Lovers and Gamblers (19 page)

The girl standing next to him was staring. It was his daughter Dana, a cool, classy-looking blonde. ‘Daddy?’ she questioned, moving protectively close to him.

‘It’s all right.’ He gave her a short angry little shove. ‘Why don’t you go and get a drink? I’ll join you in a minute.’

Dana glared at Dallas, a high flush suffusing her glacial features. ‘If you’re sure…’

‘I’m sure,’ Ed snapped, nervously cracking his knuckles, a gesture that made Dallas wince.

They waited in silence while Dana moved off, then Ed said, ‘For Christ’s sake, if you see a camera pointing in our direction, move away. You don’t know what I’ve had to go through.’

‘What
have
you had to go through?’

He scowled. ‘Bloody murder. And I’ve missed you, goddamn it. I’ve missed you. I don’t think we should talk here. I’ll come to the apartment later.’

‘I’m not at the apartment any more.’

‘Why not? I bought it for you, didn’t I? You got my cheque, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I got the kiss-off money.’

Ed frowned. ‘It wasn’t kiss-off money. Just a little something to tide you over until we could meet again.’

‘You didn’t say that. In fact you didn’t say anything. Not even a phone call, Ed.’

‘I had to be very, very careful. I shouldn’t even be talking to you in public now.’

Dallas shrugged. ‘I just thought I’d say hello.’ She turned as if to go.

Ed restrained her with his hand on her shoulder. ‘Where can I see you later? We must talk.’

‘Why, Ed? I thought everything was over.’

‘Nothing’s over,’ he hissed. ‘I can’t do without you. God, people are staring. Where? Just tell me where and I’ll be there.’

Dallas thought quickly. Why not string the old bastard along? What was there to lose?

She smiled suddenly, dazzlingly. ‘Dress up time later? Is that what you want? Slave and master? Teacher and pupil?’

His voice was thick and heavy. ‘Oh yes, oh yes.’

‘The Essex House. Apartment eighty-nine, eighth floor. Come straight up.’

‘What time?’

‘In a couple of hours.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘I’ll expect you.’

She watched him walk away. A small, scared shitless billionaire with a hard-on. He rejoined his daughter. What a shock he would get when he showed up at the Essex House in the middle of the night and started hammering on the door of a strange apartment. She stifled a giggle. If only she could have been there to witness it.

* * *

Crowds of fans had gathered outside the club where the party for Al was being held.

Luke, Paul and Bernie formed a human guard and shoved Al through. He was immediately besieged by the photographers. They wanted photographs of him with this celebrity – that celebrity. Smile, Al. Turn on the charm, Al. Turn on the bullshit.

He found himself being introduced to Ed Kurlnik and he muttered, ‘We’ve already met.’ And Ed Kurlnik’s daughter was holding too long onto his hand and squeezing ever so slightly, saying in dulcet, Grace Kelly tones: ‘You must come out to the house sometime. How about this weekend?’

After a while Marjorie Carter approached him. ‘I’ve come to rescue you from the boring masses.’

‘Who said I needed rescuing?’

‘I did. How many times can you listen to people telling you how sensational you are?’

‘All the time.’

Marjorie laughed. ‘Modest you’re not. My car is parked out back for a painless getaway. My simple little apartment awaits your pleasure. Champagne, caviar, all your favourite things. Shall we go?’

Al surveyed her warily. He didn’t like his women quite so dominant.

But she was a challenge, on the cover of two national magazines that very week, and supposedly the highest-paid woman in television.

‘Let’s go,’ he decided. It would make a change.

‘Follow me,’ said Marjorie. ‘I’ve become an expert at escaping out back entrances.’

Al started after her. Luke fell into step behind him.

‘Leave it tonight,’ Al instructed. ‘I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

Luke shook his head. ‘Got orders not to leave your side.’

‘Fuck your orders. Who do you think you’re working for anyway?’

Paul moved over. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Tell him to get lost.’

Paul sighed. ‘This is New York, Al. It’s just not feasible for you to be on your own. We’ve had a lot of threats…’

Marjorie joined in. ‘My chauffeur is a karate expert. Al will be perfectly safe with me.’

Paul stared in surprise. ‘Well…’ he started to say. But they were gone.

On the way out Al thought he saw Dallas. Of course it wasn’t her. He was always imagining he saw her. A girl in the street with the same kind of walk. A face in a car with the same wild abundance of hair. He shook his head. Why was it that she was the only girl he couldn’t get out of his head?

He followed Marjorie Carter into the back of a black Lincoln Continental parked, as she had promised, in the quiet of a back alley.

Marjorie Carter lived in some style in a penthouse apartment with spectacular views over New York.

‘Are you married?’ Al asked.

‘Divorced,’ Marjorie replied shortly, ‘and not about to get trapped again. I enjoy my independence. Open the champagne, I’m going to change.’

Al felt like he was partaking in a scene from an early Hollywood movie. The ballsy career woman off to slip into a negligee. Shades of Joan Crawford. He remembered her movies from when he was a kid. Paul and he had always slipped into the local movies through an open window in the ladies toilet. In fact Marjorie Carter even reminded him of Joan Crawford.

Raven hair, strong features, a direct way of speaking. He didn’t fancy her, couldn’t fancy her. There had been a teacher at the grammar school he had attended who had also reminded him of Joan Crawford. She had caught him jerking off at the tender age of eleven and reported him to the headmaster. Eight strokes of the cane. A very nasty memory.

Marjorie returned. It wasn’t quite a negligee, it was a long fall of silk jersey, and she had quite obviously removed her underclothes.

Al coughed. Where was all his witty repartee, his sexy come-ons? Somehow, ‘Want to fuck?’ or ‘Show us your tits’ did not seem the right phraseology to throw at a Marjorie Carter.

She accepted a glass of champagne from him, dipped a minute cracker into the silver jar holding the caviar. Her breasts joggled through the thin material, dangerously close to drooping.

‘Well,’ she said, sitting on a leopard-covered sofa and clicking on a remote control television, ‘shall we watch ourselves?’

‘Huh?’ asked Al nervously.

‘A videotape of our interview.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Their images flashed on to the television screen.

‘You look beautiful, Al,’ she purred.

Shouldn’t
he
be saying that to
her?
But how could he?

On the television screen she was attractive in a stern, no-nonsense way. He could understand her success, she handled the interview in a masterly fashion. But of course she had done it so many times before.

‘I think it would be nice,’ she said when the programme was half-way through, ‘if we made love here. Or do you prefer the bedroom?’

There was no getting out of it. He hardly dared argue. And oh, the magic of a little authority. His body was responding nicely.

‘Here will do.’

‘Good.’ She stood up and slipped off the robe. ‘My body is nice, don’t you think?’

She had full, over-ripe breasts that dominated a short body, stretch marks on her thighs, and a high mass of jet black pubic hair that seemed to trickle down her inner thighs.

‘Very tasty.’

‘You should have seen me when I was nineteen. Then I was really something.’

‘How old are you now?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘No, just curious.’

‘Five years older than you.’

‘I’m thirty-six,’ he said quickly.

‘You’re thirty-seven. I know every little detail about every guest I have on my show. Secret of my success.’

He put his arms around her waist and buried his head in her stomach. ‘What else do you know about me?’

‘That you’re supposed to be very good, and I like a man who knows what he’s doing.’

He reached up, squeezed her over-ripe breasts.

‘Why don’t you undress?’ she asked.

Thank God he was hard. He stood up, slipped off his clothes.

‘The great Al King, the legend lives!’ Her tone was faintly mocking as she fondled him.

He started to push her head down.

‘Don’t!’ she objected sharply. ‘I like to fuck.’

She made him angry enough to straddle her immediately. Hammer it into her, the bitch, who did she think she was?

Her legs clasped him firmly behind the neck, her arms too. He noticed that she didn’t shave under her arms, and for some strange reason that excited him further.

‘Tight, aren’t I?’ she asked. ‘I had the operation. Nice, isn’t it? Some women have their faces lifted. I get right down to where it really matters.’

For the first time in months he found himself ready to come. Oh Jesus, it was good. Ride along with it, wait for the moment.

She suddenly twisted free.

‘Hey…’ he objected, ‘I was ready…’

‘I wasn’t. Are you out of practice or what?’

Him, out of practice. She had to be kidding.

He moved on top of her again.

‘Don’t forget,’ she said sharply, ‘ladies first.’

‘I didn’t know there were any around’ and he slammed it into her and came with an explosion that nearly blew his ears off.

Marjorie was furious. ‘I should have known it was all reputation.’

Al dressed quickly. He was sorry he had ever gone with her. There was more feeling in the abortive scenes he had with the groupies and hookers.

Marjorie turned the volume up on the television and lay back on the sofa. ‘See yourself out,’ she said, and from underneath the sofa she produced a black plastic vibrator.

Al didn’t wait to hear the buzz.

Dallas saw Al at the party. She thought he saw her, but it was only a brief glance across a crowded room, and why should that make him stop?

After the fiasco in Monte Carlo he had probably never given her another thought, and indeed why should he? She was just another beautiful girl. His life was probably full of them.

She was hurt. She had thought there had been something between them. Well, screw him – Mister Big Star.

Linda was edging towards her – ‘You made it! What did you think?’

‘Quite a show.’

‘Horny little thing on stage, isn’t he?’

‘If you like that type.’

Linda laughed. ‘I know, I know,
you
don’t.’

Dallas just smiled.

The next morning she awoke early and took a cab over to her former apartment. No more hanging around New York. With the apartment rented at least she would have some sort of income.

Downstairs the janitor handed her a telegram. ‘Came a coupla days ago,’ he explained.

Dallas tore it open. It was from an agent she had met on her trip to the coast. Brief and to the point it read – ‘Interesting proposition. Call collect. Cody Hills.’ And there was a phone number.

She tucked it firmly in her purse. It would be something worth looking into, especially as she was on her way out there.

‘Mr. Mack’s chauffeur bin trying to find you,’ the janitor confided. ‘Bin here every day. What shall I tell him?’

‘Just tell him I’ve gone to Los Angeles.’

‘Sure,’ agreed the janitor. Maybe the chauffeur would be handing out another ten bucks for the information.

Dallas’s next stop was the shop where she had left her jewellery to be appraised the previous day. The price they offered her seemed fair, so the deal was done.

Now she had income and capital. She felt excited about getting away. No ties. A new start. Why wait?

Three hours later she was on a plane. Linda had not been at the apartment, and the only place she could think of contacting her was at Paul’s hotel, but she did not want to phone there, so she had left a note of thanks and a present – an expensive Gucci hold-all Linda had admired. It was the first present she had ever bought for anyone and it was a good feeling.

The flight to Los Angeles was bumpy but she managed to sleep in spite of the persistent attentions of a fat businessman in the adjoining seat.

‘Call me,’ he wheezed as the plane came into land, ‘if you ever get lonely.’

That was really funny. She was always lonely, but he would be the last person she would call.

Los Angeles was balmy and sunny. She took a cab to the Beverly Hills Hotel. The plan was to stay there only until she found a suitable apartment.

She called Cody Hills immediately. He suggested they meet for a drink, and she agreed.

The Polo Lounge was crowded as usual. Dallas looked around for Cody Hills, not even sure if she would remember him – their previous meeting at the studio had been very brief. She needn’t have worried. He found her, authoritatively took her by the arm, settled her at a table.

‘You look even better than I remember,’ he remarked briskly. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late twenties, medium height and build, brown hair combed carefully forward to conceal the fact that he was going prematurely bald.

‘Remember me?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ lied Dallas.

‘Of course not. Redford I’m not. But I haven’t been able to forget you, and when this thing came up, I knew you were the right girl.’

‘What thing?’

‘First things first. What are you drinking?’

‘Orange juice.’

‘Fantastic. You take dope?’

‘No. Hey – what is this?’

‘It’s just that the girl I’m looking for has to be a clean-living lady. Gotta think of the sponsors.’

‘What sponsors?’

Cody glanced conspiratorially around. ‘I am going to make you and me rich. Very, very rich. Does that grab you in all the right places?’

‘I guess so, as long as I don’t have to…’

He held up a hand. ‘You don’t have to do anything. Just trust me. Just keep looking the way you look, and trust me.’

‘Can you please tell me what this is all about?’

‘Certainly.’ He waved at a passing friend. ‘This is the situation. Saw your test – it stunk. Nothing new – all the beauty queen tests stink. They knock ’em off – just a formality. If you’re lucky you end up in a Dean Martin movie stickin’ out your whatsits and looking dumb. However – you are an incredible-looking young lady. I saw the television show with Al King. You looked spectacular. Racquel, Farrah, Sophie, you have a little bit of each of them – but something plus, something wild.’