Hollywood Kids (21 page)

He'd beaten the crap out of 'it', and her/his screaming could be heard for blocks. He'd pulled his gun and wanted to blow the pervert's brains out. Fortunately the cops had gotten there in time before he killed the motherfucker. And he would have. Oh yeah, no doubt about it.

The next day Quincy had gotten him into Rehab for a gruelling four weeks. After that he'd started attending AA meetings.

He'd never looked back. His past was too scary.

He realized now that he needed to work the programme again, start attending meetings before it was too late.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot
change. The courage to change
 the things I can. And the
wisdom to know the difference.

He remembered the AA Serenity Prayer and immediately felt calmer.

The truth was he was in a slump because he honestly didn't know what to do next. He was a detective for chrissakes, he knew how to solve cases - but he couldn't get anywhere with finding his own daughter and it was breaking him up.

He'd loved Rita once, she was the mother of his child, but there was no way he could summon up any grief about her demise, only anger that she'd deprived him of his little girl.

Quincy was working on a case involving a series of threatening letters being sent to the daughter of a television magnate. At first he'd assisted Michael in his investigation of Rita's murder and Bella's disappearance as best he could, but work beckoned, and when they'd encountered a series of leads that took them nowhere, he'd finally had to back off.

In the morning Quincy called and insisted he come for dinner that night. On the way over he stopped off at a meeting. It was a worthwhile move and calmed him considerably.

Amber had cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes and crisp fried onions. Comfort food. They sat around the kitchen table enjoying each other's company.

Amber decided he needed the company of a woman. Quincy decided he needed to get laid. They were both on his case, until he finally acquiesced and agreed to go out on a date with a friend of Amber's from her salsa dance class.

'I don't know her well,' Amber explained. 'But she sure is pretty. I showed her your picture and she's willing to meet you.'

The bad news is she's a would-be actress,' Quincy interrupted, grinning. 'I got a look at her the other night when I met Amber from class. Nice legs - get her in the sack an' wrap 'em around your neck, Mike, you'll be a new man!'

Amber tut-tutted. 'Is that the only thing you can think of - sex? It's companionship he needs at a time like this.'

Quincy's grin broadened. 'Yeah, sure, honey, companionship, an' a little pussy to go with it!'

'You're so crude,' Amber said crossly.

'It's part of my charm, sweet thing!' Quincy said, throwing Michael a knowing wink.

They met in the bar of the Hyatt Universal Hotel.

'Shelia?'

'Michael?'

They circled each other like wary soldiers on either side of the battlefield. She was California pretty with the requisite toned and tanned body, deep-dish tits exhibited in a low-cut short dress, and long sexy legs.

'Shall we go into the restaurant?' Michael asked, surreptitiously checking her out.

'Good idea,' she replied, sliding off the bar stool exhibiting a dangerous amount of creamy thigh.

A hostess escorted them to a table. Michael ordered his usual non-alcoholic beer, while Shelia settled for vodka tonic.

When her drink arrived she held it with both hands toying suggestively with the stem of her glass. 'Amber tells me you and Quincy were detectives together in New York,' she said.

His eyes dropped to her breasts. 'And she told me you're an actress.'

'I've done one
Murder She Wrote
, two lines in a Clint Eastwood movie and seven commercials. My agent says I'm almost ready to break through. Lately I've been thinking about hiring a manager, it's the smart thing to do.'

He tried to look interested. 'Really?'

'My nutritionist has a client who hired a manager and her career took off immediately. It's worth the extra ten per cent.'

'It is?'

'Yes, Michael. How much do you know about show business?' Her long fingers continued to rub the stem of the glass.

Jesus! Did she know she was turning him on? 'Not a lot.'

'I look at it this way, I either hire a manager, or I take it all off for
Playboy
. Now that's a
real
attention getter. Kim Basinger did it and never looked back. So did Joan Severance.'

'Who's Joan Severance?'

'Hmm...' she said, frowning, 'I guess it didn't have as much impact as she'd hoped, although she's on TV a lot.'

He'd forgotten what dating was like. Two people out on a crap shoot. It wasn't for him.

'I've done some
Playboy
test shots,' she said.

'Yeah?'

They loved my body.'

He really wanted to be with a woman who stripped down to nothing for some jerk-off magazine.

They said my breasts were perfect,' she announced proudly.

It was obvious Shelia knew nothing about the double murder and his missing child. That was fine with him, because he had no desire to discuss it with a stranger, especially this stranger.

Dinner seemed interminable. Shelia continued to drone on about her career, while he listened, trying to pay attention, but nevertheless he couldn't help thinking about his little daughter and where she could possibly be. Thoughts of Bella consumed him. It would be that way until he found her.

Shelia ate a hearty meal, polishing off a shrimp cocktail, a large pepper steak and a huge dish of apple pie. After dinner she ordered a brandy and finally got around to asking him a couple of questions about himself.

He answered briefly. Crass as it might seem, he wasn't out on a blind date to start a relationship. Quincy was right, he was out to get laid. Period. And it shouldn't be too difficult. He'd never had any trouble getting women into bed, in fact it was only too easy - his good looks did it every time. Women were suckers for handsome, they took one glance and simply couldn't resist. Sometimes it saddened him. Didn't they care about the person inside? He was so much more than just a glossy exterior. He had so many cravings, and yet there'd never been a woman who'd satisfied him emotionally.

Outside the restaurant Shelia said the magic words. 'Would you like to come back to my place for coffee?'

Translation:
How about a fuck
?

'Yeah, that'd be nice,' he said.

She lived in a small one-bedroom apartment on Fountain Avenue with two angry-looking cats named Arnold and Sly who prowled restlessly around the apartment glaring at him with steely elongated eyes.

'I recently ended a steady relationship, how about you?' Shelia asked, handing him a cup of instant coffee in a colourful Superman mug.

'Divorced,' he said, taking the coffee and sitting on the couch.

She sat down beside him. He took a gulp of the hot liquid, put the mug on the table and slid his arm around behind her, pulling her in for a long kiss. After a few moments of heavy kissing activity she got to her feet, took his hand, and pulled him silently into the bedroom.

It wasn't until they fell on top of her bed locked in a steamy embrace that he unhooked her bra and realized that what he'd thought were magnificent breasts were actually silicone implants. Easy enough to tell - they felt unreal - like a couple of solid plastic beach balls. If he wasn't so horny he would've lost his hard-on. As it was he hadn't gotten laid in months so there was no stopping him now.

She thrust a hard nipple into his mouth. He sucked for a moment before groping for his wallet and removing the condom he'd been carrying for a while.

Shelia was already going for his zipper, pulling it down with an expert's touch.

He handed her the rubber. 'Here, sweetheart, you put it on,' he suggested in what he hoped was an encouraging fashion.

To his dismay she tossed it carelessly to one side. 'I hate those things, we're both safe - who needs it?'

Oh, shit! This AIDS thing had him very nervous. 'Uh... I'd feel happier,' he mumbled.

'
I
know how to make
you
feel happier, baby,' she crooned, and with that her mouth descended on him, going to work like a dentist's suction cup.

Christ! She wasn't giving him time to enjoy it. He came so fast he felt like he was back in grade school!

As soon as it was over he wanted out, but Shelia had other ideas. Throwing off the rest of her clothes, she lay back spread eagled on the bed and commanded in an I-take-no-prisoners voice, 'Eat me, baby, eat me!'

He stared at her muff, a neat little strip of brown pubic hair shaved into submission. Whatever happened to good old bushy triangles?

The uh... the shrimp,' he said vaguely, 'I gotta feeling it disagreed with me.'

'What?'

He was already zipping up and getting off the bed. 'We'd better finish this another time. I'm not feeling good.'

She wasn't pleased. In fact she was furious.

He made a daring escape, reached the street and sat in his car for a moment, leaning his arms on the steering-wheel. Sometimes he understood why paying for it was a sought-after alternative. You didn't have to buy them dinner, listen to them talk, and you certainly didn't have to give them head.

Even more important, if you wanted to wear a condom there wasn't a hooker on earth who would argue with you.

Bobby received an advance copy
of Style Wars
. His photograph on the cover was arresting. He'd allowed their star photographer to capture him stepping naked from the shower - although of course you couldn't see the goods because he was emerging from a frosted shower door and his pertinent bits were hidden. However, it was quite obvious he was bare-assed naked. The photographer - a manic woman with frizzed red hair and a seductive personality -had talked him into it. She'd been so persuasive and full of positive energy he'd agreed. After all, Sly had posed naked for the cover of
Vanity Fair
, and Demi Moore made a habit of it. He'd wanted the photo to make a statement. Boy, did it make a statement!

Seeing it in full colour on the front of a national magazine was somewhat startling. He almost laughed aloud - it was a kick. At least his body looked buffed and ready for anything, all that jogging and working out had paid dividends.

The caption on the front of the magazine read in bold red letters
BOBBY RUSH - BODY OF THE YEAR
. And underneath, in smaller print:

Bobby Rush moves in and muscles
Dad straight out of the picture

by KENNEDY CHASE.

That didn't thrill him, his publicist had assured him there would be no mention of his father.

He picked up the intercom and buzzed his secretary. 'Beth, get me Elspeth on the line,' he said, drumming his fingertips impatiently on the desk.

'She was around earlier, Bobby, shall I try to page her?'

'Do that. Have her come straight to my office.'

'A.s.a.p.'

With a certain amount of trepidation he opened the magazine and turned to the article about him. There were more pictures, six of them to be exact. He studied the photos first, steeling himself to read the copy because he'd had a feeling - ever since he'd realized Kennedy had interviewed him under false pretences - that it was not going to be flattering, especially when she'd failed to return his phone calls.

Giving interviews to the press was a treacherous path to travel at the best of times - with this devious lady it was probably a minefield.

OK. So now he was going to read it. Take a deep breath, get past the headline and see what she has to say.

Bobby Rush - a paler clone of Big Daddy, Jerry - thinks he's hot stuff, and he struts it all the way around the studio he acts like he owns. This is about the only time Bobby acts, because baring it all seems to be his skill
du jour.
What a great tight ass! And don't we all know it. Daddy would be proud
.

It got worse.

Why is Bobby Rush a star? Could it be that Big Daddy used his considerable clout in a town so open to a touch of creative nepotism to get him where he is today?

He groaned and threw the offending magazine across the room just as Beth popped her head around the door. 'Something wrong, Bobby?'

He attempted to make light of it although he was churning up inside. 'No, I've just been portrayed as asshole of the year, why should anything be wrong?'

Beth looked suitably sympathetic. 'I'm sorry.'

'
You're
sorry. Where the hell is Elspeth?'

'She's on her way.'

It was unfair. The entire interview was an unfounded attack on his integrity as an actor and as a man. Kennedy Chase intimated that the only reason he was a success was because of his famous connections, and she droned on endlessly about Jerry, and what a fucking icon he was.

She should only know the truth. That he, Bobby Rush, was a success because of
his
hard work and nobody else's. That Jerry would have been happier if he'd stayed in his shadow for ever.

But no, Kennedy Chase wasn't interested in the truth. She'd tricked him into being interviewed and hadn't given him a chance.

He felt so betrayed, as far as he could remember he'd behaved perfectly decently towards the woman, and yet for some unknown reason she'd decided to trash him.

Elspeth entered his office with tightly drawn lips and a ferocious expression. She was carrying a copy of
Style Wars
which she waved in his face. 'I read it,' she said, before he could utter a word. 'I will
never
work with this magazine again. I am furious!'

She
was furious, how about
him
, he was supposed to be the star around here.

'Elspeth,' he said evenly. 'How did this happen? I was under the impression we had assurances that they were not going to mention Jerry. That's why I cooperated on the pictures and gave them a day of my valuable time.'

'Do I know?' said Elspeth, as if it had absolutely nothing to do with her. 'Did you see what that bitch said about
me?
She described me as unprofessional.'