Do something nice and make everyone happy.
He then dictated a similar fax to Ned Magnus, the producer of Lennie’s movie. Lucky added a terse
Accommodate Lennie Golden in every way.
Allow him to make any changes he wants.
Mickey then disappeared under the shower while she hurried to make his phone calls.
He emerged screaming for his fresh juice.
Lucky darted into the stainless-steel kitchen, sliced a grapefruit in half – nearly taking her finger along with it – and threw it on top of the juicer.
A fit of laughter almost overcame her. This was insane! What the hell was she doing this for?
Adventure.
A studio.
Lennie.
* * *
Eddie Kane was nervous. He had urgent matters to discuss with Mickey, and the prick was giving him a runaround.
Eddie Kane smoked a joint in the men’s room ten minutes before the Monday morning meeting of the major players. He would have preferred a hit of coke, but he was all out, and Kathleen Le Paul never made her weekly visit until after lunch.
A joint took the edge off. Just about. Not really.
Fuck! He was wired to the hilt. He needed to sit down with Mickey and straighten out business.
Staring in the men’s room mirror he noticed he’d developed a twitch. Almost imperceptible, but it was there – if you were looking.
Who’s looking, for chrissake ?
Eddie ‘The Twitch’ Kane. Former child star. Still hot with his Miami Vice attitude.
This is what Eddie was into:
Porno flicks.
Distributing them.
Hiding them along with Panther’s legit products.
Making a tidy pile.
Scooping it in.
He stared at himself for a long while. Who else has a wife like Leslie? he thought. She was prettier than any movie star. Sexier, too.
Ah, what wouldn’t he give to see her thigh high in diamonds. She deserved every single one. Thigh-high and bare-assed. What a sight!
‘Good morning, Eddie.’
Zev Lorenzo, head of the recently formed Television Division, snuck up on him. Zev was an elegant man in his late forties, with a pencil moustache, thinning hair, and a trim build. If he’d had to make a guess, Eddie would have said that Zev was the only executive at Panther who wasn’t in business for himself in some way or other.
‘Hiya, Zev.’
The older man nodded, and stood in front of the urinals.
A closet queen zipped through Eddie’s mind. Someone had told Eddie that Zev was a closet queen – although why, in 1986, anybody would bother staying in the closet was beyond Eddie.
‘How’s everything?’ he mumbled, running a hand through his long hair.
‘Excellent,’ replied Zev. He was into words like supreme and primacy and surpass. Eddie had never heard him swear, not even a simple fuck.
‘That’s good, that’s very good,’ Eddie said. ‘Hey – one of these days ya gotta meet my wife.’
‘I’ve heard she’s a stunner.’ Zev zipped up and exited. Didn’t even stay to wash his hands.
Eddie twitched again. He didn’t feel good. He felt like shit. He looked like shit. He’d frightened Zev off.
* * *
‘Do I accompany you to the meeting, Mr. Stolli?’ Lucky asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Take notes. Get it all down. You do fast shorthand, right?’
She nodded.
‘What’s wrong with your hair?’
‘Uh…’
‘Forget it. Follow me an’ don’t open your mouth.’
She trailed him into the conference room. Three steps behind, like an obedient geisha.
The boys were gathered. No girls.
Shame.
That’s Hollywood.
Quietly taking a back seat, notepad poised (shorthand was the one useful skill she’d learned at school in Switzerland), she looked around, silently identifying the players, matching them up to their photographs in the glossy Panther end-of-year financial report.
Ford Werne, Head of Production. Killer sharp in an Armani suit and five-hundred-dollar tinted aviator shades. He was around fifty, but he’d kept his act very much together.
Teddy T. Lauden, Head of Business Affairs, was exactly the opposite – thin, nondescript, precise.
Zev Lorenzo, the man who ran the Television Division, impeccable and charming.
Eddie Kane, Mister Distribution, Mister Coke-Head, looked like he was ready to fall apart. Seedy was too kind a description. He was handsome in a smarmy way – but definitely in trouble.
That left only two other senior executives:
Grant Wendell, Jr, Vice President of Worldwide Production – young and sharp-eyed in baggy pants with a button-down Gap shirt.
And Buck Graham – Marketing. A plump, jovial man, with ruddy cheeks and an ‘I’m here to please’ smile.
Average age of the group – early forties.
That’s why there were no women execs. These guys had not experienced feminist mothers. What did they know?
Lucky grinned to herself. In her dowdy wig and glasses, concealed by her baggy clothes, she was invisible to this group of probable chauvinists.
Two women appeared, ready to serve coffee and tea. One of them was Eddie Kane’s black secretary, Brenda. She’d dressed for the occasion in a tight pink leather dress that ended somewhere mid-thigh. On her long legs she wore outrageous fishnet tights – more suitable for a lady of the night than an office meeting – and very high red patent heels.
Brenda fussed over the men, calling every one of them by name as she poured their coffee, gold-painted nails curling around the coffee-pot handle.
The other woman was a ponytailed blonde, also in a miniskirt. She apparently belonged to Grant Wendell.
The men ignored the two females, although Lucky observed Eddie giving Grant’s secretary a quick feel under her skimpy skirt as she passed by.
‘OK, girls – outta here,’ said Mickey Stolli, Mister Charm. ‘We’re not runnin’ a restaurant.’
Brenda shot Lucky a mean look as if to say – What the hell are you doing here? Obviously this was a fill-in job most of the other secretaries would have been only too delighted to do.
And so the meeting started.
Mickey had a mind like a machine gun, firing questions, talking fast. He wanted to know every detail of what was happening around the studio, and around the world – if it was anything to do with Panther.
Ford Werne adjusted his aviator shades and talked about a million-dollar script he thought they should buy.
Grant Wendell discussed his desire to sign Madonna or Cher to a multi-pic deal.
Zev Lorenzo boasted about ratings on two of his television shows, and claimed to be negotiating for the television rights to a Norman Mailer book. ‘We’ll do it as a long-form mini-series – similar to Irwin Shaw’s Rich Man, Poor Man.’
‘Too classy,’ Mickey interjected. ‘We need somethin’ with jiggle. An’ talkin’ of jiggle – we gotta develop a property for that seventeen-year-old ex-porn star who’s goin’ straight. She’s a natural.’
‘Natural what, Mickey?’ asked Buck Graham, with a barroom chuckle.
‘I saw her in Under Glass,’ Teddy Lauden chimed in, suddenly coming to life. ‘She was sixteen at the time. What a body!’
‘Never mind the body, can she act?’ asked Grant.
‘Who gives a shit?’ demanded Mickey. ‘She’s gonna make us a fuckin’ fortune. Fresh young snatch. It brings ’em into the box-office every time. Cooper’s givin’ her a coupla lines in his movie.’
Ah, to be in the company of real men, Lucky thought. What a delightful bunch.
* * *
Eddie cornered her after the meeting. He was a jumping time bomb. ‘Hey – hey – lady – you.’
‘The name is Luce.’
‘OK, Luce. Ya gotta do me a big one.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t keep on cancelling my goddamn appointments with Mickey. I havta see him – like today. Urgent biz.’
She noticed he had a twitch. It was fascinating.
‘I’m not cancelling your appointments, Mr. Kane. Mr. Stolli does so himself. I merely do as I’m told.’
Holy shit! She was beginning to sound like Olive!
‘Sure. So when he tells you to cancel the next one – just forget. An’ then, I’m there. Like in. Y’know what I’m sayin?’
‘Why would I do that, Mr. Kane?’
‘You’ll catch on. It’s the only way to operate with Mickey. He flakes on everyone. Olive’ll tell you. When’s she comin’ back?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I gotta see him today. Arrange it.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good girl.’
‘The name is Luce.’
‘I’d change it if I was you.’
Back in the office there was a stack of messages. Mickey Stolli was a popular man.
She flicked through his appointment book. It was full for a month. Olive’s neat script had jotted down every detail.
Knocking on the door to his office, she waited for him to call out his customary ‘Yeah’ and went in.
‘Mr. Kane would like to reschedule,’ she said, all business.
‘I can’t stand the sight of that bum,’ Mickey said.
‘When shall I reschedule it for? He says it’s urgent.’
‘Taking a dump is urgent. Eddie can wait.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t give me grief. Who’s on next?’
‘You have lunch with Frankie Lombardo and Arnie Blackwood, and then a three o’clock meeting at the Beverly Hills Hotel with Martin Swanson.’
‘Cancel lunch. I gotta go somewhere.’
‘May I ask where?’
‘No.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Stolli.’
* * *
Alerted by Lucky, Boogie was in place when Mickey Stolli left the studio. He followed him all the way to a modest West Hollywood apartment house, where he observed Mickey park his Porsche in an underground space reserved for Apartment 4.
Checking the listings on the front entrance. Boogie discovered Apartment 4 belonged to a Warner Franklin.
Did Mickey Stolli have an afternoon boyfriend?
Obviously.
Boogie called Lucky from the car and gave her the information.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘It certainly looks that way.’
‘Hang around. Maybe they’ll come out together.’
‘I doubt it. They’re not likely to be seen in public, are they?’
‘Who knows? Mickey’s hardly the smartest guy in the world.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘Nobody does it better.’
Spurred by Lucky’s praise, Boogie found out plenty. The mailman, an inquisitive neighbour, and a bored nine-year-old off school with the flu supplied the story.
The facts. Warner Franklin. Black. Female. A cop.
Boogie smelled graft.
Chapter 29
Martin Swanson had an army of lawyers. He called. They ran.
His lawyers had an army of top connections. They’d put the word out that Martin Swanson was interested in acquiring a controlling interest in a major studio, and all possibilities fell into position.
Martin had examined every option, reading confidential reports on United Artists, Columbia, Fox, et cetera, and finally coming to the conclusion that Orpheus and Panther were the two most viable propositions.
Orpheus was ripe for a takeover. Panther, still privately owned by the reclusive Abe Panther, was possibly available if the price was right, or so his lawyers had led him to believe.
‘If I want Panther, who do I talk to?’ Martin had asked.
Mickey Stolli, he was told.
Martin had his people run an immediate check on Mickey, and while he might be Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of Panther, he was certainly not in a position to sell without Abe Panther’s say-so.
Interesting – for Mickey had done an excellent job at Panther since taking over. The studio was turning a healthy profit.
Martin had been pursuing the idea of acquiring a large stake in a film studio long before Venus Maria entered his life.
Hollywood was the lure. Money was the merry-go-round. And the film business as a potential money-maker was irresistible.
Orpheus Studios was in trouble. Owned by a parent company whose main concern was making airplane parts, it had been consistently losing money for the past three years. With Zeppo White – the former agent – in charge, things had gotten worse.
Right now they had five movies in production. Four of them were already millions of dollars over budget, and had very little chance of showing a profit unless a miracle occurred.
Martin Swanson did not believe in miracles.
Orpheus could be bought. At a price.
Maybe Panther could, maybe not, but Martin was certain that Mickey Stolli was buyable. And if his purchase turned out to be Orpheus, why not bring Mickey over to run things? He certainly had the right track record.
Hence Martin’s planned meeting with Mickey. One way or the other they could do business.
* * *
Mickey had no idea what Martin Swanson wanted. He’d heard rumours that Martin was looking to gain control of a studio, but surely the guy was savvy enough to investigate? And if he did, he’d find out what everybody in town knew – that Mickey Stolli was just a paid employee, and could no more sell him Panther than take a flying dive in Macy’s window.
It pissed Mickey off. It pissed Mickey off enough to trigger a twice-a-year furious fight with Abigaile, who didn’t understand at all. She looked down at him like a mother who’d just caught her son jacking off over a naked picture of Hitler.
‘My grandfather has been very good to you,’ she usually said, or words to that effect. ‘And when he goes, we’ll get everything we deserve.’
‘Why do we have to wait?’ was Mickey’s argument. ‘How about the lawyers going in and declaring him senile?’
Abigaile would have none of it. She knew for a fact that her grandfather had constructed an extremely complicated and iron-clad will – and any messing with it was going to cause nothing but unwanted complications.
She also knew that Abe Panther, in spite of his age, was certainly not senile. He was as smart as Mickey any day, and Mickey should think himself more than fortunate that Abe had not returned to run the studio, but had allowed Mickey to do it his way.
Of course, there were financial restrictions put into place by Abe’s lawyers. These restrictions infuriated Mickey. They meant that his salary could not exceed one million dollars a year. It sounded a lot, but when some asshole actor could receive five or six million, plus gross points of a potential hit movie, it was hardly satisfactory.
Abigaile had her own trust fund of money inherited from her parents, but Mickey had to make do on a lousy million – and when tax was taken off…
It didn’t bear thinking about.
Mickey in fact thought about it quite a lot – though not usually when he was humping Warner. But today was hot, and there was a fly buzzing in her apartment, and she’d just informed him that she’d been promoted to Vice (that was a promotion?), and he was altogether not in the mood for their usual steamy sex session.
‘What seems to be the matter, lover?’ Warner asked.
He was on top of her at the time, exhibiting his lack of desire. It was hardly something he could hide.
‘There’s a fly in here,’ he said lamely.
Her voice rose in surprise. ‘A fly?’
‘Maybe a wasp.’ That sounded better.
Warner couldn’t help herself – after all, she’d grown up in a house where rats were an everyday occurrence. ‘Frightened it’s gonna sting you on the ass, Mickey?’ she teased, laughter in her voice.
That did it. No hiding the hot dog t
oday. Lurching off her, he reached for his pants.
‘Stop!’ said Warner. He continued to pull on his pants.
She sat up. ‘Stop! Or I’m gonna havta arrest and handcuff you.’
His cock, searching for a life of its own, sprang to attention.
Mickey dropped his pants. Warner reached for her handcuffs.
They were back in business.
* * *
The Polo Lounge was the perfect meeting place. At three o’clock in the afternoon, it was relatively quiet, fairly discreet, and pleasantly air-conditioned.
Martin Z. Swanson and Mickey Stolli had never met before, although they were certainly well aware of each other.
They shook hands in front of the dimly lit number one red leather booth.
‘We could’ve done this in my bungalow,’ Martin said.
‘Or at the studio,’ Mickey offered.
‘It’s better here,’ they both agreed.
Mickey Stolli felt fucked. Literally.
Martin wondered what time he’d be able to meet with Venus Maria. ‘Let’s talk business,’ he said.
‘Show business,’ Mickey corrected with a sly smile.
* * *
‘I want you to go,’ Venus Maria said in a not-to-be-argued-with voice. ‘I’ve rented you an apartment on Fountain Avenue. It has a swimming pool, television, and maid service. It’s furnished nicely. I’ll pay your rent for six months, and after that you’re on your own. I’m sure you’ll be able to manage.’
Her brother Emilio stared at her. They had the same eyes, big and brown and soulful. Apart from that they did not look at all alike.
‘Why?’ Emilio asked plaintively.
‘Because… because I need my privacy.’
‘We’re family,’ Emilio said, fixing her with a hurt expression, as if she’d let him down.
She was determined not to give in. ‘That’s why I’m paying your rent for six months.’
He sighed. A big sigh. A put-upon sigh. ‘I’ll go,’ he said reluctantly. As if he had a choice.
Venus Maria nodded. ‘Good.’
‘When I’m ready,’ Emilio added.
He was pushing her. It was infuriating. But she had a temper too and she refused to be pushed any further. ‘You go today,’ she said. ‘Within the hour. Or the deal is off and you can hustle your lazy ass on Santa Monica Boulevard for all I care.’