she and Joey were beginning to fight nonstop. New York was tough,
she'd had seven different jobs and it was getting her down. If she'd
had to serve one more plate of beans and hash she knew she'd go nuts.
When Reece Webster first came on to her she'd thought he was just
another on-the-make hustler. "You haven't even heard me sing," she'd
said scornfully, when he announced he'd make her a star.
"I don't have to," he'd replied. "With your looks all you gotta do is
open your mouth an' every guy in the place will do the fandango. Get
it?"
Yes, she got it. He didn't have to tell her about men and their
reaction to her.
Joey had been furious when she informed him she was leaving.
"What do you know about this guy?" he'd said.
"Enough," she'd replied.
"You're making a big mistake."
Maybe she was and maybe she wasn't, but she had to take the chance. It
was time to leave, so she'd packed up and taken off in spite of Joey's
objections.
In Los Angeles Reece had set her up in what she considered total
luxury. A nice apartment on Fountain Avenue, no roaches or rats, and a
palm tree outside her window. A palm tree! She thought she was in
heaven.
Reece vacillated between staying with her and spending time with his
wife, who lived in Tarzana. For two years he'd promised to get a
divorce, now he'd done it, and they'd jumped in his Cadillac, driven to
Vegas and gotten married.
"Just you wait," Reece had said. "When you're rich an' famous we'll do
it again. An' this time the world will come. You'll see, honey.
You'll see.
The first thing that hit Nick when he stepped off the plane in Los
Angeles was the sunshine-dazzling, blinding sunshine. And his next
impression was one of a laid-back casual friendliness, the like of
which was not evident on the streets of Chicago.
Out on the sidewalk with the sun beating down he hailed a cab and gave
the driver Cyndra's address.
On the ride in he took in the scenery Wide streets, tall dusty palm
trees and a proliferation of gas stations, fast-food chains and
used-car lots. Pedestrians were sparse on the street, but cars were
everywhere.
As they got closer to town the greenery overwhelmed him. Every garden
seemed to be filled with exotic plants and every street lined with
trees.
He couldn't help feeling excited. After all, this was the real thing,
he was in Los Angeles for crissake. Hollywood. Land of the movies.
Jeer! If he was lucky he might even bump into Dustin Hoffman or Al
Pacino walking down the fucking street!
The cab pulled up in front of Cyndra's apartment house-a threestory
pink stucco building. He jumped out and checked the row of buzzers by
the main door. Sure enough, one of them was marked with her name. He
pressed it and waited.
Five minutes later when she still hadn't replied he realized he should
have called.
A well-preserved woman in tennis whites and running shoes walked up to
the door, balancing two bags of groceries. "Hi," he said.
"Hi," she replied, groping for her key.
He went to help her with the grocery bags. "Can I give you a hand?"
She flashed a row of perfect white teeth. "Why not?"
Hmm . . . in Chicago she'd have told him to get lost. People were
obviously more trusting in L.A. He balanced her grocery bags in one
arm, picked up his bag with the other and followed her in as she opened
the gate.
The first thing he saw was a swimming pool. Holy shit! Cyndra must be
rolling in it.
Around the swimming pool there were several apartments.
"You wouldn't happen to know where Cyndra Angelo lives?" he asked.
"Are you a friend of hers?"
"I'm her brother."
"Apartment three, across the other side."
He handed her groceries over. "Thanks."
She smiled again. "You're welcome. Have a nice day."
"I plan to, but thanks anyway.
He went over to Cyndra's apartment, knocking just to make sure, and
when nobody answered, placed his bag against the door and tried to
decide what to do. Since this was his first day in L.A. and there was
nobody out by the pool he decided to take a swim. Stripping down to
his shorts he leaped in, splashing around like a fish. Goddamn it!
This was luxury!
He spent the afternoon on a lounger catching some rays and waiting for
his sister. By six o'clock it was obvious she was going to be late.
Other people were arriving home from work and entering their
apartments. A couple of them gave him strange looks.
He knew he'd better make a move before someone became suspicious. With
a few deft strokes he used his credit card to spring her lock. Nobody
was around to notice as he slipped inside. Mental note -make sure
Cyndra got herself a decent lock.
He looked around. Little sis was living pretty good. He opened the
refrigerator and uncovered a dish of cold spaghetti. It looked
inviting, so he ate it, then he drank from a carton of milk and began
roaming around the small apartment. He didn't mean to be nosy, but he
couldn't help checking out the bathroom cabinets and opening up the
closet. There was definitely a man in residence-some asshole who
favored cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats.
On top of the Sony stereo in the living room was a framed picture of
Cyndra with an older guy. He picked it up and studied it.
So this was the notorious Reece Webster. The man looked old enough to
be her father-skinny and blondish with a thin mouth, droopy mustache
and shifty eyes. Cyndra looked sensational in a sexy tank top and
shorts. Little Cyndra was all grown up.
He lit a cigarette and settled in front of the television. After a few
minutes he dozed off.
When he awoke it was way past midnight and the cigarette had burned a
hole in the arm of the couch. There was still no sign of Cyndra, so he
grabbed a blanket from the bedroom, curled up on the couch and went
back to sleep.
Cyndra didn't want to go home. She'd fallen in love with Las Vegas.
"This place is the best," she told a dumbfounded Reece.
"This place is a pisshole, honey," he replied, amazed that anyone could
actually like Vegas.
"Then why did you bring me here?"
"Because this damn pisshole is gonna make us a whole lotta money.
"How?"
"You're gonna be a star here, baby. I can feel it."
She wanted to believe him. She basked in his enthusiasm. "I am?"
"Sure you are. I set up appointments tomorrow for you to meet the
talent scouts from a couple of the big hotels. You're gonna impress
the custom-made pants off em."
"How'll I do that?"
"By lookin' sexy an' singin' for em, sugar.
"Why? When we've got those record companies waiting to cut demos with
me back in L.A.?"
"Good business," Reece said, very sure of himself. "Never put it all
in one place. When we go in an' see these guys you listen-don't
talk."
That night he took her around all the bes
t hotels. The Sands. The
Desert Inn. The Tropicana. Cyndra was thrilled, she'd never seen
anything like the lavish hotels with their multi-colored fountains,
oversize sculptures and enormous colorful casinos filled with middle
America losing their hard-earned money.
"Consider this little tour an educational trip," Reece said as he
swaggered from hotel to hotel masquerading as a Texas millionaire in
his cowboy boots and ten-gallon hat. He jerked his thumb at a singer
in the lounge at The Golden Nugget. "You see her? She can't sing for
shit, but she sure puts in a pretty appearance.
"Why are you telling me?" Cyndra asked.
"Cause, Mrs. Webster, not only do you look good, but you can sing
too.
An' we're gonna use everything we got to make you bigger and better
than anyone else."
Reece made her feel she could achieve anything. "Can we stay a couple
of extra days?" she begged, "Can we? Please. After all, it is our
honeymoon."
He tilted his hat. "What'll you give me if I say yes?"
She smiled. "I'll make it simple. Anything you want, Reece. Anything
at all."
Nick awoke in the morning uncomfortable and hot. There was no Cyndra
around, she must have taken off somewhere. He should've called to let
her know he was coming. Shit! Too late now.
He helped himself to a banana, made a cup of instant coffee and then
sauntered outside to the pool.
An athletic-looking girl in a one-piece swimsuit swam laps, her brown
arms and legs flashing through the inviting blue water.
"Hey," he called out. "Any chance you know where Cyndra Angelo is?"
The girl took no notice of him as she pounded the water, hardly coming
up for breath. He squatted down beside the pool waiting for her to
surface.
After a few minutes she swam to the shallow end and climbed out,
shaking herself like a shaggy dog. The girl wasn't pretty in a
conventional way, more interesting-looking-with a pert face, snub nose
and bright blue eyes. She was five feet three with a sensational
compact body and very short red hair.
"Excuse me," he said. "I'm trying to find Cyndra Angelo."
"Who're you?"
"Her brother."
"You're her brother?"she said disbelievingly, grabbing a towel and
drying herself "Cyndra never mentioned she had a brother."
"I flew in from Chicago-figured I'd surprise her. I guess it wasn't
such a good idea."
"What did you do, break into her apartment?" she said knowingly,
toweling a bronzed thigh.
"Technically, yeah, but I know she'd want me to make myself at home.
"Tell that to the super.
"Is he around?"
"I wouldn't dig him up if I were you, he'll throw you out."
"So you can't help me?"
"Come to think of it, I did see Cyndra walking out of here carrying a
bag on . . . let's see . . . maybe it was Thursday. She's probably
away for a long weekend."
"Today's Tuesday. I'll wait."
The girl threw him a suspicious look. "Are you sure her boyfriend's
going to like that?"
Who is this boyfriend?"
She laughed. "He's okay-if you like drugstore cowboys." She finished
drying herself and walked toward her apartment on the other side of the
pool. "See ya," she called over her shoulder.
She certainly had a body. "Yeah-see ya. Uh . . . what's your
name?"
She turned around at her apartment door. "Annie Broderick. Oh, and by
the way, if you rip her off, I can identify you to the police.
And I will."
He stared at her quizzically. "Do I look like I'd do a thing like
that?"
"No. You look like an actor. Worst kind." She entered her apartment,
slamming the door behind her.
She couldn't have said anything nicer if she'd tried. An actor, huh?
Some compliment. He hadn't performed in so long he wondered if he
still remembered how.
By noon he was bored, sitting around waiting was not his style. Out of
curiosity he picked up the phone and called the number Q.J. had given
him.
"Manfred Glamour Limousines," a woman's voice said.
Glamour Limousines-was she kidding? "Let me speak to Mr. Manfred," he
said quickly, before he changed his mind.
"Tell him . . . Uh, tell him it's a friend of Q.J."s."
Her voice rose.
"Yeah-he'll know who you mean.
There was a long wait. A very long wait. So long that he almost hung
up. Then a gruff voice snapped, "Who's this?"
"You don't know me," he explained, speaking fast. "But your expartner
said I should give you a call when I got to L.A. Q.J mentioned you
might have a job for me."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Nick Angelo. I ran Q.J."s bar in Chicago."
"And what ya got in mind t'do for me?"
"Anything you want if it's legit."
"I don't fuckin' believe this," Manny grumbled. "Ya pick up a phone,
mention that putz to whom I don't speak no more, and ya really think
I'll give ya a job?"
"Hey, listen, if it's a problem, forget it. Q.J. insisted I call. He
told me to say Q.J."s collecting-for that favor you owe him. But if it
means nothing to you.
A weary sigh. "Come in and see me."
"When?"
"Be here in an hour."
"Where's here?"
"Sunset past La Brea. You can't miss it." Manny hung up without so
much as a goodbye.
Nick decided to go for it. After all, he had nothing to lose.
Don't you ever date?" Nature asked, studying her face in a large
magnifying mirror she'd extracted from her enormous purse.
"Not if I can help it," Lauren replied.
"Not if you can elp it," Nature shrieked in her sharp cockney tones.
"Cor blimey-that's a funny one. Me, I can't get through the day if I
don't ave a fella waitin' for me at the end of it."
"You're you and I'm me," Lauren said sensibly.
"Bleedin' right," Nature agreed, searching for imagined blemishes on
her perfect peaches-and-cream skin.
Lauren had been working at Samm's for three months. It was certainly
different. Definitely not boring. In fact she was so busy she never
had time to think about anything except work. A booker, she'd soon
found out, did everything for the band of models who trudged in and out
of the place like a constant parade of dazzling beauty.
They were all gorgeous, but every one, it seemed, had a screwed-up
personal life.
Nature, Samm's most famous client, was the most screwed-up of all.
She'd taken to dropping by and sitting on Lauren's desk so they could
chat. Nature had confided she was fed up with people who brown-nosed
her to death.
"You're like a real person," she'd told Lauren. "I can talk to you,
you're so sort of normal."
That's nice. But I have work to do.
The phone at Samm's never stopped. Along with Nature, the agency
handled three of the other top models in New York-Selina, Gypsy and
Bett Smith. At the agency they were known as the Big Four. Selina was
a willowy blonde with c
at eyes. Gypsy was Eurasian, exotically
beautiful. And Bett Smith was an all-American blonde with a cute snub
nose and just enough freckles.
Samm herself had turned out to be the woman Lauren had encountered at
the photo session she'd crashed. Samm Mason, former top model, now a
very successful agent.
In the late fifties Samm had been one of the top models in the
country.
When she retired she'd opened her own agency, and over the years built
it into a formidable rival to Eileen Ford and the Casablanca Agency.
Samm was tough, but it worked for her. She ran a tight operation,
protected her girls and expected everybody in her employ to do the
same. "I know how easy it is to get treated like a piece of shit in