Hollywood Sinners

56



It was still dark.

Stealth-quiet, Lana opened the bathroom window, just big enough to fold her body through, and dragged an overnight bag after her. On her feet only the soft pad of socks. Above, the sky blushed plum with the arrival of dawn.

She shimmied along the narrow ledge that ran across the back fence, crouching beneath the radar of Cole’s security cameras–after years living with them she knew exactly their sight lines and trigger points. She wasn’t getting caught out again.

Cole’s perimeter was alarmed, activated at contact. She held her breath and threw her bag over, waiting for the soft thump of its impact, praying it wouldn’t arouse the night watch.

It didn’t. For a while she hovered on the precipice, not daring the make the next move. Beyond the fence was an oak, just within reach if she pushed off her toes and hit it exactly right. Feeling for its limbs, grasping its tough bark, she made the leap. As she embraced the coarse wood, she waited again for the alarm to sound, the dogs to snarl.

Silence.

For seconds she stayed clinging to its trunk, before catching her breath and carefully dropping to the ground. A spray of water caught her off guard, a lawn sprinkler, and she bit hard to stop herself crying out. Realising what it was, she unzipped her bag, slid on her sneakers and ran, half laughing, half stumbling, away from the grounds.

By the time Cole realised she was gone she’d already be on a plane, halfway across the Nevada desert.





57



Cole Steel lowered himself into the soothing bubbles–there was nothing like a soak after a burn in the gym. He ran his hands along the marble flanks of the tub and lay back, reaching for his cucumber face mask. Closing his eyes, he used both hands to apply the cream.

Pumping iron was a necessity. He’d just signed for a blistering action role that involved hanging in a series of mid-air shots: scaling a rock in Australia; dangling from a skyscraper in Tokyo; swinging from a helicopter over Manhattan. It was about time he showed the world he still had twice the balls of a younger actor. Not literally.

Cole felt the skin on his face tightening under the mask. Looking after himself was paramount: the role of Cole Steel was his most demanding to date.

If only Lana applied the same degree of dedication. He needed to talk to her. She’d been ill most of this week, hadn’t come out of her rooms much. Time was of the essence if they were to put this pregnancy plan into action–he vowed to corner her that afternoon.

Hell, he wasn’t stupid, he knew she was already thinking about the end of the contract, couldn’t wait to be free so she could hop into bed with any old Z-list bit-part actor. Wasn’t there more to life than sex? He himself was testament to that. He fished a hand under the water and felt for his penis, soft and flaccid as a mollusc on a rock. Wearily he considered a thousandth attempt, then thought better of it. Gone were the days of tugging uselessly at it like someone milking a cow. There were other ways of getting to the top and getting a good woman–and Cole Steel had managed to achieve both.

Against all odds. Michael Benedict had made sure of that.

Cole shuddered.

‘No!‘ he yelled out to the empty room, the lone word echoing round the white walls, a horrible, insistent taunt.

He held his nose and sank under the bubbles, forcing himself to forget. He’d been so young when Benedict had signed him up for his first starring role. He’d thought everyone had to do it, you know, to keep the director happy. When Benedict had first invited him round to his house, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict had led him to his bedroom, decked out in black silk and dark, twisting candles, he’d thought everyone had to do it; when Benedict told him to lie flat on his front …

‘I thought everyone had to do it!‘ Cole cried out, surfacing in a crash of water. Ripples spilled over the sides of the tub and washed on to the floor. He sank back, exhausted. To his eternal dismay his cock was rock-hard. Michael Benedict was the only thing. Even after all these years, even after how he hated that man with all that he was and ever would be, the memory of those agonising, exquisite days with Benedict was the only thing that could do it for him.

Fiercely Cole rubbed some cuticle-boosting shampoo through his hair and rinsed it off, clearing his mind, wiping it clean, refusing to think once more of the name. He was disgusted with himself.

Climbing out, he dried his now deflated body. He started at the feet, between the toes, and worked up to the ankle, calf, shin, thigh. Order made things make sense. He threw on a robe and headed downstairs.

In the lobby an army of cleaners was out in force, touching his things and moving them around in a way that was impossible to watch. He took his seat for a late lunch and checked his watch. Still no sign of Lana.

After a light spread of sashimi and mineral water, Cole cleaned his teeth twice, harder than usual so that his gums bled. Then he called round his drivers to see if anyone had taken his wife out that morning on an urgent work matter. They hadn’t. Nobody had seen her.

Cole found his housekeeper out on the terrace.

‘Louisa, have you seen Lana today?’

The dark-haired woman paused in mopping the tiles, thought a moment then shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I haven’t.’

Cole ran a smooth hand over his chin. ‘When did you last see her?’

Louisa wrung her hands in her apron. ‘Yesterday, Mr Steel.’

Cole watched her carefully. ‘That’s all.’

He went back inside and stood for a while, hands on hips, thinking what to do. A flicker of anxiety danced in his gut. Something was the matter.

If his wife didn’t want to come to him, he’d simply have to go to her.

At the top of the back stairs Cole knocked gently and waited. There was no answer. He buzzed, listening for movement.

‘Lana?’ he called. Perhaps she was in the bathroom, couldn’t hear.

‘Lana.’ He said her name more forcefully. ‘Open this door.’

Still nothing.

He leaned his face against the wood and tightened his jaw against the cool, hard surface. Only quiet.

After a moment he dropped to his knees and drew to one side the gold leaf covering the keyhole. It was just possible to glimpse the fabrics of her bedroom, the apricot florals of a bed that was perfectly made. And perfectly not slept in.

Like a leopard, he pounced.

Turning from the door he flew down the stairs at startling speed, his bathrobe flying out behind him like a cape. In his own quarters he pulled aside a Man Ray print, reached into a narrow tunnel that could just accommodate his arm and drew out a plain, dark brown box. Inside was a collection of keys, each individually labelled. One was bigger than the rest and it was this he extracted: the skeleton key. He had never had cause to use it before.

He returned to his wife’s rooms with shaking hands and inserted the key into the lock. As it turned, he closed his eyes. He had never accessed Lana’s private space–it was as alien as unlocking a stranger’s house.

Inside, he was surprised at how neat she kept it. There was very little about the place that was personal, no photographs or pictures, no diary at her bedside, nothing that said who she was. The surfaces were clear except for a number of ragged books stacked together on a far shelf. They were all fiction; paperback novels whose pages were well thumbed. He scanned their spines. Mostly classics, none of which he’d read himself.

He yanked open her bedside drawer. Inside was a notebook with nothing written in it, though it looked like several pages had been torn out, then under that was a large white envelope. He lifted one corner and saw a face he recognised. It was a copy of the Las Vegas Reporter, with that hotelier St Louis on the cover. With grim satisfaction he applauded her: she was a hard worker, his wife, reading up on her premiere before sleep.

‘Lana?’ he called again, just to be safe. It wouldn’t do if she discovered him.

In the bathroom he warmed to his cause, fancying himself the private detective. The window was open a crack and he pulled it shut, securing the latch. Her cabinet yielded little–just a handful of half empty tubs of face cream, some packs of aspirin and a tube of toothpaste. There was a stout brown glass bottle with the lid screwed on tight. He turned it round in his hand, finding no label. Removing the cap, he tipped out a couple of white tablets and touched his tongue to their surface. Painkillers. For some reason he felt disappointed.

Then, just as he turned to go, the trash can caught his eye.

With a bare foot he pressed on the cool metal lever and the top eased open. Inside, screwed up tight, only just visible from where it had been hidden under a drift of paper, was a small paper bag. It had the air of having been concealed in a great hurry. He bent to pick it up.

When he first pulled out the white box, he didn’t understand what it was. He opened it and shook its contents, knowing it was somehow significant but not being able to work out why.

Then it dawned.

Cole reeled backwards on to the toilet, his mind hot.

It was a joke, it had to be, a practical joke. His head darted this way and that, like a bird’s, searching the room for the set-up, thinking he must have been Punk’d.

He knew he hadn’t.

How had she …? It wasn’t possible. This was some kind of sick mistake.

Hopelessly he attempted to process it, flipping through a catalogue of possible explanations, looking for something, anything. But there was no getting away from it-the facts were right here, heavy in his hand.

Cole dropped the box with a light smat that belied its significance. He sat very still, his chest rising and falling, his breath strangled.

How could she have done this to him? How could she?

Cole picked up the box and calmly returned to his rooms, locking the door quietly behind him. He got dressed in a series of thick, methodical movements.

After that he made two phone calls. The first was to Lana: he was a fair man, he would give her a chance. Her cell was switched off. Calmly he hung up and placed a second call.

‘Marty, it’s me. My wife is gone.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Find her.’





58



Lana had chosen to fly direct from LAX. She boarded an ordinary plane, with no entourage, no security or bodyguards. In a baseball cap and dark glasses she was something of a conspicuous figure, but moved quickly through the airport so that by the time she was recognised, it was already too late. The aircraft was only half full, so she was able to sink into her seat, look out the window and go, for the most part, unnoticed.

On the plane she slept, plunging so fast into a deep, sudden unconsciousness that each time she woke it felt like hours had passed, not minutes.

She sipped a bottle of water and tried not to over-think what she was doing. It was foolish; a hasty, ill-considered, selfish plan. But she didn’t know what else to do. Every time she reached for a solution it was like running trapped in a dark grid of streets, every avenue a dead end. This was her only lifeline.

Placing a hand on her stomach, Lana tried to connect with the person inside. It didn’t seem possible that life had caught on–a chance thing, tiny but strong and wanting to fight, accepted by her body without her consent. She felt like she was walking around in someone else’s skin, like she had borrowed a coat that didn’t quite fit.

A flight attendant offered her coffee, clearly star-struck. When Lana declined, she put down her tray and produced a paper napkin and pen.

‘Would you mind?’ she asked excitedly, keeping her voice hushed, holding them out.

‘Of course.’ Lana scribbled her name and the woman beamed, stuffing it in her uniform pocket. Lana wondered if she could tell, like every female she encountered instinctively knew.

The plane dropped through an air pocket and Lana gripped one hand to her seat, the other to her belly. She felt a violent, visceral surge of protectiveness. There were two of them in it now; she wasn’t alone.

It was cowardice, running away when the going got tough and there was no one else, disturbing the life of a man whose heart she had no rights to.

She closed her eyes. For years she had kept her distance with people, it was safer. Friends, colleagues, lovers–since Lester died she had kept them all at arm’s length. People got hurt when they got close, it had always happened that way. After her brother’s death she had lost contact with her foster mom: it was entirely her choice, she had felt too ashamed, too much of a liar to continue writing, and when she moved from Belleville it hadn’t occurred to her to pass on the new address. All she’d ever done was cut people out; shut herself away when they wanted to help. She thought of Arlene with regret and wondered if it was too late.

This child deserved an honest start, and a mother with the courage to face up to her past. There was only one person she could go to. Only one person she could trust.

Briefly Lana turned on her cell as they began their descent into Vegas. A missed call from Rita–shit, she wouldn’t be pleased–and one from Cole. His single attempt spoke volumes. With a heavy heart she knew he had detected her absence. Her thoughts darted to the pregnancy test that she’d stupidly left in the trash–thank God she was the only one with a key. It would be safe there until she figured out what to do.

She had lost enough family to last ten lifetimes. Whatever the outcome, she was keeping this baby.





59

Las Vegas



‘The house always wins. You never heard that, punk?’ Frank Bernstein gave a short nod to his boys and they slammed another punch into the man’s stomach. A red jet of blood shot from his mouth.

‘You dumb motherf*cker. You think we ain’t been watchin’ you since you walked into this joint?’ Another slam. ‘Think again, you dumb piece of shit.’ He took a strike himself.

Bernstein wiped his brow, signalled for the man to be brought to his feet. He was young, with sandy-blond hair and a drooping moustache. He wore a red and brown checked shirt and fringed boots, the toes of which were now spattered with crimson. Bernstein sat down opposite, pushing up his shirtsleeves like he was about to conduct a business meeting. The man hung limply between the two goons, a gurgling sound escaping from his throat.

Bernstein lit a cigar. ‘You want a smoke, wise guy?’

Over the past year a number of hotels on the Strip–the Parthenon and the Orient among the worst hit–had been the target of a slot scam, a clever operation involving a device that tricked machines into thinking they were receiving hundred-dollar bills. Bernstein’s surveillance had picked this guy up hours before. His partner–from their gaming pattern there were definitely two–was still at large.

The man heaved for breath.

‘Tryin’ to give it up, I gotta admire you.’ Bernstein lit his own and released a thick cloud.

‘Y’see,’ he said, sitting back, ‘I got a job to do. This is my casino. I got a family; I gotta make a living. You got a family, pal?’

Blood darkened the man’s lips. One eye was swelling, weeping like a piece of old fruit.

Most of the trouble they encountered in the casinos was with crude, low-stake hustlers–it was easy to spot a marker or a counter a mile off. But these days you had to know your way round a computer if you wanted the big money. This guy knew exactly what he was doing.

‘Sure you do. Sure you got a hot broad waitin’ back home, waitin’ on all that beautiful dirty money, ain’t that right? Except for one problem, you f*ckin’ motherf*cker: that money belongs to me. And guess what? As of right now, you belong to me. You and everything you f*ckin’ have. Because if I ever see your ugly f*ckin’ face—’

Bernstein was interrupted by his security. A thick-set man approached and bent to speak in his ear. Bernstein nodded. ‘Bring him in.’

He ground out the cigar, then, standing to deliver a final, crushing blow, said quietly, ‘If you ever set foot in my place again, I’ll tear both your balls off and send ‘em so far up your tight white ass you’ll have a sore throat for a week.’ He jerked his head towards the street door–the heavies would escort him, where they’d have a last go. ‘Now get outta my sight.’

The man gone, Robert appeared, looking put upon. He shrugged off his suit jacket. ‘Presentation ran over.’ He sat down. ‘Where is he? ‘

Bernstein smiled. ‘He took a walk out that way, kinda.’ He nodded to the far door. ‘I dealt with it myself.’

‘And?’

‘He ain’t comin’ back any time soon.’

Robert frowned. He looked around him, taking in the blood-spattered floor. Something caught his eye and he put a hand down to retrieve it. It was small and bone-hard.

‘What the hell …?’

Bernstein made a face. ‘Had a guy in here needs t’see a dentist.’

‘We agreed, Bernstein. No violence.’ He kept his voice low but menace channelled through it, a quiet, measured warning.

Bernstein laughed, his big belly rising and falling. ‘You’re funny, St Louis.’

Robert shook his head. ‘Get real, Frank. These guys are working a complex piece of kit, there’s things we needed to know. This wasn’t the right way to do it.’

Bernstein stopped laughing. ‘Thing is, son, your way takes a f*ck of a lot longer.’

A silence hung between them.

Eventually Robert said, ‘What did you find out?’

‘That a big man cries like a girl.’

‘About the scam. Who else is in on it, who they’re working for. How they set it up.’

Bernstein shrugged. ‘Beats me.’

It was Robert’s turn to laugh. ‘Don’t you give a f*ck?’

‘Course I give a f*ck. I give a f*ck about the next time they want to pull a stunt like this, and I’m tellin’ you now, it ain’t happenin’ again. Not to you, not to me. It’s over.’

Robert stood up, his eyes fixed on the older man. He could have Frank Bernstein in a second, knock out a whole fistful of teeth in one hit. Truth was he’d endured enough violence in his past. He was tired of it.

‘You gotta wake up, kid,’ Bernstein said. ‘This is a big boy’s game. There’s rules.’

Robert leaned across the table. ‘Those rules are mine. I run my own game.’

‘They was your father’s rules before you,’ Bernstein shouted as he turned to leave. ‘Don’t think for a second your shit don’t stink!’

Without looking back, Robert stepped out and closed the door firmly behind him. He ran into Elisabeth almost instantly.

‘Robert!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide. ‘I thought you were at the Orient.’

He grimaced. ‘I had a meeting with your father.’

‘Oh, good, he’s here.’ The relief in her voice was considerable. She seemed to catch herself and rein it in. ‘I need to talk to him,’ she explained quickly.

‘He’s otherwise engaged,’ said Robert flatly, taking her arm.

She broke free. ‘It’s rather urgent.’

Robert frowned. ‘Surely I can help?’

‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘I mean, it’s fine. I’ll catch him later.’

He looked unconvinced.

‘It’s nothing!’ Her voice was shrill.

‘Are you sure?’

Elisabeth looked hesitantly over his shoulder. ‘Of course.’ She forced a smile.

Robert checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to shoot, I’ve got a meeting with Bellini.’

Anxiety strangled her voice. ‘Alberto?’

‘I’m already running late.’

She gulped. ‘You’d better go.’

As Robert made his way across the Parthenon lobby, he tried to focus on the afternoon ahead. It couldn’t possibly mess with his head more than the morning.