Hollywood Kids (29 page)

'How do you know?'

'Hey, you think real cowboys would walk around like that with their ten-gallon hats and sassy attitude. Honey, I can
assure
you, they
ain't
real cowboys.'

'So now you're an expert on cowboys. I thought basketball players were your thing.'

'Do me a favour - buy me a beer and let's make this short.'

They approached the bar. 'Howdy, little ladies,' greeted the barman, confirming all their worst fears.

'I suppose a Martini's out of the question?' Rosa said, perching on a bar stool.

He chortled happily.

'Two beers,' Kennedy said.

'This your first time?' the barman asked, with a gap-toothed leer.

'How
did
you guess?' Rosa drawled sarcastically.

'You can have a real blast if you leave your cares on the doorstep.'

Rosa's eyebrows shot up. 'You got that out of a fortune cookie at Trader Vic's, right?'

His face was blank. 'Trader who?'

'Forget it.'

'I suppose you get a lot of regulars here?' Kennedy asked, leaning her elbows on the bar.

'S' right,' he replied. 'Regular as clockwork. They come in, dance four or five hours, then go home happy. That's our motto at Boots - put a smile on your face and a spring in your step.'

'Oh,
please
,' murmured Rosa.

Will you shut up,' Kennedy whispered. 'I'm trying to make contact here.'

'Make contact, my ass,' Rosa said. 'Oooh, there goes a cute one.' Her attention was taken by a blond hunk in a plaid shirt, jeans and a brown Stetson.

They made eye contact and he swooped. 'Care to take it to the floor, ma'am?' he asked politely.

'Why not?' she said, winking at Kennedy.

'Little lady's gonna fit right in,' the barman remarked as Rosa hit the floor with the hunk.

'My friend, Margarita, used to come here,' Kennedy said, showing him a picture. 'Do you remember her?'

'I know a lotta people, but names ain't my strong point.' He squinted at the photograph. 'Naw, don't recall her.'

'You might have read about her,' Kennedy continued. 'She was murdered a couple of months ago.'

'Was she murdered here?' he asked matter-of-factly.

'Here?'

'I'm not supposed to say this.' He leaned across the bar, speaking confidentially. 'We had a coupla rapes in the parking lot.'

'You did? When?'

The last one was a few weeks ago. Course, they've beefed up security since then.'

'Margarita wasn't raped, she was strangled. It's possible she might have been followed home from here.'

'Really?' he said thoughtfully. 'You a relative?'

'No, I'm a writer,' she said, handing him her card. 'If you come up with anything, give me a call.'

He peered at her card. 'Kennedy. That's a funny name for a girl.'

'What's
your
name?'

'Brick.'

'Oh, that's much more sensible... for a boy.'

Before he could react she took her bottle of beer, moved away from the bar, and stood at the edge of the dance floor, where she watched Rosa making a complete fool of herself as she tried to two-step with the young stud who had his arms all over her. Trust Rosa to get right into the spirit of things.

'OK, folks! Time for a little line dancing!' the disc jockey announced through his microphone. 'We'll start you off with the Tumbleweed - follow that with a sexy dose of smooth Black Velvet - an' then we're divin' straight into the Achy Breaky.' A cheer went up.

Rosa's cowboy for the night escorted her off the floor. 'We're going over there to practise,' Rosa said, her cheeks flushed. 'Billy's teaching me to line dance.'

'Billy, are you a regular here?' Kennedy asked, stopping him before he whisked Rosa off.

'Yes, ma'am, come here all the time.'

She took out her photograph of Margarita. 'Do you know her?'

Tipping his Stetson back he stared at it for a moment. 'Can't say I do, ma'am.'

'She used to come here every week.'

'Reckon she hung out on different nights to me.'

'Reckon she did,' Kennedy replied.

'Maybe you should ask one of the bouncers. They know everythin' happens around here.'

'That's a good idea, thanks.'

She'd noticed several bouncers roaming around the place dressed in black cowboy hats, black shirts and the
de rigmur
tight blue jeans. She approached one standing by the door, a shiny silver sheriffs badge gleaming on his shirt.

'Do you remember this woman?' she asked, showing him the picture of Margarita.

He glanced at the photo. 'What do I get if I do?'

'What do you want?' she replied, going along for the ride.

This one was not shy. 'A date,' he said.

'I have a feeling my husband wouldn't appreciate it.'

'Aw, shit! All the best ones are taken.'

'Do
you remember her?'

'Yeah, good-lookin' lady. She used to come here every Thursday night. Fancy little dancer.'

'Did she hang out with anybody in particular?'

'Nope. Sometimes she'd be with a couple of girlfriends, never saw her leave with a guy.'

'You've got an excellent memory.'

'It's a trick of the trade.'

She was surprised he didn't tag little lady on to the end of the sentence, he seemed to be the type. 'OK, thanks,' she said, brushing back her blonde hair.

'Too bad you're taken,' he said, winking suggestively.

It was obvious she was getting nowhere fast. She looked around for Rosa, and found her in the practice area now learning some kind of intricate two-step with the very attentive Billy. Oh, boy, if Ferdy could only see her now!

'We're going,' she said.

'We are?'

'Sorry to drag you away.'

Rosa waved at her new conquest. 'See ya, cowboy.' He tipped his hat. 'See ya, pretty lady.'

'Stop baby-snatching,' Kennedy scolded. 'You've got one juvenile at home, isn't that enough?'

Rosa giggled. 'I may be taken but I'm not dead!'

Mac Brooks couldn't sleep, something was on his mind and there was no way he could shake it. He watched
Nightline
for a while, until Sharleen complained that the glow from the television was bothering her.

'I need my sleep, honey,' she murmured, 'I'll have bags under my eyes in the morning if you keep this up.'

He switched off the television and lay flat on his back in the dark, his mind racing this way and that.

Something was horribly wrong, his past was coming back to haunt him and it wasn't a good thing.

When he'd heard about Margarita Lynda's murder he'd thought of it as random violence, one of the many perils of living in L.A. But recently he'd found out about Stephanie Wolffs demise, and he'd known, without a doubt, that their murders had to be linked. Then tonight, on the early news, they'd reported the brutal murder of actress Pamela March.

He'd gone cold inside. There was no doubt now, he
knew
who was committing the murders.

After dinner he'd gone to his study hoping for some peace and quiet so he could think things through and decide what action he might take.

Sharleen had followed him in, leaned over the back of his chair and began ruffling his hair. 'Let's go to a movie in Westwood,' she'd suggested. 'And if you're
veree, veree
good, we can make out in the back row. How does that grab you?'

'Not tonight, sweetheart.'

She was in a flirtatious mood. 'Why not, pussycat?' she'd asked, playing with the top of his ear. 'I promise you I'll make it worth your while.'

'Because I don't feel like it.'

'You're so boring when you're working,' she'd said, pouting.

'So are you,' he'd retaliated.

'I could've been in this movie,' she'd said petulantly. 'Bobby and I would've had sensational chemistry,
and
you know it. It's so silly you're jealous...'

'Sharleen, I've told you once, I am
not
jealous.'

'Yes, you are.'

'No. I'm
not
.'

'Oliver Stone wants to meet me.'

'Good. I hope he meets you, loves you and hires you. Several months in Vietnam will do you a power of good.'

'He's not doing another Vietnam movie.'

'Whatever,' he'd said shortly, wishing she'd leave him alone.

Now he was lying in bed unable to sleep with Sharleen beside him, breathing deeply, her eyes closed, her luscious mouth slightly open.

All he could think about was the murdered women. How long would it take before the police connected them?

How long before they realized that all three had worked on
The Contract?

He knew he had a responsibility to speak up, but if he did so it would only drag the whole nightmare back into the headlines.

Seven years ago a murder had been committed on his movie. Ingrid Floris, a beautiful young actress, had been brutally killed by the actor portraying her ex-boyfriend. He'd dragged her from her trailer in front of several witnesses, and after a violent struggle, strangled her.

Margarita Lynda had run screaming for help, while Stephanie Wolff and Pamela March had hovered in the parking lot watching the entire incident - both of them transfixed with horror. Jordanna Levitt, Cheryl Landers and Gerda Hemsley had seen everything from the window of the production trailer.

By the time Margarita had returned with a couple of burly drivers, it was too late to save Ingrid. She was already dead.

All six women were called as witnesses at the trial.

All six helped put the killer away.

The name of the actor was Zane Marion Ricca. He was the nephew of Mac's godfather, although nobody knew it - including Zane, who thought it was just pure luck that he'd gotten such a big break in an important Hollywood movie.

Mac knew better. Mac had done his godfather a favour, because when asked he was smart enough not to say no.

The truth was that nobody said no to Luca Carlotti.

Christ! Mac realized that Zane must be out of jail. And the horrifying reality was that it could be him systematically killing every one of the women who'd testified against him.

Everyone except Jordanna, Cheryl and Gerda.

Maybe they were next.

He sat bolt upright in bed, sweat beading his forehead.

'Wassamatter?' Sharleen mumbled sleepily, throwing her arm across him.

'Go back to sleep, baby,' he said, surprised to hear his voice so soothing and calm.

'Hmm...' She turned over and he noticed the voluptuous outline of her breasts through her silky nightgown. Too bad he wasn't in a better mood, although they rarely had sex in the bedroom - that was too normal for Sharleen.

He slid out of bed and went into his dressing room where he put on jogging pants, a sweatshirt, socks and Nikes. Then he went downstairs. There was no point in trying to sleep, this problem wasn't going away.

He hurried into his study shutting the door behind him. The blinds were open to the patio, so he pulled them down, then crossed the room and removed a small Picasso from the wall next to the fireplace. Behind the expensive painting, embedded securely in the wall, was a hidden safe.

He entered the combination and the steel door clicked open. This was his safe. Sharleen had her own. Only in California.

He paused for a long moment before divesting the safe of its contents. It wasn't often he took the bitter-sweet memory trip - some things were best left unremembered.

First he removed a large brown envelope containing several photographs. He opened the envelope, took out the photos and spread them across his desk.

Memories came flooding back. Mac Brooks aged three, balanced on the shoulders of his father, a tall, lanky man with curly brown hair and a carefree expression; Mac at six with his mother, Priscilla, a gorgeous blonde in shorts and a halter top; Mac at twelve - a dirty-faced villain with a crooked grin and larceny in his heart; and Mac at fifteen, standing next to his godfather, Luca Carlotti.

Mac stared intently at the photo. Luca Carlotti, a short man with deep-set hooded Valentino eyes, full lips and patent-leather slicked-back hair. He wore a cobra's smile and excellent tailoring.

Luca Carlotti had been the most feared man in the neighbourhood. He'd also been the most loved.

Luca Carlotti could make dreams come true or he could crush you underfoot. He was a powerful force and Mac's father was his right-hand man.

As Mac grew up he soon realized why the great Luca Carlotti was his godfather. It was because Luca was fucking his mother, and his father didn't have the balls to object.

Luca Carlotti and Mac's parents hung out, went everywhere together, until one night they were at an after-hours club in Harlem listening to a famous jazz singer. It was past two in the morning when they left. Mac's father exited the club first to signal their driver. As the sleek limousine pulled up, Luca and Priscilla emerged from the club.

A car cruised slowly by. Luca stopped, began to say something. At that exact moment a hail of bullets came at them. Luca dropped to the ground dragging Priscilla with him, while Mac's father took a bullet straight through the heart - a bullet meant for Luca. Mac was sixteen at the time.

Luca was not an ungrateful man. From that day on he was actively involved in seeing that Mac got everything he wanted.

He wanted to be a boxer.

Luca paid for a trainer and arranged a series of amateur fights.

He wanted a car.

Luca bought him a red Mustang.

He wanted to be a film director.

Luca fixed it so he could go to film school.

He wanted to be employed on an actual movie.

Luca arranged for him to work as third assistant on
New York Nights
, a film some of his 'friends' had invested money in.

The experience thrilled Mac. He knew he had found his true vocation.

The director of
New York Nights
was William Davidoss, a forceful man with a loud voice and flamboyant style. His daughter, Willa, was the key to Mac's golden future.

Shortly after the movie wrapped, he and Willa ran off to Las Vegas and got married. Within three years he was directing his first movie.