Scatter the Stars, page 37
‘I prefer to dance,’ she replied equally casually.
‘That’s good, so do I. Want a little spin around the floor?’ Randy expected a rebuff, he knew he was irritating the star, but she rose from her chair.
‘I would love to,’ she accepted graciously with a smile that threw Randy slightly off balance.
The band had just begun to play so the floor was deserted. Too late Randy realised it was a tango. He tried to remember the one tango lesson he’d had with Nancy. He clasped Lena to his body so tightly her breath was expelled. She inhaled, her breasts thrust dangerously out of her dress, flung back her head, stiffened her arm and stared into his eyes. Her expression was haughty, devil may care and openly seductive. For a second Randy was intimidated then, on the beat, he moved and magic happened. She flowed with him, their movements blending, swaying and stamping as one flirted with and dared the other. Their eyes locked, oblivious to the rest of the room who watched in fascination as the stunning couple swept and strutted across the dance floor. The band members played just for them, no other couple dared move onto the floor and, at a crescendo, Lena with a flourish pulled the Spanish comb from the back of her head. Her coiled lustrous brown waves fell in a cascade down her bare back to almost sweep the floor as she bent backwards, Randy posed triumphantly above her. For a moment, Randy let his arms go limp as if to let her go and drop her to the floor, but then he yanked her upright, threw her over his shoulder and strode from the room to the whoops and applause of the crowd.
The audience waited for them to make their return entrance, but neither did. Late in the evening, Aurora gathered up Lena’s bag and stole and dropped them off at the Racquet Club.
‘What makes you think she’s there? She might be with him,’ said Hank.
‘Of course she is. But they’ll be in her suite, not at the Smoke Tree Ranch. I know women.’
‘Oh, and how many leading men did you sweep off to your room in your day?’ he asked.
‘Enough,’ she teased. ‘Enough to know you’re the one for me.’
Lovemaking between Randy and Lena became a battle of wills and bodies, each fighting to hold power and subdue the other. After the submissive women who’d thrilled to be in bed with the famous and lusty Randy Storm, the duel with Lena was intellectually as well as sexually stimulating.
In the morning he returned to grab some sleep at the Smoke Tree, and later went back to the Racquet Club to meet Lena by the pool. He stretched out on a sun chair and was almost asleep when she made her entrance. In a leopard print swimsuit, dark glasses and high-heeled sandals, her hair bound in a scarf, she undulated lazily around the entire circuit of the pool before standing over him. She lifted the dark glasses. ‘You must give me the chair now, caro.’
‘Beg me first.’ He made no effort to rise, giving her a cheeky grin.
With a deft move she unhooked the peg propping up the seat back and Randy fell flat with a thud. He reached out, grabbed her towel and pulled her down on top of him. He kissed her hard, slid from under her and strode to the pool, diving cleanly in and swimming underwater to the far end. People around the pool went back to their books, sunning, sipping drinks and chatting, but most kept one eye on the smooth easy Australian crawl of Randy Storm as he lapped the pool before stepping out, his dripping body pin-up perfect.
Ariel didn’t sound pleased. ‘Porto Ercole? A fishing village? It doesn’t sound like Lena Lanfranci’s style. Where are you staying? For how long?’
‘Ariel babe, you were the one who said I needed a holiday.’
‘Yeah, I meant a rest, not going into a sexual war zone with the likes of Boadicea, warrior queen.’
‘You’re jealous!’
‘Crap.’
‘Come with us.’
‘And be fed a poisoned pizza? No way, I’m your agent not your mother.’
‘So what’s the problem, luv?’
‘She’s on home turf, but the international press will find you. I don’t want it to look like you’re some gigolo panting in her wake.’
‘I take your point. Listen, I find her fun, a challenge. It’s a bit of a spark in my otherwise dull life.’
‘Dull! You’re on the brink of being bigger than any male star past or present. You’ve had four hit films on the trot. And you’re about to be loaned out again, I have to tell you.’
‘What! To whom, may I be so bold as to ask?’
‘Warners. They want you for a pirate extravaganza. You always said you wanted a sailing number.’
‘How much are Warners paying?’
‘Now, Randy, you know this is how it works. Five Star still owns you.’
‘How bloody much?’
‘Seventy grand.’
‘And I’m getting five hundred a week. It’s criminal. It’s time to mutiny.’
‘Oi vay. I knew this was coming.’
‘So? So fix it, Ariel. I’m making Five Star a fucking fortune and I’m still struggling to keep myself here as well as keep Paradis going.’
‘I thought you said it was doing pretty well.’
‘Yeah. Mac’s done a great job, but he’s getting old and it takes money to make money, y’know?’
‘Randy, trust me on this one. Keep still for this picture. There are things happening in the wings that aren’t healthy, it’s best if we don’t make waves at this time.’
‘Which means?’
‘I’m not sure what’s going on, but I hear Rudi Lofts is getting some schtick. Something to do with the money men.’
‘Who are they?’
‘No-one knows. There’s a company, a corps of faceless men who actually own Five Star. Sometimes they make their presence felt. That’s all I’ve heard. There was a problem a few years back. I guess they resurface every so often. But my antennae, my contacts out there, know the tree is being shaken. Be quiet or you might be one of the ones shaken down.’
‘Why, for God’s sake? I’m just an actor. A cog in the wheel.’
‘Randy, every so often I have a flash . . . or whatever you call it, instinct, divine intervention, a pain in the guts . . . that tells me I’m right. This is one of those times. Listen to me, doll.’
‘Okay, babe. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Just let me go off and be a playboy for a month or so.’
Ariel gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Okay. You just stay on top of that Italian broad.’
‘Easier said than done. She likes to do it doggy style and sits on my face.’
‘I don’t need the details,’ said Ariel curtly.
‘When I come back we re-address my earning situation, okay?’
‘Yep. Don’t get fat on all that spaghetti.’
‘I plan to exercise.’
‘Please. Spare me.’ She hung up.
Porto Ercole was quaint. Randy loved it. He felt at home in the small port, the curve of the waterfront crammed with fishing craft, sailboats, pleasure boats and the occasional luxury vessel. Queen Wilhelmina of Holland had a large home in the hills, as did English, American and Australian writers and artists. The bars were rustic, the restaurants were simple brasserie style, mostly open-air affairs. Lena had a villa in the Tuscan hills above the port, a simple, pink-hued, mudbrick double-storeyed house with dark green shutters and surrounded by terracotta pots of red geraniums. It was simply furnished with iron bedsteads, crisp white sheets, pitchers of water and ceramic bowls in the bedroom. A large cold, tiled bathroom down the hall had a deep, claw-footed bath in the centre of the floor, overhung by leaning rusty water pipes. An elderly couple who cooked and cared for the place were full of smiles and simple conversation. While Randy had no knowledge of the language, he quickly grasped the most popular and useful phrases, which he spoke in a perfect accent that brought on a voluble flurry of admiration.
He’d started out as a bit of a curiosity in the town and he soon realised that the locals saw him as yet another conquest in tow by Lena. But Randy quickly forged his own position by making friends, despite the language barrier, with fishermen, bar owners and the old men who sat at the outdoor tables sipping short strong coffee and talking of life, women and the war.
He asked to go out with the fishermen who were at first reluctant. But when one old fellow agreed, word soon spread that Randy was a hardworking and useful hand on a boat. He persuaded Lena they should rent a small yacht and they took off sailing along the Amalfi coast.
Away from an audience, Lena stopped being the sophisticate and she surprised Randy with her home cooking, even in the minuscule galley, while she told him stories of growing up in Naples in a large, close family. They made love on the deck under the stars, they moored in coves to swim in the eerily purple-blue water and Randy hadn’t felt as happy since he’d sailed on the Sorcerer.
Back in Porto Ercole, Randy settled in with his waterfront bar friends and fishermen. Lena decided to go south to see her family. She kissed Randy, for they had developed an affection that had strengthened their relationship, though volatile spats and sparring were a constant for them.
Among the residents of the village were two English girls, Sheena and Norma, two out-of-work actresses who’d teamed up in London and gone to Italy for a holiday, ending up in Porto Ercole. They’d found the local lovers more hot-blooded and generous than their British counterparts so they’d stayed on in the sun and lazy ambience of this untouristy bolthole. The months rolled on and in between affairs, the girls set up a business, the Dive Bar, no more than a dark cave, dimly lit, that served drinks and played the new rock’n’roll pop music. They’d ‘decorated’ it with fishing nets, chianti bottles, table candles to compete with the few weak light bulbs, and old cafe furniture castoffs. The girls had funding from a shadowy figure – an older man who rarely appeared in the village but when he did, they both slept with him and assured themselves of another six months’ backing for the Dive.
They confided in Randy who, glimpsing the fat boss with the balding head but a body covered in thick black hair like a gorilla, asked how the hell they could stomach sex with him. They laughed. It was simple. ‘Can’t walk with straight legs for a week after a night with him,’ said Sheena. He was hung like a bull and they’d agreed he was the best lover either had ever known.
Randy enjoyed the occasional drink in the Dive Bar, teasing the girls, listening to their sexual adventures and kidding round. They kept asking him to put them in his next film and it became a running joke between them. Randy was now in a position where he had to fight off girls and not play the game of offering them parts in his movies in order to sleep with them. These days the starlets threw themselves at him just to boast they’d slept with the screen’s greatest heart-throb lover. Men envied his easy sex life, but for Randy it was a trial. He liked the thrill of the chase and seduction. Peeling women off him didn’t have the same appeal, which is why Lena still held him tightly by the balls. So he enjoyed the company of Sheena and Norma, who he thought of as predatory, out for a good time, no harm done, you’re only young once and if no-one is hurt, what the hell.
One day he found them morose and concerned. He bought a beer and heard their tale of woe – Giuseppe, their benefactor, had dropped dead. In bed with his fat mamma of a wife no less. She wanted monthly cash pay-offs from the business or, they were told, she’d close the bar.
‘So what’s the plan? Going back to the real world? What happened to your acting ambitions?’ asked Randy.
‘I have an uncle in LA. Might go check him out and see what’s going on there,’ said Sheena.
‘Maybe we’ll sink our savings into sitting in the bar or lobby of some rich hotel and look for a millionaire,’ said Norma, sounding deadly serious.
Randy looked at the girls, thinking they’d have to invest in scrubbing themselves up. They lived in low-cut tops and shorts, were very suntanned and their long hair tied in ponytails looked earthy and casual in a seaside village, but in slick LA? Plain scruffy. They drank like men, swore like men and looked for fast uncomplicated sex like men. With the local women under the protection of fathers and brothers, the two girls had provided a mutual beneficial service to the men of the village and passing tourists.
‘Well, don’t tell anyone in LA that I’m here. I’m enjoying being one of the boys and not a movie star,’ Randy told Sheena.
Lena was away visiting her mother for her birthday and Randy was getting bored with fishing and hanging out in the village.
So it came as a welcome surprise when Sheena turned up to see him.
‘We’re having a private party before we close down. We’re going to the States.’
‘So uncle came through.’
‘You might say that.’ She was evasive and uncomfortable.
It was a helluva party. Randy wondered later if the drinks had been spiked. He got very drunk very fast and remembered little. At some stage he found himself at the back of the bar in one of the two small rooms where the girls lived. He was on a sagging bed with the two women naked and rolling on top of him. ‘Shit, I’m too drunk. I just want to throw up.’
Norma took him into a basic bathroom, and after being sick he felt a little better. He flung himself on the bed. ‘Christ, leave me be.’ The room was spinning, the floor heaving and for a moment he thought he must be at sea. The girls were insistent, doing their best to arouse him when all he wanted was the bliss of sleep to get him through the next hours. His head was splitting and a light exploded in his eyes. He pulled a smelly sheet over himself and passed out.
He was alone the next morning and the girls were nowhere to be seen. He went back to Lena’s villa and took a day to recover, wondering what the hell he’d drunk.
He never saw the girls again. The locals told him they’d got jobs crewing on a luxury yacht, sailing north.
It was time to return to Los Angeles. Lena was about to make a spaghetti western being filmed in Palm Springs. Randy was called to a meeting with Rudi, the studio boss. ‘So, Randy, how was the European vacation? You’re looking great, kid. How was luscious Lena, eh?’ He gave a wink.
‘No secrets in this town. She’s a great cook. I’m supposed to meet mamma and the sisters.’
‘Watch out, Randy. Bad sign when they want to take you home to mother. Now, let’s talk turkey.’ Time was money in Rudi’s book.
He smoothly ran through the reasons why Randy was being loaned out to another studio, the advantages for him and Five Star.
‘Bucks. And you get them. What’s in it for me?’
‘I’ve run this past your agent and, as a courtesy, I’m speaking with you. It’s a big vehicle, prestige cast and director. Be good for all of us. We’ll stick by you and see you right, Randy. Frankly, I want you to know – in confidence, of course – that we are, all the studios not just Five Star, under a lot of pressure from . . . well . . . various sources.’
‘That seems to me to be your problem. And the way out of it is to make blockbuster pictures. If you have to pay your stars big bucks to get those bums on seats . . .’ Randy shrugged, ‘. . . so be it.’
Rudi roared with laughter. ‘Smart ass. Listen, if I knew what was gonna be a surefire hit, I’d be putting up the money, not just running the place! Get outta here, I’ll talk to that chutzpah agent of yours when you’re finished with Warners.’
Randy left feeling he was still being taken advantage of. He’d do this flick at Warners, hope it was a big hit and then get Ariel to take him out on strike, suspension, whatever, till they paid him what he was worth. It was crazy that he was one of the top movie stars in the world and he was locked into a contract at five hundred dollars a week with a measly increase each year. He wanted another zero on that, at least.
For the next few weeks, Randy fell comfortably into the now familiar pre-production routine, the only novelty being that he was working at a different studio with different people. He spent several weekends with Lena in the Colonial Manor House which her studio had booked in Palm Springs, but once filming started for both of them, there’d only be phone calls. They were now regarded by the showbiz press as ‘an item’ and they were shadowed relentlessly, the photographers hoping for one of their famous spats. Lena’s short-fused Latin temperament had become notorious. Ariel asked Randy whether the pizza queen was worth all the headaches.
‘Life ain’t dull, I’ll give you that. And she likes making up. I just don’t let her get to me. Which drives her nuts, of course.’ Randy gave a laugh. ‘Anyway, she’s more appetising than some of the washed-out blonde airheads around the studio. Can’t spell their name, never read a book. At least I can have a good argument with Lena – she’s a rabid socialist.’
‘You spend too much money on her.’
‘She says giving a woman presents is how you show you like her.’
‘Bullshit. And it’s money you haven’t got yet, remember.’
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.’
‘I heard you saw Rudi,’ said Ariel.
‘Yeah, I figure we call their bluff next film. But there’s something going on. I think my phone is tapped and I know I’m being followed.’
‘Jesus. That wouldn’t be Rudi. Have you told the cops?’
‘Keep your hair on, Ariel.’
‘Randy, this is bad. You call Rudi and tell him. Let him decide whether or not to get the cops involved.’
‘Over what? Nothing’s happened.’
‘I don’t like it. Listen, if there’s anything odd going on, call me, I’m over there.’
‘Ariel, sweetheart, what’re you gonna do? Stand outside my door?’
‘Just watch your back. And don’t go falling off any ship’s mast or whatever.’
‘It’s all being filmed on a sound stage. Not a drop of water in sight.’
On the fourth day of filming, the third assistant tapped on Randy’s trailer door. It was a small caravan affair parked by Wardrobe and Make-up near Warners’ Sound Stage Three. ‘Mr Storm, there’re two men here to see you. From the LA Police Department.’
Randy slammed open his door. ‘What the devil do you blokes want? I’m working. If it’s about the ball, or fund raising . . .’
