Hollywood Kids (20 page)

'We'll have to get your teeth fixed,' Cheryl said bluntly.

The girl's hand flew to cover her mouth. 'I can't afford it,' she muttered guiltily.

'I'll give you an advance, it'll be deducted from your fees.'

Another fifteen minutes of conversation and Cheryl sent the girl on her way with a dentist's appointment and a rendezvous with Grant that evening.

Grant was her front man, sleeping with the girls on a trial basis and later giving her a full report so she was sure they knew what they were doing. He performed this service for free. Hardly a favour, since sex was the main thrust of his life as he strove to keep up with his father's legendary reputation. On one level it saddened Cheryl that Grant was prepared to do this. But at least it kept them close, and she'd always liked having him around.

The phone rang. It was head of development at one of the major studios. They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments before he announced the real reason for his call. We got a French actor in town, totally crazed. He requires two girls - one Eurasian, one good old American white trash - he's into that Guess-girl look, the one with the big silicone tits and the straw in her hair. His hotel, eight o'clock tonight.' A slight pause. 'Oh, and, honey, have your girls bring the coke. My connection's taking a trip.'

'No problem,' Cheryl replied calmly, although this was the first time she'd been asked to supply drugs, and it didn't give her much of an opportunity to decide whether she wanted to do so or not.

After putting the phone down she called Grant and asked if he could help out. Grant didn't have to think about it, he offered to supply her with whatever she needed. 'My friendly neighbourhood dealer will be happy to oblige,' he said. 'Don't worry about it.'

Things were moving faster than she'd expected.

Too fast, maybe?

No. Never.

Weeks passed and nothing became clear except that he'd been set up. Michael couldn't find a lead of any kind and it was driving him insane. He had a daughter out there somewhere and nobody knew what had happened to her. It was almost like Bella had never existed.

Rita was dead. Murdered. So was Daly Forrest. The lovers shot execution-style, and the kicker was - with his gun. The gun Quincy couldn't find when they'd checked out of the hospital had turned up in Daly's apartment, and Michael immediately became suspect number one. Now he was sure he'd been set up. They'd knocked him out, taken his gun, and used it for the double killing. And he had no idea who 'they' were. The cops had experienced no trouble tracking the gun to him, he'd purchased it as soon as he'd arrived in California, acquired a legal permit to carry - and now this.

The detective on the case had hauled him in for questioning and he wasn't released until it was established he'd been with Quincy since leaving the hospital and therefore couldn't have done it.

Within hours the media jumped on the case. It was a hot one. A good-looking redhead and a rich older man, discovered in bed together in a luxurious apartment. He'd produced porno movies. She'd starred in one. And her ex-husband had discovered the bodies. Juicy stuff. The TV news magazines went to town.

The detective handling the case let out the information about the missing child and the father searching for her. Suddenly Michael was big news, and found himself pursued by the press. To Amber's fury they gathered outside the Robbins' house waiting to pounce.

After forty-eight hours of this inconvenience, Michael moved out and went into hiding in a hotel. The press tracked him down. He moved to another hotel, and hours later they were staking a spot outside still begging for an interview.

'Maybe you
should
do something,' Quincy suggested. 'Somebody out there watching might know where Bella is. Whyn't you talk to Rosa Alvarez on the local news? A friend of mine knows her boyfriend, so let's see if we can set it up an make sure she treats you right.'

Michael nodded. He was getting desperate. 'Go ahead, arrange it.'

After all, he had nothing to lose.

The events of the last few weeks were a horrible blur. After dealing with the police and finally convincing them he'd had nothing to do with the killings, he'd set off on a quest of his own to get to the truth. Nobody seemed to remember Bella, although they all remembered Rita - she'd cut quite a swath.

The first thing he'd done was return to the house in Hancock Park where he'd followed Daly Forrest. The door was answered by an ancient caretaker who'd informed him the house was unoccupied and had been for several years. Michael didn't believe him, but what could he do?

He'd checked out the back garden, peering through the kitchen window. From what he could see, the room looked dusty and unused - maybe the old man
was
telling the truth, and he'd gotten the wrong house. Since being hit on the head he'd been suffering from the occasional blinding headache - Christ, what if he was losing his fucking memory?

His next move had been to go after Heron Jones, only to discover Heron had taken off, leaving no forwarding address.

Quincy and Amber had somehow gotten him through it. We're gonna find your kid,' Quincy assured him daily. 'If she's out there we'll find her.'

In the meantime he continued to pursue every lead, getting exactly nowhere. He talked to business acquaintances and employees of Daly's, he even tracked a scattering of the movie crew who'd worked with Rita on the one movie she'd performed in. And performed was the right word. He'd seen it - a soft porn exploitive piece of crap, with Rita in a small role making all the appropriate moves.

It saddened him that she'd thought appearing in that kind of low-life film was going to get her anywhere.

The police put out a Missing Persons Report on Bella, informing him that's all they could do.

Meanwhile, the investigation of Daly and Rita's murder reached a dead end. There were suspects involved with the porn industry, but nobody they could pin anything on. It was frustrating, but Michael refused to give up.

Rosa Alvarez arrived at his hotel with her crew. She was warm and sympathetic. 'I'm so sorry, Michael, to hear about your little girl,' she said, pressing her hand over his.

'Look,' he informed her. 'I'm uncomfortable doing this, but I need to put out a message in case anybody knows anything. You'll show Bella's picture on camera, right?'

'Just tell me your story,' Rosa said soothingly. 'And I'm sure we'll see results.'

He shrugged. 'It's a short story.'

'Somebody must know something,' Rosa said, taking a quick peek in a hand mirror and fluffing her hair. 'And if they do, this interview could persuade them to come forward.'

'Yeah,' he said, still not fully convinced he was doing the right thing.

'Now, Michael, try to relax,' Rosa said, sitting down in a chair. 'Just pretend it's you and me talking.'

'You make it sound so easy.'

'It will be if we take it nice and slow.'

The sound man began attaching a small microphone to the lapel of his sports jacket. The thought of this interview frightened the shit out of him. Michael Scorsini, who'd faced up to guns, drug dealers and God knew what else, was scared, and yet at the same time hopeful.

When the interview started he was dry-mouthed and found himself mumbling all over the place. But Rosa knew her stuff, she dealt with him gently, drawing him out until he told his story as clearly as he could.

When it was over she seemed pleased. She handed him her card. 'Call me, we're sure to get a big response.'

He pocketed her card. 'Thanks. I appreciate this.'

'I'd like to do a follow-up - maybe in a couple of weeks? Perhaps we'll have good news. What do you think?'

'What do
I
think? I think I'm gonna find my daughter and then we'll see.'

'I've caught you a live one,' Rosa announced triumphantly as she and Kennedy worked out.

Kennedy was on the treadmill, reaching the end of a vigorous thirty-minute stint. 'How many times do I have to tell you,' she said, almost out of breath, 'Nix was positively my last blind date.'

'No, no,' Rosa said, lifting light hand-weights. 'You don't understand.'

'Oh, yes, I understand perfectly.'

This guy is the one,' Rosa said, working on her arms. 'And handsome too. He looks like a movie star. If I wasn't with Ferdy I'd grab him for myself. But since I'm such a generous friend I'm handing him your way.'

Kennedy slowed the treadmill down. 'Thanks, but no thanks.'

'Let me tell you about him,' Rosa said, full of enthusiasm.

'He's an ex-New York detective. In fact, he's
the
ex-detective, the one who's been all over the news. You know, with the missing kid.'

'Great! Now you're bringing me a guy with problems on top of everything else.'

'No, no, this problem will get solved. Only I have no idea what the outcome will be, it doesn't sound good, but who knows?' She paused for a moment before adding, 'There's something about Michael - I know you'll love him.'

Kennedy stepped off the treadmill, grabbed a towel and slung it around her neck. 'I will
not
love him, because I am
not
going to meet him.'

Rosa put down the weights and took a breather. 'Did you see my interview with him? The response was amazing,
we
got over
three hundred
letters from women. Can you believe it? And, what's more, forty-three of them proposed marriage!'

That's good. He can find himself a lovely wife, go off and live happily ever.'

'What's the matter with you lately? Don't you have any heart? I'm offering you this great-looking guy that forty-three women want to marry, and you're turning him down?'

'Rosa, English is your first language, right?'

'Yes.'

Then why don't you understand me? I do
not
wish to be fixed up.'

'You used to be willing to take chances.'

'I still do - in my work.'

'So now you're becoming a nun?'

Kennedy ignored the comment. 'By the way,' she said, 'I've been meaning to ask, do you know anything about the woman who was murdered in West Hollywood a few weeks ago?'

'What woman?'

'Her name was Stephanie Wolff- she was strangled, the same MO as Margarita Lynda.'

'Really?'

Two women, both strangled for no apparent reason, neither of them raped or robbed.'

'Hmm... I'll get the news division to look into it.'

'I wish you would. I've tried calling the police to see if the murders are connected in any way, but I got nowhere.'

Rosa stretched and picked up the weights again. 'What are you writing about these women for anyway? They're not famous.'

Kennedy laughed drily. 'You sound like my editor. If somebody gets murdered do they have to be famous before anybody pays attention?'

'I thought celebrity interviews were your thing. When does your Bobby Rush piece appear?'

'It'll be on the stands this week.'

'Did you hear from him after your interview?'

'No. He tried calling me a couple of times. I never returned the calls.'

'Why?'

'Because I didn't want to explain myself. Better he reads the interview, I think he'll like it.'

'I'm sure he will,' Rosa said, with a sigh. 'And if he does, and he calls again, will you date him?'

'No.'

'No, huh?' Rosa shook her head. 'You're a strange one.'

Amber deposited her children with a girlfriend and spent two days traipsing around until she found Michael an apartment - a perfectly nice furnished one-bedroom on Riverside Drive in the Valley.

'Don't know what I'd do without you,' he told her gratefully as she helped him settle in.

'Somehow I've got a feeling you'd manage,' Amber said, organizing the tiny kitchen. 'You're a survivor. You keep on proving it.'

He caught her in a hug. 'That's 'cause I've got good friends who are always around to support me.'

She looked at him for a moment, her eyes full of sympathy. 'We care about you, Michael. Underneath that tough guy exterior lurks a very special friend.'

Her words touched him, but it wasn't enough to jolt him out of a deep depression.

After she left, he sat in his new apartment on his rented couch and thought about having a drink. A double Scotch. With ice.

Oh, Christ, he could fucking smell it, taste it, feel the strong liquid burning a path down his throat.

Why not? he asked himself.
Why the fuck not
?

Because he had to stay sober to find his daughter. There was no chance if he was out of his head. And that's how alcohol affected him. It turned him into a crazy man. It turned him into his fucking stepfather. Uncontrollable.

I am powerless over alcohol, he thought. Totally powerless.

He'd never forget the night before the day he'd sobered up. What a bad trip that was. Rita and he got involved in one of their usual fights about money and her extravagant spending habits. She'd screamed at him that he was no good - exactly like his real father.

'You don't know my real father,' he'd yelled at her.

'I don't
have
to,' she'd yelled back. 'Sal told me all about him, and you're just as bad. A loser. A nothing. A down-and-out bum!'

He'd stormed out of their apartment and gone to a bar where, after two hours of heavy drinking, he'd allowed himself to get picked up by a tall sexy blonde in a mini-skirt and tight sweater.

Drinking was his curse, when he drank he became a different person - someone he hated - but once he started he couldn't stop.

The blonde was persistent and he wasn't resisting. They'd ended up in a cheap hotel room off Times Square with a bottle of straight tequila and their hands all over each other. She'd given him head and he'd grabbed her tits.

Memories were blurred up until then, but he'd never forget what happened next. Everything had flashed into sharp focus when the sexy blonde had dropped her short skirt and lace panties and shown him her penis and balls.

Goddamn it! He'd realized he was with a fucking transvestite!