Hollywood Kids (6 page)

As host of the hottest club in town most women were ready to rock 'n' roll any way he wanted, he got off on the fact that Jordanna wasn't all over him. 'Charlie's throwing a party at his house after we close tonight. Wanna go?'

With you?'

'Yes, with me.'

'No offence, Arnie, but I've told you before - I'm not interested in dating you.'

This wouldn't be a date.'

'Oh yeah? What would it be?'

He scowled. 'What's your problem, Levitt?'

She stared him straight in the eyes. 'I don't want to fuck you, Arnie. It's
your
problem, not
mine
.'

'You're a real bitch, Levitt.'

'No. Merely honest. Makes a refreshing change, doesn't it?'

He kept his leer firmly in place. 'Lighten up. Who knows? You and I could be this generation's Natalie and R.J.'

'You're full of shit,' she said offhandedly.

That's what I like about you, Levitt, your gentle reserve.'

'Gee, thanks. It's nice to know I'm appreciated.'

'Give it a rest, you two,' Cheryl said, yawning. 'You're beginning to sound like you're married.'

Jordanna leaped to her feet. 'That's it. I'm out of here,' she said restlessly.

Where are you going?' Arnie asked, disappointed.

To check out the competition.'

'We have no competition,' he boasted.

'I'll let you know,' she said crisply.

On her way to the door she caught a wink from a stoned Charlie Dollar. He was old enough to be her father but still quite sexy. Idly she wondered what he was like in bed - reports varied.

Out in the parking lot her Porsche was parked right up front. She was a good tipper - learned that from Daddy. 'So you give out an extra thousand bucks a year, it's worth it.' Words of wisdom from the great Jordan Levitt. And he
was
great, when he wanted to be. When he had time. When whoever the current wife was wasn't messing with his brain. Strike that. Make it cock. Fact of life. Jordan Levitt was ruled by the great erection.

Growing up in Hollywood. Watching Daddy get laid. What an education!

Jordanna had many fine memories, one of the most vivid being the time she'd discovered her father in the family swimming pool - which happened to be drained at the time - servicing a voluptuous movie star, while their respective spouses circulated at a lavish party taking place inside the house. Jordanna had viewed the entire spectacle from her bedroom window. She'd never told anyone - except Jamie - that it was she who'd switched the floodlights on the pool, illuminating her father's bare ass and the movie star's huge quivering breasts. Wife number three had departed shortly after. Jordanna was satisfied. Mission accomplished.

She hit the road in her Porsche and dropped by a couple of supposedly happening clubs. Unfortunately, Arnie was right - Homebase Central was the only place to hang, there was no action elsewhere.

By 2 a.m. she was home. Alone. Another scintillating night in the City of Angels.

One of these days she'd meet someone who could take away the dull throb of loneliness that stayed with her day and night. Someone who would understand and love her. One of these days.

Maybe...

Five days on Quincy and Amber's couch was five days too many. Michael had an aching back and a permanent headache because the baby never stopped crying and the toddler kept up a particularly aggravating whine from early morning on.

'How do you put up with this?' he said to Quincy as they drove slowly through the residential streets of Beverly Hills - Quincy was giving him the grand tour.

'It's called marriage, doncha remember?' Quincy said, chuckling.

Yeah, he remembered all right. Rita complaining every time Bella woke her in the middle of the night. The smell of dirty diapers. Toys and baby clothes all over the floor. A fridge full of formula. Ah, memories...

'I gotta get my ass outta your back yard,' he muttered, thinking to himself the sooner the better. He'd already looked at several apartments. Unfortunately the ones he liked were too expensive, and the rest were crap.

'Why?' Quincy asked. 'Amber loves you, an' I kinda get off on havin' you around. It's like old times, only we're not out bustin' our cans chasin' low-life scumbags.'

'True,' he said, staring through the window at huge wrought-iron gates, sweeping lawns, exotic plants and manicured palm trees. 'Hey, Q, this place is unreal. People really live like this?'

Quincy laughed. He was a big man, verging on being over-weight, with soft brown eyes, bushy hair, and extra-large hands and feet. He had a habit of waving his hands in the air whenever he got excited. 'You've seen it in the movies, now get used to the real thing,' he said, gesturing expansively. 'These dudes got plenty of money an' don't mind spendin' it.'

Who? Movie stars?'

'Naw... some of 'em, maybe. But it's all those producers an' Hollywood execs who cream a bundle off every movie they're involved with. Those guys make sure they're swimmin' in big bucks. They call it creative accounting.'

'What are you - a Hollywood expert?' Michael asked, laughing and scratching his chin.

Quincy nodded knowingly. 'I'm doin' some work for a couple of those hotshot studio execs.'

'Yeah? Anything interesting?'

'Not compared to our New York days. Hey, at least I ain't puttin' my life on the line tryin' to nail some friggin' deadbeat with a bad crack habit an' a shaky trigger finger. Out here it's cream-puff time, an' I get paid primo. I'm telling you, Mike, come in with me, we'd clean up mucho bucks.'

Unconvinced, Michael said, 'Doesn't it get kinda boring? Y'know, the sun shining all the time, people telling you to have a nice day, everyone smiling - '

'You're forgetting about the riots,' Quincy interrupted. 'An' the car-jackings, earthquakes, mud slides, fires, drive-by shootings an' floods. If's not all Sunset Boulevard and big mansions.'

Reaching for a cigarette, Michael lit up and said, This is nice, Q, but after a while, I'd miss the streets, y'know what I mean?'

'If you stay here you'll be near your kid.'

'I called yesterday,' he said, taking a deep drag. 'Same old thing, all I get is that frigging answering machine.'

'So drop by, surprise 'em. You must be achin' to see little Bella.'

'I am, but I gotta be sure Rita knows I'm here to stay. I need my own place, that way I can take my kid for weekends, get to know her again.'

'Whyn't you bring her over to us? Amber would love it, she's turned into a regular earth mother.'

'I'm tempted.'

Tell you what,' Quincy said, making a quick decision. 'If you promise not to tell Amber on account of the fact that she's startin' to call me fat boy, I'll buy us a pizza, then we'll drop by an' surprise Rita. How's that?'

'You know something,' Michael said, nodding slowly, 'that's not such a bad idea.'

'Bobby Rush,' Mason said, his voice crackling over the phone from New York.

'Don't you mean
Jerry
Rush?' Kennedy replied, cradling the receiver under her chin as she reached for a notepad and pen.

'Jerry's cold. Bobby's hot.'

She hated asking, but she honestly didn't know.' Who
is
Bobby Rush?'

Mason grunted disapprovingly. 'Sometimes you surprise me.'

'I've never heard of him.'

'For Christ's sake, K.C., keep up with what's happening or I'm likely to think I've made a serious mistake hiring you.'

She drew a stick figure on the notepad and added little pointed horns. 'Movie stars are not my priority, Mason. I presume that's what he is.'

'He's Jerry's son done good. Starred in and produced
Hard Tears
., it just passed the hundred-million-dollar mark. He takes his clothes off on screen - that should appeal to you - a touch of the double standard reversed. I suggest you see the movie. In the meantime we'll Fed Ex you some of his clippings and a bio.'

'How exciting,' she said drily.

'I want a very provocative piece. This'll be the cover story. Make him out to be a male Sharon Stone.'

Why - does he flash his pussy?'

'Don't be crude.'

'I was hoping for Clint Eastwood, Charlie Dollar or Jack Nicholson.'

'You like 'em old, huh?'

'I like 'em to have a brain.'

'He does.'

'What are you - his PR?'

'Goodbye,' Mason said, hanging up.

She called Rosa at the network. Who's Bobby Rush?'

'Nice ass,' Rosa said. 'Why?'

'I've never heard of him,' she repeated.

'I wouldn't advertise. He's famous.'

'I guess I'd better start watching
E.T
. and reading
People
.'

'How about going to the movies occasionally?'

'So shoot me. I prefer watching PBS.'

'Bobby Rush is
very
sexy. Rumour has it he fucks like a rabbit and doesn't come for an hour and a half.'

'Sounds like your kind of man, Rosa.'

'I'm perfectly happy with my basketball player, thank you. He might be young, but he has stamina and... uh... other attributes I'm too much of a lady to mention.'

'Sure!'

Rosa giggled. 'OK, OK, he's hung like a bull and I think I'm in love.'

'Again?'

They both laughed. Rosa's love life was legendary, she used men for sex the way men usually used women, and she always got away with it because she never let them into the secret.

'Why are you questioning me about Bobby Rush?' Rosa asked curiously.

Kennedy sighed. 'Because Mason - in his wisdom - requires me to write a cover story on this person I've never heard of.'

'Check out the movie pronto and get back to me. I got a feeling you'll like what you see.'

'I'll let you know.'

An hour later she was sitting in a darkened theatre watching Bobby Rush emote. He was certainly movie-star material with his regular features, dirty blond hair and incredible blue eyes. The body was good, too - and he flashed regularly - kind of like a Richard Gere for the nineties. At one point in the movie there was a brief full frontal shot - fast but worthwhile.

Male bimbo? she jotted down with a question mark. Beautiful but dumb? If he was, she could rip him to shreds without any trouble at all.

Now why would I want to do that? she asked herself.

Because I have no intention of writing the usual love-struck female journalist puff piece.

She called Mason. 'Send me everything you've got on him
and
the father.'

'This is not supposed to be a father/son piece,' Mason warned. 'His press people were adamant about that.' A pause. 'But do what you want - make it provocative.'

'I intend to.'

The Sunset View Hollywood apartments did not live up to their glamorous name. There was no sunset because they faced the wrong way, and absolutely no view. The small cluster of run-down apartments were located in a seedy side-street off Hollywood Boulevard.

'Shit!' Michael muttered, as Quincy parked his car outside. 'Rita told me she and Bella were living in a decent place. This is a crap hole.'

'Maybe it's better on the inside,' Quincy said, always the optimist.

'Maybe not,' Michael said grimly, eyeing a couple of derelicts huddled in a doorway surrounded by overflowing shopping carts.

'Let's go take a look,' Quincy suggested.

They got out of the car, dodging a drunken bum who staggered by singing to himself.

'No kid of mine is living here,' Michael said, running up the front steps. 'This isn't what I'm paying alimony for.'

'Calm down,' Quincy said, right behind him. 'You haven't seen Rita in a while, don't start with the screamin', see what she has to say first.'

'I don't give a shit what she has to say,' Michael said angrily, and he meant it. Quincy could try and calm him all he wanted, but no way was his daughter staying in a dump like this.

He pressed the buzzer marked Rita Polone. Trust his lovely ex to use her maiden name, Scorsini wasn't good enough for her, Rita wanted better. She'd come to Hollywood to find it and look where she'd ended up.

There was no reply to his persistent buzzing, so he leaned on the bell next to hers.

After a few moments a head poked out of an upstairs window and an elderly fat woman wearing too much make-up and a pink bow in her hair croaked an unfriendly, 'If ya sellin' I ain't buyin'. If ya buyin' I bin outta the business five years, an' why that dumb ass freebie piece a shit magazine keeps runnin' my address ain't my concern.'

Michael took a couple of steps away from the building and looked up. 'I'm trying to contact Rita Polone,' he shouted.

'Who?' the woman yelled back, cupping her ear.

'Rita Polone. She lives in the apartment below you with her little girl.'

'Oh,
her
?' the woman snorted. 'That redheaded slut. Don't know where she is, an' don't care.' With that she disappeared, slamming her window shut.

'Nice neighbours,' Quincy remarked cheerfully.

'Christ!' Michael said, getting more frustrated by the minute.

Quincy tried to calm him down. 'Maybe we should come back when she's home,' he suggested.

'Maybe we shouldn't,' Michael retorted sharply. 'Get the door open - I wanna take a look around.'

Quincy pulled a face. 'That's breakin' an' enterin', Mike. You know Rita's temper. I don't wanna be here when it hits.'

Michael threw him a dirty look. 'What happened to you in California, Q? You gone soft?'

'Hey, hey,' Quincy replied, gesturing wildly. 'Gotta keep within the confines of the law or I could get my licence revoked.'

'Fuck the law and fuck your licence. I want in.'

'Shit!' Quincy groaned. 'I almost forgot what a trip it was workin' with you.'

'Let's go,' Michael said impatiently, clicking his ringers.

'Shit!' Quincy repeated, before using his skills and a Sears credit card to skewer open Rita's front door.

The first thing that hit them was the smell - a combination of stale air, mouldy food and damp. 'Jesus!' Michael said grimly, pushing his way in. 'What's that stink?'

Piled on the floor behind the door was a stack of unopened brochures, letters and flyers - mostly junk mail, but as Michael bent to sift through it he was startled to find his last two months' alimony cheques, still in their envelopes.