Night of the Pentagram Page 8

  “You were in Illumination?” said Dakota. “I don’t remember seeing you in it.”

  “I played Frieda, the schoolgirl who fell in love with her teacher and then accused him of rape when he didn’t return her feelings.”

  “I loved that movie,” Dakota said, “so sad and so intense. You look so different.”

  “I was only eighteen when I made that movie.”

  “I don’t understand those foreign art films,” said Jewel. “Wasn’t that made by that Polish director?”

  “Sven Lindstrom. He’s Swedish. Sven is – ” Elizabeth stumbled on the word “ – was my husband.”

  “But you worked with Brando,” said Bobby, “that makes you a star in my book.”

  “What was it like working with Brando?” asked Bryce. “I’ve heard he can be a real son of a bitch on set.”

  “What I want to know is what was he like in bed?” Dakota said, and when several others tossed disapproving glances at her she said: “So what? I read somewhere that the two of you slept together. Brando sleeps with all his co-stars, male and female. Everybody knows that.” She shrugged and lifted her wineglass. “What’s the big deal? I’ve slept with Mick Jagger.”

  Jewel narrowed her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve slept with half the men in San Francisco.

  “You say that as if it was a bad thing,” Dakota said.

  Elizabeth did her best to steer the conversation away from herself as the subject. “Do you write your own songs, Bobby?”

  “Hardly. Some schmuck in Iowa or Idaho writes them for all I know. My step-father manages every aspect of my career, right down to which songs I’ll record and who the studio musicians are. Don’t tell anyone but I can’t read a note of music. Joe hires a vocal coach to teach me the melody.”

  “Joe?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Joe Gottlieb.”

  “Joe Gottlieb is your step-father?” Elizabeth was familiar with the name.

  “In name only. He’s my manager first and foremost.”

  “The man knows what he’s doing,” said Bryce. “How long was your first single on the charts?”

  “Six weeks in the top ten.”

  “That’s pretty damned good when you’re competing with the Beatles and the Supremes.”

  “I’m more of a Frank Sinatra kind of guy, myself,” said Chet.

  Dakota rolled her eyes.

  Elizabeth asked, “Bryce, what kind of music do you like?”

  “I listen to a bit of everything, Bach, Beethoven, Donovan, Hendrix, you name it.”

  “What do you think of Girl Next Door?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s a personal favorite,” Bryce said with such sincerity that Elizabeth couldn’t tell if he was pulling Bobby’s leg or not. “This is a great time for contemporary music, so many happening sounds.”

  “Most of it sounds like noise to me, people screaming and burning their guitars,” Jewel said with a frown. “And why does everyone insist on dressing like dirty hippies. Why don’t they wash their clothes, for God’s sake? I’m sure they make enough money they can afford to go to the Laundromat and buy new ones while they’re at it. I think it’s vulgar to see singers with pants so tight they have their cocks on display for the whole world to see.”

  Bryce’s fork clattered to his plate.

  Elizabeth saw Joan close her eyes and pinch the bridge of her nose with her fingers. She watched Chet glance at Dr. Abernathy to check his reaction to Jewel’s crass remark, but the doctor’s face showed no reaction.

  Bobby giggled.

  Dakota said, “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  Jewel lifted her chin.

  Bobby leaned across the table toward Elizabeth and said, “Well?”

  Elizabeth stared at him.

  “Did you make it with Marlon Brando or not?”

  “No. Honestly, we’re just very good friends. We’re neighbors. My house is near his on Mulholland Drive.”

  “Aren’t they supposed to be making one of your books into a movie?” Bobby asked Jewel.

  Jewel rolled her eyes. “If it ever crawls out of development hell. They rejected my original screenplay on the grounds that they wouldn’t be able to bring it in with anything short of an X rating.”

  “That’s what happens when you write dirty books,” Chet said.

  “It is not a dirty book,” Jewel said with disgust. “Some people need to get off the high moral horse before it knocks them on their ass.”

  As the conversation turned away from Elizabeth as the subject, she took the opportunity to turn her attention toward Joan who sat to her left at the end of the table. Joan made a show of pushing her fork around her plate, but she had barely touched her meal. The others at the table had made quick work of the meatloaf and begged Balthazar to bring more.

  “Don’t you care for the meatloaf?” Elizabeth asked her.

  “I’m not all that hungry.”

  As if on cue Balthazar stepped up to the table. “I can bring you something else, Mrs. Monaghan. Anything you want, really.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Elizabeth didn’t care for the way Joan snapped at the boy. She didn’t know whether to feel sorry for the woman or to be annoyed with her.

  “That’s a lovely broach you’re wearing.”

  Joan fingered the crescent moon broach pinned to her breast. The tiny diamonds glittered in the light from the overhead chandelier.

  “Thank you. It was a gift from my husband.”

  “Are you in show business, Joan?” Elizabeth was still curious to learn more about Joan. She was the only guest at the table who didn’t seem to be a celebrity.

  “I’m not anyone special.”

  “Politicians are celebrities in their own right,” said Chet.

  Dakota added, “Especially now that every home has a television and the networks insist on interrupting regular scheduled programs to broadcast every last debate and hearing.”

  “I didn’t realize you were in politics,” Elizabeth said to Joan.

  Joan shook her head. “I’m not. My husband is Max Monaghan.”

  “The senator? Of course, I didn’t make the connection. Your life must be as exciting as all the socializing we Hollywood types tend to engage in, political fundraisers, gala balls and dinners, things like that.”

  “The people are far less attractive, though,” Jewel said. “That’s why they’re politicians and not actors.”

  Joan rubbed the back of her neck. “She’s right, you know.”

  “I’ve been to a few of those fund raisers,” Jewel went on. “What an endless bore. All the men wear the same red tie and women all wear the same navy blue dress. Do you think any of them actually give a damn whether the zoo raises enough money for a new elephant house?”

  Chet said, “I’ve thought about entering politics.”

  “You’ll need something to do since you won’t be flying to the moon anytime soon,” Dakota said.

  Jewel dropped her napkin on her plate and pushed her chair back from the table. “Who’s ready for cocktails?”

  “Count me in,” said Bryce said as he stood up. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  “Everybody to the drawing room,” Bobby said, swinging his arm like a Boy Scout leader setting off on an afternoon hike.

  Elizabeth touched Joan lightly on her forearm. “Will you join us in the drawing room?”

  Joan stared at Elizabeth’s hand, but made no move to shake it away. “No, I have a headache. I think I will go upstairs to bed.”

  “You’re certain? Just one drink? I’d love the opportunity to get to know you better.” Elizabeth hoped she sounded sincere.

  As the others filed out of the room, Joan turned to Elizabeth and said, “I know what you are trying to do. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. These mandatory appearances at dinner can be very trying for me. Please try to understand.”

  As Elizabeth stepped out into the hall she felt Joan’s hand touch her arm. It was the slightest touch, but just as quickly
Joan jerked her hand away as if she had touched hot coals.

  “You remind me of my husband’s girlfriend,” Joan said.

  “What?”

  “She’s about your age, I think. I understand what he sees in her but I don’t know what she sees in a man his age.”

  “Joan, I don’t know what to say. I’m—“

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so harsh. Would you walk with me to my room?”

  “All right,” Elizabeth said with a smile.

  Dr. Abernathy walked with them into the foyer where he said good night and disappeared into the shadows of the north wing.

  An awkward silence fell between Elizabeth and Joan. They reached the top of the stairs before Joan turned to Elizabeth.

  “It’s no wonder they’re burning down our cities,” she said. “Politicians promised them their rights but gave them nothing.”

  Elizabeth again found she was at a loss for words. It was difficult for her to fathom what went through the woman’s mind.

  “It’s all a ruse. They don’t believe the virtues they espouse from the election platforms. Everything they say and do is carefully orchestrated to manipulate the public into believing they will make everything all right. But it’s just a game to them. Believe me, I know. These men stand at podiums and denounce communism and liberalism, they champion American values and American virtues, and yet half of them are sleeping with women other than their own wives. They rail against drug abuse while they spiral deeper into alcoholism…and worse.”

  Elizabeth was grateful for the darkness of the hallway outside their bedroom doors. She did not want to face the pain in Joan’s eyes.

  “Mrs. Monaghan…Joan…I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s nothing left to say,” Joan said. “You’re a sweet girl. Thank you for trying to be my friend. Good night.”

  Elizabeth watched as Joan closed the door between them, and then returned to the stairs, anticipating a stiff cocktail waiting for her in the drawing room below.

  She found Bobby Dixon waiting for her, lurking in the dark foyer at the foot of the stairs.

  “I wanted to ask you something, Elizabeth. Joe is trying to cut a deal to get me into pictures. He’s looking at a couple of scripts that could be tailored to fit me and my audience. You know, teenage fluff, like Elvis used to do. I’d love it if you would be in one of my pictures.”

  “I’d have to give that some thought, Bobby,” Elizabeth said, but inside she thought, not on your life. Such a disastrous move would be career suicide.

  “I know it’s not Shakespeare and won’t win any awards, but they’ll be fun pictures to make. Lots of comedy and musical numbers. Do you sing?”

  “A little.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t sing half as good as my fans think I do. You should hear how I sound in concert. After a few nights on the road my voice is shot. The chicks are so busy screaming they can’t tell the difference.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Bobby. I’ll give you my agent’s number and when there’s a script ready you send it over to him. I’ll be sure to tell him I’m expecting it. If I can fit it into my schedule I’d be happy to be in your film.”

  Bobby beamed. “That would be swell!”

  Elizabeth stepped into the drawing room behind Bobby. The lighting was dim and a haze of cigarette smoke hovered in the air. The other guests chattered gaily and the room felt as warm and inviting as a friendly neighborhood bar.

  Chet leafed through the record collection stored inside the large Hi-Fi console on the outer wall of the room. Selecting an album he dropped the record onto the spindle and within moments the room was filled with the wistful sounds of one of Chet Baker’s cool jazz ballads. The singer’s fragile, ethereal vocals seemed to hang in the air, as delicate as the wisps of cigarette smoke which languished in the room.

  Jewel sat in a large, wing backed chair at one end of the room, cigarette poised in one hand and a highball glass filled with bourbon in the other, a queen holding court from her throne.

  Bryce greeted her with a smile. “Elizabeth, what’s your poison?”

  “Vodka tonic will be fine.”

  “Same for me,” Bobby said.

  Bryce cast a disapproving glance at Bobby.

  Bobby scowled. “This is worse than reform school. You cats are so square. What do you think I do to wind down after concerts when I’m on tour?”

  “Cool it,” Bryce said. He handed a glass to Elizabeth, and then held one out to Bobby. Bobby reached for the glass. Bryce feigned taking it away again just to see the look on Bobby’s face, then relented and handed it to Bobby with a smile. “But no driving for you tonight, young man.”

  “That reminds me, when are you going to let me take that Lamborghini out for a spin? Joe’s promised me a car for my eighteenth birthday, anything I want.”

  “Do you have your learner’s permit yet? Ah I didn’t think so.”

  Elizabeth sank down into the deep cushions of the couch next to Dakota.

  “Dinner was fabulous. I’m stuffed.”

  “So, what did you think of Joan Monaghan?”

  “I don’t know what to make of her. She seems to be preoccupied with things that are out of her control. I think she might be depressed.”

  Dakota laughed. “She’s a long way from ‘might be’. Joan is full blown chronic with plenty of paranoia thrown in for good measure.”

  Chet said, “Leave her alone, the poor woman isn’t here to defend herself.”

  “She wouldn’t defend herself even if she was here. If she were anymore of a wallflower she wouldn’t exist.”

  “I thought we all signed a confidentiality clause when we registered.”

  “That’s for when we get out of here, baby,” Dakota reminded him. “We promise not to disclose who we met on the inside. But in here we’re all in this together. No one here gets off scot-free. Besides, Elizabeth is going to find out sooner or later once she’s had a taste of Dr. Abernathy’s group therapy sessions.

  “All I’m saying is it’s not polite to talk about someone else’s psychological problems when they aren’t in the room.” Chet picked up Jewel’s cigarette lighter from the coffee table and began nervously flicking the flint.

  Dakota said, “Dad, you are such a square! Elizabeth saw Joan, observed, and diagnosed. That’s all. She’s a natural intuitive. Come on, Elizabeth, what do you think I’m in the clink for?”

  “I can’t say. You seem pretty normal to me.”

  “Ha!” said Jewel

  “Seems is the operative word,” Chet said.

  “All right then, I’ll tell you. I’m not ashamed. I’m a kleptomaniac. You know what that is, don’t you?”

  “It means you steal things, right?” volunteered Bobby.

  “That’s right,” said Jewel, “So watch your pocketbook!”

  “Now Jewel here,” said Dakota, “Jewel is your classic manic depressive, a regular teeter-totter. One day she is sweet as pie, the next day she’s ready to toss you through a window.”

  “Did you really throw that man through a window?” asked Bobby

  “Do I look like I could lift a two-hundred-pound man and throw him through a plate glass window?”

  “According to the press there were more than a dozen witnesses,” said Chet. He continued to flick Jewel’s cigarette lighter.

  “Do you want a cigarette?” Jewel’s voice was cool.

  “You know I don’t smoke.”

  Jewel snatched her lighter out of his hand and slammed it down hard on the table beside her chair.

  “I remember seeing that on the news,” said Elizabeth.

  “That wasn’t the only time, was it, Jewel?” Chet goaded her.

  “Critics,” said Jewel, “if they were real writers they wouldn’t feel compelled to make their living insulting other people’s art.”

  “Is that what you call it? My wife read your first book. She said it was nothing but filth.”

  “Come on,” Bryce urged Chet
. “Leave the lady alone.”

  “I’m just trying to see how far I’d have to go before you tried something like that on me,” said Chet.

  “Don’t push your luck,” Jewel fired back.

  “You’re determined to go all the way to the moon after all,” said Dakota. “I bet she can’t throw anyone that far.”