Lovers and Gamblers Read Online Free PDF

Hollywood.’ She waited for him to reply, but he had shut his eyes and was feigning sleep. ‘Goodbye then,’ she said softly, and tiptoed out.
    He waited until he heard the door shut, then he got up, switched on the television, fixed himself a scotch and Coke. It was four in the morning and he wasn’t tired. He felt like a little action – a game of poker or craps. But this wasn’t Vegas, and he didn’t know where it would all be happening. On impulse he decided to phone Edna. There was no delay, so he got right through.
    ‘Al?’ questioned Edna sleepily. ‘Is anything wrong?’
    Edna had a hangup about spending money. She still assumed that to go to the expense of telephoning from America meant instant disaster.
    ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ assured Al, ‘just thought I’d see how you were.’
    ‘I’m fine. You only left yesterday. Are you sure nothing’s the matter?’
    Oh, God. Why couldn’t she just accept the fact that he had called for the pleasure of hearing her voice. ‘Is Evan around?’
    ‘He’s asleep. Al, these calls are so expensive. I wish you wouldn’t waste your money.’
    It was always your money. Never our money. If Edna had her way they would still be living in one room. She had never learned to accept his success gracefully. She always predicted gloom. If the truth were known she was a miserable woman. He had to twist her arm to get her to go out and buy herself a new dress.
    ‘Wake him up, Edna. I want to say hello.’
    ‘He’s got school tomorrow.’
    ‘OK. So
don’t
wake him up.’
    ‘I’ll tell him you phoned.’
    ‘All right, tell him in the morning.’
    ‘Goodbye, Al.’
    ‘Goodbye, Edna.’
    She couldn’t wait to hang up. Waste not. Want not. Her favourite motto.
    Edna probably would have been the perfect wife for a guy with no money. But as the wife of a superstar she was a total loss.
    Al phoned room service. Bacon and eggs. Christ – but he must keep a sharp eye on the weight. Al knew what was happening every minute of the time. On stage he had to look great, and to look great he had to be thin. It was a lot easier to keep your weight down when you were twenty-seven. At thirty-seven, bulges appeared where they shouldn’t, and they were hell to get rid of. However – one portion of bacon and eggs, some champagne to swill it down with. He would cut out breakfast. He would save himself for lunch.
    Dallas – funny name for a girl. She was certainly a great looker. If he was lucky she just might be able to hold his interest for an afternoon.
    Probably another dumb bitch, though. They were all dumb. Starstruck pushovers. They would fuck for money. Fame. Power. Whatever happened to good old lust?
    * * *
    Bernie Suntan stretched in front of the Beverly Hills Hotel pool. ‘Jesus H!’ he exclaimed. ‘If they were givin’ out tickets for happiness, this would be it!’
    ‘Mr. Suntan,’ a female voice boomed through the loudspeaker. ‘Telephone for Mr. Suntan.’
    Bernie heaved himself up. Two hundred and sixty pounds of fifty-two-year-old flesh, every inch – except a few crucial ones – heavily suntanned. He wore white boxer shorts trimmed with a Mickey Mouse motif, purple sunglasses, a white peaked cap which bore the legend ‘Everybody Likes It’, and a lot of solid gold jewellery. Underneath the cap the dome of his head was totally bald, but halfway down his scalp a profusion of blond curls sprouted and luxuriated well past the back of his neck.
    ‘I’m the oldest hippie in the business!’ Bernie would often announce. And nobody ever argued with him.
    En route to the telephone Bernie stopped to greet people. ‘Hey, Rod baby, where’s the kilt?’ ‘David Tebet – my favourite man – when did you get back? Good to see you.’ ‘Princess! How do you look! How does she
look
?’
    He finally reached the phone and snapped into a rapid business dialogue. Apart from being the oldest hippie in the business, Bernie Suntan had the reputation of being one of the top