Lady Boss

  ‘Shouldn’t you find out?’

  ‘Yes.’ Olive nodded vigorously. ‘George is going to be in Boston for two days next week on business. It would be a perfect time to talk things over.’ She sighed. ‘He wants me to join him. Unfortunately it’s impossible.’

  Lucky sensed an opportunity. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mr. Stolli can’t do without me. He’s a very particular man. Everything has to be just so.’

  ‘Really? He won’t accept a temp?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Or one of the girls in your building?’

  ‘Absolutely out of the question.’

  ‘How about me?’

  ‘You?’

  This was a hard sell, but she could do it. ‘Yes, me. I can take over for a couple of days. You’ll show me what to do, and I promise you he’ll have no complaints.’

  ‘You work for Mr. Stone,’ Olive pointed out.

  ‘He’s off on vacation next week. Besides, even when he’s around I have nothing to do. It’s a boring job. To tell you the truth, I was thinking of leaving.’

  Olive was silent for a moment. It was a tempting offer. Luce certainly seemed competent enough. ‘I’ll have to ask Mr. Stolli,’ she said doubtfully. ‘After all, it’s his decision, and as I said before, he’s a very particular man with cast-iron habits.’

  ‘OK,’ Lucky said, willing Olive to go for the idea. ‘I understand.’

  Olive nodded. ‘I shall ask him,’ she decided. ‘This is such an important trip for me, and it’s best to get things settled as soon as possible.’

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Lucky.

  Olive nodded again. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said.

  * * *

  Lucky had Boogie run a trace on Eddie Kane’s tropical-fish lady’s car. It was registered to one Kathleen Le Paul. J. Smith never even entered the picture. Well, anyone with half a brain would have guessed that.

  She instructed Boogie to check Ms. Le Paul out, and to get her the information as soon as possible.

  ‘It’s done,’ Boogie assured her.

  Herman immediately wanted to know what was going on. The air-conditioning in his office had broken down and he was feeling the heat in more ways than one. He was red in the face and stressed out.

  Lucky felt sorry for him. ‘You’re taking a vacation,’ she said firmly.

  He became agitated. ‘What?’

  ‘A vacation. You need it. You deserve it. A week in Palm Springs. You’re to get out of here so I’m free to fill in for Olive. OK?’

  Herman wasn’t about to argue. Any excuse to stay away was welcome. ‘When shall I leave?’ he asked stiffly.

  ‘Stick around until Thursday. Maybe we can get to see the dailies you requested. In fact –’ she grabbed the phone – ‘I’m going to arrange that right now.’

  * * *

  The screening room was comfortably decorated in plush green leather with thick carpeting and blow-up pictures of some of Panther’s biggest stars on the walls. There was Venus Maria, clad in black leather, with a mocking expression. A full close-up of the very handsome Cooper Turner. Susie Rush, pert and coy, hiding beneath a pink parasol. Charlie Dollar, maniacal grin in place. Johnny Romano, surrounded by girls in low-cut dresses. Marisa Birch, standing tall with her crew-cut hair and enormous bosom. And Lennie Golden, laid-back and quirky, with his longish dirty-blond hair, penetrating green eyes, and cynical smile.

  Lucky lingered in front of his photograph. He looked great. As always. She missed him with a vengeance.

  Harry Browning came out of the projection booth to greet Herman Stone personally. Ignoring Lucky, he shook Herman by the hand, and said, ‘How very nice to see you, Mr. Stone. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘What do you have I can look at?’ Herman asked gruffly, playing his part just as Lucky had instructed him to.

  ‘I’ve got the latest dailies on Macho Man. And a rough cut of Motherfaker,’ Harry offered.

  ‘That’ll do,’ Herman said, making his way to the centre of the back row of seats, where there was a telephone to issue orders to the projection booth, and a small cooler containing a selection of soft drinks.

  ‘What would you like to see first?’ Harry asked.

  ‘The dailies on Macho Man,’ Lucky replied, adding quickly, ‘Mr. Stone would like to see the Macho Man dailies first.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Herman, playing his part for once.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Harry stiffly, avoiding eye contact with Lucky.

  When Lennie’s presence took over the screen, Lucky was filled with pride. Apart from being funny and intelligent – he was so goddamn horny-looking! And he was her husband!

  The first scene was a brief setup between Lennie and Joey Firello. They worked well together. Their dialogue played fast and snappy. Lucky recognized Lennie’s beat on the material. Why was he complaining? This was good stuff.

  And then Marisa Birch dominated the screen in more ways than one, and Lucky knew exactly what Lennie was bitching about. Marisa’s physical appearance was overpowering, but there was not an ounce of talent to back it up. Her acting – such as it was – seemed to be a giant put-on.

  The scene where she was in bed with Lennie was a joke. Grudge Freeport had obviously got his rocks off directing it. Marisa’s huge tits were the only focus he was interested in. They managed to take over every shot – great big bouncy things, large enough to do serious damage.

  Lennie was not happy and it showed. Talk about no chemistry! Marisa and Lennie did not create sparks. There was no sizzle – merely fizzle.

  Watching the five takes Grudge had ordered printed, Lucky began to feel acutely embarrassed. No wonder Lennie was complaining all the time – this was worse than she’d imagined.

  She knew exactly what she would do when she took over. Halt production, get rid of the director and Marisa, save the good stuff, recast, rewrite, and reshoot. Whatever the cost, it had to be worth it.

  Maybe Lennie could direct. A great idea! He’d always talked about wanting to.

  This running-a-studio business was going to be a real trip. She hadn’t felt this excited since she’d built her two hotels, the Magiriano and the Santangelo. Lucky loved a challenge, and this was definitely it!

  ‘What kind of films are they making now?’ Herman complained, looking distressed. ‘I’m watching pornography.’

  ‘When did you last see one of Panther’s movies?’ Lucky asked curiously.

  Herman failed to reply.

  He probably hasn’t seen a movie since Gone With the Wind, she thought. Poor old Herman. What a shock he’s in for if he ever gets out into the real world.

  The rough cut of Motherfaker hit the screen with an opening shot of a tough, leather-jacketed Johnny Romano strutting down a rain-slicked street – practising the old familiar cock-thrust swagger.

  Suddenly, a man steps in his path, blocking him.

  ‘Whattaya want, motherfucker?’ Johnny Romano asks.

  ‘I want what’s mine, shithead,’ the other actor replies.

  ‘Man, whyn’t you take your dick an’ shove it up your ass, ’cause you ain’t gettin’ shit from me, prick-face.’

  ‘What ya call me, fuckhead?’

  ‘Prick-face, motherfucker. You want I spell it out for you?’

  ‘You’re fuckin’ with the wrong dude, spic.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, ya dumb cocksucker.’

  A tight close-up on Johnny Romano. His eyes hold the screen. Deep-set and brown, they draw you into the character. His eyes register anger and a lurking danger. His eyes are lethal weapons.

  The camera pans back to show the other character reaching for a gun.

  Johnny kicks the gun from the man’s hand, produces a weapon of his own, and blows him away.

  Loud rap music blares and the credits begin to roll.

  ‘This is appalling!’ Herman gasped.

  ‘Welcome to the eighties,’ Lucky said dryly.

  Chapter 20


  Ivana’s was a hotbed of gossip. Everyone knew something that nobody else knew. ‘I can tell you this only if you promise not to tell anyone else’ was the battle cry.

  Naturally everyone promised and everyone told.

  The story about Venus Maria giving Cooper Turner a blow-job on the set was still circulating, only now the tale was embellished. It wasn’t just Cooper she’d attended to, it was half the crew she’d obliged at the same time.

  ‘Nonsense!’ snapped Abigaile when the skinny black girl who shampooed her hair recounted the story.

  ‘Oh, it’s true, Abigaile,’ the girl assured her, nodding solemnly.

  ‘Kindly address me as Mrs. Stolli,’ Abigaile said grandly. ‘And dear, please be aware that my husband is the head of Panther Studios where this event is supposed to have taken place. And, if you continue to spread malicious gossip, you will be sued.’

  Wide-eyed, the girl wrapped a towel around Abigaile’s wet hair and fled.

  When Saxon, the owner of Ivana’s, came over to style her hair, Abigaile complained.

  Saxon did not kiss ass. Saxon was tall and muscular with shoulder-length blond curls. He had the body of a weight-lifter and the look of a heavy-metal rock star. At thirty he was the most popular hair-stylist in town, having arrived from New York and opened his salon a mere ten months ago.

  ‘Stop bitching, Abby, I hate it when you whine,’ Saxon said in a deep, gruff voice. Nobody had managed to figure out whether he was gay or straight – and nobody dared ask.

  ‘I’m not whining,’ Abigaile replied tartly. ‘And I don’t think it’s too much to ask for your transient staff to address me with some respect. I am Mrs. Stolli to them. Mrs.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Saxon said, with a notable lack of respect.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her eyes dropped to his crotch. Saxon wore the tightest jeans known to man.

  He caught her checking him out. She quickly glanced away.

  ‘So, and how does Mrs. Stolli want to look today?’ he asked, tossing back his mane of enviable blond hair.

  ‘Do your best,’ she replied shortly.

  ‘I always do, dear, I always do.’

  * * *

  Boogie was a whiz at getting information fast. By the time Lucky returned from the screening there was a message waiting for her to call him.

  Herman was slumped behind his desk. He had left the screening twenty minutes into the picture muttering to himself.

  Lucky was certainly no prude, and she abhorred any kind of censorship, but Motherfaker managed to offend almost everyone. Every other word was motherfucker, the violence was relentless and mostly pointless, and women were portrayed as either whores or dumb victims.

  Johnny Romano had written, executive-produced, and starred in it. Some message he was putting out there.

  ‘Does Abe know what kind of sexist, violent junk this studio is making?’ Lucky demanded.

  Herman shrugged hopelessly. ‘A Johnny Romano film makes money,’ he said.

  ‘So does a thousand-dollar-a-night hooker, but that doesn’t mean you have to fuck her, does it?’

  Herman pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said.

  And don’t bother coming back, she wanted to say. Stay at home, Herman. Grow roses and play golf. Home is where you belong.

  ‘Don’t forget you’ll be taking a vacation next week,’ she reminded him.

  He nodded, and walked slowly from the office. A tired old man being dragged reluctantly into the present.

  For a moment Lucky almost felt sorry for him. But then she thought what the hell – he was being paid a fat salary to sit on his can and do precisely nothing. The least he could have done was view the product once in a while.

  Boogie answered her call immediately. ‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Can it wait, or should I hear it now?’

  ‘You’re right, as usual,’ Boogie said admiringly. ‘You should be at the racetrack picking horses.’

  ‘Give me the story,’ Lucky said impatiently, cradling the phone under her chin while she reached for a cigarette.

  ‘Kathleen Le Paul,’ Boogie announced. ‘Alias Cathy Paulson, alias Candy Ganini. Thirty-four years old. She started out as a sixteen-year-old stripper, married a hood, became a call girl, then started to run dope across borders for anyone who’d pay enough. Arrested in 1980 for transporting drugs. She had three bags of cocaine stuffed up her snatch.’

  ‘That’s pleasant!’

  ‘Did time, came out, married a small-time agent, had a child, then went back to her old ways. She’s now the Los Angeles girlfriend of Colombian drug lord Umberto Castelli, and one of the chief suppliers of the showbiz community. They trust her. She dresses in designer clothes.’

  ‘I noticed,’ Lucky said dryly.

  ‘Anything else?’ Boogie asked.

  ‘What colour panties does she wear?’

  ‘Blue. Pink on Tuesdays.’

  ‘Fun-nee.’

  ‘Incidentally, your father is here.’

  Lucky was surprised. ‘Gino’s in L.A.?’

  ‘At the Wilshire. He wants you to have dinner with him tonight.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Boog. Tonight is Abe Panther time, I’m going up to his house. Call Gino and tell him I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Oh, and run a fast check on Eddie Kane, he’s Senior Vice President of Distribution at Panther. I want to know it all.’

  ‘You got it.’

  She thought about Bobby and missed him like crazy. ‘Did you call London?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Bobby’s fine,’ he assured her.

  ‘And my office?’

  ‘Running smoothly.’

  She sighed. ‘I guess I’m not missed.’

  ‘You’re always missed.’

  ‘Thanks, Boog.’

  She hung up the phone and contemplated this latest information. So Eddie Kane was a coke-head, and who else had the same little habit?

  A cocaine high was expensive to support. Just what other scams was Eddie Kane into?

  * * *

  In the executive dining room Susie Rush laid her delicate white hand over Mickey Stolli’s not so delicate hairy fist, and said, ‘Next time we lunch, we should do it at my place.’

  She fluttered her eyelids at him, a flirtatious gesture he did not appreciate. The broad had been coming on to him for weeks and he couldn’t quite figure out how to handle it. She was a major Panther star, and a major pain in the ass. He had no desire to fuck her. But the problem was – how to get out of it gracefully? Because as each day passed, Ms. Rush was making her intentions undeniably clearer.

  ‘Susie, my pet,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘If I ever had lunch at your place it would be all over.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mickey?’ she asked, girlishly innocent, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

  ‘I mean I couldn’t stop myself from jumpin’ your gorgeous bones, an’ that wouldn’t be right, would it?’

  Susie giggled. ‘Why not?’ she asked, tilting her head coquettishly.

  He couldn’t help noticing the fine network of lines around her watery blue eyes, and the two deeper furrows between her brows. This broad was no longer in the first flush – it was miraculous what a great lighting cameraman could do.

  ‘We’re both married, Susie. Gotta remember that,’ Mickey said, trying to sound sincere.

  She rubbed her fingers lightly across his clenched fist. ‘You’re tense, Mickey. Relax, it’s only little me.’

  This had gone far enough – better snap this back onto a business level. ‘I’m very married, Susie,’ he reminded her. And then, just to keep her in a good mood, ‘If I wasn’t, who knows…’

  Susie patted his fist and withdrew her hand. ‘Do you know something, Mickey?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In spite of your fierce reputation, you really are a very sweet and loyal man.’ She honoured him with a sugary smile.

  Mickey Stolli had been called a lot of things in his life, but ‘sweet and loyal’
was a definite first. He sincerely hoped nobody was eavesdropping. ‘Sweet and loyal’ could blow his entire reputation.

  ‘Let’s talk about the script,’ he said, firmly changing the subject.

  ‘Which script?’ Susie replied, delicately picking the leaves off an artichoke and dipping them in a buttery sauce.

  ‘Sunshine.’

  ‘I don’t want to do Sunshine,’ Susie replied, getting quite snappish. ‘If you ever listened to me, you’d be aware I have no intention of doing Sunshine.’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘I wish to play the lead in Bombshell.’

  Mickey laughed. A mistake.

  Susie glared. ‘What’s so funny?’

  He recovered quickly. ‘Nothin’s funny. Venus Maria is set for Bombshell.’

  ‘She hasn’t signed.’

  ‘She will.’

  Susie’s eyes hardened. ‘I want a shot at that role, Mickey. And I will not be happy if I don’t get it.’

  He put on his best jerk-off voice. ‘C’mon, pet. What are we talkin’ here? Bombshell is all wrong for you, it’s not your image. The public wouldn’t want to see you in it. You’re Susie Rush, America’s sweetheart. Stick to type. Right now you’re queen of the box-office.’

  Not strictly true. Her last film had been a disappointment, making a mere sixty million as opposed to breaking the one hundred million mark – a goal her movies usually achieved.

  ‘I need a change of pace,’ Susie said, all business.

  Where was the hand-holding of ten minutes ago? Mickey thought sourly, realizing this whole come-on for the last few weeks didn’t mean shit. She had no wish to get into his pants, she merely wanted to get into his movie.

  He sighed wearily. They were all the same, these actresses. Big star or minor player, they’d all drop their lace panties for the right role.

  Everyone knew Bombshell was his special project – a script developed and written from an idea he’d suggested, a movie he was going to produce personally. Bombshell – the true, shocking story of a Hollywood sex symbol. He could see the billboard on Sunset now – preferably the one overlooking Spago. And with Venus Maria in the lead role it was a movie that couldn’t miss. Venus Maria was the hottest actress in America. She had a fascinating chameleon quality, a new open sexuality that seemed to turn everyone on. Little girls copied what she wore. Big girls admired her feisty style of sticking her tongue out at convention. And all the males – whether sixteen or sixty – felt the musky heat she exuded. Most of all she was now – a true woman of the moment.