Hollywood Kids (31 page)

'I noticed.'

'That's it, I think. Oh, yeah, I had a call from my connection at Orpheus Studios asking me to meet with Mac Brooks, the director.'

'What does he want?'

'Don't know until we see him. We'll visit the set first thing Monday.'

'You mean I get to watch a real live movie being shot?'

'Exciting, ain't it?'

They looked at each other and broke up.

In the morning Quincy, Amber and the kids left early. Michael rolled out of bed and decided to call his mother. He'd spoken to her twice since Rita's murder. Naturally he'd told her about Bella's disappearance, but she hadn't bothered to phone him back to check on developments or see how he was holding up. Big surprise.

She answered on the first ring, which was a relief because it meant he didn't have to speak to Eddie.

'Hey, Ma, how's it going?' he asked, falsely cheerful.

'The same, Mikey,' she said with a weary sigh. 'Always the same.'

'That's good.'

'You're not coming back, are you?'

'No, Ma. Can't do it. Gotta stay here 'til I find Bella.'

'That's right, you gotta stay there,' his mother repeated, not sounding too concerned.

'How are you?' he asked. 'Eddie keeping his hands to himself?'

'Eddie's all right, Mikey. He works hard. You always talk bad about him, but he's only doin' what he has to do. It gets him through the day.'

Gets him through the day, my ass, Michael thought sourly.

'He's an old man now, Mikey,' Virginia added, her voice quavering. 'An' I'm an old woman.'

'No, you're not, Ma.'

'I get heart flutters, and my blood pressure's shooting way up.'

'
C'mon
, you'll outlive us all.'

'Don't want to,' she said sourly. 'I've had enough.'

'Do you need money, Ma?' Not that he had any to spare, but as long as he could make his rent he was happy to send her what was left.

She cheered up considerably. 'If you got some, Mikey. I havta take pills now, they cost plenty. We could use some help.'

How come she needed money when he'd heard from one of his friends in the neighbourhood that his brother had come into plenty of bucks? Apparently Sal was now involved in small-time racketeering and drove around in a flashy gold Cadillac with his wife of eighteen months, Pandi, a hard-faced bottle blonde who ran an escort service. He'd also bought a house - things must be going well. The last time Michael had seen Sal was at his wedding to Pandi, and they'd gotten into a big fight over Rita.

'Rita's the fuckin' best, how come ya treat her so bad?' Sal had demanded, like it was any of his business.

'Don't lecture me on how I should treat my wife,' he'd replied, stifling a murderous urge to smash Sal in his big fat face.

'You wouldn't know how to handle a woman if ya tripped over her in a dark place,' Sal had sneered. 'Rita's a fuckin' queen, an' you're lettin' her go. Don'tcha have no sense?'

'Rita's moving to California because she wants to. We're getting a divorce.'

'Y'know whatcha are, Mikey?' Sal had taunted. 'You're a dumb fuckin' cop, an' that's all you'll ever be.'

They'd almost gotten into a fight, but Eddie had prevented it, placing his heavy bulk between them, telling them they were killing their poor mother. Never mind that Eddie was the one who beat the crap out of her whenever he thought he could get away with it.

Sal's words had infuriated him. They'd brought back every bad memory of his childhood. Eddie whacking him, screaming in his ear. 'Ya nothin', Mikey, ya take after ya old man, an' he was nothin'. Two fuckin' split peas.'

Every day he was told he was useless. Every single day until he got the hell out.

After Sal's insults at the wedding he'd made up his mind never to go out of his way to see his brother again. And Sal obviously felt the same, because when he was shot and lying in the hospital Sal had not bothered visiting.

'I'll send you what I can,' Michael said, waiting for his mother to say something nice - anything to show she at least cared a little bit.

Nothing. He got nothing.

So what else was new?

Staying the weekend in the Robbins' house was nice, it gave him a sense of family. He often found himself wondering what it would have been like if things had worked out with Rita. He'd tried. When he'd got off the booze he'd really tried, but by that time it was too late, although Rita didn't think so, she'd dragged him to a marriage counsellor, and they'd sat in the office of a total stranger for two hours while Rita bitched about him.

He's selfish. He never shows his love for me. He doesn't compliment me. He's never there for me.

He noticed she didn't mention that he paid all the bills, worked non-stop, and that as a provider she had nothing to complain about.

Shortly before they'd left the counsellor's office she'd said something that still bothered him. 'I know he had it tough growing up - who didn't? But so did his brother, Sal, and Sal's a terrific guy.'

He'd been really startled by her words. Since when did Rita think Sal was such a terrific guy?

Out in the car he'd tackled her about it. 'What's with this Sal is terrific shit? Since when were you and he so close?'

'Don't forget he introduced us,' she'd reminded him. 'I should've married
him
instead
of you.'

And of course that had started another fight.

He didn't always remember the bad times. Sometimes he recalled Rita at her best, when they were first together. She'd been so fun-loving and full of life, now she was just another crime statistic. A pretty girl chasing a big career who'd ended up on a slab in the morgue.

He slept fitfully, first dreaming about Rita and Bella, then waking early and lying in bed thinking about the two letters he'd shown Quincy, and wondering if he should do anything about them. If Heron Jones was in Vegas how would he find him? It shouldn't be too difficult tracking Heron if he was still performing.

He decided that maybe he'd hop on a plane next weekend, take a little trip. It was worth following every lead.

In the morning he got up late, cooked himself bacon and eggs, and enjoyed the luxury of watching ball games uninterrupted all day long.

At seven thirty he sent out for pizza, then settled back on the living-room couch to watch the first tape of
The Godfather
. Amber had bought Quincy the trilogy for his last birthday and if he was lucky he'd get to watch all three
Godfather
movies. What a treat! Al Pacino, James Caan, Marlon Brando, Robert Duvall - each actor better than the next.

He was mesmerized, so much so that he almost didn't hear the phone. He grabbed it just in time. 'Yeah?'

A whispery female voice. 'May I speak to Quincy, please.'

'Who's this?'

'Marjory Sanderson.'

'Hey, Marjory -' He pressed the pause button on the remote. 'This is Michael Scorsini - Quincy's partner. He had to leave town this weekend, but he told me if you need anything at all to let you know I'm here for you. What's up?'

'I... I don't feel... safe,' she said hesitantly.

He sat up straighter. 'What do you mean? Did something happen?'

'No, I'm at the house and the guards are here and the dogs and everything... but I have this bad feeling.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Can you come over?'

He stalled for a moment, the last thing he felt like doing was driving over the hill into Bel Air. 'Uh... sure, Marjory, if it'll help you out.'

'Please.'

'OK, I'll be there soon as I can.'

Goddamn it! Just when the tape was getting to the best scene in the movie - the hospital set-up where Al Pacino has to guard Marlon Brando all by himself.

He thought about calling Quincy, but decided against disturbing the family on their weekend vacation, he was quite capable of calming Marjory.

He had on jeans and a workshirt, but why change? After all, it was Saturday night - what did she expect, a suit?

Too bad if she did. He turned off the TV and set off.

The guards at the gate waved him through when he arrived at the estate. He wasn't sure if they'd been apprised of the situation or not, so he didn't bother stopping to discuss it, he drove straight up to the main house, parking outside the massive solid oak front door.

The butler let him in and led him into the fancy living room, where he took a seat and waited... and waited... and waited.

Thirty-five minutes later Marjory made her entrance.

'I'm so sorry,' she said. 'I was on the phone to my father.'

Michael was not used to dealing with Hollywood. He was pissed and it showed. 'Yeah, well, you don't even have a magazine in this room - or a television,' he said curtly. 'I don't appreciate waiting around with nothing to do.'

She fluttered around the room. Was it his imagination or was she naked under her sheer white dress? He could make out the outline of her erect dark nipples, not to mention the faint shadow of her bush.

'How about a drink, Mr Scorsini,' she offered, her thin face flushed.

'Call me Michael,' he said, averting his eyes from the obvious show she was putting on.

'Very well... Michael,' she said, her voice almost a whisper. 'Can I fix you something?'

'Uh... I don't drink.'

'What a coincidence, neither do I.'

She was seriously pissing him off. He'd driven over here because she'd sounded upset and panicked, and now she was calmly offering him a drink like nothing was going on. 'This isn't a social call, Marjory,' he said tightly. 'I came here because you asked me to. You said you were upset. How about telling me what happened?'

She lowered her eyes. 'He phoned.'

'Is this the first time?'

'Yes. He's never called before.'

'What did he say?'

The same things he wrote in the letters. That he's going to kill me...' She trailed off, too upset to continue.

'What did his voice sound like? Was it muffled? Young or old?'

'It was... muffled.'

'So you couldn't figure out his age?'

'Maybe... maybe in his thirties.'

'That's good, Marjory. That's a start. Black, white, Hispanic?'

'American.'

'So after you hung up, you called your father - is that it?'

'I... I contacted you. Then my father phoned to see if I was all right.'

'Why, did he know about the call?'

'No, he phones most evenings. I told him you were on your way over. He was pleased.'

'OK, Marjory, this is the next move. I'm going to put a machine on your phone line. It'll tape all your conversations so the next time he calls we'll be able to tape him - hear what he sounds like, maybe even trace the call.'

'My private conversations?'

'I'll show you how to activate the tape. If it's private you can turn the machine off.'

'I understand.'

'I'll set it up tomorrow when I can get the equipment. In the meantime, you got a friend who can spend the night?'

'My girlfriend is staying here now.'

'That's good. Where is she?'

'Working on a movie. She won't be back until later.'

'Any idea what time?'

Marjory shook her head.

'Is she an actress?'

'No. She's Bobby Rush's set assistant.'

'Sounds like fun.'

'It does?'

'Yeah, anything to do with the movies must be fun.' He wondered if he could light up a cigarette in this mausoleum. 'Do you work, Marjory?'

'I help out on charity committees. It's very time-consuming.'

'I bet,' he said, not believing her. As far as he could tell this girl was in desperate need of a life. 'OK,' he said briskly, ready to make a move. 'You got the guards, you got me on the phone if you need me, you got that butler guy - he lives here, right?'

'Not in the main house, he has an apartment in the servants' building.'

'How about if he moves into the main house for the night?'

'I wouldn't feel secure,' she said anxiously. I'd sooner you stayed.'

This was a new one. 'You want
me
to stay?' he asked, genuinely surprised and not thrilled.

'Yes, Quincy said if I needed him to spend the night it would be OK.'

Fine for Quincy to say that, he'd pissed off on a skiing trip. 'He did, huh?'

'Yes.'

'Uh, y'know, Marjory, I didn't come prepared.'

'All our guest rooms are fully stocked with anything you might need. You can sleep in the room next to mine.'

'It's kinda inconvenient.'

She fixed him with accusing pale-blue eyes. 'He threatened to kill me. I can't stay here alone.'

Michael sighed, there was no backing out of this one. 'Yeah, that'll do it every time,' he said wryly, rubbing his stubbled chin. 'OK, Marjory, if it'll make you sleep easier I guess I can stay.'

She looked suitably grateful. 'Thank you.'

'Don't mention it.'

'Have you eaten?'

'I had a pizza. When you called I was watching
The Godfather
on tape - that's some movie.'

'My father has a complete library of films. I'm sure we have it here if you'd like to continue watching it.'

'That wouldn't be a bad idea.'

'I'll watch it with you.'

Not exactly what he had in mind, but he could hardly say no.

'Come,' she said. 'Let me show you the library.'

He followed her down a vast hallway into an enormous wood-panelled library. On one side of the room were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with probably every movie ever made stacked neatly side by side.

'Now, let's see,' she said. 'It will either be under "G" for
Godfather
or sometimes he has them filed under directors. Was it Scorsese?'

'Nope.'

'I know,' she said triumphantly. 'Francis Ford Coppola.'

'Very good.'

She started searching through the tapes and finally found it. 'We could watch it in the screening room. It's set up for video.'

He shrugged. 'Suits me.'

'And then I can have the guards send out for pizza.'

'I didn't say I
wanted
pizza, what I said was I'd already had some.'

'Whatever you like... Michael.'