THE FAMILY ENTERED FROM a private room in the back and filed into the first pew. They were led by the bereaved husband, Bobby Skorch, who was heavily sedated or maybe stoned—he could barely keep his balance. Bobby was clad in an ankle-length black leather coat and dark shades; his long, greasy, black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. He was smoking a cigarette.
Behind him came Salli’s father, a short stout man with a carrot-color crew cut and a nervous tic. And then followed two very young, fair-haired girls— pretty in an unsophisticated way. They were Salli’s half sisters. Their mother, an overweight woman wearing too much makeup and an unsuitable shiny blue satin cocktail dress, trailed closely behind them. And finally Grandpa, an old man with a wily gait, wearing a shabby, ill-fitting brown suit.
Tucci’s attention was on Bobby, the grieving husband, who’d been spotted last night picking up a girl on Sunset and taking her to a hotel. Some grieving husband, he thought. Hmm . . . he couldn’t wait to hear Lee’s report on the two strippers.
The more he thought about it, the more he was beginning to target Bobby Skorch as his prime suspect.
• • •
“That’s Angela Musconni with Salli’s ex,” Cole said, nudging Madison.
She took a peek at the exquisite young woman who was walking in from the side door accompanied by a wild-looking guy with a mass of dirty blond hair. Salli had obviously harbored a penchant for guys who resembled out-of-control rock-’n’-rollers.
“So that’s Eddie,” Madison said in a low voice. “Salli talked about him on the tape, said he used to beat her.”
“I told you that,” Cole said. “Hadda make the hospital run a coupla times myself. In fact, Eddie and I duked it out one day.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I kinda got on him ’bout the way he was treatin’ Salli, an’ he called me a fag. So I beat the crap outta him.” Cole laughed at the memory. “The dude deserved it. Treats women like shit.”
“Do you think he could’ve murdered her?” Madison asked.
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
She watched as Eddie and Angela sat down, noticing that as soon as they were settled, Angela began running her hands through the back of Eddie’s hair and cooing in his ear. Obviously they were a couple.
Then Madison’s attention was drawn to talk show host Bo Deacon, whom she’d met on the flight to L.A. It was only a few days ago, but it seemed like months had passed. Bo made a noisy entrance, demanding seats in front. He was with a zaftig redhead in her forties who clung to his arm as if she expected him to make a daring escape at any moment.
“Bo was coming on to Salli on the plane—or trying to,” she whispered to Cole. “Only Salli wasn’t buying his bullshit.”
“Another slimeball,” Cole said.
“You know everybody.”
“In my job—sure. I’m kinda like a shrink or a barman—my clients spill the goods.”
“You trained Bo?”
“For about three months. He’s a lazy son-of-a-bitch. Didn’t wanna work it, then blamed me ’cause he continued to put on the pounds. So he fired me. That was the luckiest day of my life. He had hot and cold running women and a wife—a jealous wife.”
“Charming.”
“I used to work him out in his dressing room at the studio. There were all these little interns running in and out. His deal was to fuck ’em an’ fire ’em.”
Madison sighed. “Aren’t there any nice guys in Hollywood?”
“Me.”
“I mean nice straight guys.”
“Hey—didn’t you know?” Cole said with a big grin. “Straight guys are a dying breed.”
“Thanks!”
• • •
“Why are we here?” Mrs. Bo Deacon demanded. Her name was Olive, and she was a former showgirl.
“Out of respect,” Bo growled, wishing his wife would shut up. She was drunk as usual; he’d caught her slurping straight Scotch behind the bar at their house before they’d left for the funeral. “If I wasn’t here, people would talk. Salli was on my show countless times.”
I bet that wasn’t all she was on, Olive thought with a hidden scowl. Did her cheating no-good husband think she didn’t know what he was up to? If it wasn’t for the children, and the glory of being married to a famous man, she would have left him years ago.
“I hope you don’t expect me to go to the reception,” Olive said, her overly glossed lips turning down at the corners. “Salli T. Turner was nothing more than a cheap tramp.”
“How can you say that at her funeral for cris-sakes?” Bo objected, glancing around to make sure no one had heard.
“Because it’s true,” Olive hissed. “And I for one am not turning her into a saint now that she’s dead.”
“You’re a real bitch, Olive,” he said, getting a strong whiff of the Scotch on her breath.
“Yes, and don’t you love it. That’s why you married me.”
No, he thought, I married you because you had big tits and you were sexy as all get-out, and like a dumb schmuck I thought you’d stay that way.
Unfortunately, now Olive was about as sexy as a sack of old beans. Plus she was a true lush, and however many times she promised him she’d stop drinking, it never happened. Two stays at the Betty Ford Clinic and it still didn’t happen.
She muttered something to him. He wasn’t listening; he was too busy waving at everyone in sight. He’d found, over the fifteen years that he and Olive had been married, that the only way to deal with her when she’d been drinking was to ignore her. Sometimes it actually worked.
• • •
By the time Natalie arrived in Westwood it was too late to get anywhere near the funeral. The crowds were huge. She located her camera crew and took up a position with them behind the ropes. The trick was to catch the celebrities on their way back to their cars. Some would speak to her. Some wouldn’t. After all, this wasn’t exactly a big movie premiere. This was a funeral—a hot funeral.
Natalie was on a high. Her story had gone over big; even Garth was pleased. This could be the start of a whole new direction for her, and it was about time. She was ready. She’d been ready since college.
• • •
The widower in the black leather coat leaned back on the hard wooden bench and let his tears flow as he listened to Mick Jagger screaming out “Satisfaction.” He’d personally picked every track. They were not Salli’s favorite songs, they were his. He was the one who’d been left behind. He was the goddamn survivor, so he could choose the music.
Nobody could see his tears, because his heavy black Ray-Bans concealed the action.
He swiped a hand across his cheeks, destroying any evidence of vulnerability. On the back of his hand there were two words tattooed through a blazing heart. Salli Forever.
And while Mick Jagger continued to yell out “Satisfaction,” Bobby continued to wail his silent scream of unbearable pain.