Angel of Death. Christian Russell
Читать онлайн книгу.
the man before her had his weaknesses too.
“You’re not missing much, you know. This brandy must be megalomaniac if it thinks it’s Napoleon.”
“I’ll talk to Paul about that,” he said.
“There’s no need to. I was kidding.”
Mark thought Weiss was staring at them. Maybe he was just being paranoid. He chased away his fears, resuming the conversation.
“Well, I’ve been talking too much about myself. And that while sitting at a table with one of the greatest actresses in Hollywood. I’ve seen all your movies, Dorothy, and I like the way you put all your heart into your roles.”
“You’re exaggerating. I’m not exactly one of the greatest. Sharon Stone, Jody Foster, they are great, not me. If you put all your heart into your roles you can’t start all over again,” she said with an expert air. “I sell dreams to people, Mark—eight dollars and a half worth of dreams!”
“Do you often get to meet other celebrities?”
“At parties and openings. I’m closer to Kim Basinger. My father’s a friend of the Baldwins.”
“Do you have many friends in Hollywood?”
“Not really,” she admitted frankly. “I can’t see how I could. You don’t make friends in Hollywood. You either have enemies or connections there.”
“There’s a rumor next February you’re going to be nominated for an Oscar for The Price of Fall.”
“It’s not for certain. But I must admit the movie’s good. And that’s because we had a fantastic team, unlike the one I’m working with now.”
“What are you working on?”
“A sixteenth-century cloak and dagger kind of thing. The indoor scenes were shot in Miami, at Villa Vizcaya. For the outdoor ones we came here, at the Kaufman Astoria. When I read the script I was really enthusiastic about it. It won’t come out too good, though. The team’s bad and my partner’s rather stupid. Picture this: during a fighting scene the director asked him for more stateliness, of the kind Douglas showed in Spartacus. The idiot told him that he had seen all of Micky Douglas’s movies but couldn’t remember that one. I took the offer because Aidan Quinn was supposed to be my partner in the first place. But something came up and I got stuck with Freddie Guire. The only acceptable thing about him is his haircut.”
“I’ve seen you kiss your partners many times. I guess there were several takes for each shot. What’s it like to do a love scene with a stranger? Do you feel anything?”
“I do. Scared of getting a virus mainly. What else? Sometimes it’s really embarrassing when your partners’ wives are there.”
“How much do you get for a part?”
“Not nearly as much as Demi Moore or Sharon Stone. About two or three million dollars.”
Two or three million, Mark thought. He was convinced that he wouldn’t know how to spend that kind of money in a lifetime. “Pretty good money, though!”
“Yes, but you never get rich if you take good care of your relatives and friends. Some of the money goes to charity. My father has this saying: ‘Money’s a lot like horseshit: if you scatter it around, it does a lot of good; keep it in one place and it’ll smell awful.’”
She can afford to speak like that. She lives in a palace and rides in cars with the Spirit of Ecstasy on the radiator, Mark said to himself. The woman saw him wrapped in thought and for the first time took a close look at him. The agent was a pleasant, good-looking man, even if his face had none of that angelic perfection of the ‘heartbreakers’ in her trade. His was a somewhat rougher face, as if carved in stone. He was a sturdy, well-built guy. Dorothy read worry in his laughter, though. What would you see if you took off his mask? It was a tempting challenge.
An old Creole in ragged clothes came to their table carrying a big basket full of flowers.
“Here, Mother Rossy,” Mark called her gently, giving her a ten-dollar bill. He then took three beautiful roses from the basket and gave them to the actress.
“Thank you, Mark, you’re so kind. Wait, Rossy, don’t go,” the actress said. She fumbled in her purse and took out a hundred-dollar bill. “Here you are!”
“¡Por Dios! ¡Muchas gracias, señorita!” the Creole said making the sign of the cross.
“OK, now. Vaya con Dios,” the actress dismissed the woman who was trying to kiss her hand.
Suddenly the man felt sad and humiliated.
“She sells flowers but she’s so uncouth,” Dorothy remarked. “She looks like she was taken from a novel by Dickens. I gave her the money to buy herself some decent clothes and stop walking around in those rags. I don’t understand why she doesn’t take her time to dress up a bit.”
Mark got indignant. “I could give you at least five reasons for that: John, Mary, Flo, Tom, and Bob, none of them older than ten. Her daughter’s a prostitute. To those children their mother is the only provider. And I can assure you, their clothes are decent and they are sufficiently well-fed. You see, sometimes hard, honest work doesn’t mean anything, for your fate is sealed when you’re still in your mother’s womb. People like Rossy were born poor and they’ll die poor. If shit was worth anything people like her would be born without an asshole. So don’t judge her too harshly!”
Dorothy was obviously at a loss and surprised by the perceptiveness of this tough agent. She changed her tone. “I’m sorry. But I’ll make up for it. You’ll give me her address and I’ll help her out. Do you think two thousand dollars will see her through?”
It was the second time that evening she wanted to offer money and Mark felt his heart fill with rage. Everything was so simple to these people! They nonchalantly bought good deeds hoping that would book them a ticket to Paradise. Bitterly, but without a trace of anger in his voice, he said, “You’ve got the rich girl syndrome, Miss Wheller. You’re trying to save the world with your money. The trouble is you probably think you’re succeeding too.”
The woman’s first impulse was to stand up, offended, or maybe even slap his face. Something stronger than her forced her to remain seated and wonder how much truth there was in the man’s words. She finally gave in. “You’re very straightforward, you know that?”
“Sure, it saves time,” he raised his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry,” the actress said and meant it, for under no circumstances did she want to upset her rescuer. Whatever the agent had said, she was convinced her life had been endangered that evening as well.
“Shall we call it quits?” he suggested smiling, impressed by her repentance.
“Quits, Mr. Du Nancy!” she answered apparently still scowling.
“Friends, Dorothy?” the man smiled even broader.
“Friends, Mark!” she accepted returning his smile.
As they were eating, the agent tried to draw some of that Hollywood gossip from her but without success. The way Christy Turlington was the good girl of the fashion business, so did Dorothy enjoy the same reputation in the show biz. The kind of woman who would not make a show of herself. The scandals that some of her colleagues started to keep the public interested weren’t exactly her cup of tea.
“I’m glad your uncle’s OK,” he said at some point. “He’s such a nice guy!”
“Yes, but he’s also very strict. When I was a teenager he used to keep a sharp eye on me, worse than my dad. I had an entire list of forbidden things to take care of. Until I caught him red-handed.”
Mark slipped the money under the saucer and helped the woman put on her overcoat.
“How come? Are you into blackmailing, Dorothy?” he pretended to be serious.
She