"Woods, Stuart - Dead Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Woods Stuart)

She didn't care about that; she had great hair, and it would brush out.

What was the point of having a convertible if you couldn't let your hair blow in the wind?

At twenty-two Chris had headed for New York, straight out of the University of Georgia, a B.A. with a double major in dance and drama tucked in her trunk. She got her first job a week later, in an off Broadway musical, and she had hardly ever been out of work since.

Sometimes the work had paid little or : nothing, but she had never had to wait tables or do commercials to support her acting habit. She took classes at the Actors Studio, she took any part she could get in anything good, and turned down any thing she'd be ashamed to have on her resume.

During those years she turned down a lot that other actresses would have grabbed at--horror films, TV movies, a biggish part in a series, even. She had done two supporting roles in features before she'd even thought of leaving New York, and when she'd finally made the move to L.A." she'd had two offers in her pocket, a top agent, a business manager, and her moving expenses paid by Centurion Pictures.

There had been a two-year marriage to an actor, Brad Donner, and together they had scraped up a down payment on the Bel Air house. When the marriage failed, he did the gentlemanly thing and moved out, but she was uncomfortable living in the house, and she looked forward to selling it when her own house was finished, and splitting what should be a considerable profit with Brad.

Chris was not a bankable movie star--not yet, anyway; but she'd played featured parts in films with Gene Hackman, Dustin Hoffman, and Alec Baldwin, and two leads opposite slightly lesser stars.

All she needed, she and her management felt, was one hot starring role in a film that she could carry herself--something like what Sally Field had. found in Norma Rae. That one great part was her goal."-" Not that she wasn't making a good living. Her price was half a million now, and a hot starring role would push it over the million mark She was thirty-one--too old to be the kind of phenomenon Julia Roberts was, but she had a solid track record, and she was consistently considered for some of the best work in town.

As she left the Santa Monica Freeway and joined the Pacific Coast Highway, she reflected on her good fortune with this new house. It was at Big Rock, not necessarily the most fashionable part of Malibu, but the beach was great and the lot was good. An earlier house, damaged by mudslides and big waves, had finally burned down, and she had gotten the lot for a bargain price from a disgusted owner. Working with a good architect, she had built foundations that would withstand anything, even the violent vagaries of the Southern California climate.

Let the Big One come, she thought; her new house would still be standing.

As she approached Big Rock she could see the framing timbers of the roof above the construction fence. When the house was near completion, she would build a wall that would separate her from the Pacific Coast Highway traffic and from adoring nuts like her new letter writer.

As she parked, a van pulled up behind her, and a young man got out.

"Miss. Callaway," he said, "I'm Mel Parker--Keyhole Security."

"How do you do, Mel?" She shook his hand. He was nice-looking, she thought--blond, wiry, and athletic-looking. He had a scarred upper lip and hooded eyes, but the effect was not unattractive.

"I'm a real big fan of yours," Mel said.

"I've seen everything you've done, and I can't wait for the next one."

"Thank you, Mel; I appreciate that."

He blushed.

"Shall we take a walk around your place and see what you need in the way of a security system?"

"Sure."

He opened the plywood gate for her and they could see the house. That was how she thought of it now. At first, it had just been a burned-out wreck, then a hole in the ground, then a lot of steel and concrete. But now the house was framed, and she could see the shape that she had dreamed about, walk through the rooms and feel their size, pick her way among the timbers out onto what would be the deck and gaze at the blue Pacific. Just entering the gap where the front door would be gave her a thrill.

As she and Mel entered, another young man, a stranger, approached. He was wearing work clothes and carrying a clipboard. He stuck out his hand."

"Chris, I'm Bud Carson; I'm your framing contractor."

"Hi," she said, not put off by the use of her first name. The whole world seemed to have that privilege these days. Her general contractor, Mike Moscowitz, had introduced her to most of the subcontractors, but not to this one, who looked awfully young to be the boss of the framers. He also had an odd cast in his. eyes that made it difficult to tell where he was looking when he spoke.

"How do you like the way the place is shaping up?" he asked.