Wellington's

Wellington's

by Marc Olden

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Overview

At Wellington’s, it’s OK to break hearts, but never break your reservation

Seven nights a week, the most beautiful people in Manhattan crowd around the bar at a dimly lit restaurant on Second Avenue. Fueled by drugs, liquor, and jealousy, the singles crowd has made Wellington’s the hottest spot in town. Its gorgeous young patrons can go through several partners just before closing time, and the spectacle of “the hunt” ensures that the restaurant’s tables are never empty. People don’t come to Wellington’s for the food, but for a close-up view of romantic blood sport.

David James, owner and operator, runs the show. Around him swirls a hurricane of swingers, players, and tramps, but David stays cool. In this bar, the only rule is to never sleep with someone who’s got more troubles than you. But the people who crowd around at last call have so many problems, it’s impossible to keep count.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781453261002
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Publication date: 07/17/2012
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 342
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Marc Olden (1933–2003) was the author of forty mystery and suspense novels. Born in Baltimore, he began writing while working in New York as a Broadway publicist. His first book, Angela Davis (1973), was a nonfiction study of the controversial Black Panther. In 1973 he also published Narc, under the name Robert Hawke, beginning a hard-boiled nine-book series about a federal narcotics agent.

A year later, Black Samurai introduced Robert Sand, a martial arts expert who becomes the first non-Japanese student of a samurai master. Based on Olden’s own interest in martial arts, which led him to the advanced ranks of karate and aikido, the novel spawned a successful eight-book series. Olden continued writing for the next three decades, often drawing on his fascination with Japanese culture and history. 


Marc Olden (1933–2003) was the author of forty mystery and suspense novels. Born in Baltimore, he began writing while working in New York as a Broadway publicist. His first book, Angela Davis (1973), was a nonfiction study of the controversial Black Panther. In 1973 he also published Narc, under the name Robert Hawke, beginning a hard-boiled nine-book series about a federal narcotics agent.

A year later, Black Samurai introduced Robert Sand, a martial arts expert who becomes the first non-Japanese student of a samurai master. Based on Olden’s own interest in martial arts, which led him to the advanced ranks of karate and aikido, the novel spawned a successful eight-book series. Olden continued writing for the next three decades, often drawing on his fascination with Japanese culture and history. 

Read an Excerpt

Wellington's


By Marc Olden

MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

Copyright © 1977 Marc Olden
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-6100-2


CHAPTER 1

During her affair with France's third-most-popular actor, Iona Raymond had developed a taste for French cigarettes, and tonight she stood under the beige-and-gold canopy of the Hotel Pierre on Fifth Avenue at Sixty-first Street, nervously lighting her third Gauloise in less than five minutes. She'd taken only two puffs on the last one. Her hands shook. Nerves.

Her tongue found a loose strand of tobacco near the cracked tooth on the left side of her mouth, another souvenir from Paris and Jean-Paul after Iona had told him that the end of filming also meant the end of their affair.

Tonight, as she stood on the sidewalk, listening to her director tell her what she had again done wrong, she leaned her head back, blew smoke up at the hotel canopy, and remembered her first thought after Jean-Paul had punched her in the face: You've broken the unwritten rule among actors, Jean-Paul. Never hit each other in the face during an argument. Professional courtesy. An actor's face is his cash register.

He'd struck her—not exactly a surprise, coming from a man so totally French in his arrogance and self-love. Iona's reaction to that slice of Parisian charm had been to give in to her anger and fear and break Jean-Paul's nose with a half-filled bottle of white wine, then run terrified out of her trailer dressing room, bare-breasted in January snow, a bleeding, cursing Jean-Paul chasing her through the extras and camera crew shivering in the Bois de Boulogne.

Monumental ego. Jean-Paul's big problem, besides remembering his lines. Iona Raymond, thirty-two, English, an internationally acclaimed actress, a woman, had kicked him in that ego by telling him it was over between them. Jean-Paul couldn't stand that. Had he been allowed to walk out on her, that little scene in the trailer two years ago never would have happened. Left to his own self-centered whims, the bastard would have ended their affair in his own good time ten minutes later or ten months later. He wanted to be the one to close the book of love.

In Iona Raymond's life, she did the leaving, no matter who the man was. She picked him, she stayed with him until she tired of it, and then she left.

French cigarettes and unwanted lovers. Two years ago, and tonight.

Tonight she stood in Manhattan's September chill, smoking too much and being eyed by a camera crew bored with watching her fluff nine takes of a simple scene. Extras hired for crossovers, hungry and edgy at eleven on a Friday night, couldn't wait to tell friends how overrated Iona Raymond was. The great Miss Raymond, of the London stage and prizewinning European films, couldn't walk through a hotel door properly. Nine times she'd tried, and nine times she'd done it wrong. That's what, Don, her director was telling her. Again. He was losing patience.

"Too fast," he said. "The building's not on fire. Don't come through that door as if your underwear's in flames. Pause, pause, pause, like we agreed. Give me a count of three, then push the door open slowly, slowly. I need to see your face. I don't know where you are tonight, but I don't think it's here." He stopped, giving her time to deal with what he'd just said.

Sieg heil, she thought, you are correct, mein Führer. I'm not concentrating. Nerves. Blame it on the man waiting for me in the back seat of my luxurious limousine. I've no wish to see him again, but he won't take no for an answer.

The man waited for her directly across the street, just a few feet from Central Park. She looked over Don's shoulder, past the camera, and saw the car, not the man. But she knew he was there. That upset her, reminding her of Jean-Paul and taking away energy and concentration needed to work, resulting in nine takes of a scene she should have done in one.

The man was forcing himself into her life, intruding, refusing to be politely dropped and ignored. She'd met him ten days ago, at her first New York press conference on arriving from London, slept with him twice, then lost interest, something the man now refused to accept. That was the problem. His taking it on himself to show up on tonight's location, plant himself in the back seat of her limousine, and wait until she came to him was very much on her mind.

Time to get control of herself. She was English, after all. And a professional, aware that bedroom follies did not belong on a set or onstage. Acting was her life's work, something she'd fought to perfect, and the more she thought of some man believing himself more important to her than acting, the angrier she got.

With a successful career on the London stage and in European films going for her, Iona Raymond had accepted this movie, her first in America, and even though she was doing it primarily to pay back taxes, she owed it to her own standards to do her best. In this film she was the wife of an ambitious English delegate to the United Nations, sleeping around, and encouraged to do so by her husband, in the belief that it would help his career.

Tonight's scene called for her to rush from the Hotel Pierre in tears, pained by a lover's betrayal. Go through the door, pause, wipe tears from her eyes with her fingertips, look in vain for a cab before rushing tearfully into Fifth Avenue traffic to the sound of screeching brakes and cursing motorists. Simple. Or it should have been.

But Jason Codd was waiting for her. Jason Codd, twenty-seven-year-old wonder boy of Manhattan film critics. Good-looking in that man-boy American way. Long, unsmiling face, intellectually vain, and unable to stop talking about films, even in bed. God, were critics a bore, always spouting witty phrases and looking at you out of the corner of their eye to see if you got the point. Dear Jason, so young, so cynical, so critical of anything in the world that displeased him, which seemed to be everything between earth and sky. Small wonder he'd been divorced twice. Another monstrous ego, which was always the driving force behind persistent pursuers. Constantly telephoning her hotel, her agent, the film company's production office on Fifth Avenue, her hairdresser, even the British consulate. Jason Codd, who did not like his telephone calls to women going unreturned. Determined little bastard.

Don Pardon, thirty-one, was the first American director she'd ever worked with. He had that same American intensity as Jason, but their relationship was strictly business, though strained at the moment. Don had done only two major films, but both were interesting and highly acclaimed, with one of his actresses winning an Oscar for best performance. He worked well with women—that's what had interested Iona. Don listened to his actresses, occasionally accepting a suggestion from one without allowing her to take over completely. Iona liked that.

However, at the moment she could feel his apprehension at telling her for the tenth time that she wasn't giving him what he wanted, what the scene called for. Iona Raymond was an important star, and English, two facts that would intimidate any American director. Don, lean, in faded red sneakers, jeans, gray Beethoven sweatshirt, and bearded, like his idols Stanley Kubrick and Francis Ford Coppola, was now speaking softly to her, trying to avoid a temper flare-up on either side. Nine takes meant people were getting tired and irritable. Don wanted to come away with usable film tonight if he could.

That was another reason Iona blew smoke up at the canopy. No need to blow it in Don's face. Things hadn't come to that, yet.

She knew what he was doing: talking to her to calm her down, giving her a chance to rest, to find out what the scene was supposed to accomplish. She knew that. Now she had to do it.

Around them on the sidewalk and in the street in front of the hotel, a thirty-man crew reset lights, checked lighting cables to see that they were connected to two small generators, checked props, positioned twenty-five extras, and ignored jokes and dumb questions from the giggling, chattering night crowd surrounding them on three sides. A script girl near the camera shivered in a low canvas director's chair, sipped lukewarm coffee, and marked her script, wondering if she'd finish before midnight and if Don would sleep with her tonight or with that young guy he kept using as an extra. As far as the script girl was concerned, Iona Raymond was a crock.

Extras allowed themselves to be positioned by the first assistant director. They were to cross over just as Iona Raymond came through the door, something they were tired of doing tonight. The $47.50-per-day SAG minimum wasn't money, but when you had to pay rent and buy cat food, you couldn't complain. So extras yawned, smoked, chewed gum, and felt superior to the "civilians," the crowd watching and waiting for something to happen.

Don chewed a corner of his mouth, hoping he was getting through to Iona. This was an important film for him, and no matter how right he was, he couldn't afford to antagonize a star as important as Iona Raymond. Directors always had to walk a tightrope between being in charge and losing control. No matter how independent a director might be starting out in the business, sooner or later he'd compromise on anything to be allowed to make pictures. That had been Iona Raymond's experience.

Don's smile, while not entirely sincere, was now wider. "Lovely English visitor that you are, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that we've still got film in the camera. The bad news is that we've got to use it all up before we leave tonight." He had a slight lisp, nothing too faggy, she thought, though you could never tell these days. His brown eyes were extraordinarily bright, like those of a genius or an ax murderer.

She dropped the unfinished Gauloise to the pavement, grinding it out. "Mucking it up, aren't I? Can't seem to get the handle on it, I'm afraid."

She watched Don sigh, knowing he was grateful for her taking the blame. Iona wasn't being charitable, just honest. Don took her hands, as the crowd watched the two of them with deep interest. Three policemen herded the crowd back out of camera range. The crowd—white, black, young, old—were the only ones enjoying themselves. The professionals had had enough, they wanted to go home as soon as possible. Traffic on Fifth Avenue had been blocked off and diverted along a side street to Madison Avenue, except for three hired cars that were to come speeding down Fifth Avenue at Iona two seconds after she stepped from the curb, braking ten feet away from her.

Tempers were growing short among the professionals. Fifteen-hour days could do that. Which is why Don had to get a take soon that he could use, or he'd have trouble. Iona knew that, too. She longed to hear those words: "Cut! That's a take! Print it!"

Crew, extras, policemen, Manhattan crowd. Except for the crowd, all had had enough of show business for the time being.

Don frowned, still squeezing her hands. "Something bothering you?"

She shivered, eyes on the limousine, mind on Jean-Paul. God, don't let it happen again.

Iona had a chauffeured limousine, as did Don and the production manager, all three cars courtesy of the producer and Teamsters Local 817. It was in Iona's contract, to be furnished during her eight weeks of filming in New York, plus forty thousand dollars a week and two thousand weekly living expenses. Plus first-star billing over the title, and in all ads her billing to be 100 percent of the title size. Time for her to start earning all of that.

"Anything I can do?" Don squeezed harder.

"Yes. Get me a bloody masseuse for my fingers, you're squeezing the life out of them."

They both smiled. Why not? The producer was paying for it, forty-five thousand per shooting day in hopes of getting at least two minutes of usable film daily.

"Well, love of my life," said Don in his slight lisp, "it's once more into the breech. Look, what I'm not getting is that feeling of hurt, of pain. That bastard up there in the penthouse has busted your chops, and—"

"Busted my chops? What in heaven's name are my chops, or shouldn't I ask?"

"Uh, Jesus, I don't know, can't think. Look, the second you hit that door, you've got to show me that it's been hard times back there, that you're bleeding emotionally inside and carrying one heavy load. Honey, if you don't give me that, then that next scene with your husband—"

"I know. God, do I ever." She pulled her hands free, rubbing them. She was chilly. Hadn't eaten much today, either.

Two teenage girls in the crowd continued to shriek her name until a policeman ordered them to shut up or move on. Americans. Always energetic, always loud.

She wanted to be free of Jason Codd. Wouldn't it be nice if he took a trip somewhere?

Suddenly she knew what she had to do.

She drew herself up, excited and smiling, eyes on Don's worried, bearded face. At five-feet-ten barefoot, she could almost look most men in the eye. Tonight, in heels, she was over six feet tall, placing her almost eye-to-eye with Don, who was six-three and broom-handle-thin, with bony hands now nervously toying with the viewfinder hanging from his neck on a brown leather cord.

Don noticed the sudden change in her and wondered if he should be concerned for himself.

"Don?" She eyed the limousine more carefully now. People walked in front of and behind the camera, slowing down to stare at her. She was going to solve her problem immediately.

"Yes?" Don frowned, stroking his nose with a finger the length of a kitchen knife.

She leaned toward him. "I don't know much about these things, being a stranger to your America. Tell me, don't those limousines have door locks controlled by the driver?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, I guess so."

"And Central Park—that is it just across the way, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah ... hey, what's going on in that foreign head of yours?"

A corner of her wide mouth lifted in something like a smile. Iona Raymond wasn't pretty. Skin too pale. Eyes too small and too close together. Raisins in a pudding, wrote one critic. Her red hair needed touching up to keep out the gray, and in times of prolonged stress her skin broke out. Her wide mouth had been called a ravine with teeth, among other cruel descriptions by critics who knew the value of an eye-catching phrase. No, Iona Raymond wasn't pretty, but she had the talent to make anyone believe she was beautiful.

That talent was being applied to Don Pardon, making him unsure of himself because he didn't know why she was doing it. He was being hit with Iona Raymond's force of will, the same force of will that had transformed her from a tall, gawky child into an actress of such skill that Olivier had twice selected her to appear with him at the National Theatre. Olivier's note in his own handwriting, praising her work inMacbeth and Long Day's Journey into Night, the two plays they had done together, was framed and taken with her wherever she went. It was that Iona Raymond who was about to take care of Jason Codd.

"Don, we're going to finish tonight's work. We're going to earn our pay, but first have one of the AD's come over here. Don't look at me like that. I am in my right mind. Honestly. Just humor me briefly, then we shall return to earning our daily bread, dear boy. This concerns a personal matter, which in true English fashion I do not wish to discuss. Believe me, it will not affect the film in an adverse way. Now, find us an assistant director who can remember his name. Go on, love, go. After that we shall commence, dear boy. Please?"

She stroked his bearded cheek. Poor dear. Frowning and creasing his forehead as he sought to solve the eternal riddle of woman. No such luck, love.

The AD was Kirk, a young, round-faced, pudgy, bearded Italian wearing a New York Mets baseball jacket and maroon-colored pants. Iona drew him aside as everyone watched, whispering slowly in his ear, having him repeat to her what she'd just said, then watching as he hurried through the crowd and across the street to her limousine.

She watched, heart pounding. This will work. It has to. Don came over to her, started to say something, then thought better of it. They both stared as Kirk ran around to the driver's side and opened the door. Ralph, her driver, stepped out, and after listening to Kirk, he turned toward Iona. She waved and nodded to show that Kirk was telling the truth, that the pudgy one was her trusted emissary bearing only her most exact instructions. Waving once more, Ralph slipped behind the wheel, slammed the door, and seconds later the long black car had pulled away from the curb and turned right into Central Park.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Wellington's by Marc Olden. Copyright © 1977 Marc Olden. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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