godfather number one. She was upset Nick hadn't been able to come.
He'd flown off to New York complaining he was depressed.
"Why don't you stay here for your birthday?" she'd asked.
"I don't feel like it," he'd said.
She wished he'd dump Honey. That girl made dumb look intelligent. But
Nick was on some sort of self-destruct course, he didn't seem to care
about the company he kept. Ever since the accident he hadn't been the
same man. Unfortunately he blamed himself.
ù "It wasn't your fault," Cyndra repeatedly assured him.
"If I hadn't been fighting with Annie, it would never have happened."
"No, Nick, you mustn't think that way.
But he did, and she knew there was nothing she could do about it.
Maybe Nick would have a good time in New York. At least he'd be away
from the pressures of Hollywood, and there was always Harlan to keep
him company.
Ah, Harlan . . . what a character he'd turned out to be. After
kidnapping him and getting him off drugs, she'd moved him in with
her.
He'd quite taken to Hollywood, and met an older man whom he decided to
go work for as his valet. When the man died of AIDS two years later
Harlan had not wanted to stay around. Cyndra had arranged for him to
work for Nick in New York. He loved it.
Marik took her arm and led her over to sit down. She was surrounded by
friends and loving family. Little Topaz created a furor wherever she
went, running from table to table, giggling and cute.
Cyndra surveyed her guests, her family and her beautiful home.
I'm so lucky. I have everything.
Only sometimes, late at night, the thought occurred to her that maybe
she was too lucky. Then she shuddered and hugged herself and prayed to
God that her good luck would last. For family meant everything to her
and she didn't want to lose it.
eece Webster had not had a good time in prison. For once in his life
his looks had not worked in his favor. In jail they were particularly
fond of snake-hipped white guys with blond hair and nice looks, and
he'd had two choices-give it up or get the crap beaten out of him.
Reece soon learned which way to turn. Not that he was gay. No way.
But taking it up the butt from one big black brother, as opposed to
watching his ass every move he made, seemed to be the better deal.
Eleven years. Eleven fucking years of his life and now he was out.
He lingered outside the jail in North Carolina, trying to decide what
to do first. He wanted a woman bad, but he also wanted a fat juicy
steak. An inmate had given him the name of a whorehouse that served up
the best women, and food too. What more could he ask for?
He tilted his beat-up Stetson and took the bus into town. He didn't
have much money. Fuck! He didn't have much of anything. But he sure
as hell knew how he was going to get plenty. He'd studied up on
that.
In eleven years a man could do a lot of studying.
The whorehouse served him a dried-up steak and a dried-up hooker who'd
seen better days. It was not a first-class operation. But any woman
was better than none at all.
ùHe wore a condom supplied by the house. He didn't argue because he'd
heard it was pretty dangerous out on the streets now. Sex was not the
carefree pastime it once was.
He fucked the whore three times.
"You been in jail, dear?" she asked, not particularly impressed by his
stellar performance.
"Howdja know?"
"I can tell. You convicts are always the horniest."
Yeah. He'd been in jail, all right. Sixteen years was the sentence
he'd been handed, and he was out in eleven for good behavior.
Eleven lousy years for something he'd never done.
When he'd split Vegas he'd traveled all the way to Florida, where he'd
met a nightclub hostess who took a shine to him and let him move in
with her. He hadn't been living with the bitch two weeks when Max, her
old boyfriend, returned. She'd omitted to tell him that Max was a
Since Max was with his latest girlfriend-a ditsy redhead-there seemed
no need for him to move on, so the four of them had palled up.
"People who work legitimate make me sick," Max told him one day.
"Me-I kin take any bank I fancy. I jest walk in, show em my gun, scoop
out the money an' I'm on easy street."
"What if you get caught?" Reece asked, thinking it sounded simple
enough, but there was always a downside.
Max chortled. "You realize how many people git busted? Outta a
hundred hits mebbe five people git themselves caught. I been doin'
this going' on twenny years."
"But you were in jail once."
"Only a short time-it weren't nothin'."
They went on a car trip through several states, and Max showed Reece
exactly how easy it was. On their ninth job Max blew away the security
guard.
They were caught, arrested and charged with armed robbery and murder.
Screw it. He hadn't pulled the trigger, but nobody took that into
account-he was sentenced along with the rest of them.
Now he was out and he was bitter as hell. If Cyndra hadn't gotten him
into that mess in Vegas, he'd never have met the nightclub hostess in
Florida, and he'd never have spent eleven years of his precious life in
jail.
Fuck little Cyndra. While he was away she'd become a big star and so
had Nick Angel. He'd watched their rise carefully-oh, yeah, he was no
fool.
Now he was out and he knew exactly where to go and what to do.
Little Cyndra must be worth millions, and he was going to get himself
some of that great big score.
Yes. Reece Webster had a plan.
California, here I come.
he new Marcella photos were done and Lauren had nothing left to keep
her in New York. Oliver was anxious to leave. For some time he'd been
severing his ties in America, selling the East Hampton house, putting
the New York apartment on the market and preparing for their move to
France. It was a radical move, but on the other hand, what was the
point in sitting around New York when Oliver wasn't working? In France
he would have his garden, the view, the tranquil surroundings.
Christ! You're beginning to sound like an old lady, Roberts.
It's my life-I have to accept it.
Pia came by with Rosemarie, a particularly bright little girl, and
watched her pack. "Are you sure you're making the right move?" Pia
asked, wandering around the room.
"Yes, I'm sure," Lauren said, with more conviction than she felt.
"It's just that everything's so different for you now," Pia remarked.
"I mean, you went through a period where you really loved your life, it
showed on your face. Now you're kind of like . .
"Are you calling me a zombie, Pia?" Lauren asked, gathering together a
pile of sweaters.
"You said it, not me.
Lauren placed the sweaters in a suitcase. "I'll do things in the south
of France. Maybe even start an interior design business."
"Oh, that sounds very challenging. Decorate houses for senile old
m
illionaires who've moved there to retire."
"Can I come visit, Auntie Lauren?" Rosemarie asked, a polite little
girl with a sweet smile.
"Of course you can, darling. Any time you want."
She packed several pairs of Charles Jourdan shoes, and then wondered
why she was taking them. Where was she going to wear them?
Even in New York they never went out anymore.
"How's Howard?" she asked.
"Howard has turned into Oliver," Pia said. "He works day and night,
never gets back from the office before nine, then goes straight to his
study, where he spends the rest of the evening on the phone. I told
him the other day if this goes on I'm not standing for it."
"Love what?"
"Being Mrs. Howard Liberty. It's a lot of fun when your husband's the
head of a big important company.
"I'm not so sure I do," Pia said thoughtfully. "It was all right for
you when you had your high-powered career-but I don't enjoy being the
little wife. At half of the parties we go to I'm ignored. He's the
big gorilla."
"Pia, I'm sure you're never ignored."
"You'd be surprised."
Lauren shut the suitcase. "Why don't you and Rosemarie stay for dinner
tonight?"
"We'd like that. I'll call Howard and tell him if he gets through
early enough he can join us.
At dinner Oliver was particularly animated. He was looking forward to
the move and it showed.
In the middle of dinner Lauren had a phone call from Lorenzo.
"I have unfortunate news," he said, sounding upset.
"What is it, Lorenzo?" she asked.
"There was an accident in the lab-the negatives of the new photographs
are ruined."
"You're kidding me?"
"No, this is a freak thing. It's never happened before. You must stay
so we can shoot them again.
"I can't do that. You know we're leaving tomorrow."
"Oliver will have to leave without you. You'll join him a few days
later. I'll organize everything as quickly as possible."
"Lorenzo," she said crossly, "this is most inconvenient."
He was more than apologetic. "I know, my darling. For me too."
"What's the matter?" Pia asked, when she hung up.
Lauren sighed. "The Marcella photographs are ruined. Lorenzo wants me
to do the shoot again.
"But you're leaying tomorrow."
"That's exactly what I told him."
"Don't worry, my dear," Oliver said, perfectly calm. "I'll go ahead
without you.
"You can't fly all that way by yourself."
"I'm not an invalid, Lauren," he said, rather snappily. "Our travel
agent has perfectly good people on both ends to meet me and take care
of the luggage. I'll settle in and you'll get there when you can.
No problem."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm very sure.
She went into the bedroom and called Lorenzo back. "This better not be
one of your crazy scams.
"Lauren, I can assure you."
"Okay, I'll stay. Tell me tomorrow what time we're going to do the
photos."
"My darling," he said happily, "you are a princess."
"And you are a prince-the prince of bullshit."
"I'm so glad our relationship gets closer every year.
The next morning she was up early, helping Oliver with last-minute
packing.
"How about if you postpone the trip?" she said. "Then I can come with
you."
"It's all arranged, my dear. You worry too much."
"I'm coming to the airport," she said.
"You don't have to-the traffic . .
"I'm coming to the airport."
She sat next to him in the limo and saw him safely on the plane.
Then she rode back to New York, alone and thoughtful. Soon she would
be leaving the city and her life would change. She'd come a long way
from Bosewell and the little girl she once was.
Nick. . . Every so often he lingered in her thoughts. She wondered
how he was, how he was doing. She missed him. She always missed
him.
"What do you want for your birthday?" Honey demanded.
Peace. "No celebrations," he said sternly.
"Why not? I get off on birthdays," she said, toying with a strand of
her long hair.
He hoped she wasn't planning anything-at twenty-one it was easy to love
birthdays, but he was not in the mood.
"I'm telling you, I don't want anything. No surprises," he repeated,
hoping she'd get the message.
She pouted. "I'll think of something."
"Don't," he said.
Had he made a mistake bringing Honey with him? He wasn't sure.
Sometimes it was nice to have a warm body lying next to him in the
middle of the night when he woke up and thought about Lauren.
And he thought about her often. Over the years he'd grown to accept
the fact that she was an obsession. Only the drinking made her go
away.
In the New York apartment there was a stack of scripts waiting for him
to read. Word was out that he wanted to make his next movie in New
York, and every producer in town seemed to know it. There was a pile
of faxes, a ton of mail and a list of phone calls waiting for him.
"Teresa, you deal with this shit," he said, calling upon his
assistant.
Teresa had worked with him for a year now. She was the best assistant
he'd ever had. He figured she was gay because she'd never come on to
him, and that suited him just fine. Before her he'd had a series of
assistants who'd looked at him with mournful eyes day and night and
eventually confessed undying love. Who needed that?
Teresa was all business. A black-belt karate champion who could also
type. The perfect combination.
ù "I'm taking the week off," he told her. "Don't bother me with
anything. You deal with whatever comes up, okay?"
Teresa nodded. She looked like a man. He wondered if she had a
girlfriend, he hadn't noticed any lurking about.
Tomorrow he was going to be thirty-five. It was a milestone. Ever
since he'd started acting it had always been young Nick Angel. He'd
always played the rebel, the kid without a cause. Now he was moving
into a different age group. He was going to have to start playing
responsible roles, and he wasn't sure if he was ready for it. He still
felt like a kid at heart, sometimes a very weary kid, but always
young.
He shut himself in his den and put his favorite Van Morrison on the CD
player. Honey tried to come in and annoy him, but he waved her away.
Closing his eyes he let the music sweep over him.
He wasn't happy, but he hadn't quite figured out what he could do about
it.
t wasn't difficult finding out where Cyndra lived. Reece purchased a
map to the stars' homes from a street vendor and thumbed through it.
Sure enough, there was Cyndra's address printed clearly for all to
see.
He chuckled to himself. Sweet little Cyndra. Sweet little bigamist.
Who did she think she was fooling? He reached for the latest copy of
People magazine. There was a big story on her and he read it for the
sixth time. Sitting
in his rented car he studied the pictures. Cyndra
in her fancy bathroom. Cyndra by her fancy pool. And Cyndra with her
cute little girl, Topaz, sitting on her daddy's lap.
Cyndra had gone and married one of her own kind. A producer, they
called him. Marik Lee-he was no Billy Dee Williams. But the two of
them together seemed like they had it all their own way-and nobody was
worried about Reece Webster.
He'd spent deven years in jail and they didn't give a damn.
Motherfuckers! They'd soon find out he was back.
He pulled the car up to a hot dog stand and bought himself a greasy dog
with plenty of relish and onions. Life's small pleasures, how he'd