Lovers and Liars Page 4

  There was a pause. “Lester sold it for three hundred and fifty grand, Mom.”

  Money was one thing Nancy understood very well, and this gave her and her daughter a common ground on which to meet. She seized the opening. “Oh, my! So much for a movie?”

  “It’s the going rate, pretty much,” Belinda said. “The news gets even bet—”

  “Thank you, Ingrid. What, dear?”

  “The news gets even better …”

  Ingrid was pointing at her watch. “You have to get dressed for the party, Mrs. Glassman.”

  Nancy nodded, feeling guilty relief. She tuned in once more to her daughter, who was now saying something about production. “That’s very nice, dear.” She sipped her wine, not really understanding what Belinda was talking about—but why should she? When she didn’t understand her daughter at all. Maybe the diamonds would go better with the taffeta. Everyone was wearing emeralds this season.

  “And Jackson Ford is going to star in it, Mom. He’s one of the hottest properties right now.”

  Her heart actually skipped a beat. Then it began pounding very hard, so hard that Nancy could feel the reverberations throughout her entire body. She didn’t know how she managed to speak at all, much less in a normal tone. “That’s very nice, Belinda.”

  “I called Abe.” It was a flat statement.

  Now Nancy was truly perspiring. Jackson Ford. With supreme effort, she thrust him from her foremost thoughts. She could just imagine what the conversation between her daughter and her husband had been like—and she couldn’t handle it, not now. She took a long sip of wine. “Dear, I’m running late. I have to get dressed for a charity cocktail party that your father and I are going to.”

  “Right,” Belinda said. “But just for the record, do you know he couldn’t say one fucking nice thing to me?”

  “He’s very proud of you,” Nancy managed.

  “Right. Look, Mom, forget it, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not fair for me to put you between us. Go to your party and have a good time.”

  “Call me tomorrow,” Nancy told her, sweat gathering between her breasts. “Belinda, I am proud of you. I—”

  “Yeah.” The phone went dead.

  Nancy hung up and wiped the dampness from her brow. She noticed her hand was trembling slightly. She was having a distinctly bad feeling, like an aftertaste, but this time it wasn’t because her daughter made her anxious or because constant the battle of wills between her daughter and husband made her even more anxious. She took another sip of wine in an attempt to calm down.

  She didn’t understand her daughter. Her daughter was twenty-eight, incredibly beautiful, with a figure to match—and unmarried. With no interest in the institution, and no interest in children. She spent her days writing her screenplays and running, cycling, and swimming. What kind of life was that? She should never have moved to California. It was such a waste. With her background and the wealth that would one day be hers, she could make a truly good marriage. She could have her choice of rich men, sons of Abe’s friends. What was wrong with Belinda?

  It was terrible, but she didn’t know her own daughter. No one did. She was so independent, such a loner, and to Nancy it seemed that she led a very lonely life. Yet it didn’t seem to bother her. If she had any friends, Nancy had never met them and Belinda didn’t talk about them. Even as a child she had been reclusive, self-sufficient, and introverted.

  Nancy didn’t even know if there were men in her daughter’s life now, boyfriends. She didn’t really want to know. Not until one of them became her fiancé. Then Nancy would be overjoyed and so would Abe, who wanted nothing more than a grandson—and soon.

  It was hard to believe that Abe had let her move away. But Belinda was one of the few people Abe had never been able to control. Not outwardly anyway. When Abe and Belinda clashed, it was head-on, like two battering rams. At least since Belinda had moved west, things seemed to have calmed down. Abe, surprisingly, didn’t seem to worry. He had said, “She’ll be back. Odds are a million to one she’ll make it as a screenwriter. She’ll be back.”

  As if he wanted her to fail.

  Nancy didn’t want Belinda to fail, but she would have loved her to move back to New York. As the saying went, it was never too late; she had a desperate need to get to know her daughter. But every time she was around her she was so afraid Belinda would reject her that she couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t seem to say the right things and always had the feeling that Belinda looked down on her.

  Once, a long time ago, Belinda had been very, very angry with her—as only a young child whose illusions are shattered can be. Nancy hoped that incident was too far in the past to affect their relationship now—but if she dared to think about it, things really had never been the same since.

  Which made her think about him.

  She absolutely would not think about Jack Ford and everything that went along with him.

  He had ruined her life.

  Nancy was not a vindictive woman, but if Jackson Ford were dead, it would be completely just.

  7

  Abe glared at his wife when she opened the door to his library, a vision in red taffeta and glittering emeralds that he was oblivious to.

  “Abe?”

  He slammed down the phone. “What is it, Nancy? Dammit, I’m trying to get through on an important call!”

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you I’m ready,” she murmured, backing out and closing the door behind her.

  Abe picked up the receiver again. Where the fuck was Majoriis? He had been trying to reach him all day—ever since he had spoken with his daughter on the phone. He was furious, coldly and ruthlessly furious.

  But it wasn’t too late.

  It was never too late.

  There was no way that Outrage deal would reach culmination. One way or another he’d stop it.

  It was hard to get a handle on which disturbed him more, which disaster was the priority to prevent. Did that fucking son of a bitch Ford think he had forgotten him? If that little prick thought he was going to get the better of him, he had another fucking think coming. “Pick up, damn you!” Abe shouted into the ringing phone.

  And if Belinda thought she was about to become some Hollywood dingbat writer, she had another think coming, too.

  He hadn’t spent his entire lifetime building up Glassman Enterprises into the billion-dollar empire it was, just for Uncle Sam to take it all when he died—nor did he intend to give it away to charities. Damn Belinda anyway, for being the most stubborn broad he’d ever encountered. But there was one thing Abe truly relished, and that was a good fight.

  Ford would be easy.

  Belinda was another story.

  But she was his daughter, right? If he’d ever had any doubts—and seventeen years ago, learning the truth about his wife had given him more than a few of those—they’d long since been laid to rest. She was his daughter, all right. There was no mistaking that. She obviously intended to defy him, out of sheer perversity, until the day he died. Abe knew that was why she was living in that shack in California, trying to make it as a writer, under a different name. Just to shove it to him. But—and Abe had to smile—little did she know she was already on the path he had chosen for her. He was going to get his grandson yet.

  He toyed with the invitation on his desk in front of him. He’d been to hundreds, no, thousands, of parties. Rosalie had already RSVPed his regrets. Abe smiled. Tomorrow she would call and change that. He was going. Not only was he going to go to this North-Star affair, he was going to bring his wife.

  He dialed again.

  “Hello?”

  “Ted?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This is Abe.”

  “Abe! This is a surprise. Wait—what’s wrong?” A note of anxiety had entered the North-Star executive’s voice.

  “I just heard North-Star picked up a new screenplay for Ford.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck the deal, Ted.”

/>   “What?”

  “You heard me. Fuck that deal. I don’t want Ford doing Outrage. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

  “Abe, the contract’s been signed.”

  “Has there been any financial transaction?”

  “The check was handed over at the signing, with a partial holdback, conditional upon revisions.”

  “Shit,” Abe said, but there were other ways to accomplish what he wanted, so he changed focus. “Just when the hell did Ford sign with North-Star?”

  “Six months ago, Abe. What the hell is this about?”

  “Shit,” Abe said. “It’s none of your fucking business. Let’s just say Ford is on my shit list and has been for fifteen years. I can’t believe that little prick signed with North-Star.”

  How come I didn’t know about this, he wondered. It was incredible, unbelievable. Abe didn’t watch TV, except for an occasional 60 Minutes or Nightline, or go to the movies. Nor did he shop in supermarkets or K marts where the popular rags abounded. He read only Time and The Economist and The Wall Street Journal He doubted that a TV Guide had ever been in his home. He didn’t even know if Nancy read that trash. If he had been a TV watcher or had had to do his own shopping, he would have known that that little, no-good, low-life Ford had actually become a big TV star. Unfuckingbelievable.

  And now he was about to become big-time with this North-Star contract.

  No fucking way.

  “Abe, let me get this straight. You don’t want Ford doing Outrage or you don’t want North-Star producing Outrage or you don’t want Ford with North-Star?”

  “All of the above.”

  “It’s too late, Abe.”

  “What’re the terms of Ford’s contract?”

  “Shit, I don’t know, but I can find out.”

  “Find out. Fax me a copy of his contract immediately.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Jesus, what are you trying to do, ruin the guy?”

  Abe laughed. “Very good, Ted. Just get me copies of both contracts, for the product and Ford. And keep this under your hat.”

  “Jesus, Abe, it’s too bad you got something against Ford. He’s really hot right now. He’s in North-Star’s best interests.”

  “You owe me,” Abe said bluntly. “Just do it. And Ted, he was hot. Was.”

  8

  “So you’re the reporter from US.”

  “And you’re Jackson Ford,” she said, smiling, holding out her hand.

  Jack took it, delighted and surprised all at once. Linda Myer was a lithe brunette with blue, blue eyes behind square tortoise-shell glasses, an undeniably attractive woman, somewhere in her thirties. “Jack. Welcome.” He gestured her past him.

  “All the comforts of home,” Linda said, glancing around his oversized dressing room.

  “Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?”

  “I thought you didn’t drink,” she said quickly. It was a big deal. Jackson Ford was a self-confessed alcoholic and drug addict who’d gone clean seven years ago.

  “I don’t. But it doesn’t bother me if someone in my company does.” His green eyes were friendly and admiring. She wore a simple black knit dress, sleeveless, and it clung to her slender frame provocatively. He liked his women thin. And tall. Like Linda.

  “White wine would be fine.”

  Jack handed her a glass and led her into a mock living area. He sat next to her on a plush suede couch. “I never expected a reporter like you,” he said flirtatiously. “I wouldn’t have felt so bad about canceling my date.”

  Linda knew he was a charmer; that was his reputation. But she felt thrilled anyway. She was much too old for him—according to his standards. His women were all eighteen, or thereabouts. Still, she could feel his interest in her, and it excited her. She wondered if he was as good in bed as he looked. “Do you mind if we jump right in?” she said, then blushed. But he couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking.

  “Not at all.” Jack grinned. He did.

  Fumbling and still blushing, Linda switched on a small recorder. “Jack,” she said, firming her voice, “I know you’ve been through your life story a million times, but—”

  “Two million,” he corrected, smiling, his teeth very white against his bronzed skin.

  “Okay. I stand corrected. Two million. But I’d love it in your own words.”

  “Okay. Where shall we start?” He noted that she sat with her legs crossed. They were long and graceful.

  Why was he always horny?

  “From the beginning,” she said. “You were born in Kansas City.”

  “That’s right. Thirty-seven years ago.”

  “And your father—”

  “My father was an auto mechanic and a drunk who left us when I was six. My mom was thrilled. She was a waitress. We lived in the worst side of town. A real slum. I played hooky and stole things and she worked. And never came home. Or came home with men. Lots of men. Men who left money on her bedside table. It was always, Not now, Jack. Can’t you see I’ve got company? Go to bed, Jack. Jack, go outside and play. Jack! I said go outside and play!”

  “Tough life,” Linda murmured sympathetically. “Your mother left you too.”

  “Yep. Just upped and disappeared when I was eleven.” No-good cunt whore. He would never, ever forget that day. Even now, just thinking about it made his guts cramp painfully. Coming home to an empty house. Immediately he had known. Hadn’t he known all along that one day she would leave him, too, the way his father had? Stunned—both believing it and desperately trying not to believe it, to will the clock backwards—he had stumbled into the kitchen and found half a pint of whiskey that he had finished before passing out. He had never cried. Not over her. And he never would.

  Whoever had called him today was not his mother. His mother was dead.

  “Go on,” Linda said gently.

  Jack smiled. He was an actor, after all. “I took off. Hitched my way to St. Louis. Lived off the streets. About a year later I was picked up for hot-wiring an automobile. This big-ass cherry-red Thunderbird.” He grinned. “Cops found out I had no family. Shoved me into detention. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Detention?”

  “No. The foster home I got placed in afterward. A real kind old couple whose kids were grown and married and living in New York. They gave me love, or tried to. I was pretty tough, pretty incorrigible, but after that damn detention center, well, I was no fool. I knew I was a lot better off with them. I kept my antics down to running with a gang and getting drunk, getting laid.”

  “And then you discovered acting.”

  “Yeah.” Jack smiled, running his fingers through his thick hair. “Rather, I discovered the high-school drama teacher. God, she was beautiful!” Tall, beautiful Delia Corice.

  “And?”

  “I fell madly in love with her. I took all her classes. I wanted her to notice me, so I tried damn hard to be good. First time in my life I ever had any ambition to succeed.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was a natural. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was damn awful. But I had natural talent, and Miss Corice took me under her wing, really worked with me. I guess I was a pretty fast study.” His lightning grin appeared.

  A very fast study.

  He would never forget the first time she had made love to him. He had shown up on her doorstep to be “tutored.” Well, he had been tutored, all right. It wasn’t the first time for him—he had lost his virginity at twelve—but it was the first time he had ever eaten pussy. He loved it. So had she.

  “And after high school?” Linda said, interrupting his thoughts. She frowned, looking at her own notes. “According to my research, you spent six years in New York doing repertory theater, then came to L.A. in seventy-seven.”

  Jack smiled easily, but his stomach tensed at the false bio he had constructed years before. “Right.” He confirmed the lie. “I did rep in New York, and when I came out here I did commercials for a couple of years. Then, presto. The
y cast me in the role of a hard-nosed detective in my own series, and I believe you know the rest of the story.” He smiled. What the hell. No one wanted to hear the truth. He didn’t want to hear it.

  “There’s such a big gap in your life from the time you went to New York to when you got the part of the series detective,” Linda insisted. “What really happened?”

  Jack never stopped smiling as he leaned back casually on the sofa. What really happened? Unconsciously, his fingers went to the slight bump on his nose, the only external scar he carried. He rubbed it. He would never forget the pain of those brass knuckles.

  And he would never forget that day. A sunny, cloudless day that had hit 102 degrees in midtown, a real scorcher. Thursday. July 31, 1971. Jack would carry the memory of that day and a chilling hatred in his heart for Abe Glassman until the day he died.

  The reporter for US was looking at him curiously. He never had given a satisfactory answer to her question. “I struggled,” he said lightly. “Just like a thousand other actors and actresses.” He shrugged. “It’s a boring story.”

  “I doubt anything about you is boring,” Linda said, pushing her glasses back on her nose. “How does it feel to be considered one of the sexiest men in the industry?”

  Jack’s grin widened. “I didn’t ask for it.”

  “Do you think you’re sexy?”

  “Do you?” he shot back, still smiling.

  “How come you’re always smiling?” Linda asked, smiling herself.

  “Life’s funny.” He started to chuckle. “Listen, sweetheart, if you’d been where I’ve been, you’d be grinning too.”

  “I guess so. How does it feel to be doing a movie? Inside gossip says North-Star’s already lined up another film for you. Outrage?”

  “It feels good,” Jack said. “I admit it.”

  “During those lean years did you think you’d ever get there? Here, I mean?”

  “To tell you the truth, baby, I sometimes wondered.” More than wondered, he thought, grimacing unconsciously. He leaned closer, until his face was inches from hers. “Look, I’m bored with this interview.”