you fucking hyena?
‘I have to ask these things,’ said Solly.
‘Of course.’ Frances smiled.
Solly worked hard for him after that, pushing the name forward, Rick Ducane’s son, getting him bit parts. It was a start. It was the most fun he had ever had in his life, although it was – admittedly – tough. He worked the years away and tried to believe he’d make it big one day. And he had his admirers: the critics were kind and people loitered at the stage door sometimes, pretty young girls, hormonal matrons, stylish young men, to say how much they’d loved his performance, he had pitched it just right, and would he just sign this . . .?
When Frances signed his first batches of autographs at the age of twenty-four, he felt powerful, delighted. The two-week run was slow to start, but eventually packed out by people who’d read favourable reviews. He’d even got a mention from one of the critics best known for his harsh, unforgiving words. So what if all the posters proclaimed him to be the son of Rick Ducane, the once-great Hollywood star? He had got a good review.
Time went on. The admirers still came, and he was easy now about signing the autographs – he was casual, he smiled and was charming. He noticed the tall, thin, sallow-skinned and handsome young man waiting outside the theatre for three evenings on the trot, and when he moved forward to shake the man’s hand, he said: ‘Good grief, you must really like this play.’
The stranger went red in the face. ‘I do like the play,’ he said earnestly. ‘But your performance was the thing that drew me back. You were wonderful in it.’
‘Oh! Well . . . thanks. You’re very kind to say so.’
‘Just truthful,’ said the man. He looked down. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘Oh, I don’t . . .’ said Frances nervously. He’d met his fair share of crazies since coming to the city; he didn’t know this man from Adam.
‘Just a drink,’ the stranger persisted, and he looked up and smiled straight into Frances’s eyes.
He was very handsome, almost Latin in appearance. Frances distinctly felt his stomach do a little back-flip of excitement.
‘Well . . . I don’t see why not.’
‘Excellent,’ said the man. He held out a hand. ‘I’m Rocco Mancini, by the way. Is it true you’re Rick Ducane’s son?’
Within days they were lovers, meeting up at every opportunity. Frances even found he could forgive Rocco for the Rick Ducane question. It seemed to Frances that Rocco avoided the more populated areas of the city whenever they were together. But he didn’t care. They were together, and delighted in the time spent strolling in quiet places, or eating bagels bought from a street-corner vendor. When they were in bed together, it was as if it was always meant to be.
It was bliss.
‘I love you,’ said Frances, as Rocco and he lay entwined in a hotel room one afternoon.
‘I love you too,’ said Rocco, although he didn’t.
He had a real weakness for beauty both in men and women. His own wife Cara was exquisitely lovely and he’d fallen in ‘love’ with her on sight. Only later had he discovered what a spoiled, controlling bitch she was.
If he saw another beautiful boy, another lissom woman, in the next week or so, then – Frances or no Frances – would he have the willpower to turn it down?
Rocco didn’t think so. He knew he was weak. He knew he was an emotional lightweight. He hoped Frances wasn’t expecting too much. Frances had told him about his uncaring father and his mother’s unfortunate death.
‘That’s so tragic,’ said Rocco, thinking of his own doting mother and how awful it would be to lose her.
‘If you love someone, you’re open to all sorts of hurt,’ said Frances. Dad had been wrong about nearly everything else – he was crazy, after all – but he’d been dead right about that. But Rocco had said he loved him.
And right now, right here, maybe he really did . . . although Rocco was growing tired of Frances and finding him clingy.
They took lunch together in the diner on Lexington and Third next day, and Rocco was, for once, a little careless. They sat in the window, smiled and laughed and joked a lot. They looked like what they were – lovers. Rocco knew he’d have to end it soon, but for now, what the hell? It was just fun.
Meanwhile, Saul Jury, the private detective hired by Cara, watched them, and took photographs, and sealed both their fates.
Chapter 15
1971
‘I’m not sure about this,’ said Fredo. There was sweat beading along his upper lip, although the air conditioning in the car was on full blast to counter the humid summer heat of New York.
Cara looked at him coldly. They were sitting in the front of the car watching customers going in and out of the diner. It was evening, and Rocco had told Cara that he was playing poker with friends, and she’d thought, Ha! You’re certainly poking something, my friend.
They had followed him twice before. Fuelled as she was by her need for revenge, still Cara was sick of this. She felt humiliated beyond belief that her husband should do such a thing. Oh, she knew their once passionate marriage had quickly dissolved into mere tolerance on both sides as she discovered that Rocco was pure Jello at the core: vain and stupid and with an almost girlish appreciation of all things beautiful. Maybe that was why he’d married her. Cara knew the value of her own looks; after all, hadn’t she used them to get her own way ever since she’d learned to bat her eyelashes? And she’d used her beauty to ensnare Fredo, because she wanted – needed – his help with this.
But shit, she hated it so much. Following Rocco and persuading Fredo to do what had to be done had stretched her almost to the limit. Fredo had quickly realized that she needed him for the first time ever, and he had sensed an opportunity.
‘I want more,’ he had said when they’d first followed Rocco and she’d explained to him what was to be done.
‘More?’ Cara had stared at him. What was the idiot talking about? Did he want money now?
But Fredo was nodding, smirking. ‘I want sex now. Full sex. Before I do it.’
‘That wasn’t the deal,’ said Cara.
But Fredo – and this was the Fredo she thought she knew; the one who had followed her around like a puppy-dog since childhood; the one whose chain she yanked on a regular basis – only shrugged and smiled.
‘Hey, it’s nothing to me if the bastard cheats on you. But it is to you, and I’m willing to help you, so what’s in it for me?’
‘I told you.
When it’s done . . .’ ‘When it’s done you’ll say thank you very much, Fredo, and get lost,’ he said.
Which was precisely what she had been intending to do. And if Fredo by some chance got named by anyone, and incurred any heat over this from her father, she was going to look all wide-eyed and innocent and say, No, Papa, what, me? No,
