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CHAPTER FIVE

HOUSE IN THE HILLS

Dr. Nathan Adler, Plastic Surgeon to the Stars, was celebrating his fiftieth birthday. His wife Helen was combining his celebration with their annual New Year’s Eve party. A man of pedestrian looks and extraordinary skill, he was the closest thing his illustrious clientele had to the Fountain of Youth.

Tonight, lights and laughter poured from the party onto the balconies of the last house at the summit of Fairbanks Drive in the Hollywood Hills. The pink Mediterranean was stacked like children’s blocks above the three-car garage at street level. The wrought iron gate opened onto stairs leading up to the front door.

The Hollywood sign was visible across a sweep of canyon slightly above and to the left of the address, and the wild expanse of Griffith Park abutted the property behind and to the east. On this last night of the year the house looked like a festive wedding cake ablaze with light.

The celebration was a catered affair with plenty of food. Hors d’oeuvres and champagne circulated on silver platters. There were balloons and crepe paper streamers and a library table set with beautifully wrapped and ribboned gifts. Nathan’s white-haired Aunt Sarah had prepared a special table set with Kosher delicacies for the observant among them.

Ladies dressed in their finest furs and jewels talked about upcoming movie roles and trips abroad, the gentlemen about their latest deals, theatrical and otherwise. Young talent chatted up casting directors, while the directors wondered how far the hopefuls would go to get the parts they wanted. It was your typical Hollywood party,

Nathan’s wife Helen, a thin, graying blonde with a diamond the size of a bicycle reflector on her finger, sat on a brocade sofa chatting with Lana Turner and her stunningly handsome escort. It was rumored that Helen suffered migraines, the biggest of whom was her husband Nathan.

Trudy Shawn, hot off a starring role in a Broadway musical, was a perky redhead in a yellow flapper dress, long rope of pearls, and a feathered headband. She’d come with her agent, the stately switch-hitter, Todd Sinclair, resplendent in tux and tails.

Trudy poked Todd in the ribs with her elbow.

“Look at the gorgeous hunk with Turner.” She watched him snap a flame from his monogrammed lighter and touch the tip of Lana’s cigarette. “God, if he was more beautiful, he’d be a woman.”

“That’s Johnny Stompanato, Mickey Cohen’s bodyguard and bagman.”

“No shit!” She made a soft growling noise. ”He can guard my body any time.”

Todd fluttered a wrist. “I had similar sentiments, but alas, he doesn’t tango to my tune.”

She twisted a bouncy curl around her finger and rubbed an ice cube from her drink against her throat. “My radiator’s boiling over.”

“Then you might consider putting that ice between your knees,” he said. She sputtered a laugh and nearly choked on her champagne.

“Oh look, Todd, isn’t she adorable?”

A golden-haired, blue-eyed child of five or six came down the staircase in a white nightgown with an appliqué of strawberries at the neckline.

“That’s Daisy Adler, the little princess of the house. She has a career modeling kiddie clothes for the leading designers.”

“Nothing like getting a jump on your career.” said Trudy.

Daisy trotted sleepily across the room and put her head in Helen’s lap. Helen smiled and smoothed the child’s curls, a softness illuminating her features.

“Helen and Nathan tried for years to have children, but his sperm are lazy swimmers,” said Todd. “They took some time away and returned with a newborn after he’d undergone some revolutionary new treatment.”

Helen gave Daisy a hug. “Back to bed, darling.”

“I can’t sleep without Teddy, Mom.”

“Cats like the full moon. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Johnny reached in his pocket and peeled a bill from his roll.

“Here, Cara Mia, go put this in your piggy bank.”

“Thank you, Uncle Johnny,” said Daisy, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Johnny, a ten is far too much!” said Helen.

“You’re right. Next time I’ll give her two fives.”

Lana laughed. “Helen, you know he’s incorrigible.”

“Off you go,” said Helen. “Have Sigrid tuck you in.” Daisy toddled back up the stairs.

A flashbulb went off inches from Lana’s face. She gasped and sheltered her eyes. Johnny shot out of his seat and grabbed the photographer’s arm. The man holding the camera was in his thirties with white-blond, slicked-back hair and the effete air of a character in a Fitzgerald novel.

“I ought to shove that camera up your ass,” said Johnny.

“Is that a threat? Did you hear that, Helen? It was definitely a threat.”

“Please, sit down,” said Lana, tugging on Johnny’s sleeve. “He just caught me off guard.”

“Do go away and let us be, Horst,” said Helen. Horst put a bored look on his face and drifted back into the crowd. Johnny sat back down, still fuming.

“That was interesting,” said Trudy. “By the way, where’s the birthday boy hiding out?”

“You see the Swedish au pair lately?”

“The what?”

“Sigrid Nordgren, the tall teenager with the braid over her shoulder.”

“Don’t tell me it’s going to be that kind of evening.” A series of flashbulbs went off across the room. “Oh god, it’s that insufferable man with the camera and he’s looking our way.”

“That’s Horst Kepler, Photographer to the Stars. Every celebrity who’s anybody has a Kepler hanging above their fireplace. He turned Daisy Adler into an overnight sensation. One of my clients says the guy has a dark side, but wouldn’t elaborate. If I were Helen, I wouldn’t leave Daisy alone with him, but you didn’t hear that from me. Let’s escape while he’s changing film.”

Todd tossed Trudy’s fox jacket over her shoulders, and they stepped through the French doors onto the front balcony. He sheltered two cigarettes from the wind and lit them with his Zippo. They smoked in silence looking at the moon and the swirl of icy stars floating above Mt. Lee.

“What’s that odd noise?” said Trudy, looking toward the hills.

“Don’t you have coyotes in New York?”

She gave him a quizzical look, wind ruffling her short curls.

“Not in Times Square, darling.”

“They’re making love to the moon.”

“I prefer a warm male body myself.”

The grandfather clock in the foyer struck midnight and cheers went up from inside the house. There was the rattle of noise makers, the sound of plastic horns, and the pop, pop, pop of flashbulbs.

“Happy New Year, Trudy,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Happy New Year, handsome.”

Down the street three dark shadows loped quietly through the neighborhood. A garbage can toppled over, the lid rolling into a bed of ice plant. A neighbor whistled her Pekingese into the house and quickly shut the door.