Sinners (35 page)

All her clothes were spread out across the bed. A spilled bottle of perfume dripped from the bedside table.

‘Are you all right?’ She hugged the little boy.

He nodded shyly, burying his head on her shoulder.

She moved the clothes off the bed and put Jean-Pierre beneath the covers.

There were sounds of doors slamming and cars starting up.

Sunday brushed her hair back wearily and sighed. Would this day never end?

Herbert Lincoln Jefferson confronted Louella Crisp the day-after Marge had told him about the deal – and the money Louella had to have. They had never met, although of course he had seen her through the window when he was spying on Marge. She had stringy breasts and short veined legs and rolls of fat around the belly of her otherwise skinny body.

He prepared himself carefully, showering, shaving, combing his straight dark brown hair for a long time. He cleaned his fingernails, and had Marge polish his shoes, a job she had given up because of her recent triumphs. He wore a grey suit recently returned from the cleaners, and a sickly yellow sports shirt with a green wool tie.

He considered he looked immaculate, and admired himself for quite some time in the bathroom mirror.

Louella Crisp would soon see she was dealing with a man of substance, not a pathetic fool like Marge.

Louella in fact took one look at Herbert and decided that here was a mean sonofabitch. She didn’t want to mess with him: she wanted to grab the money and run. Maybe she might even forget about the money. He had such evil little eyes, cold, empty and spiteful.

He sat down in her living room and stared at her. ‘I’m not Marge, you know,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve been taking advantage of Marge. I know what’s been going on. I’ve seen the things you do in this house.’

‘Never mind what you’ve seen,’ Louella said quickly, making up her mind that she
would
get the two thousand dollars out of him. ‘What about the things
I
know. Personal things about you, things my friends in the police department would be interested to hear about?’

His eyes stared at her, flat and expressionless. ‘You’re not talking to Marge. I’m not a fool. The money’s for
you.
Two thousand dollars, and that’s the end of the matter. I can get it for you, but I’ll need your help.’

‘In what way?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘In a way you’ll like. In the way you make your money now.’

‘What are you talking about?’

He reached into his jacket pocket and produced two glossy photos of Sunday Simmons which he had stolen from her house. Across one he had scrawled, ‘Any time you call – Love, Sunday.’

He handed the pictures to Louella, who looked at them blankly. ‘Who’s this?’

‘A friend of mine,’ he said briskly. ‘A very
close
friend of mine. In fact, we’re so close that she’d do anything for me.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘Anything.’

When the last guests departed Charlie felt depressed. He had sent Maggi packing during the afternoon. She had started to say things like, ‘All my friends say I should be an actress, what do you think?’

‘I think you’d better go home,’ he had replied.

Now he was alone again and miserable. So miserable in fact that on impulse he climbed into his new black Ferrari and started to drive to Los Angeles. He felt in need of company, a change of locale. He planned to check into the Beverly Hills Hotel and telephone Clay.

It was two in the morning when he arrived, and he thought better of disturbing Natalie. He called Thames Mason because he was lonely.

She dutifully got out of bed, came over, got into bed and consoled him. She told him all about her scene with Clay, laughing all the way. Then she finished by saying, ‘Man, is that guy hung!’

Charlie immediately felt inadequate and sent her home, but not before she made him promise he would take her to the première of
The Twelve Guns
the following night.

He wondered if she discussed what he was like in bed, and decided to ask Clay.

He slept fitfully and had a weird sexual dream involving himself, Natalie, Thames, Sunday, and his mother. He awoke feeling lousy, and went down to the pool.

It was too early for anyone else to be there, and he swam undisturbed. He had made up his mind to go back to London. There was no point in hanging around, going mad doing nothing. He decided to return and build a house, put down roots somewhere. It would keep him busy, and when the house was finished he would tell Lorna that he wanted the children every weekend. They would love it. He would even let them design their own quarters.

He phoned Clay, who was happy to come over for breakfast. On impulse he told him about Sunday.

Clay said, ‘Well, I reckon she fancies you, and when you’ve finished I wouldn’t say no to that one.’

‘If she fancied me she’d have hung around, wouldn’t she?’

‘Women are funny creatures. She probably thought you didn’t fancy
her.
’

Charlie shook his head. ‘Your logic! How’s Natalie feeling?’

‘Fat. She’d love to see you. Why don’t you have dinner with us tonight?’

‘Can’t. Taking Thames Mason to a première.’

Clay whistled. ‘Now
there’s
a raver!’

‘Yes, you’re telling me.’

‘I didn’t know you’d been there.’

‘You don’t know everywhere I’ve been.’

*    *    *

Later he dressed for the première in a new Doug Hayward dinner suit. He inspected himself in the mirror and was forced to admit that the rest had done him good. He was thin, in great shape, with a nice dark tan. He had abandoned the John Lennon specs and was back in his horn-rims. His black hair was just long enough to curl slightly over the back of his collar.

He drove the Ferrari to Thames’s apartment.

She lived in typical Hollywood bachelor-girl style in an apartment building on the Strip. There were photos and stills of herself everywhere.

‘I must photograph you,’ he said, accepting a scotch in a green plastic glass with ‘I like you’ printed on the bottom.

‘Oh, I’d love that,’ she cooed, ‘I’m
very
photogenic. In fact I’ve been told I have
perfect
features. Maybe we could do a whole bit for one of the fan mags. You know –
you
photographing me and
them
photographing us.’

She looked spectacular in thigh-high silver boots and a silver body stocking with intriguing patches of material missing.

‘I’ll probably be going to London this week,’ he confided.

She was not the least bit interested. ‘Do you think my eyelashes look too thick?’ she asked anxiously.

He peered at her. It was difficult to tell; her eyes were surrounded with silver shadow. ‘I don’t know, love, I’m not much good at make-up, but you look great.’

‘Do I?’ She twirled around in front of him. ‘It should be a fantastic première,
everyone
will be there, and everyone will notice me with you.’

He could hardly see how they could miss her, with him or not. A six-foot-two-inch redhead who looked like Thames Mason was hardly an everyday occurrence.

‘Would it matter if I wasn’t Charlie Brick? If I was just Joe Nobody, would you still want to go with me?’

She frowned. ‘Who’s Joe Nobody? I’ve never heard of him . . . Oh, I see,’ she giggled, ‘trying to put me on, huh?’

‘Come on, we’ll be late.’

Outside her apartment, Thames surveyed the Ferrari with a slight sneer.

‘Don’t you have a Rolls and driver?’ she asked in surprise.

Charlie was beginning to count to ten under his breath. Would he
never
learn? This was positively the last starlet.

Sunday hated scenes. She hated firing people, but Katia had to go. The next morning she paid her two weeks money in advance and told her to leave.

The girl was sullen about it, but her departure didn’t seem to bother Jean-Pierre. He was so delighted to have Sunday back that he never left her side.

They went to the market and stocked up, for Katia had left a refrigerator full of cold chilli beans and rancid hot-dogs.

‘What have you been eating?’ Sunday asked Jean-Pierre. He grinned and sat in the supermarket trolley, picking out blocks of ice cream, apples, chocolate, cookies, all his favourite things.

Limbo was thin and jumpy. Sunday was furious with herself for having gone to Palm Springs and left them. It was Claude’s fault. Everything was Claude’s fault.

Branch phoned at lunchtime. ‘What time shall I pick you up?’ he enquired. ‘I’ve got a limo.’

‘Oh!’ She had forgotten all about the première, and what was she to do with Jean-Pierre now? ‘Look, Branch, I don’t think I can make it. I had to fire my maid and I’ve got no sitter for Jean-Pierre.’

‘You
have
to make it. You promised.
I’ll
find you a sitter, don’t worry about it, just make yourself real beautiful and I’ll call you back.’

She was stuck. She didn’t want to go, but how could she let Branch down?

*    *    *

For the première she decided to wear a filmy chiffon top over harem trousers tucked into satin boots. Her hair was loose, not quite concealing gold gypsy earrings. She looked very beautiful.

Branch was on time, bringing with him Esmé Mae, Max Thorpe’s long-time maid. A fat placid lady, she made immediate friends with Jean-Pierre and fussed around Limbo.

Sunday departed quite happy with the arrangement. She left instructions where she would be and emphasized the importance of contacting her immediately if she were needed. In her mind was the vague thought that Claude might arrive to take Jean-Pierre away.

Branch wore a white fringed leather suit, and a big ten-gallon hat. He was laughing and pleased with himself. ‘I may only have a small part in this here movie, but I’m sure as hell gonna get me noticed, walkin’ in with you.’

She decided Branch was a typical good-looking hunk of Hollywood idiot. Sweet and nice, but dumb.

Suddenly she found herself thinking about Charlie Brick and how different he was. How warm and amusing and – yes attractive, in an off-beat way. She wished that she attracted men like that instead of all the bastards.

‘How’s Max?’ she asked, making conversation.

‘He’s fine,’ Branch replied with false enthusiasm. Max wasn’t fine at all. He had been in a bitchy fury since Branch had told him that he couldn’t take him to the première, and today they hadn’t spoken at all.

Sunday sighed and leaned back in the limousine.

She wished that the evening were over.

Planning the operation had not been easy, and until Herbert read in the newspaper that Sunday Simmons was attending the première of
The Twelve Guns
, he had been uncertain how to achieve his purpose. When he read that she was to be there, everything fell into place, and he picked that night as
the
night.

His only worry was that she might not return from Palm Springs, but the newspapers said she would be at the première, so he just had to take a chance.

Louella had been getting impatient and making cracks, but she seemed satisfied when he gave her the date and told her to go ahead with arrangements.

Marge was sulking. Nobody would tell her what was going on. Louella simply stopped contacting her, and Herbert was rude and bad-tempered. What really upset Marge was the fact that Louella and Herbert kept meeting. She found her only solace in the local supermarket, and successfully gained ten pounds. Fortunately they gave credit.

Herbert got up early on the day of the première. There was much to do. The previous evening he had spent parked outside Sunday Simmons’s house at the beach, and had been rewarded by her return home quite late in the evening.

He was delighted when all the people in the house left shortly afterwards. Her Mexican maid was a little bitch. He had telephoned several times during Sunday’s absence, and when he gave her the pleasure of a few poetic utterances, she had hurled a stream of foreign abuse at him and hung up.

Marge said, ‘You wanna have breakfast?’

He cast her a look of contempt, ‘No.’ Did the fat cow not realize that this was the last morning they would ever spend together? Of course she didn’t! In fact, not even Louella knew of his plans for Marge.

He showered and put on a clean shirt and trousers. Then he went next door to see Louella.

‘Is everything prepared?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Are you
sure
she’ll do it?’

‘You keep on asking me that.’ He replied in an irritable voice. ‘She
said
she’ll do it. We have a
very special
friendship. I told you she will do anything for me.’

‘Why doesn’t she just give you the money, then? Why’s she going to go through with this?’

‘Because she wants to.’ He replied patiently. ‘How many men will there be?’

‘Fourteen guys at a hundred and fifty bucks apiece. They’re all lined up hot and ready, so don’t think you can pull a fake on us. They’re going for a lot of money, so you had better produce the genuine goods.’

‘She’ll be here. Nine o’clock, I’ll bring her in. She doesn’t want conversation or anything like that, just a normal circle-of-friends evening, everything the same as usual. The men will take their turns exactly the same as with Marge, and then I’ll take her home.’

Louella shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought a movie star would have wanted to do this sort of thing.’

‘Oh, she’ll want to do it all right.’ He narrowed his cold mean eyes. ‘She’s very good at it.’

Later that day he dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform and went by bus to the car lot, where he had arranged to borrow a black Lincoln Continental. The car was perfect for his purpose, as it had belonged to a pop star and was fitted with black-tinted windows and various locking devices on the doors and windows which ensured complete privacy. It had also been tuned to a very high degree and could go extremely fast.

The man at the car lot had advertised the car and was delighted when Herbert appeared and told him he worked for Charlie Brick. He had been happy to make an appointment for Herbert to borrow the car for an evening to get Mr Brick’s approval.