Jackie Collins, page 27
He studied the writing on the front-it was from Cyndra. "How many
times I gotta tell you? When I get mail I want it right away," he
said, irritated.
"I told you-I forgot."
The envelope looked in bad shape. "What did y'do, steam it open?"
"As if I would!"
"As if you wouldn't."
DeVille had a jealous streak he didn't appreciate.
"Is it from your sister?" she said, peering over his shoulder.
"You did open it," he accused.
"No, I did not. Her name's on the back."
It was a stupid thought, but one of these days he still hoped he might
receive a letter from Lauren. Yeah-a real stupid thought.
Lauren was his past, long gone. He'd written her many times and never
gotten a reply. After a while he'd given up. It was obvious she
didn't care about him.
But that didn't mean he couldn't think about her once in a while, did
it? He imagined her still in Bosewell, married with kids, happy, never
giving him a second thought-she probably didn't even remember his
name.
He opened Cyndra's letter. She'd left Chicago with Joey over four
years ago. The two of them had taken off when the winter got too cold
and neither of them could keep a job. They'd tried to persuade him to
go with them, but by that time he was settled at Q.J."s doing
everything from taking over the bar to running errands for Q.J.
Cyndra had stayed in New York with Joey for a couple of years, until
eventually she'd met some sharpshooter called Reece Webster, who'd
lured her out to California with a few phony promises. She was still
with him. From what Nick could gather the guy was married, but on the
brink of leaving his wife. He'd been on the brink for the last two
years.
He scanned her letter.
Dear Nick: Well, things are good in Los Angeles, you'd really love it
here.
It's hot all the time and there's these great palm trees everywhere
-but I guess I've told you that enough times-right?
Why don't you come visit me? I've got plenty of room if you don't mind
sleeping on a sofa bed. Reece is never here on weekends so we could
have fun and you know how much I miss you.
As far as my career. . well, I'm taking singing lessons-haha! Aren't
you glad? I'm also meeting lots of people Reece says can help me.
I haven't heard from Joey in a while. I think he's driving a cab.
You know !oey, always waiting for the big break. Aren't we allha-ha!
I'm serious, Nick-please think about coming out here even if it's only
for a long weekend.
I love you and I miss you lots.
As always, Your sister, Cyndra She wasn't the world's greatest letter
writer, but at least she bothered to write.
"You ever been to California?" he asked DeVille, folding the letter
and putting it in his pocket.
"Once," she replied. "When I was eighteen. There was this rich guy
with his own private plane. He flew me and three other girls to a
party in Vegas. We put on a show they didn't forget in a hurry!"
"What kind of show?"
"Stripping, parading the goods, what else?"
"Did you ever do any hooking?"
Her mouth tightened. "Why are you asking me that?"
"I'm throwing it into the conversation."
"Throw it out again, Nick," she said, glaring at him. "I take my
clothes off, and that's all I do."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
"Nor do I." She marched into the bathroom, slamming the door behind
her.
She'd sulk for five minutes and then come out. DeVille never stayed
angry for long.
Q.J. had this theory about women. He considered them all hookers under
the skin. Sometimes he'd give Nick the benefit of his wisdom.
"You gotta look at it like this-when they marry a guy, what the hell ya
think they're doin'? They're havin' sex for money, right? So the
husband screws her one night an' buys her a dress the next day. The
poor schmuck pays for everything. Why don't he leave a hundred
buckerooneys on the bedside table an' call it quits?"
Q.J. was a true cynic. Maybe that was the way to be. Nick had no
intention of ever getting married. Every time DeVille so much as
hinted he'd laughed, not taking her seriously.
Once again his thoughts drifted back to Lauren. He couldn't help
thinking about her-she hovered at the back of his mind, a distant
memory he couldn't forget. He'd hoped over the years that Joey or
Cyndra would go back to Bosewell for a visit-but neither of them seemed
inclined. As far as he knew, Joey had never contacted his mother, and
Cyndra had no urge to get in touch with Aretha Mae, although she
occasionally mentioned Harlan. They both felt guilty about leaving the
kid. "When I make it I'll go get him," Cyndra said.
Yeah. Sure.
Once in a while he thought of calling Louise at the drugstore-just to
find out what was going on in town. But something always stopped
him.
The truth was he really didn't want to know.
Over the years he'd worked hard, helping to make Q.J."s the successful
place it was today. Five years ago it was a hangout for petty con
artists and their one-night stands, offering nothing but bad food and a
couple of tired strippers. When disco got really big he'd started
badgering Q.J. about dumping the strippers and bringing in a disc
jockey.
"Are you outta your fuckin' skull?" Q.J. had said. "My customers get
off on the girls. Anyhow, we ain't got no space for dancin'."
"Make it," he'd urged. "You gotta get into this disco thing before
it's over."
"I hire a fuckin' dishwasher an' all of a sudden he's tellin' me what
to do."
"I ain't a dishwasher no more."
"What are you then?"
"Your assistant."
"If you say so.
Q.J. was too cheap to hire a disc jockey, and too nervous to risk
losing customers by firing the strippers, so he'd compromised by making
Nick the disc jockey and persuading Erna to stop strippingputting her
in charge of two new girls he hired. Business had picked up
immediately.
Nick was triumphant. "I told ya," he'd said.
"Yeah, yeah, you told me," Q.J. had replied. "Like I didn't already
know."
Nick really got into the music. It was a kick hanging out at the
record stores listening to all the new sounds and picking out the
latest hits.
The sound system Q.J. elected to put in was shit, but he quickly
learned how to work the room, mixing the old with the new-a little bit
of Elvis, followed by Al Green, throw in some Bobby Womack, then calm
them down with Dionne Warwick and Smokey Robinson.
When he wasn't working the turntables he was behind the bar.
The regular bartender didn't like it. "Get that ratty kid away from
me," he'd complained, "or I'm outta here."
There was nothing Q.J. liked better than a threat. Plus he could get
away with paying Nick half the money he was paying the old man.
"So quit," he'd said.
The bartender did, and Nick had found himself in charge of the bar
too.
"We gotta hire somebody else," he'd complained. "I can't play records
and run the bar."
"Jesus Christ, you're gonna break me," Q.J. complained.
"No," he'd corrected. "I'm gonna make you."
Erna was his biggest supporter. Even Len got into the spirit of things
by hiring an assistant chef who could actually cook. Q.J."s really
took off.
Not that anybody had ever thanked him. He didn't need thanksa steady
job was enough.
He considered the situation. He'd walked in off the street five years
ago with exactly nothing, and now he was the son Q.J. never had.
Not bad. Not good. He'd come to Chicago hoping to be an actor and
done nothing about it. He was twenty-two years old-if he didn't start
soon he never would. While he stayed at Q.J."s there was no time for
anything else, not even acting class. He'd managed to save a couple of
thousand dollars over the years, and now California beckoned. The
letter from Cyndra was a sign. If he didn't make a move he'd be stuck
at Q.J."s forever, wearing cerise shirts and shooting his cufflinks
just like Q.J. himselœ A frightening thought!
DeVille bounced out of the bathroom. She was pretty, sexy and
amiable.
It was over. Six months was his limit. Besides, he couldn't take her
with him, excess baggage was never a good idea.
"Are we going to the movie?" she asked.
"Sure."
God, she had a great mouth.
It would be tough kissing it goodbye.
excuse me, Miss Roberts."
"Yes, Mr. Larden?"
"I notice that it's raining outside, and I wondered if I might offer
you a lift home."
"That's very nice of you, Mr. Larden, but my cousin is meeting me.
"Oh." Mr. Larden stared at her. He was a man of medium height in his
thirties with thinning hair and a drooping mouth. He was also a
married man with two children, one dog and several hamsters. He was
her boss.
"Are you sure, Miss Roberts?" he asked hopefully.
"Yes, I'm sure, Mr. Larden."
They played this game all the time. He pretended to be the concerned
boss always looking out for his secretary's welfare. She pretended
that he really did want to give her a lift out of the kindness of his
heart because it was raining outside. They both knew this was a lie.
He wanted to get her into bed any way he could.
Lauren had worked for him as his personal secretary for two years now,
and she knew she had to leave or go completely crazy.
"Well," he said, collecting his briefcase, "I'll see you tomorrow
then."
"Yes, Mr. Larden."
She waited until he'd left before picking up the phone. "Brad," she
said in a low voice, "I can't see you tonight."
"What do you mean you can't see me?" he spluttered.
"It's difficult to explain now. Let's talk tomorrow." She put the
phone down quickly before he could argue.
Bradford Deene, her cousin. Good old Brad. Without him she probably
couldn't have gotten through the last five years. But their
relationship was sick, it had to stop, and she was the one who was
going to end it.
Five years ago she'd arrived in Philadelphia a shivering wreck. Her
mother's brother, Will, along with his wife, Margo, had met her at the
airport.
"W&re so sorry, dear, so very very sorry," Margo had said, but she
hadn't shed a tear.
Will seemed more sincere. "Your mother was a wonderful woman -always a
good sister to me. We shall miss her."
The Deenes had taken her to their house on Roosevelt Boulevard.
It was a nice house, but it certainly wasn't home. Brad, her
nineteenyear-old cousin, was away at college and they allowed her to
stay in his room. At night she overheard them whispering, Margo
saying, "What are we going to do with her? We can't keep her here."
And Will answering, "Lauren is my sister's daughter, Margo. She has no
other relatives. We have to take her in. After all, she's only
sixteen."
"I know, I know. But for how long?"
Jane and Phil Roberts had both perished in the deadly tornado that had
practically totaled Bosewell. Lauren remembered very little of the
nightmare. She'd arrived in Philadelphia still numb with shock. And
shortly after arriving she'd had to tell Margo she was pregnant.
Her aunt had gone completely crazy. "How did this happen? Were you
raped?" she'd demanded.
"It just . . . happened . .
"Was it that boy you were engaged to? Stock? Because if it was we can
force him to marry you.
"No, it wasn't Stock."
"Who was it then?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Your poor parents. They'd be so. . . so disappointed in you.
"I want to have the baby," Lauren had said quietly.
Margo had shaken her head. "Absolutely out of the question. It's
enough that you're here-we cannot look after a baby too."
"There is no choice in this matter," her uncle had said. "You'll have
to have an abortion."
She remembered the termination as if it were yesterday. Margo had
taken her to the gynecologist, a bald man with sleepy eyes and
rubbergloved hands. "What have you been up to, young lady?" he'd said
with a jovial wink as she lay on the cold hard examining table, feeling
naked and vulnerable beneath the paper garment the nurse instructed her
to wear.
"Come along, put your legs in the stirrups, dear."
He'd probed and poked until she could stand it no more.
"I don't want to lose my baby," she'd whispered.
"It's nothing," he'd said. "Don't worry about it. Next time you open
your legs be a little more careful, that's all."
Then they'd given her an injection, and she remembered nothing much at
all except the harsh feel of cold steel between her legs.
After that there was no more baby, no more Nick.
At the time she'd thought about him every second of the day, but now
she'd forced herself to stop. Nick Angelo had left her, run out of
town without so much as a goodbye, and she'd never heard from him
again-not even after the tragedy.
In a way she hated him. He'd used her for his own selfish reasons and
then dumped her-leaving her pregnant and alone. She was shocked that
he'd left. No note, no word, no nothing. She hardened her heart
against him, but for some inexplicable reason she still didn't want to
lose his baby.
Margo and Will insisted she go back to school. She did so reluctantly
because she had no choice.
One night Margo and Will had called her into their living room and
given her the bad news. "Your father's estate left nothing. Death
taxes took what little there was. He was heavily in debt."
"I'm sorry, Lauren," Margo said. "There's no money to send you to
college. You must understand that we can't afford it. We've worked
hard all our lives to allow Bradford all the advantages he's had, and
now we're entitled to enjoy what's left."
"I don't want to go to college," she said. "As soon as I graduate from
high school I'll find a job."
"You could always try for a scholarship," Will ventured, feeling
guilty. "After all, you're a smart girl."
They didn't understand that she meant it when she said she had no wish
to attend college.
For several years she'd had nightmares about the tornado. In her mind
she could see it sweeping down on the trailer-and sometimes in her
dreams the tornado would turn into Primo. He would be part of
it-leering at her . . . touching her . . . saying lewd things-until
he forced her to raise the knife and strike.
She'd killed Primo.
Or had she?
The uncertainty drove her crazy.
