Lady Boss

  Once more Inga departed to do his bidding.

  ‘Uh… how does she feel about our deal?’ Lucky asked curiously.

  Abe shrugged. ‘What do I care?’

  ‘You must care,’ Lucky insisted. ‘Inga’s been with you a long time. She looks after you. Surely you depend on her? I don’t see anyone else around taking care of your needs.’

  ‘I employ two gardeners, a pool man who comes in twice a week, an’ two maids,’ Abe said grandly. ‘Inga sits on her big Swedish bottom all day doin’ nothin’. She should kiss my ass to have such a life.’

  Lucky got to the point. ‘I’m sure. But can you trust her? I mean, we don’t want her blowing my cover. She’s not exactly friendly towards me, you know.’

  Abe began to laugh. ‘Inga does what’s good for her,’ he cackled. ‘She’s a smart one. She’s thought it out, an’ she knows it’s better for her if I sell the studio before I die, that way she gets a stash of cash. If I don’t sell the studio, she’s going to have a fight on her hands with my granddaughters. Those two’ll tie her up in court forever.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re greedy. It runs in the family. They’ll want everything I’ve got. No sharing.’

  ‘But they’ll still inherit all your money.’

  He cocked his head on one side, a canny old man with a plan. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. I could move to Bora Bora an’ give it all away to a cats’ home before I go.’

  ‘Then you’d really have a fight on your hands.’

  ‘Not me, girlie. I’ll be ten foot under. I could care less.’ He tapped his gnarled fingers on the table. ‘Now, let’s get down to business. I want to hear everything you’ve got. Every goddamn detail.’

  * * *

  Mickey Stolli prepared to leave the studio early. ‘If my wife calls, tell her I’m in an important meeting and cannot be disturbed,’ he instructed Olive. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let her know I’ve left.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Stolli.’

  Mickey was not in a good mood, and he was wise enough to realize he had to do something about it before going home to Abigaile’s perfect little dinner party. Christ! How he hated her parties. Phony conversations. Too much rich food. And everyone as secretly bored as he was.

  Why did she have to do it to him? Just so she could see her name in George Christy’s column? Big deal. He worked like a slave at the studio all week – wouldn’t it be nice to come home to some much-needed rest and relaxation?

  Tonight Cooper Turner would corner him about the movie. Venus Maria would do the same. They both wanted to complain about something or other.

  How did he know?

  Movie stars. They were all the same. Their part was never big enough. Their percentage didn’t satisfy. And their close-ups were too few and far between.

  Zeppo White would also want to talk business. Fucking social-climbing ex-agent snob. Zeppo thought he was running Orpheus Studios. He couldn’t run an errand! Mickey missed the days when Howard Soloman was in charge. Howard was a goer – a little whacked out, especially when he had the coke problem, but a real studio man. Howard knew what it was all about. And it was about making money, not hosting lousy dinner parties…

  Just as he was about to leave the building, Eddie Kane grabbed him.

  ‘Gotta talk to you, Mickey,’ Eddie said urgently, hanging onto his arm. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Not now,’ Mickey replied, freeing himself with a quick shake. He didn’t like being touched unless he instigated it.

  ‘When?’ Eddie demanded. He was a sandy-haired, attractive man in his early forties, with Don Johnson stubble, transparent blue eyes, and a penchant for crumpled sports clothes. A former child star, the innocence he’d once been famous for had settled into a kind of bemused adulthood.

  Eddie and Mickey went way back – almost twenty-five years. For a while Mickey had been his agent, nailing his once hot career right into the ground. When Eddie had given up acting – or rather when acting had given up him – Mickey had found him a job at his agency. Too mundane for Eddie – after a while he got bored and took off for Hawaii, where he became a production manager on a private-eye television series. The drugs were plentiful and good, but eventually they got him into trouble, and once again he was on the move. Back in L.A. Mickey helped him out. He used a little influence, and fixed Eddie up with a job at Panther.

  As Mickey rose to power, so he took Eddie along with him. Mickey knew the wisdom of surrounding himself with grateful people.

  Now Eddie Kane had plenty of clout; a gorgeous wife; a simple little two-million-dollar Malibu beach house; and an out-of-control cocaine habit.

  ‘Speak to Olive. She’ll set it up,’ Mickey said, already on his way.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Eddie asked anxiously. ‘Cause we gotta talk, man. This is serious shit.’

  ‘Check with Olive.’

  Mickey ducked out of the building and hurried to his car. He could, if he so desired, have a limousine and chauffeur on twenty-four-hour call. But there were occasions for formality and times for privacy. Today he needed privacy. What he didn’t need was Eddie Kane driving him crazy. Eddie was an asset who at any moment could turn into a major liability. Drug users were bad news. Mickey had given quite a lot of thought to cutting him loose.

  A dream. Eddie knew too much.

  Mickey made a mental note to call Leslie, Eddie’s wife, and talk to her about getting her husband into drug rehab. Lately he looked stoned all the time, and that wasn’t good for business.

  Behind the wheel of his Porsche, Mickey felt in complete control. He had his stereo equipment, a CD player, a telephone, and emergency supplies in the trunk should he ever get caught in an earthquake.

  Mickey thought about earthquakes quite a lot. He fantasized all sorts of scenarios. His favourite was the one where Abigaile was shopping in Magnins or Saks – buying just another little five-thousand-dollar evening purse – when the big one hit, and poor Abby was buried beneath a mountain of designer goods and suffocated by a rare two-hundred-thousand-dollar sable coat.

  Fortunately, in his fantasy, the earthquake bypassed the studio and both his houses. Tabitha was safe, and so were his cars. Only Abby got it.

  Naturally he arranged a magnificent funeral. Abe Panther would have attended, but the shock of the earthquake was too much for him, and the feisty son of a bitch finally expired.

  At last Mickey Stolli was a free man – and Panther Studios was legally his. When Primrose and Ben Harrison arrived in L.A. to claim their share, a freeway overpass collapsed on their limo and crushed them out of his life.

  What a fantasy! The best!

  Mickey waved to the studio guard as he shot out of the gates.

  The man saluted him. They all loved him at the studio, he was their king – their ruler! He was Mickey Stolli, and they all wanted to be him.

  * * *

  Everything was in place – the china, the glassware, the finest linens and silver.

  Clad in a sweeping silk robe, Abigaile prowled around her pristine mansion checking details.

  An army of servants were all present. Her permanent staff – Jeffries, her English butler, and Mrs. Jeffries, his plump wife who acted as housekeeper. Jacko, a young Australian who cleaned the cars and did driving duties for Tabitha – tonight he would be assisting Jeffries. And Consuela and Firella, her two Spanish maids.

  Hired for the evening were three valet parkers, two bartenders, a cook with two assistants, and a special dessert chef.

  The total was a staff of fourteen to look after twelve guests. Abigaile liked to do things right. She was Hollywood royalty, after all. She was Abe Panther’s granddaughter, and people expected a certain level of style. Her own mother, long dead – killed along with her father in a boating accident – had been a fine hostess, entertaining lavishly. When Abigaile and Primrose were children they’d been allowed to peek in at some of the extravagant parties. Grandfather Abe was always present – surrounded by the great movie stars of the time, oft
en with a dazzling beauty on each arm.

  Abigaile had always been in awe of her grandfather. It wasn’t until after his stroke that she’d been able to deal with him at all. Now she visited him as little as possible, and secretly wished he would fade quietly away so she could take centre stage.

  She loathed Inga, and Inga loathed her. They barely spoke when Abigaile arrived at the house with Abe’s grandchild, Tabitha, a precocious thirteen-year-old. It was difficult for Abigaile to persuade Tabitha to accompany her, but a touch of bribery usually did it, for she refused to go alone.

  ‘Why do I have to come every time?’ Tabitha whined.

  ‘Because one of these days you’re going to be a very rich little girl indeed. And you’d better remember where the money is coming from.’

  ‘Daddy’s got money, I’ll take his.’

  Daddy couldn’t take a piss in the moonlight if it wasn’t for your great-grandfather, Abigaile wanted to say – but she always stopped herself just in time.

  ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Mrs. Stolli?’

  Jeffries was dogging her footsteps, the old fool. The fact that he was English was a plus. He was also unutterably nosy, and so was his wife. Abigaile suspected that if the opportunity ever arose they would sell her secrets to the gossip rags without so much as a twinge of regret.

  Not that they knew any of her secrets.

  Not that she had any.

  Well… maybe a few…

  ‘No, Jeffries,’ she said tartly, spying a dead branch on a prominent orchid arrangement. She plucked at the offending twig – pulling it out, scattering earth on the expensive Chinese rug. ‘What exactly is this?’ she asked accusingly.

  Jeffries had been waiting for this moment. ‘If you will recall, Mrs. Stolli, you gave the entire staff instructions we were never to touch the house plants or floral arrangements.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ she asked testily.

  A small moment of triumph. ‘Because, Mrs. Stolli, you said that only the plant man was to tend them.’

  Aggravation. ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Stolli.’

  ‘And where is the plant man?’

  ‘He only comes on Fridays.’

  God! Servants! Especially English ones. ‘Thank you, Jeffries. In the meantime have someone clean up the mess before Mr. Stolli gets home.’

  When he gets home, she added silently. For Mickey had this bad habit of always being late for his own dinner parties.

  It drove Abigaile crazy.

  * * *

  Mickey Stolli wore his socks – pale grey Italian silk – and nothing else. He had a thing about his feet: he thought they were ugly and never allowed anyone to see them.

  Surprisingly enough, even though he was devoid of hair on his head, his body was covered in tufts of black hair. A patch here, a patch there – strange little outbreaks of hairiness.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ Warner, his black mistress, assured him. She was tall and skinny with huge black nipples on generous breasts, and cropped black hair.

  She straddled him, riding his erect penis as if she were taking an afternoon trot on a horse.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ she repeated, as the action heated up.

  Nobody had ever told Mickey Stolli he was gorgeous before. Only Warner – who’d been his mistress for eighteen months. She was a cop. One day she’d pulled him over for a traffic ticket, and the rest was the stuff wet dreams are made of.

  The thing he liked about Warner was her uniqueness. The first time they’d slept together she’d had no idea who he was or what he did. It simply didn’t matter to her.

  Mickey felt the moment of truth was going to be upon him at any moment. He let out a long strangulated sigh.

  Warner contracted the muscles that really mattered and gave him the ride of his life.

  He felt the come from the tip of his toes to the back of his head – which he thought might explode one of these days if Warner kept doing what she obviously loved to do. With him. Only him. Mickey Stolli was the only man in Warner Franklin’s sex life. She had told him so many times and he believed her.

  ‘Was that a trip to heaven or what?’ Warner demanded, climbing off. ‘You get better every time, Mickey. You’re the greatest lover in the world.’

  Nobody had ever told Mickey Stolli he was the greatest lover in the world before – only Warner. She knew how to make him feel like he could climb the Empire State Building from the outside and jump off without breaking a bone.

  Warner Franklin was thirty-five years old and not particularly pretty. She lived alone in a small West Hollywood apartment with a skinny mongrel dog, and much to Mickey’s relief she had no aspirations to be an actress.

  She didn’t want his money. She didn’t want his favours. She’d turned down his offer of a Wilshire condo and a white Mercedes. The only gifts she’d accepted were a giant-screen colour television, and a video recorder. She’d only taken those presents because she was partial to Hill Street Blues repeats and Hunter. ‘Gotta do something when I’m not working and I’m not with you,’ she’d explained.

  He thought he might love her. But the dreaded thought – lurking at the back of his mind – was so scary that he’d never taken it out to inspect.

  ‘Abby’s having one of her dinner parties tonight,’ he said, stifling a satisfied yawn.

  ‘I know how you looove them,’ Warner drawled, rolling her eyes. ‘Don’t worry, honey – you’re always the smartest man in any room.’

  By the time Mickey Stolli left Warner Franklin’s apartment he was walking ten feet tall. He was the most gorgeous, the best lover, the smartest man in the whole fucking world!

  Screw you, Abby.

  You never told me shit.

  * * *

  Lucky was fascinated watching Abe eat. He picked at his food like a ravenous monkey, rarely using a knife or fork if his fingers could do the job. For a man of eighty-eight his appetite was quite extraordinary.

  Inga did not eat. She did not sit. But she was around enough to eavesdrop on exactly what was said.

  Lucky was curious to know if they discussed things later. In fact, what exactly was their relationship now? Failed movie star and former studio head. Was there a lot to talk about?

  During her research on Abe, Lucky had come across quite a few photos of Inga. There were many studio shots, and a few casual photographs of Abe and Inga together.

  Twenty-five years ago, when Abe was a mere sixty-three and Inga twenty-something, she’d been a ravishing beauty – luminous skin, wide grey eyes, a lithe body, and bewitching smile.

  What happens to people? Lucky wondered. How come some – like Gino and Abe – are born survivors, and others – like Inga – wither away into a miserable shell?

  It’s just the way the crap-shoot goes, she thought.

  She’d told Abe everything she knew to date. He’d been disappointed. He wanted more. So did she.

  A few petty scams were not worth getting heated over. So Mickey charged the studio for his personal supply of Cristal. Big deal. And Eddie Kane was probably a cocaine freak. So what?

  Mickey pulling a phony script scam with the agent Lionel Fricke – that was the only information worth getting excited about.

  How many times had Mickey pulled that particular stunt? She’d have to look into it.

  ‘Enjoyin’ yourself, girlie?’ Abe asked, cocking his head on one side. ‘You like the movie business?’

  ‘I think I’m going to love it,’ she replied honestly. ‘When I’m in control.’

  Abe cackled. He liked a woman who knew what she wanted.

  Chapter 23

  There was not much Cooper Turner didn’t know about women. He’d had the best, he’d had the worst, and anything he could get his hands on in between.

  Growing up in Ardmore, a small town outside Philadelphia, Cooper had started experimenting with girls when he was thirteen. Not for Cooper the paper cutouts and other girlie magazines. Oh no – one sniff of snatch and it became his l
ife’s pursuit. Girls, girls, girls.

  ‘You should have been a gynaecologist,’ his older sister joked when he was nineteen. ‘At least get paid for what you do.’

  If he hadn’t become an actor he would have made a great male hooker – the kind that services only the female sex.

  He moved to New York when he was twenty, living in the Village and hanging out at the Actors’ Studio. His contemporaries got themselves jobs waiting tables and pumping gas while preparing for the big break.

  Cooper never had to do any of that. There was always a hot meal and a warm bed begging for his attention. Not to mention a woman.

  When he finally got out to Hollywood he met a beautiful young screen actress his first week in town. Within days he became her live-in lover. The relationship led to his picture in the papers, and his picture led him to a female agent who secured him the second lead in a small-budget teen film.

  At the age of twenty-four, Cooper Turner became a heartthrob. Over the years his career just got better and better, culminating in an Oscar nomination when he was thirty-two.

  He didn’t win and it soured him. He stopped doing publicity and shied away from the press. The films he decided to appear in were few and far between.

  The less Cooper made himself available the more he was wanted. He tried to lead a private life – it was impossible. Women came and went. Some stayed around almost long enough to drag a commitment out of him. He would have liked children, but the price of being with one woman wasn’t worth it.

  And then he met Venus Maria and things changed. With Venus Maria anything was possible. She was young and incredibly sexy. She had knowing eyes and a man-eating mouth. She was sharp and street smart. She had a body made to tango and the mind of an accountant. She was sensual, startling, and above all vitally alive.

  One drawback. Contrary to popular belief and the headlines in the supermarket tabloids, he was not fucking her and she was not fucking him. Not even the famous blow-job story was true, although he’d heard it from various sources – including Mickey Stolli, who’d laughed, punched him slyly in the ribs, and said, ‘I like to see my stars getting along. Makes for a happy set.’