Glamour Puss Read online

  Things had been tough for them all, but for Mac, losing Troy had been the most painful development. Try as he may, he’d never managed to get close to his son. Even as a child, he’d resisted Mac’s overtures. And, like his mother, Troy’s successes were, at best, mixed. His credits consisted of minor roles in half a dozen films. The biggest part was in a TV drama that was jerked from the schedule after two episodes. The pattern seemed to be one step forward, one step back.

  Mac stayed out of it, hoping that Troy’s celluloid dreams would eventually run their course. When the boy started high school, Mac asked him to consider college. And if college didn’t interest him, a place in the family business. But Mac’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Things got so bad that by the time Troy was sixteen, they hardly spoke. The last straw came when Troy turned eighteen and officially changed his name to Hampton in lieu of the less marketable and more plebeian McGowan. Mac was crushed.

  Stella insisted that he shouldn’t take it personally. “Actors change their names all the time. Troy didn’t choose my name over yours, Mac. Hampton’s my stage name. It works with ‘Troy’ beautifully.” That may have been Stella’s take, but Mac knew there was an underlying hostility toward him on Troy’s part. The kid hated him and Mac didn’t know why.

  He’d tried to communicate with his son, even going so far as to do a mea culpa once. “I know we don’t see eye-to-eye about your career, Troy,” he’d said. “I realize that ultimately the decision is yours, and that maybe I should be more supportive of your choices. Maybe I’ve failed you in that regard, but is it wrong to point out alternatives?” The question hadn’t gotten so much as a response. Troy had simply given him a dirty look and walked away. How did you communicate with someone who seemed to hate the sound of your voice, regardless of what you said?

  Mostly Mac had endured his disappointment in silence. Whether out of guilt or habit he continued giving Stella money over and above his separate maintenance obligations, even knowing it was subsidizing Troy’s failing acting career. Mac wasn’t sure what to hope for—that one day his wife and son would wake up and realize they were wasting their time, or that they would slowly drift from his life, leaving him in peace.

  The telephone rang, jolting him from his reverie. Mac went to the nearest extension.

  “Hello?”

  “Meester McGowan, I got your message on the telephone.” It was Bonny, Stella’s housekeeper. “She is not home, so I think I should call.”

  “Bonny, where is she? Do you expect her soon?”

  “I don’t know, monsieur. Yesterday, when I came home from the market, there was a leetle note. It said she is going out of town for a while. She would call me.”

  “And you haven’t heard from her?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  Mac had a sinking feeling. Was Stella’s absence a coincidence, or could there be some connection to the mystery note? “She didn’t say where she was going, or with whom?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “That’s not like Stella, is it?”

  “She usually says more to me. And not so suddenly, at the last minute.”

  “Has Stella been all right, Bonny? Have you noticed anything unusual?”

  “She has been very excited about something the last week or more, Meester McGowan. I don’t know what. She did not talk to me about it.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Sometimes she does not talk to me. Sometimes she waits until she is very upset.”

  “She wasn’t upset?”

  “Not sad.”

  Mac didn’t know whether to take heart or not. It was possible Stella was completely oblivious to whatever was behind the note. But until he spoke with her, he’d have no way of knowing. “But you don’t know when she’ll be back?”

  “She did not say.”

  “Listen, Bonny, it’s very important that I talk to her. If she calls, tell her to get a hold of me, will you? It’s very, very important.”

  “Yes, monsieur, of course.”

  Mac hung up, if anything, feeling worse than before. He slumped into an armchair. What a day. Bri had kissed him off. Manuela Ordon˜ez had kissed him. He’d found an anonymous note at his door and Stella had dropped from sight. Try as he may, he could find no explanation and no obvious connection. Of course, he could always blame Glamour Puss. Aubrey had been controlling Mac’s life from the grave for twenty years now and was showing no signs of giving up.

  As Mac sat brooding, another possibility occurred to him. Jaime Caldron. It had to be the better part of ten years since Mac had seen or heard from the police detective. If Caldron hadn’t retired already, he had to be close to it. Was it possible he was taking a last stab at his unsolved cases? Shake the suspects up, get them nervous and talking in hopes they’d make a mistake. Would a cop go so far as to send anonymous notes? Or was that Mac’s paranoia speaking again?

  Burbank

  Manuela Ordon˜ez lay on her bed, her eyes red and burning from crying. She felt like such a fool. God, she hated Mac McGowan, she truly did. In the blink of an eye he went from Prince Charming to just another rich gringo who thought Latinas were good for nothing but being cleaning ladies or hookers or pool maids. She rolled over onto her back, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands as she stared at the dark ceiling. Donny had tried to use her, too, and he sure as hell got his. She shot his ass.

  Manuela had been so sure Mac was a nice guy, that he respected her. Why did he do this to her? Couldn’t he tell how much she liked him? What was wrong with her, anyway? Wasn’t she good enough for him?

  Just then she heard the front door open and close. And she heard Angel’s voice. She wondered what he was doing home at ten o’clock. Usually he didn’t show up until the early hours of the morning. He seemed to be grumbling to himself, cussing. There were more “fucks” and “fucking A’s” coming from his mouth than usual. And he sounded mad. When she heard a chair go flying and crash against a wall, she knew something was wrong.

  Manuela got up from the bed and went to the door. Her brother was slumped in a chair, looking like hell. Blood was running down the side of his face and over the front of his torn shirt. One eye was all puffed up.

  “Angel,” she said, “what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If it’s nothing, why you got blood all over your face?”

  He looked up at her. “Fuck off, Manuela. Go give some gringo a blow job or something.”

  “You’ve been fighting.”

  “No, I’ve been playing tiddledywinks.”

  “Why do you do this, Angel? They’ll send you back to prison.”

  “Because I got some blood on a barroom floor?”

  “If you look like this I can only imagine what the other guy looks like. Did you kill him or what?”

  Angel Ordon˜ez was not a big man. In fact, he was smaller than most, but he had a body like coiled steel and he was afraid of nothing and no one. In prison he’d killed three men, one of them a bodybuilder twice his size. Of course, the prison officials didn’t know it was him who’d done it and none of the prisoners would rat on Angel Ordon˜ez. He was a fighter, a warrior, and the scars of war on his face, his neck, his arms, his torso and legs proved it. Since he was twelve Angel had gotten into fights—often with knives—about as frequently as most people went out to dinner.

  “Not him—them,” Angel said. “There were three of them. Two are in the hospital. The other one ran.”

  “What if somebody dies?”

  “Then he ain’t going to be sayin’ nothing.”

  “The police will ask who did this.”

  “So? These muchachos won’t say, because they know I will cut off their balls if they do.”

  “If you’re in prison you’re going to cut off their balls?”

  “I could be in prison and still cut off their balls and they know it, Manuela. I myself was out only three days and I broke the arms of a man who was sleeping with the wife of an amigo in the slammer. The asshole is
lucky I didn’t cut off his dick. What I am saying is there are ways to do things even from prison.”

  “Well, I hope you had a good time fighting, Angel, because you look terrible. And you are bleeding all over the furniture. Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”

  “Because at the hospital they ask questions, what do you think?”

  “You must do something.”

  “I will wash it, but for a minute I want to rest. And maybe have a cerveza. Bring me a Carta Blanca, will you, Manuela?”

  “Maybe I should put a bandage on your face first.”

  “I want a beer.”

  “I will get you a beer if you will let me bandage your face.”

  “You think you are a mother just because you have big tits?”

  “Fuck you, Angel.”

  “Fuck you, too.”

  “Okay,” she said, “I am getting you a beer, but go into the bathroom and wash the blood off. I will put on a bandage.”

  “Fuck,” Angel moaned. “Manuela, why don’t you marry some chico and leave me alone?”

  “Go,” she commanded.

  Manuela went to the kitchen and got Angel his beer. As she was opening it, she heard her mother snoring softly in the little room off the kitchen where she slept. After Manuela and Angel’s father left them, their mother never again slept in the bedroom she’d shared with him, choosing instead the small room with a single bed. “It is my convent,” she told Manuela. Until her stroke, their mother did all the cooking and cleaning. Now she could only do part of it. Manuela had to do the rest or pay Mrs. Gomez, who lived in the next house, to do it. Her mother told her that she was preparing to die. “But first, I am waiting for you to marry.”

  Manuela had made the mistake of telling her mother she would marry Mac McGowan. Now it would not happen. Their dreams had been killed, hacked up like one of Angel’s victims.

  She carried the bottle of beer to the bathroom where Angel was splashing water on the side of his face as he stood in a puddle of watery blood. Seeing her, he stopped, pressed a towel to his face and took the beer from her hand. Angel guzzled down half the bottle in one long gulp, the cords of his neck rippling.

  “I can’t tell you how many times when I was in my cell I would think of having a cerveza,” he told her. “Sometimes, especially when it was hot, I would do anything for a beer, even kill, if that was the only way. A beer, when you cannot have one, is even more important in your mind than a woman.” He took another long slug, the towel still pressed to his face. Angel scrutinized her. “What is wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean, what is wrong?”

  “Your face. You’ve been crying.”

  “So what?”

  “Did somebody do something to you?”

  “What difference does it make?” she asked.

  “You are my sister. I want to know.”

  “I was your sister when we were little and that did not stop you from beating me up.”

  “It was only play, Manuela.”

  “Play that left bruises. Let me see your face.”

  Angel lifted the towel from his cheek. Blood slowly oozed from the long, jagged cut.

  “You should have a doctor sew this,” she said, grimacing.

  “It is not worth the trouble. Put on a bandage.”

  Manuela opened the medicine cabinet and took out the bottle of Merthiolate, which she applied liberally to the gash. Angel winced but did not complain.

  “Nobody raped you, did they?” he asked, obviously obsessed. Angel was like that. He’d get something stuck in his mind and couldn’t let go.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why do you say of course not? When you were a topless dancer at O’Gill’s club you were always having trouble with the customers.”

  “That was different.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Manuela. You are not crying for no reason.”

  She tore off a long piece of tape. “If you squeeze the cut so that the skin is together, I will tape it shut. That way the scar will not be so bad.”

  “It was a man, wasn’t it?” Angel said, his eyes growing hard as he began working his jaw. “What did he do?”

  “Hold the cut closed.”

  Angel pushed the two sides of the cut together, but she knew his mind continued to turn, his protective impulse flaring like a fire out of control. When he was sixteen and their father had been gone for some months, Angel came home one afternoon and found Mr. Perez, the baker, kissing their mother. Angel flew into a rage and beat the man nearly senseless and slapped their mother, too. That was the reason for his first long stint in the juvenile facility.

  Manuela pressed the tape onto her brother’s skin. “There,” she said. “Be careful and maybe it will stay closed.”

  Angel looked hard into her eyes. “Who was it, Manuela, and what did he do?”

  “Will you shut up, Angel? It’s none of your business.”

  His hand came up from nowhere, clasping her jaw, simultaneously driving her head back until it bumped against the door. “Answer me!” he shouted, his face only inches from hers.

  When her brother lost his temper he was terrifying, like a rabid dog. Angel’s fingers tightened, and for a moment she thought he might dislocate her jaw.

  “You’re hurting me!” she cried through her teeth.

  “I asked you a question!”

  “It was at work. My boss.”

  “The Italian? What did he do?” Angel reduced the pressure on her jaw, but he didn’t let go.

  “No, it wasn’t him. It was the big boss, the owner.”

  Angel’s eyes flashed. “What did the sonovabitch do to you?”

  “He hurt my feelings.”

  “He didn’t rape you or nothing like that?”

  “No, I went to his house because I thought he liked me, but he made me leave.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, Angel, that’s all.”

  He let go of her and Manuela came down off her toes, not realizing until then that he had practically lifted her into the air. She worked her aching jaw, wishing she could smack him, but knowing she didn’t dare.

  Angel turned and gazed at his face in the mirror, glancing at her after a moment. “So, the guy wouldn’t fuck you, huh? Or did he fuck you first, then throw you out?”

  “I thought he liked me, but I was wrong.”

  Her brother turned to face her, giving her a quizzical look. “Is this the rich one, the one who helped us save the house?”

  “Yes. I wanted to marry him.”

  “But he doesn’t want to marry you?”

  “No.”

  Angel thought for a minute. “You want me to kill him?”

  “No, of course I don’t want you to kill him. What do you think?”

  “He made you cry. He offended your honor.”

  “No, he hurt my feelings.”

  Angel looked disgusted. “Then why are you crying? For nothing? No, you’re trying to protect him, Manuela. If it’s so bad what he did, then maybe somebody should teach him a lesson.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “I didn’t complain to you. You made me say it.”

  “But you are my sister. If the gringo sonovabitch offends you, he offends me. I have pride for my family. Don’t you think he should know this?”

  “Angel, Mac doesn’t even know you, only that you were in prison.”

  “That’s worse!” Angel cried, his anger mushrooming again.

  She put her hand on her brother’s arm. “Please, just forget I said anything. I will take care of this.”

  Angel kicked the wastebasket against the tub and stomped out of the bath, cursing as he went down the hall. Manuela leaned on the basin, dropping her head and closing her eyes. Her brother was crazy. Prison had turned him into a savage. She knew it was only a matter of time before he killed someone again. She was sure of it. And the sad thing was, he would give it no more thought than drink
ing a beer.

  Thursday, August 24, 2000

  Bel Air

  Mac McGowan awoke at 5:00 a.m. At six he gave up trying to go back to sleep, went downstairs and made himself a pot of coffee. His calendar, as he recalled, was pretty clear for the day, though there were always reports to be reviewed and other paperwork to keep him busy. He considered staying home to make sure he wouldn’t miss Stella’s call…if she called. Maybe he should have told Bonny to have Stella phone him at the office if she wasn’t able to reach him at home.

  The note continued to haunt him. Thinking about it all evening and half the night hadn’t gotten him any closer to understanding it. Stella, he decided, must hold the key. Which made her absence and her silence all the more difficult.

  Mac considered calling her place again, if only to see if she might have checked in with Bonny. The housekeeper would have passed on his message for sure, but that didn’t guarantee that Stella would call, because she did things at her own pace. “Yes, Mac,” she’d say. “I fully intended to call, but one thing after another has come up.” That was Stella.

  Bonny was an early riser, but he waited until seven to phone, just the same.

  “Yes, Meester McGowan, she telephoned late last night. I tell her what you say. She will call to you today. That’s what she said to me.”

  Mac was relieved, but annoyed Stella hadn’t already called. He should have said she should phone him regardless of the time. “Did she say where she was?”

  “No, monsieur, we talk only for one minute. Only enough for me to give your message. Then she hang up.”

  “I hope she calls soon.”

  “I told to her your message, monsieur, that it is very important.”

  “Thanks, Bonny.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  Mac felt a little better. Stella was apparently alive and well. At least he didn’t have to worry about that. But now, how long did he have to wait before she’d phone?

  Subscribing to the theory that a watched pot never boiled, Mac decided to busy himself. Besides Stella and the damn note, he’d been worried about Bri and Manuela. There was nothing to be done about Bri—at least not for the moment—but the situation with Manuela could not be ignored. Lying in bed during the night, he’d decided benign neglect was the wrong approach. When there was a problem involving an employee, Mac had found the best policy was to address it immediately. Since Art was Manuela’s supervisor, the place to start was with him.