Hollywood Kids (16 page)

'Tell me, dear, what have you been up to?' he asked.

'I abandoned the book I was working on. And since I needed money, I'm writing for
Style Wars
- you know, the magazine.'

'Of course I know the magazine,' he said irritably. 'I may be in the hospital but I haven't stopped living.'

'I didn't think it was your kind of literature.'

'
Everything
is my kind of literature,' he said gruffly. 'That's what makes the world go round.'

'You taught me that when I was five.'

'I'm glad you remember,' he said, with the glimmer of a smile.

'Anyway,' she continued, 'I have to write six celebrity profiles, and at the same time I get to write six other pieces on any subject I care to cover.'

'Sounds challenging.'

'That's what attracted me to the assignment. I was considering writing an expose on the way men treat women in the film industry. What do you think?'

'If you can make it fresh.'

'Trust me, Dad, I can make it fresh.'

He squeezed her hand tightly. 'I'm sure you can, my dear. You can do whatever you set your mind to.'

It was a good feeling knowing her parents had always believed in her. They'd taught her well, infusing her with ambition, spirit and energy. The result of their nurturing was that she'd grown up full of confidence. They couldn't have given her a greater gift.

'So, what else has been going on?' she asked lightly. 'Nurse Linford still chasing you around the room?'

'Nurse Linford is taking a self-defence course,' he said, with a chuckle.

'To protect herself against you?'

His gaunt face turned serious. 'There was a murder in the neighbourhood not too long ago.'

'What happened?'

'A woman was strangled outside her house.'

'I was under the impression this was a fairly crime-free area.'

'It usually is, that's why everybody's alarmed. All the nurses are taking a self-defence course.'

'I can't imagine anyone trying to attack Nurse Linford, she'd crush them like a bug!'

He laughed drily. 'Yes, she certainly would.' He paused for a moment before adding, 'That's what you should write about.'

What? Nurse Linford and her amazing strength?'

'No, dear. Write about the woman who was murdered.'

'She's not news. The magazine wouldn't be interested.'

Her father stopped short and gave her a withering look. 'I'll pretend you never said that. Not news indeed! The woman was strangled outside her own home. What more has to happen to her before she becomes newsworthy?'

'You're right,' she said quickly, suitably chastised.

'I'm glad you think so.'

She hung on to her father's bony hand. 'It's so good to see you, Dad, it always is.'

'Make the most of it, Kennedy, dear. When these old legs stop supporting me I don't plan on staying around.'

Sunday morning Bobby rolled out of bed, forcing himself to get dressed and go jogging. He'd only had a few hours sleep, hanging out at Homebase Central until three in the morning. Several beautiful girls had tried to persuade him that they were the perfect companion to take home for a night of passion. He'd resisted all advances.

Gary had tried to encourage him. 'Go for it,' he'd urged. 'When it comes to pussy -
never
turn it down.'

'I'm not interested in one-nighters,' he'd said, and meant it. He considered himself past the
let's-get-laid-just-because-I-can
stage. There had to be more to life than sex with a stranger. He was looking for a meaningful relationship with a female who was not an actress. Most actresses were a nightmare - insecure, narcissistic, demanding, fragile. His last two semi-serious flings had been with actresses. Never again.

Jogging along the UCLA track he worked up a heavy sweat. Then he went home, dived into his swimming-pool, swam fifty lengths, got out, squeezed a glass of fresh orange juice, grabbed the
L.A. Times
and lay out by the pool on a comfortable
chaise
.

It occurred to him that maybe he'd call the woman who'd come for the interview. What was her name? Ah yes, Kennedy something or other. Kennedy Chase, that was it.

He thought about her for a moment - cool, attractive and very together.

It then occurred to him he didn't have her number, so he phoned his secretary at home.

'Beth, did you pre- interview Kennedy Chase?' he asked.

There was a long pause. 'Uh...
no
,' she said, sounding puzzled. 'Should I have?'

'Sure you should. She's an attractive woman, but not suitable for the job at all. By the way, what's her phone number?'

'I don't have it.'

'Why not?'

'Bobby, Elspeth handles press, she
is
your publicist.'

What's Elspeth got to do with this?'

'Kennedy Chase,' Beth replied patiently. 'Your interview with her is now scheduled for ten o'clock on Monday.'

'Beth, help me out here, I'm confused. I interviewed her on Friday.'

'
You
interviewed
her
?'

'That's what you set up, isn't it?'

'No.'

He was getting impatient. 'If
you
didn't set it up, who did?'

'There's obviously some confusion here, Bobby. Kennedy Chase is the journalist from
Style Wars
. She's doing the story on you to go with the cover photograph.'

'According to your latest schedule she's due to interview you Monday at ten a.m. And Elspeth has promised her she can hang in the background for the rest of the day observing. I thought you agreed to this.'

'I suppose I must have,' he muttered, knowing he'd been taken.

'Do you still want me to get you her number? I can call Elspeth, I'm sure she'll have it.'

'Don't bother,' he said, hanging up.

Of course, it all made sense now, a case of mistaken identity, and Kennedy, good little journalist that she obviously was, had taken full advantage of the situation.

He couldn't wait until tomorrow morning. He would show Ms Chase a thing or two. Oh yeah,
really
.

Kennedy drove home thinking about murder and ageing and disease and pain. All the good things. By the time she reached her apartment she was ready to call Rosa and yell
Yes! Yes! I'm coming out with you. I don't care who he is! Bring him to me - naked and horny
!

Wisdom prevailed and she didn't. Instead she heated a can of vegetable soup, sipped it slowly, took a leisurely bath, and got into bed with the latest Elmore Leonard novel - his wonderfully vivid crime books were her weakness. Thoroughly relaxed she fell asleep dreaming of Florida con men and colourful losers.

In the morning she felt better. She had no intention of keeping her appointment to interview Bobby Rush, she'd already finished the piece and sent it to Mason. She also had no intention of informing his rude publicist - let the woman find out the hard way.

At around ten thirty her phone started ringing. She allowed the machine to pick up and listened in.

One desperate publicist.

Good.

The woman called four times between ten thirty and noon. Finally she gave up.

Kennedy decided to go to the beach. After all, this was California and it was a gorgeous clear day.

She left her apartment feeling in a great mood. Putting the top down on her Corvette, she drove down the twisting curves of Sunset to the ocean.

When she got back around four there were several messages on her machine. Rosa, of course; Bobby Rush - that was a surprise; Mason, who said he had to talk to her about the piece; and finally a sad-sounding Nurse Linford. 'Kennedy, dear... I don't know how to say this... your father... he died late this afternoon. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.'

Kennedy gazed blankly at her answering machine and somehow or other fell back into a chair.

Her eyes filled with tears, slowly they trickled down her cheeks.

Now she was completely and utterly alone.

'You
fucked
Charlie Dollar?' Cheryl exclaimed incredulously, as she and Jordanna strolled through Fred Segal checking out the new Gaultier and Montana lines.

'It's not so difficult,' Jordanna said huffily. 'After all, he
is
a man.'

'He's also on Donna's list of clients,' Cheryl said, relishing the fact she had inside information. 'He orders up a little professional action once in a while.'

Jordanna couldn't help feeling disappointed. 'He does?'

'Two girls. Always blondes. Mister Movie Star is into watching.'

Jordanna hated the fact that Cheryl now considered herself an expert on everybody's sex life. She wished she hadn't confided about her one-nighter with Charlie.

'So... what's he like in bed?' Cheryl asked curiously, grabbing a black leather bustier off the rail and holding it up against herself.

'Why don't you check it out with one of your blondes?' Jordanna replied tardy.

'Hmm... jealous?' Cheryl teased, posing in front of the mirror.

Jordanna narrowed her eyes. 'It doesn't suit you.'

'And being jealous doesn't suit
you
,' Cheryl retorted, throwing the bustier down.

'I am
not
jealous,' Jordanna said, furious that Cheryl thought she was. 'Charlie can sleep with who he likes. I have absolutely
no
plans to see him again.'

A sly smile slid across Cheryl's face. 'Hasn't called or lousy fuck?'

'Neither,' Jordanna said, closing the subject as they moved over to the shoe section. She picked up a Chanel black suede boot and pretended to study it while she thought about Charlie. How
did
she feel? She certainly hadn't fallen for him if that's the impression Cheryl was under. But a man who liked watching women get it on together... ugh...
major
turn-off. And she'd slept with him, just like that.

God, he probably considered her just another dumb star fuck. How humiliating.

A week had passed and he hadn't called. Not that she wanted him to. Not that she'd given him her number.

Screw Charlie Dollar - the last thing she needed was a movie star in her life.

'Have you heard from your father?' Cheryl asked, picking up a Walter Steiger pump.

'No.'

'Is he still paying your allowance?'

'The bank hasn't called. I'm sure they'd be throwing a shit fit if I was bouncing cheques.'

Well... if you need a top-paying job... you know who to come to.'

Jordanna stifled a giggle as she thought about it. Jordanna Levitt. High-class hooker. Daddy couldn't be
too
mad, after all, he'd married one.

Shep was in a pissy mood when she got back to his house. When are you moving out?' he asked, lips pursed, a frown on his handsome face.

'Why? Am I bothering you?' she retorted defensively. 'Cause if I am I'll pack up and go.'

'You assured me it would only be a few days,' he reminded her.

'I told you, I'll move out now.'

'You're so
messy
,' Shep complained, gesturing at magazines littered on the floor, shoes and clothes scattered all around, and dirty ashtrays sitting on every surface.

'I'm sorry,' she said tartly. 'I didn't realize I was living with Mister House-proud.'

Shep bent to pick up a magazine. 'My maid only comes in twice a week,' he said accusingly, 'and instead of pressing my shirts and doing things for me, she's busy clearing up after you.'

She'd heard enough of his complaining. 'OK, OK, I get it, I'm out of here,' she said, wishing he'd shut up and leave her alone.

'You can go back to your own place,' he suggested helpfully, reaching for another magazine thrown carelessly on the floor. 'I'm sure Jordan will be glad to have you there again.'

She hated it when anyone told her what she should do, especially Shep, who was so busy lurking in the closet he had no right to give advice. Without replying she marched into the small guest room, grabbed a suitcase and began stuffing it with her clothes.

Shep appeared in the doorway and stood there watching her. 'You don't have to leave tonight,' he said, managing to sound hurt.

Oh, yes,
fine
. He'd told her to get out and now he was trying to play the concerned friend. Well, it was too late.

'Thank you, but I'd prefer to,' she said frostily.

Shep was not into rejection. 'Jordy, don't be mad at me,' he said, trying to bring her around.

'I'm not,' she said, continuing to throw things into her suitcase. 'As a matter of fact I was just about to tell you.'

'Tell me what?' he asked anxiously.

'Yeah, tell him what
? She thought fast and came up with a good one.

'Charlie Dollar asked me to move in with him,' she lied.

Shep's surprise was evident. 'Charlie Dollar?'

'You got it.'

So now she sat in her car with nowhere to spend the night. She refused to go home - no way would she give her father the satisfaction of seeing her return to the guest house. Quickly she checked off the alternatives. Staying with Cheryl was questionable now she was in the hooker business. Marjory had just moved back in with her father on account of the threatening letters she'd been receiving. And Grant probably had hot and cold girls running all night long. Of course, she could always check into a hotel, but that seemed such a lonely thing to do.

On impulse she drove her car in the direction of Charlie Dollar's house.

It was seven o'clock and Mac Brooks knew it was time to go home because Sharleen had informed him early in the morning there was an important charity event they were supposed to attend that evening.

The truth was he didn't feel like leaving the production office. He was perfectly happy sitting around with Bobby, Gary and Tyrone, discussing script changes, casting, locations and all the planning that went into the months of pre-production on a movie - in this case only six weeks because they were on an accelerated schedule.

Casting was of paramount importance. Mac liked every role to be perfect - from the star to the extras, he needed the actor playing the role to be exactly right. It was reassuring to find out that Bobby felt the same way. He was also adamant about hiring his regular crew - people he'd used on most of his movies. His cinematographer was available, and his first assistant. Plus the production designer he favoured and his location manager. Soon all the other people would be in place, everyone from props to wardrobe.