Sinners (36 page)

Herbert was a convincing liar.

He collected the car and drove to the beach. There, at a deserted spot, he changed the licence plates and worked on the interior speakers for a while. Then he fixed the glass panel which separated the front seat from the back in such a way that it could only be opened from the driver’s position. He also altered the interior mechanism so that all doors would lock automatically. Anyone getting into the back seat would be a prisoner, unable to get out until he released them.

Satisfied with his work, he drove to Sunday’s house and waited.

Soon she would come out, and he could go in and get what he wanted.

And then the final steps.

Two huge revolving searchlights lit up the sky around the Cinerama Dome on Sunset where
The Twelve Guns
was being premièred.

Police held back the hordes of oohing and aahing fans who spilled across the sidewalk, craning for a glimpse of their favourite stars.

A television unit was set up in the foyer with Jack Julip of the Jack Julip show doing quickie interviews with anyone who mattered.

Anxious cameramen milled around, flashes at the ready to catch the overflowing cleavage and long ripe legs being paraded before them.

Stu Waterman, head publicity man for Now Productions, disappeared into the men’s room for the fifth time in twenty minutes to gulp another slug of whiskey from his very useful gold-plated present-to-himself hip-flask.

Things were not working out as planned. Carol Shipman, who had worked ass-naked for ten days on
The Twelve Guns
, had refused to arrive at the première in the buff on a horse – refused because she didn’t think it dignified. Dignified indeed, coming from some little English hooker who showed her pussy to anyone who asked!

Stu was incensed. As an alternative, he had had to settle for Cindy Lawrence, a starlet with forty-two-inch boobs who had never appeared in anything.

Cindy wore a long flowing wig that covered nothing, and a lot of poster paint saying
The Twelve Guns.
Stu helped get her on the horse at the back of the cinema, and she set off round to the front with her escort of five cowboys.

Stu dashed through the cinema, lining up the television cameras and lensmen.

He was just in time to see Cindy arrive. The horse, nervous from the screams of the crowds, immediately bolted, and Cindy fell off, breaking an arm and exposing a lot more than even
she
was supposed to.

Somehow, a blonde with a forty-two-inch bust, sprawled naked in an ungainly position on the sidewalk, did not have the impact that was originally intended.

Carol Shipman arrived in what appeared to be a nun’s habit, wearing no make-up and her hair scraped back. Stu had to nudge his own photographer to take her picture. Jack Julip was not even interested.

‘I thought I told you to look sexy?’ Stu hissed.

She stared at him, not even bothering to reply.

He bit his lip angrily. Where were all the new stars? These little fuckers couldn’t even bother to run a comb through their hair.

Angela Carter arrived, all red hair and white furs. The crowd pressed forward, the flashes started, Jack Julip grabbed her anxiously.

Stu sighed with relief and darted off to the back to see what was happening. His assistant – Mike – was helping a round-assed brunette up on to one of the horses.

‘Who’s that?’ Stu hissed.

‘I don’t know,’ Mike replied. ‘She’s with Brad Lamb and
he
won’t get on a horse.’

‘Well, get her off. The whole point of this gimmick is to have the
stars
arrive on the horses. I didn’t set this up for a load of unknown cooze.’

Mike helped the girl off. She glared at Stu as he took another swig from his flask, and dashed back to the front.

Just then a white Bentley drew up and the chauffeur opened the door to let out Dindi Synde and her escort.

‘Hello, Dindi, sweetheart.’ Stu wrapped his arm around her. She was wearing little more than a pair of black leather shorts, a gold-studded bra and thigh-length boots. ‘I’ve got a little stunt planned that you’d be just right for.’

‘Name it, baby.’ She giggled. ‘You know I’ll do anything.’

*    *    *

‘You were right,’ Charlie said irritably to Thames, ‘I should have had a Rolls and chauffeur tonight.’

They had been stuck for ten minutes in a line of traffic approaching the cinema.

Thames was studying her face in a giant-sized compact. ‘We’d still be stuck here, chauffeur or not,’ she remarked.

‘We could get out and walk,’ he suggested.

‘With that crowd? Are you kidding? They’d mob me!’

She laughed briskly, shutting her compact, delighted with her appearance.

An official approached them, checking the pasted number on the windscreen of their car.

‘Mr Brick?’ he asked.

Charlie nodded.

‘Mr Brick, sir. Please turn off at the next side turning. We have arranged a quicker way for you to reach the cinema.’

‘But I’ve got a driver meeting me at the front.’

‘It’s all been arranged, sir.’

Charlie shrugged. Anything was better than being stuck in traffic, which was one of his pet hates. He did as the man asked, and was shortly stopped by another official.

‘Lookee at all those horses,’ said Thames. ‘I guess it’s some kind of stunt.’

Mike hurried over, extending a nervously sweating hand. ‘I’m Stu Waterman’s assistant,’ he said. ‘Stu thought it would be nice for you and the lady’ – he peered at Thames – ‘to arrive on horses, or both on one horse if you like.’

‘One horse would be fun,’ Thames cooed.

Charlies laughed out loud. ‘Not me, mate, the only time I ever got on a horse I was being paid, and I ended up flat on my backside.’

‘I don’t think there’s any fee,’ Mike said earnestly. He wished Stu would return. It wasn’t fair sticking him round the back with the horses, which nobody seemed to want to ride.

‘Oh, Charlie,’ Thames cooed, ‘it would be fun. Please let’s do it.’

‘Forget it,’ he replied tersely.

‘You would have an escort of five cowboys,’ Mike said. ‘It will be very effective. Everyone’s doing it.’

‘Yes, well I’m not,’ Charlie said. ‘But I’m not stopping you,’ he added to Thames.

‘I can’t do it alone,’ she said sulkily. She didn’t want to miss the opportunity of arriving with Charlie.

*    *    *

Branch said, ‘What a
wild idea!’

The thought of drawing up to the cinema on a horse, with Sunday up there with him and an escort of five cowboys, appealed to him immensely.

Sunday was not so impressed. ‘You go right ahead, Branch. I’ll meet you in the lobby.’

‘Hey, honey, what do you mean? You’re with me. I’ll hold you tight, won’t let you go.’

‘It’s not that I’m frightened of falling off. I just – er – don’t want to do it.’

Stu Waterman had been listening patiently. He took Sunday persuasively by the arm. ‘Sweetheart, think of the publicity, think of the TV cameras, think of—’

She shook her arm free. ‘I think it’s a stupid stunt.’

Branch coughed in an embarrassed fashion. ‘Hey, Stu, maybe I should do it alone, and Sunday can kinda come out and meet me.’

‘I’m not doing that either,’ she said quickly. She was sick and tired of being pushed into things.

‘Now listen, baby,’ Stu Waterman said, ‘you made it on publicity and you’re only just there, every little bit helps.’

‘I’m sure it does help
you
, Mr. Waterman.’ She climbed back into the limo and said to Branch, ‘I’ll meet you inside.’

Torn between a desire to be seen arriving with Sunday or drawing up on a fine white stallion, Branch shuffled uneasily.

Stu solved the problem. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said, ‘you’ll make all the papers tomorrow – the Warren Beatty of the range!’

*    *    *

Herbert, having attended to his business at the beach, parked the limousine several blocks away from the Cinerama Dome, locked it, and headed on foot to join the crush of people milling about outside. He shoved his way through to the front, oblivious to all the insults hurled at him as he squeezed and groped his way forward.

In the front line he squashed between two elderly queens and a group of teeny boppers.

The queens were shaking their heads sadly and saying, ‘Who is there to compare with Joan Crawford today?’

The teeny boppers were screaming, ‘There’s Randy! It’s
him!
Doesn’t he look fan-
tas
-tic!!’

Herbert slid his hand onto the backside of one of the jumping girls. She didn’t seem to notice. She was wearing very tight rolled-up blue jeans and a skinny-knit sweater that ended around her ribs.

Herbert contemplated the fact that it was disgusting the way mothers let their daughters parade themselves. He squeezed her bottom ever so slightly, and she stopped jumping and looked around. She nudged a girlfriend, whispered something, and they both giggled.

Herbert stared ahead, noting with hardly a flutter the arrival of Angela Carter, who had once been the recipient of his letters, but who had never had the good fortune to meet him. That was to be Sunday Simmons’s privilege – and tonight.

*    *    *

Charlie saw Sunday arrive while he was talking to Jack Julip.

She walked in alone, slightly hesitant. The cameramen leapt forward. Jack was already ending the interview with Charlie, and nodding at an assistant to bring Sunday over next. He shook hands with Charlie, a clammy insincere shake.

Thames, who had been silently pushed to the sidelines, muttered, ‘That guy’s a bum, his show stinks and so does he.’

Out of the corner of his eye Charlie observed Sunday refusing to be interviewed. The look of amazement and shock that spread over Jack Julip’s face was classic.

In his confusion Jack grabbed Thames, announcing, ‘And this lovely young lady, accompanying Charlie Brick, is none other than rising star . . .’ He left her to name herself.

‘Thames Mason.’ She preened and waved to the crowd. ‘You’re a doll, Jack, I
looove
your show!’ She then proceeded to bore everyone with details of how she took off her clothes in her latest movie, all in the cause of art.

Charlie went over to Sunday. ‘You owe me an explanation; not to mention,’ he added jokingly, ‘the money for the outfit I got you – hundreds of dollars worth of—’

‘Did you arrive on a horse?’ she asked.

‘No.’

They both laughed.

‘In that case I’ll pay you.’

‘Who are you with?’ he asked.

‘Branch Strong.
He’s
arriving on a horse any second.’

‘If I had known, we could have done a swop. Thames was longing to get in the saddle.’

She smiled. ‘I’m sorry about running off. I should explain; you were very kind and understanding.’

‘How about later? Thames has a nude scene she can’t wait to rehearse and I’m not in the mood.’

He was sorry as soon as he said it. She froze up immediately, giving him a cold little smile and saying, ‘Sorry, but I’m busy. If you can tell me how much I owe you, I’ll see you get a cheque tomorrow.’

‘I don’t want the money, I was joking.’

‘But I owe it to you, I insist.’

An intrepid photographer was taking shots of them together, and as soon as her interview was over Thames came striding to join them.

‘I guess we should wander on in,’ she said, gripping Charlie’s hand possessively and glaring at Sunday.

‘Plenty of time, love. Do you two know each other?’

*    *    *

Satisfied, Herbert watched Sunday Simmons arrive. She was safely in the cinema now, and everything was progressing smoothly. He checked his watch, and slowly started to ease out of the crowd.

Inside the theatre, people jostled for their seats. There was much neck-craning as positions were checked out. It was important to be sitting in the right place, not shoved to the side or the back or in the cheaper seats.

Charlie had good seats and Thames was delighted. Most premières she attended were with two-bit actors. She was usually given the tickets, which were invariably bad. The film companies wanted her at their premières for the publicity she might get posing in the foyer, but they were not prepared to give her good seats.

‘Isn’t Jack Julip just great?’ She enthused, licking her lips and smiling at a wandering photographer who had managed to get inside.

Sunday and Branch sat a few rows back in aisle seats.

Branch was nervous and sick to his stomach. Two rows in front of him sat Maxwell Thorpe in his new violet dinner-jacket, and next to him was Oliver Ritz. In appearance, Oliver was frail and intense, darkly handsome, like Branch, he had a small part in
The Twelve Guns
, but everyone knew he was a raving fag. Until that very week he had been openly living with a very famous male star.

Branch swallowed a lump in his throat. He liked Sunday very much, but not enough to wreck his whole future. If he had known that Maxwell would plan this revenge, there would have been no question who he would take to the première. Goddamn it, he
liked
living in a big Hollywood mansion. He
liked
being able to have a choice of an Excalibur or a Lincoln to drive. He
liked
walking into Cy Devore and ordering whatever he wanted.

Would it all still be available after tonight? Or was this Maxwell Thorpe’s way of telling him he was out?

Sunday shut her eyes and wished the film would begin. She hated all the phoney ballyhoo, the gushing hellos from people who wouldn’t even talk to her when her career crumbled flat, as well it might if Claude Hussan had his way.

She had already decided that she would not go with Branch to the party afterwards. She would plead a splitting headache, and she didn’t really care if he believed her or not. She was through being nice to people at cost to herself.

Branch meanwhile was wondering if he could redeem the situation with Max by getting rid of Sunday and taking Max to the party instead. He could make some excuse to Sunday and send her home with the chauffeur.

He had almost decided to edge his way over to Max and invite him, when the lights faded and the movie began.