Hollywood Kids Page 3

  The lack of flow-through cash was on account of the fact that at the urging of an overly pushy agent she'd finally abandoned everything else and sat in her apartment for the last three months working diligently on a novel about love, sex and relationships in the nineties. She'd written three hundred pages and torn most of them up. Finally she'd decided fiction wasn't her genre - if she was going to write a book it had to be based on plain hard facts, because only the truth would do.

  Once she'd made that decision she'd realized she needed to buy more time, and the only answer that came to mind was to accept the offer Style Wars magazine editor, Mason Rich, kept tempting her with. Mason wanted her to write six celebrity interviews, plus six pieces on any subject she cared to cover, and in return she would receive a healthy pay-cheque for the next year.

  She'd thought about it for two weeks now. If she accepted Mason's offer she wouldn't have to worry about paying the bills for a while, and that would be a big relief.

  Call him, her inner voice urged.

  Tomorrow.

  Not tomorrow. Today.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked up the phone and connected with Style Wars' New York office.

  'Mason?' she said quickly, before she changed her mind.

  'K.C. My favourite scribe,' Mason said, sounding pleased. He was a white, heterosexual married man of forty-eight with a strong urge to lure her into bed. So far she'd managed to keep their relationship on a purely professional level, but it wasn't easy. Married men were always the most persistent.

  Taking another deep breath, she said, 'OK, put me in front of the firing squad.'

  'What's that?'

  'Mason, I'm all yours.'

  He chuckled, 'K.C., I couldn't be happier. I'll arrange a first class flight for you on American, and book us the Oriental Suite at the St Regis. We'll have a memorable weekend.'

  She sighed. 'Very amusing, Mason. You know exactly what I mean.'

  'You're missing out,' he said ruefully.

  'Send me an advance cheque before I'm evicted. And give me the name of my first victim so I have time to throw up before the big moment.'

  'Welcome aboard.'

  'I'll be saluting all the way to the bank.'

  Decision made. No going back now, she was working for Style Wars - the thinking Hollywood executive's guide to the real world, or what they imagined was the real world. Every month the Hollywood community devoured their subscription copy of the fashionable magazine - Hey, I read Style Wars, I'm a well-read person.

  Actually, it wasn't such a bad publication - compared to the women's glossies and the men's jerk-off trips it was a virtual mine of information. In between the celebrity interviews, reviews, fashion statements and avant-garde photographs, there was usually one big story worth reading - some major scandal involving the rich and infamous.

  It was the idea of the big story that attracted her. When Mason had first proposed the deal he'd assured her she could get into anything she wanted, and that appealed to her. Investigative reporting was her forte - she'd covered everything from the Anita Hill Washington debacle to political screw ups, the war in Iran, and several juicy Wall Street shenanigans.

  Usually Kennedy liked to be where the action was - her motto was, have pen will travel. But six months ago her father had gotten sick, and she'd decided to stay in one place until the inevitable happened. Her dad was eighty-five years old and putting up an admirable fight against lung cancer. Three years earlier her mother had passed away. The loss was devastating - although Kennedy had learned to deal with grief when she'd lost her husband to a terrorist's bomb after twelve years of togetherness.

  Phil had been a wonderful, smart sexy man. They'd met in college, fallen in love, travelled the world, and after six blissful years, gotten married aboard a boat on a crocodile-infested river in Africa. They'd both craved adventure, they were like junkies chasing the latest high - if there was something going on in the world they had to be there. Phil had been a brilliant photographer, capturing stark, honest images. Kennedy had written the pieces to go with his startling work. They'd been a formidable team, much in demand by magazines and newspapers.

  Phil had died in Ireland covering the ongoing battle. She would have been with him except that she was three months pregnant, and since she'd had two miscarriages her doctor had advised her to stay home and take it easy for once. She'd lost the baby anyway.

  After Phil's death her life had stopped for a while. She'd sat in their small house in Connecticut for almost a year, trying to get past the overwhelming grief that enveloped her. At times she'd considered suicide, but she'd known Phil would regard it as a cowardly way out. He'd fully expect her to achieve all the things they'd planned to do together, and she knew she couldn't let him down. So finally she'd drawn on every bit of strength she could muster and ventured out into the world again, only to find that travelling by herself did not hold the same fascination. It was difficult, dangerous and lonely.

  Eventually she'd decided to find a base somewhere - not the house in Connecticut because it held too many memories, but Los Angeles, so she'd be near her parents. Shortly after she moved to LA her mother got sick and died. Now it was her father's turn.

  She did not regret her call to Mason. In fact, she was almost excited about the commitment of working for the same magazine for a year. The celebrity interviews were a minor irritation she'd have to deal with. It was the thought of the big story that got her juices flowing.

  Phil would have a million and one ideas if he was around. But he wasn't. Phil had checked out. Deserted her. Not his fault, but sometimes, late at night, when the reality crept up on her, she couldn't help blaming him.

  Why did be have to go to Ireland?

  Why did he have to leave?

  She'd never met a man who could measure up to Phil. Her closest girlfriend, Rosa Alvarez, assured her there were plenty of good ones around, but she had yet to find one, even though she dated sporadically, hating every minute of forced conversation and the obligatory good-night pass. 'I'm too old and too smart for this shit,' she wearily informed Rosa, who had a bad habit of trying to fix her up.

  Rosa, a Hispanic beauty of forty who held the prime position of co-anchor on a local TV station, was a determined woman who refused to give up on her friend's romantic situation. 'You're five years younger than me, Kennedy,' Rosa lectured sternly. 'I will not allow you to sit at home by yourself. There's someone out there for you, and I intend to find him.'

  'Oh, good,' Kennedy replied drily. 'I can't wait for you to come up with Mister Wrong.'

  She knew men were attracted to her, they took one look at the package and wanted a chance. She was tall - five feet nine. Curvaceous - although she tried to play her sensational body down. She had shoulder-length honey-blonde hair and startlingly direct green eyes. Hers was an intelligent beauty touched with class.

  Since Phil's death she'd had one semi-serious relationship. Somehow - against her better judgement - she'd gotten involved with one of Rosa's colleagues, a Kevin Costner-look-alike weather-man, who was two years younger than her and not the fastest brain in the West.

  The sex was OK, but after six months she began to suspect he wasn't faithful, and that was enough to make her move on.

  Dumping him was not easy - they'd broken up three months ago and he still called every few weeks begging her to change her mind.

  She knew she never would. Celibacy was infinitely preferable.

  Chapter Four

  Bobby Rush jogged every day. He arose at five in the morning, donned shorts and a T-shirt, put on his well-worn Nikes and set off come rain or shine. Not that there was much rain in sunny California, most of the time it was too hot. Since moving back to LA from New York he'd had a hard time readjusting to the constant heat.

  At thirty-two Bobby was boyishly good-looking, with longish dirty blond hair and river-blue eyes. He'd inherited his looks and his talent from Jerry Rush, his famous movie-star father. Thank God he hadn't inherited his personality, b
ecause Jerry was a womanizer, a bully and an alcoholic.

  Now finally, after years of being regarded as nothing more than one of Jerry's sons, Bobby had a hit movie of his own. A goddamn hit! And all of a sudden he was being heralded as the star of the family, and Jerry was being referred to as Bobby Rush's father! It was some amazing triumph!

  His two older stepbrothers, Len and Stan, were not pleased. It was bad enough being labelled Jerry Rush's sons, now they had to contend with being known as Bobby Rush's brothers. It rankled, especially as they'd both tried to make it as actors with no success. Len and Stan were the sons of Jerry's first wife, who, after the divorce, had married a heart surgeon and now lived quietly in Arizona.

  Len was a drunk. Stan a cokehead. Jerry still supported them, even though they were both married with children of their own.

  Bobby had not spoken to his father for five years. They'd fought before he'd moved to New York and had no contact since. Now he was back, his movie was a hit, and Darla, his Swedish stepmother, had arranged a reunion dinner the following week.

  Bobby's feet hit the running track at UCLA. He was renting a small house in the Hollywood Hills, but he'd soon found that jogging up there was a chore. His first day out he'd bumped into Madonna and her bodyguards. Jogging was not supposed to be a social occasion, it was work - gut-strengthening, heart-pumping powerful work.

  He'd been back in LA for several weeks, and after endless meetings, setting up new production offices at Orpheus Studios, conferring with writers about the movie he was putting together, and settling into the house, he'd had no time to do anything else. He hadn't called anybody, not even his brothers.

  Darla had tracked him down because Darla was the best busybody in town. She knew everybody and everything, and now that he had a hit movie she was more than anxious to arrange a reunion with good old dad.

  Jerry Rush. An icon. A legend. Up there with Burt and Kirk and Greg - all the great stars from the fifties and sixties. Jerry had been one of the biggest - an action adventure star when action meant killing the bad guys and adventure meant kissing the leading ladies. Now Jerry rarely appeared in a movie unless it was a character role, even though he still looked pretty damn good, thanks to a talented plastic surgeon who'd worked his magic gradually over the years. But Jerry was nearing seventy, hardly a desirable age for screen heroes.

  Bobby wondered what his father would have to say about his amazing success. Their relationship had always been difficult - the belittling treatment he'd received when growing up would have destroyed a lesser man. His brothers had never made the break, they were trapped for ever in Jerry's giant overbearing shadow.

  Bobby's earliest memories were grim.

  His first swimming lesson: Jerry had tossed him into the deep end of the pool and calmly watched him struggle for his life.

  His first day at school: Jerry had gone with him and had strutted around introducing himself to the teachers, signing autographs, making sure everyone knew whose son little Bobby was.

  His first prom date: Jerry had kissed the girl full on the lips, and starry-eyed, she'd done nothing but talk about how wonderful his father was all night.

  His first fiancee: Jerry had screwed her regularly for two months before Bobby walked in on them one day. Jerry had just laughed. 'She was a tramp,' he'd said. 'Lucky you found out in time.'

  After that Bobby knew life with his father was a war, and to win that war he had to become as wary and devious as any enemy.

  Jerry wanted him to attend college in California, but with the support of his long-suffering mother he'd made an escape to New York where he'd put in time at NYU for eighteen months before dropping out and trying for an acting career. His father did not approve and gave him no support. That was OK, he didn't want any. He got a night-time job as a waiter, and a day-time job on a TV soap. It was good training.

  Two years later, when his mother died of cancer, he'd returned to LA.

  The day of the funeral Jerry had taken him aside, begging him to stay. 'I'm lonely,' Jerry had said, displaying a never before seen vulnerability. 'Your brothers are married, and this is a damn big house. Whyn't you move back in, Bobby? Keep an old man company.'

  Against his better judgement he'd done just that. Big mistake. Once he was safely back Jerry had turned into a monster again, putting the make on every one of his girlfriends, treating him like he was still a kid in grade school.

  It became painfully obvious that cutting off his son's balls was one of Jerry's favourite pastimes.

  When Darla had entered his father's life, Bobby exited. He stayed in LA and rented an apartment in Sherman Oaks. He landed a couple of small roles in features, then got a part on another soap, and started dating a series of girls he never took home to Daddy.

  After Jerry married Darla, she tried to make one big happy family out of them. It didn't work.

  Christmas of '89 Jerry and Bobby had their famous confrontation. There was a big party at the family mansion on Bedford Drive. Jerry liked to go all out, no expense spared, so the garden was tented, the swimming-pool covered to make a dance floor, phoney Santa Clauses abounded, along with fortune-tellers and a seven-piece band. Fifteen round tables were place-carded to accommodate the one hundred and twenty guests. Darla organized every detail, while Jerry took all the credit.

  Bobby entertained a grudging admiration for Darla, the steely Swede succeeded where many other women had failed, she almost kept Jerry under control. However, on this particular occasion nobody could have controlled Jerry. Too much straight bourbon, a new movie about to start shooting and he strutted around more cocksure than ever.

  Bobby made the mistake of taking his current girlfriend to the party, Linda, a petite blonde with the requisite California body and gorgeous big blue eyes. Naturally Jerry tried to hit on her as soon as they arrived. Linda handled it well, but later a drunken Jerry grabbed her when she exited the powder room, jamming his lips on hers and plunging his sweaty hand down the neckline of her dress. Linda, a true innocent from Minnesota, was totally distraught. She slapped Jerry's face and ran to tell Bobby.

  Bobby rose to the occasion because Jerry's bad behaviour had to stop somewhere.

  When his father appeared he'd faced him, and said in a low angry voice, 'Linda deserves an apology.'

  What?' Jerry stood before him, swaying slightly, liquid slopping over the edge of his glass.

  Bobby had no intention of backing down. 'Say you're sorry, you horny bastard.'

  Jerry began to laugh in a nasty fashion. 'Sorry, to her, you gotta, be kidding.'

  For once in his life Bobby stood up to his father. 'Do it,' he said tightly.

  There was a heavy silence as everyone pretended not to watch the tense confrontation.

  'C'mon, son, can't y'see she's nothin' but a tramp,' Jerry said, slurring his words. 'You sure as hell know how to pick 'em, Bobby. Gotta stop lettin' your cock rule your fuckin' heart. Be like me, get some class in your life.'

  Something came over Bobby, an anger so dark and overwhelming he couldn't control it. He hit Jerry straight on to his dumb ass. Then he grabbed Linda and got the hell out.

  The next week he took off for New York where he'd thrown himself into making his career happen.

  He'd soon realized nobody was killing themselves to give Jerry Rush's son a job, but he was determined to make it, so he'd gotten together with a couple of friends from college, and they'd started developing properties with an eye to getting them made as low-budget movies.

  They were a hard-driving team with an excellent commercial eye. His college room-mate, Gary Mann, line produced and handled the financial side. While Tyrone Houston, former college football hero, did the actual producing. Bobby starred in and executive produced, overseeing every detail.

  Fortunately it all came together and they enjoyed making it happen. Gary was Mister Charm with his easygoing manner, but underneath the warm personality lurked a calculator mind. Tyrone was Mister Handsome, black and athletic looking, he was an excell
ent producer who really got off on making killer deals.

  It was hard, gruelling, seventeen-hour-a-day work, but it sure paid off. Thanks to all their efforts they'd put together two movies on an almost non-existent budget, and when those films made money they were able to interest real investors and came up with Hard Tears, an erotic love story about a cop and a call girl. It scored big, and suddenly Bobby Rush was a star with a major development deal at Orpheus - which he made sure included Gary and Tyrone. Now they had plenty of Orpheus's money to do exactly what they wanted. The trick was picking the right project. A score was a score, but Bobby knew only too well that his second big movie was crucial. Right now he had a couple in development, and any moment he was about to decide which one was ready to go.

  'Hi, Bobby.' A pretty girl in cut-offs and a clinging T-shirt waved at him as she jogged past.

  Lately everyone greeted him, it seemed that overnight he'd become public property. Never mind all the time he'd put in on the soaps - one hit movie, that's all it took.

  Automatically he waved back, even though he had no idea who she was. He began to jog a little faster. The thrill of no longer being regarded as Jerry Rush's son was indescribable. It would be impossible for anyone to understand unless they'd gone through it themselves.

  Growing up with a famous parent.

  Handicapped for life.

  Goddamn it, he'd taken that handicap and crushed it underfoot. Now he was a winner all the way.

  -=O=---=O=-

  The Man moved into a room in a big, almost empty house on Benedict Canyon. It belonged to his uncle who lived back East, and allowed various relatives and friends to use it. In the forties it had been the home of a legendary blonde movie star who'd killed her lover with a butcher's knife and when the deed was done, committed suicide by hanging herself from the rafters in the huge gloomy living room.

  Eldessa, the old black maid who looked after the house, had told him the story the day he'd moved in. The Man had listened impatiently to the senile old crone, and when she was finished he'd instructed her never to talk to him again, and that she was not - under any circumstances - to enter his room.