyway,' he said, turning around and strolling over to the swimming pool. He studied his reflection in the cracked tile. This is a nice house,' he remarked. 'It occurred to me I gotta renovate it. Put it on the market instead of it sittin' here empty.'
Reno nodded his agreement.
'Let's go,' Luca decided. We'll come back tomorrow. The prick ain't goin' nowhere.'
On their way out he stopped to talk to the gardener, slipping him a hundred bucks as well. 'I wasn't here. Ya didn't see nothin',' he said gruffly.
The old man nodded as he pocketed the money.
Luca got into his limousine. It was nice to have loyal employees.
Mac was reluctant to visit Luca. He hadn't seen him since his mother's funeral three years ago when he'd flown to New York. At that time he'd thought he'd never have to see him again.
He'd always been angry that Luca had never made an honest woman of his mother. The two of them had been together for so many years, and when Luca's wife had passed away ten years ago Mac had quite expected them to marry.
But no, they'd continued to maintain separate residences. Priscilla stayed in her Park Avenue penthouse, while Luca still resided in his Long Island mansion.
Mac had asked her about Luca once.
'Why would I marry him and spoil everything?' she'd said, as if it was the last thing she wanted.