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First Edition Design Publishing - Carol Branston

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153 pages

English

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An intriguing story, with a tragic main character. It paints a picture of obsession, jealousy and excess during the wild later sixties leading into the "Anything Goes" seventies, particularly when it comes to Broadway, riches and fame.

Informations

Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	20 mai 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781622878697
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0360€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

First Edition Design Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
Murder! Hollywood Style
Copyright ©2015 Carol Branston

ISBN 978-1622-878-68-0 PRINT
ISBN 978-1622-878-69-7 EBOOK

LCCN 2015935723

April 2015

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

ALL R I G H T S R E S E R V E D. No p a r t o f t h i s b oo k pub li ca t i o n m a y b e r e p r o du ce d, s t o r e d i n a r e t r i e v a l s y s t e m , o r t r a n s mit t e d i n a ny f o r m o r by a ny m e a ns ─ e l e c t r o n i c , m e c h a n i c a l , p h o t o - c o p y , r ec o r d i n g, or a ny o t h e r ─ e x ce pt b r i e f qu ot a t i o n i n r e v i e w s , w i t h o ut t h e p r i o r p e r mi ss i on o f t h e a u t h o r or publisher .
Los Angeles Tribune , Nov. 1975

EXTRA EDITION

MOVIE STAR STABBED TO DEATH
Hollywood, California. Film star Nicky Venuti, found stabbed to death outside his apartment house in West Hollywood.
Only suspect: a boy with long blond hair was described running from the scene wearing a baseball cap, dark denim jacket, and jeans.

The Funeral-November 1975
Nicky would have loved it. It could have been a scene from a movie. Even the weather had cooperated: gray and overcast. The damp chill in the air went through to the bone. The cemetery, one of the oldest in Brooklyn, was filled with huge marble headstones and life-size statues of angels and saints. They seemed to be looking down at the people gathered at the graveside. Most of the mourners were family members. It was a traditional Italian funeral—very emotional. The prominent color of the scene was black.
A few familiar faces from the entertainment world had come to show their respect: one of them, a beautiful blonde girl in her twenties. She hid beneath her wide-brimmed hat, trying to hold back her tears.
Nicky’s casket was slowly being lowered into the ground.
*****
You can call me Joe. I’m the storyteller. Most of you don’t know me and may wonder how I could possibly relate a tale such as this in such detail. Before you dismiss me as just someone on the sidelines, let me assure you, I was present at many of the incidents that occur in this story. When not present, I was told the rest in minute detail.
You see at that time—, [I’m talking about the late sixties and seventies—I was the numero uno hairdresser in New York City. To be precise, I was Mr. Joseph on Fifth .
And my dears, let me tell you, from my clients who ran the gamut from Park Avenue ladies to drag queens, I heard it all! The problem is, for some reason I still remember so much of it. So vividly! The places, the clothes, the dialogue. It haunts me as if it were yesterday. I wonder if others are dealt the same burden? No joke, it really is a burden.
That supposed fun-filled era still jolts the curiosity of so many people, and I’m sure there are hundreds of stories out there worth telling. Trust me, I’ve heard quite a few of them myself. That’s what prompted me to tell mine. I call it my snapshot of the times. I’m hopeful my sharing of this time capsule will somehow liberate me.
I’ve changed some of the dates and of course the names of most of the characters. After all, a few of us are still around. But believe me, apart from that, the story is pretty accurate. From now on, in this tapestry of the times, I will become a character named “Joe , ” and will speak of myself in the third person.
This is the way Joe remembers it.
A novel by
Carol Branston
Chapter 1
Seven Years Earlier: Rome 1969

When Nicky Venuti landed in Rome, he was swamped by fans and reporters. He couldn’t have been happier with the turnout. The PR firm he’d hired in L.A. had earned their money. Nicky knew the power of the press, and apart from that, he liked the attention, he was used to it. He’d lived with it since breaking into the movies and becoming a teenage idol. Now in his midtwenties, he was going through the difficult transition most teenage stars go through: that of being accepted as an adult leading man. His boyhood looks had matured to his advantage. He’d looked after his body and moved with precision. Playing volleyball in all those beach movies had helped. His jet-black hair and his California tan made his famous smile even more dazzling when he waved at his fans and stopped to sign a few autographs.
His agent, Harry Blue, met him with a limo. Nicky’s smile disappeared for the ride to the hotel.
“Cut to the chase, Harry. Fill me in.”
“Okay, for starters, I want to emphasize how big a deal this flick is. I worked my ass off getting you this. It’s gonna be big. OK, I know the money’s not what we wanted, but if this happens like I think it will, next time we’ll be able to write in our own numbers.”
“I dig, I dig. What about Wilhelm? I hear he’s a crazy mother.”
“I haven’t seen much of him. His rep is pretty cool. What you see is what you get. Listen Nicky, just do what you do best. It’s worked before; I don’t see why it won’t work now.”
Harry dropped him off at the busy Hotel Excelsior, conveniently forgetting to tell Nicky he had a room, not a suite, reserved in his name.
“I’m Nicky Venuti. There must have been a mistake. I was supposed to have a suite.”
“Sorry, Señor Venuti, there is no mistake, but I have a new message for you. You must go to Señor Zykor’s suite for a meeting right now. The press is there. He is in suite 586. Thank you, Señor Venuti.”
He looked at his watch and decided to keep Zykor waiting. He had to make an entrance. He felt uptight, a new feeling for him. He checked himself out in the mirror. He knew he looked good; that didn’t help his nerves. He sat on the edge of the bed biting his nails. He looked at his watch again. Five minutes had taken an hour. It was worse sitting there trying to kill time. He took some deep breaths, put on his smile, and, looking as confident as he could, he walked into the director’s suite. Another surprise greeted him. The press corps hardly looked his way. They were completely involved with Wilhelm Zykor’s newest discovery; a young, beautiful British girl.
Valerie Rhodes was her name. Her background was similar to Nicky’s. She’d been a well-known child star in England, both in film and on the stage. At fifteen, a French director, Francois Canet, had taken an interest in her and she’d spent the last three years in France, where together they’d made a few artsy, low-budget films that were critically acclaimed but not distributed to a large market. During her time with Francois, she had learnt her craft, the French language, and the je ne sais quois that makes French women so special. Now at eighteen, she was in Rome to star in her first major film with a major director.
Mr. Director, Wilhelm Zykor, was about to make his biggest-budget movie ever. He had the reputation for discovering actors who were well known in Europe, yet still unknown in the States. Usually, without studio money and distribution capabilities behind them, it was difficult for such actors to gain worldwide exposure with any film. Wilhelm had found a fountain of talent that way, ready to work for less money in exchange for the generous opportunity he gave them. When he’d seen Valerie’s last French film she fell right into that category and he thought her perfect to play his young female lead. His past box-office successes using this practice gave him enough clout with the money guys in L.A. to convince them to support his decision to cast an unknown in his latest endeavor. Wilhelm’s thrived on that kind of gamble. It made the adrenaline rush through his veins. It was the kind of pressure that made him feel alive.
Having Nicky Venuti costar with her was another gamble—one he hadn’t figured on. Nicky hadn’t been his choice, but he’d had to go along with that part of the deal—something to do with where the money came from. As Wilhelm put it, “so what else is new?” When he saw the two of them together for the first time, he breathed a little easier. They clicked! There was definite chemistry there. He could smell it. Now, all he had to do was get a performance out of them.
Nicky stood looking at his soon-to-be costar. This unknown girl was about to help make or break his career. He had to admit she definitely had the looks. She was blonde and petite. That was good for him. He’d worried about being cast with someone taller than him. She had curves in the right places without being just a body. She had a flawless, English, peaches-and-cream complexion. He could tell just by looking at her that her face would work on camera from any angle. Her enormous blue eyes looked at him and smiled when she did. Her lips were full and soft. She didn’t wear much makeup. He liked that; mascara and a touch of lipstick were all she needed.
Valerie stood there in awe. She’d been a fan of Nicky’s since his early teenage beach movies. She couldn’t believe he was in the same room, let alone speaking to her.
“Valerie. Nice name. Good to meet you.”
When she spoke, she surprised him. Her voice had a unique quality. It was deeper and more mature than he’d expected, yet it fit her to a T.
“Hello, Nicky. I’m so happy to meet you.”
That afternoon in the director’s suite, out of all the people in the room, Valerie seemed to be the only person excited about Nicky being there. He was still holding Valerie’s hand when the press descended once more, bombarding her with questions and ignoring him entirely. He managed to keep his cool, trying to not look as uncomfortable as he felt. In a matter of seconds he’d regained his composure and stood there faking interest in every word Valerie said. He watched Little Miss Nobody, fascinated. She already had the press eating out of her hand. That’s when it hit him: what he needed was right there in front of him. Miss Valerie Rhodes. As simple as that. He wasted no time thinking about it. As far as he was conc