Hollywood Kids Read online

  Yeah, he remembered all right. Rita complaining every time Bella woke her in the middle of the night. The smell of dirty diapers. Toys and baby clothes all over the floor. A fridge full of formula. Ah, memories...

  'I gotta get my ass outta your back yard,' he muttered, thinking to himself the sooner the better. He'd already looked at several apartments. Unfortunately the ones he liked were too expensive, and the rest were crap.

  'Why?' Quincy asked. 'Amber loves you, an' I kinda get off on havin' you around. It's like old times, only we're not out bustin' our cans chasin' low-life scumbags.'

  'True,' he said, staring through the window at huge wrought-iron gates, sweeping lawns, exotic plants and manicured palm trees. 'Hey, Q, this place is unreal. People really live like this?'

  Quincy laughed. He was a big man, verging on being over-weight, with soft brown eyes, bushy hair, and extra-large hands and feet. He had a habit of waving his hands in the air whenever he got excited. 'You've seen it in the movies, now get used to the real thing,' he said, gesturing expansively. 'These dudes got plenty of money an' don't mind spendin' it.'

  Who? Movie stars?'

  'Naw... some of 'em, maybe. But it's all those producers an' Hollywood execs who cream a bundle off every movie they're involved with. Those guys make sure they're swimmin' in big bucks. They call it creative accounting.'

  'What are you - a Hollywood expert?' Michael asked, laughing and scratching his chin.

  Quincy nodded knowingly. 'I'm doin' some work for a couple of those hotshot studio execs.'

  'Yeah? Anything interesting?'

  'Not compared to our New York days. Hey, at least I ain't puttin' my life on the line tryin' to nail some friggin' deadbeat with a bad crack habit an' a shaky trigger finger. Out here it's cream-puff time, an' I get paid primo. I'm telling you, Mike, come in with me, we'd clean up mucho bucks.'

  Unconvinced, Michael said, 'Doesn't it get kinda boring? Y'know, the sun shining all the time, people telling you to have a nice day, everyone smiling - '

  'You're forgetting about the riots,' Quincy interrupted. 'An' the car-jackings, earthquakes, mud slides, fires, drive-by shootings an' floods. If's not all Sunset Boulevard and big mansions.'

  Reaching for a cigarette, Michael lit up and said, This is nice, Q, but after a while, I'd miss the streets, y'know what I mean?'

  'If you stay here you'll be near your kid.'

  'I called yesterday,' he said, taking a deep drag. 'Same old thing, all I get is that frigging answering machine.'

  'So drop by, surprise 'em. You must be achin' to see little Bella.'

  'I am, but I gotta be sure Rita knows I'm here to stay. I need my own place, that way I can take my kid for weekends, get to know her again.'

  'Whyn't you bring her over to us? Amber would love it, she's turned into a regular earth mother.'

  'I'm tempted.'

  Tell you what,' Quincy said, making a quick decision. 'If you promise not to tell Amber on account of the fact that she's startin' to call me fat boy, I'll buy us a pizza, then we'll drop by an' surprise Rita. How's that?'

  'You know something,' Michael said, nodding slowly, 'that's not such a bad idea.'

  * * *

  'Bobby Rush,' Mason said, his voice crackling over the phone from New York.

  'Don't you mean Jerry Rush?' Kennedy replied, cradling the receiver under her chin as she reached for a notepad and pen.

  'Jerry's cold. Bobby's hot.'

  She hated asking, but she honestly didn't know.' Who is Bobby Rush?'

  Mason grunted disapprovingly. 'Sometimes you surprise me.'

  'I've never heard of him.'

  'For Christ's sake, K.C., keep up with what's happening or I'm likely to think I've made a serious mistake hiring you.'

  She drew a stick figure on the notepad and added little pointed horns. 'Movie stars are not my priority, Mason. I presume that's what he is.'

  'He's Jerry's son done good. Starred in and produced Hard Tears., it just passed the hundred-million-dollar mark. He takes his clothes off on screen - that should appeal to you - a touch of the double standard reversed. I suggest you see the movie. In the meantime we'll Fed Ex you some of his clippings and a bio.'

  'How exciting,' she said drily.

  'I want a very provocative piece. This'll be the cover story. Make him out to be a male Sharon Stone.'

  Why - does he flash his pussy?'

  'Don't be crude.'

  'I was hoping for Clint Eastwood, Charlie Dollar or Jack Nicholson.'

  'You like 'em old, huh?'

  'I like 'em to have a brain.'

  'He does.'

  'What are you - his PR?'

  'Goodbye,' Mason said, hanging up.

  She called Rosa at the network. Who's Bobby Rush?'

  'Nice ass,' Rosa said. 'Why?'

  'I've never heard of him,' she repeated.

  'I wouldn't advertise. He's famous.'

  'I guess I'd better start watching E.T. and reading People.'

  'How about going to the movies occasionally?'

  'So shoot me. I prefer watching PBS.'

  'Bobby Rush is very sexy. Rumour has it he fucks like a rabbit and doesn't come for an hour and a half.'

  'Sounds like your kind of man, Rosa.'

  'I'm perfectly happy with my basketball player, thank you. He might be young, but he has stamina and... uh... other attributes I'm too much of a lady to mention.'

  'Sure!'

  Rosa giggled. 'OK, OK, he's hung like a bull and I think I'm in love.'

  'Again?'

  They both laughed. Rosa's love life was legendary, she used men for sex the way men usually used women, and she always got away with it because she never let them into the secret.

  'Why are you questioning me about Bobby Rush?' Rosa asked curiously.

  Kennedy sighed. 'Because Mason - in his wisdom - requires me to write a cover story on this person I've never heard of.'

  'Check out the movie pronto and get back to me. I got a feeling you'll like what you see.'

  'I'll let you know.'

  An hour later she was sitting in a darkened theatre watching Bobby Rush emote. He was certainly movie-star material with his regular features, dirty blond hair and incredible blue eyes. The body was good, too - and he flashed regularly - kind of like a Richard Gere for the nineties. At one point in the movie there was a brief full frontal shot - fast but worthwhile.

  Male bimbo? she jotted down with a question mark. Beautiful but dumb? If he was, she could rip him to shreds without any trouble at all.

  Now why would I want to do that? she asked herself.

  Because I have no intention of writing the usual love-struck female journalist puff piece.

  She called Mason. 'Send me everything you've got on him and the father.'

  'This is not supposed to be a father/son piece,' Mason warned. 'His press people were adamant about that.' A pause. 'But do what you want - make it provocative.'

  'I intend to.'

  * * *

  The Sunset View Hollywood apartments did not live up to their glamorous name. There was no sunset because they faced the wrong way, and absolutely no view. The small cluster of run-down apartments were located in a seedy side-street off Hollywood Boulevard.

  'Shit!' Michael muttered, as Quincy parked his car outside. 'Rita told me she and Bella were living in a decent place. This is a crap hole.'

  'Maybe it's better on the inside,' Quincy said, always the optimist.

  'Maybe not,' Michael said grimly, eyeing a couple of derelicts huddled in a doorway surrounded by overflowing shopping carts.

  'Let's go take a look,' Quincy suggested.

  They got out of the car, dodging a drunken bum who staggered by singing to himself.

  'No kid of mine is living here,' Michael said, running up the front steps. 'This isn't what I'm paying alimony for.'

  'Calm down,' Quincy said, right behind him. 'You haven't seen Rita in a while, don't start with the screamin', see what she has to sa
y first.'

  'I don't give a shit what she has to say,' Michael said angrily, and he meant it. Quincy could try and calm him all he wanted, but no way was his daughter staying in a dump like this.

  He pressed the buzzer marked Rita Polone. Trust his lovely ex to use her maiden name, Scorsini wasn't good enough for her, Rita wanted better. She'd come to Hollywood to find it and look where she'd ended up.

  There was no reply to his persistent buzzing, so he leaned on the bell next to hers.

  After a few moments a head poked out of an upstairs window and an elderly fat woman wearing too much make-up and a pink bow in her hair croaked an unfriendly, 'If ya sellin' I ain't buyin'. If ya buyin' I bin outta the business five years, an' why that dumb ass freebie piece a shit magazine keeps runnin' my address ain't my concern.'

  Michael took a couple of steps away from the building and looked up. 'I'm trying to contact Rita Polone,' he shouted.

  'Who?' the woman yelled back, cupping her ear.

  'Rita Polone. She lives in the apartment below you with her little girl.'

  'Oh, her?' the woman snorted. 'That redheaded slut. Don't know where she is, an' don't care.' With that she disappeared, slamming her window shut.

  'Nice neighbours,' Quincy remarked cheerfully.

  'Christ!' Michael said, getting more frustrated by the minute.

  Quincy tried to calm him down. 'Maybe we should come back when she's home,' he suggested.

  'Maybe we shouldn't,' Michael retorted sharply. 'Get the door open - I wanna take a look around.'

  Quincy pulled a face. 'That's breakin' an' enterin', Mike. You know Rita's temper. I don't wanna be here when it hits.'

  Michael threw him a dirty look. 'What happened to you in California, Q? You gone soft?'

  'Hey, hey,' Quincy replied, gesturing wildly. 'Gotta keep within the confines of the law or I could get my licence revoked.'

  'Fuck the law and fuck your licence. I want in.'

  'Shit!' Quincy groaned. 'I almost forgot what a trip it was workin' with you.'

  'Let's go,' Michael said impatiently, clicking his ringers.

  'Shit!' Quincy repeated, before using his skills and a Sears credit card to skewer open Rita's front door.

  The first thing that hit them was the smell - a combination of stale air, mouldy food and damp. 'Jesus!' Michael said grimly, pushing his way in. 'What's that stink?'

  Piled on the floor behind the door was a stack of unopened brochures, letters and flyers - mostly junk mail, but as Michael bent to sift through it he was startled to find his last two months' alimony cheques, still in their envelopes.

  'Sorry to say it,' Quincy said, walking through the musty hallway. 'I gotta strong suspicion they don't live here any more.'

  Chapter Seven

  'I'm going into the hooker business,' Cheryl announced over cappuccino and a Danish, carefully monitoring her friend's reaction.

  Jordanna raised her blacker than black shades and stared disbelievingly at her friend. 'Excuse me?'

  They were sitting at an outside table at Chin Chin on Sunset Plaza watching hordes of Euro-trash pass by.

  'Not street hookers,' Cheryl explained matter-of-factly. 'High-class party girls who get paid a ton of money for doing things they usually do for free. Call girls actually.'

  Jordanna frowned, she was used to Cheryl's crazy ideas, but this was ridiculous. 'Have you totally lost your sense of reality?'

  'I always thought I'd make a good business-woman,' Cheryl said evenly. 'And now's my opportunity. Donna Lacey's father has summoned her back to London, and she's asked me to take over her business while she's away.'

  'And what exactly is her business?'

  'Where have you been hiding? You must have heard about Donna. She's that English director's daughter who supplies girls to several of the studios on a regular basis. Her clients include agents, studio execs, and quite a few movie stars.'

  Jordanna sipped her cappuccino, and said without much interest, 'I guess I've seen her at Homebase picking out talent. I had no idea she was a friend of yours.'

  We go to the same shrink, and we got to talking.'

  'I see.'

  Cheryl desperately wanted Jordanna to understand that this was a legitimate business venture she could get into without any help from Daddy. She needed to separate from her family, show the world she had her own identity. 'The thing is she's got the high-class hooker bit covered because important men trust her. Donna's connected - like me. That's why she's decided I'm the perfect person to take over for her.'

  'Lucky you.'

  Cheryl chose to ignore the sarcasm in Jordanna's voice. 'You see, guys are all the same,' she explained, warming to her subject. 'They either have the original wife who's not into sex any more. Or the sleek little trophy number who, after one year of marriage, conveniently forgets what a blow job is! Sex and marriage do not jell - hence Donna's thriving venture. These men are into paying for it.'

  Why?' Jordanna asked, genuinely puzzled.

  'For the same reason they buy the most expensive cars, houses, clothes. Money equals status. They don't want a fifty-bucks-a-night hooker, they want the top-of-the-line latest model, hardly used, very costly.'

  'You've finally lost it, Cheryl,' Jordanna said, shaking her head. Why would you get involved?'

  'For a piece of the action.'

  'Oh, like you're hard up for money. Your father owns a studio, for God's sake, you can have anything you want.'

  Cheryl turned on her, eyes flashing. 'I want to do something on my own for once without taking hand-outs from my family. Right now my only claim to fame is that I went on a date with Eric Menendez in high school. This is my opportunity.'

  Jordanna snorted derisively. 'Big fucking opportunity. Running call girls.'

  'Don't knock it,' Cheryl said defensively. 'They pull in fifteen hundred a trick, and I get to pocket forty per cent. Of course, I'll have to put aside ten for Donna, but that's OK, I'll still end up with plenty.'

  'You'll be a madam, Cheryl. You could get busted for pandering - isn't that what they call it?'

  'You've been watching too many of your father's movies. They can't touch me, I'm Hollywood royalty.'

  'Oh, really?'

  A good-looking blond guy cruised by in a low-slung convertible. He beeped his horn and waved at them. Automatically Jordanna waved back.

  Cheryl sat up a little straighter. 'Who's he?' she asked.

  'Do I know? Do I care?'

  'Come on, be a little co-operative, he could be a future client.'

  Jordanna stared at her in amazement. 'You're really serious, aren't you?'

  Cheryl nodded, her gold ear-rings glinting in the noonday sun. 'You bet I am. It's certainly preferable to marking time. I mean, take a look at us - what are we doing with our lives?'

  The unfortunate thing was that Cheryl had a point. Jordanna realized she'd partied her way through high school; continued to party through two years of college; lived in Paris for six months where she'd learned the language and had a hot affair with a married French movie star twenty years her senior. Until finally she'd returned to LA, moved into her father's guest house and generally bummed around, taking for granted the generous monthly allowance she received. Cheryl was right - what were they doing?

  It often crossed her mind that maybe she'd be a lot happier if she could find something interesting to occupy her time. But what? For several years she'd thought about becoming an actress, everyone told her she had the looks, and it was possible she'd inherited some of her mother's talent. Tentatively she'd approached her father, who'd laughed in her face. 'Forget it, skinny bird. You have no idea what a hard business this is, especially for actresses.' He'd gone on to convince her that as Jordan and Lillianne Levitt's daughter she'd have too much to live up to - people would expect the moon and then some. Sadly she'd been forced to agree, even though she still secretly harboured the ambition to act.

  She'd considered several other careers, but none had really grabbed her atten
tion, so eventually, like Cheryl, she'd fallen into the pattern of lunching with friends, shopping, hanging out, going to parties, doing drugs. It soon became an addictive lifestyle, although it never made her happy, and it certainly didn't make her father happy. The summer after Fran committed suicide he'd gotten together with Ethan Landers, and the two men had decided their errant daughters needed something more than parties to occupy their vacation time, so they'd put them to work as set assistants on The Contract, a movie Jordan was producing for Ethan's studio. Both she and Cheryl had hated every minute of it, although Jordanna had managed to have an affair with the director, Mac Brooks, and that had been quite an experience.

  Now she was well aware she was at a crossroads, but she sure as hell wasn't becoming a madam like Cheryl, who was even now leaning over her cappuccino with a self-satisfied expression. 'I've had a brilliant idea,' Cheryl exclaimed excitedly.

  'What?' Jordanna asked, suspicious of her friend's brilliant ideas.

  'You!' Cheryl said, eyes gleaming. 'You'd make a shitload of money.'

  'Doing what?'

  'You could be one of my girls.'

  'I love your insane sense of humour. Any more brilliant ideas?'

  'I mean it.'

  'Stop it, Cheryl, OK? I have no intention of becoming one of your girls. In fact, there's no way I'm getting involved in this stupid scam of yours.'

  'You'll be sorry,' Cheryl taunted. 'Donna handed over her little black book and it's full of important names - aren't you at least curious?'

  'Nope.'

  'Her book's worth plenty and I've got it,' Cheryl said.

  'How fortunate for you,' Jordanna replied with absolutely no interest.

  'I now know everything about the players in this town,' Cheryl continued with relish. 'What turns them on - and off. The type of girls they like, and the ones they've had. All their kinky turn-ons. It's kind of a thrill discovering what everyone's into.'

  'I'm sure it is,' Jordanna said, wondering if Cheryl had totally lost her mind. 'I always had a feeling voyeurism was your thing.'

  'Donna's filled me in good. She has plenty of girls working for her, and when she needs new ones she simply goes on a recruiting spree.'