Lady Boss

  There was a crisp breeze as he stopped at his usual newsstand and schmoozed for a moment with Mick, the dour Welshman with one glass eye and a bad set of yellowing false teeth. Mick ran his little kingdom with unfailing gloom and bad humour.

  ‘What’s goin’ on in the neighbourhood?’ Gino asked casually, pulling up the collar of his windbreaker.

  ‘Hookers an’ cab drivers. They should bloody shoot the lot of ’em,’ Mick replied, a malevolent gleam in his one good eye. ‘A couple of ’em bastards nearly got me t’other day. It’s a good thing I got me wits about me – I paid ’em back good.’

  Gino knew better than to question further – Mick was given to telling long imaginative stories. Throwing down change, he picked up a New York Post and hurried on his way.

  The headlines were lurid. Mob boss Vincenzio Strobbinno gunned down outside his own home. There was a picture of Vincenzio face down in a pool of his own blood.

  The jerk had it coming, Gino thought with hardly a flicker of surprise. Young Turks. Hotheads. The assholes never waited to see if they could work things out, they just blew each other away as if that was the answer to everything. Today Vincenzio – tomorrow another one. The violence now was relentless.

  Gino was relieved he was out of it. Many years ago he would have been right in the middle, loving every minute.

  Not now. Now he was an old man. A rich old man. A powerful old man. He could afford to say nothing – merely observe.

  Gino did not look seventy-nine years old. He was amazing – easily able to pass for a man in his mid-sixties, with his energetic gait, thick mop of grey hair, and penetrating black eyes. His doctors were constantly surprised at his energy and enthusiasm for life, not to mention his remarkable physical appearance.

  ‘What about this AIDS problem I keep hearin’ about?’ he’d recently asked his personal physician.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about that, Gino,’ his doctor had replied with a hearty laugh.

  ‘Yeah? Says who?’

  ‘Well…’ The doctor had cleared his throat. ‘You’re not still… active… are you?’

  ‘Active?’ Gino had roared with laughter. ‘Are you shittin’ me, doc? The day I can’t get it up is the day I lie down an’ die. Capisce?’

  ‘What’s your secret?’ the doctor had asked enviously. He was fifty-six and a tired man. He was also full of admiration for his feisty patient.

  ‘Don’t take no crap from no one.’ Gino grinned, most of his strong white teeth still intact. ‘Hey – ’scuse me, doc – correct that. Do not suffer fools. I read that somewhere. Sounds more like it, huh?’

  Gino Santangelo had obviously led a fascinating life full of adventure. The doctor thought gloomily of his own five years in medical school, followed by over twenty years of private practice. The only adventure he’d experienced was when one of his patients fell in lust with him and they’d enjoyed a furtive six-week affair. Not much to get excited about.

  ‘Your blood pressure is perfect,’ he’d assured Gino. ‘The cholesterol test turned out fine. Uh… about your sex life. Maybe you might consider investing in some condoms.’

  ‘Condoms, doc?’ Gino began to laugh. ‘We used to call ’em rubber joy-killers. Y’know – like takin’ a swim in your boots.’

  ‘They’re much improved today. Thin latex, a smooth feel. You can even get them in different colours if you’re so inclined.’

  ‘No kiddin’?’ Gino had laughed again. He could just imagine Paige’s face if he slipped a black johnny over his cock.

  Oh boy, not such a bad idea – Paige loved variety. Maybe he’d try it. Maybe…

  * * *

  The airport was a mob scene as usual. Lucky was met by an efficient young man in a three-piece business suit who escorted her from her car to the private TWA lounge.

  ‘Your flight’s running fifteen minutes late, Ms. Santangelo,’ he said apologetically, as if he were personally responsible. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Automatically she glanced at her watch. It was past noon. ‘I’ll have a J & B on the rocks,’ she decided.

  ‘Coming right up, Ms. Santangelo.’

  Leaning back, she closed her eyes. Another lightning trip to L.A. she couldn’t tell Lennie about. Only this time she hoped to close the deal that would make her husband a free man again.

  This journey west was the final clincher.

  Chapter 3

  Abedon Panercrimski – or as he’d been known to a world that had all but forgotten him, Abe Panther – was eighty-eight years old and looked it, even though he didn’t act it. Abe still had his balls, although many – including two ex-wives and countless lovers – had tried to cut them off.

  Abe rose every morning promptly at six. First he showered, then he put in his new set of brilliant white teeth, combed his few remaining strands of silver hair, swam the length of his pool ten times, and feasted on a hearty breakfast of steak, eggs, and three cups of bitter black Turkish coffee.

  Next he lit up a formidable Havana cigar and proceeded to read the daily newspapers.

  Abe loved reading anything. He devoured the Wall Street Journal and the English Financial Times. With equal enthusiasm he scanned the gossip rags, enjoyed every juicy item. It pleased him to have knowledge, however useless. From world affairs to idle chitchat, he absorbed it all.

  After his marathon reading session it was time for Inga Irving, his long-time companion, to join him on the terrace of his Miller Drive home.

  Inga was a big-boned, straight-backed Swedish woman in her early fifties. She never used makeup and had allowed her shoulder-length club-cut hair to grey naturally. Inga always wore loose-fitting slacks and a shapeless sweater. In spite of her lack of decoration she was still a striking-looking woman who had obviously once been a great beauty.

  Long ago, when Abe was the Hollywood tycoon to beat all Hollywood tycoons – including Messrs. Goldwyn, Mayer, Zanuck, and Cohn – he’d attempted to make Inga into a star. He had not succeeded. The camera didn’t like Inga Irving, the public didn’t like Inga Irving, and after several tries in three big Panther Studios productions Abe had finally given up. Every contract producer, director, and leading man on the lot had breathed freely again. Inga Irving was not destined to be the new Greta Garbo, in spite of Abe’s valiant efforts.

  When she so desired, Inga could be a prize bitch, moody, rude, and insulting. Those qualities might have been acceptable if she’d possessed talent and star potential. Alas, she didn’t. And during her rise to nowhere she’d made many enemies.

  Inga had never forgiven Abe for not persevering on her career. She’d stayed with him anyway: being the companion of the once great Abe Panther was better than anything else she could think of.

  When his last divorce had taken place he didn’t marry her. Inga refused to blackmail or beg. She was a proud woman. Besides, as far as she was concerned, she was his common-law wife, and when Abe died she had every intention of claiming what was rightfully and legally hers.

  Every day around noon, Abe partook of a light snack. He favoured oysters when they were in season, accompanied by a glass of dry white wine. After lunch he had a nap, awaking refreshed after an hour to watch two of his favourite soaps on television, followed by a solid dose of Phil Donahue.

  Abe Panther never left his house. He hadn’t done so for ten years – ever since his stroke.

  Six weeks in the hospital and he allowed them to wrest the studio from his grasp. Although technically he never lost control – and was indeed still President and owner of Panther Studios – he had not had any inclination to return. Making movies wasn’t the same as it once was. Abe had been in the picture business since he was eighteen, and at seventy-eight he’d decided taking a break was no big deal.

  The break had lasted ten years, and nobody expected him to return.

  What they did expect, Abe realized, was for him to drop dead and leave everything to them.

  His living relatives consisted of two granddaughters – Abigaile and Primr
ose – and their offspring.

  Abigaile and Primrose were as unalike as two sisters could be. They couldn’t stand each other. Sisterly love and affection failed to exist between them.

  Abigaile was pushy and grasping. She loved entertaining and big parties. She lived for shopping and glitzy social events. A true Hollywood princess.

  Primrose – the younger and prettier of the two – had opted for a different kind of life in England, where she was able to raise her two children in what she considered a more real atmosphere.

  And then there were his granddaughters’ husbands. Abigaile’s husband, Mickey Stolli, ran the studio, while Primrose’s spouse, Ben Harrison, took care of Panther Studios’ overseas operation.

  Mickey and Ben also loathed each other. For the sake of business they had formed an uneasy truce. It helped that they lived on different sides of the Atlantic.

  Abe had christened them the scum-in-laws. He considered them both cheating connivers who would steal everything they could.

  It amused him to discuss the scum-in-laws with Inga. She hardly ever cracked a smile, although she was certainly an avid listener, missing no detail of what he imagined were the scum-in-laws’ latest nefarious activities.

  Abe had a loyal employee firmly ensconced on the studio lot. This was Herman Stone, an unassuming man with the useless title of Personal Assistant to Mr. Panther. Herman visited Abe once a month and gave him a rundown of studio activities. Everyone knew he was Abe’s spy, therefore he was left alone and was never privy to any important information. He had a comfortable office, and an elderly secretary, Sheila. Herman and Sheila were both relics of Abe Panther’s reign, perfectly harmless and absolutely unfirable until the day Abe Panther dropped dead.

  Soon, Mickey Stolli hoped. For then he would have complete control and could set about getting rid of his brother-in-law, Ben Harrison.

  Soon, Ben Harrison hoped. For then he was going to move back to Hollywood and grab the studio from his conniving brother-in-law’s grasp.

  When Abe Panther dropped, Abigaile Stolli and Primrose Harrison knew they were destined to become two of the most powerful women in Hollywood. Abe had never gone public with Panther Studios. He owned it – all one hundred and twenty glorious acres of prime land. So the girls would inherit everything.

  Mickey Stolli planned to rule his inherited kingdom like the studio heads of the old days.

  Ben Harrison planned to sell off parcels of the valuable land just as Twentieth Century Fox had done, and become a multi-billionaire.

  The scum-in-laws. They couldn’t wait, and old Abe Panther knew it.

  That’s why he had other ideas. Ideas that if Abigaile and Mickey, Primrose and Ben knew about, they would have committed hara-kiri in the middle of Chasens on a Sunday night.

  Abe planned to sell his studio.

  And the buyer he had in mind was Lucky Santangelo.

  Chapter 4

  In New York Steven Berkeley kissed Mary-Lou, patted her lovingly on the stomach, and headed for the door, pausing only to ask, ‘Are we in or out tonight?’

  ‘Out,’ she replied.

  Steven groaned. ‘Why?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘’Cause when that baby starts to bulge, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, man.’

  They both laughed. Mary-Lou was a glowingly pretty black woman, a few months away from her twenty-third birthday, and two and a half months away from giving birth to their first child. They’d been married nearly three years.

  Steven Berkeley had skin the colour of rich milk chocolate, black curly hair, and unfathomable green eyes. Six feet three inches tall, and forty-seven years of age, he kept himself in great shape – visiting the gym three times a week, and swimming at an indoor pool every other day.

  Mary-Lou was the star of a popular television sitcom, and Steven was a highly successful defence attorney. They’d met when her managers had approached his firm to represent her while she sued a low-life magazine for publishing nude photos of her taken when she was sixteen. Steven had accepted the case, won her an award of sixteen million dollars – since appealed and reduced – and married the girl. In spite of a twenty-four-year age difference, both of them had never been happier.

  ‘And what kind of incredibly exciting evening do you have planned for us tonight?’ he asked sarcastically.

  Mary-Lou grinned. Whatever it was, she knew Steven would sooner stay home. He loved to cook, watch television, and make love – not necessarily in that order.

  ‘We were supposed to see Lucky,’ she said. ‘But her secretary phoned to say she had to go out of town. So… I called my mother and asked her to join us.’

  ‘Your mother!’

  Mary-Lou shook her head in exasperation. ‘You looove my mother. Quit giving me a hard time.’

  ‘Sure I looove your mother,’ he mimicked, ‘only I looove my wife even better. Why can’t we spend a quiet evening at home, just you and me?’

  Mary-Lou stuck out her tongue and wiggled it at him. ‘That’s all you ever want to do.’

  ‘Anything wrong with that?’

  ‘Get outta here, Steven. Go to work. You’re such a nag.’

  ‘Who, me?’

  ‘Goodbye, Steven.’

  He continued to defend himself. ‘Is it a criminal offence to want to be alone with my wife?’

  ‘Out!’ Mary-Lou said firmly.

  ‘One kiss and I’m history,’ he promised.

  ‘One kiss only,’ she said sternly.

  One kiss turned into two, then three, and before either of them could help it they were back in the bedroom pulling off each other’s clothes and falling breathlessly on the bed.

  Making love to Mary-Lou was a sweet wild ride of mutual passion. Steven tried to be gentle with her, he was frightened of hurting the baby. Mary-Lou didn’t seem to care, she was full of exuberant love, pulling him close, wrapping her legs around his waist, rocking and rolling until she climaxed with a series of little screams.

  By the time they were finished he was ready for another shower and late for an appointment.

  ‘Not my fault,’ Mary-Lou said primly as he raced from the house.

  ‘Not your fault!’ he yelled, running for his car. ‘Face it! You’re an uncontrollable sex machine! How am I ever expected to get any work done?’

  ‘Will you shut up!’ Mary-Lou hissed, standing at the door wrapped in a silk kimono, her pretty face alive with pleasure. ‘People will hear you!’

  At the office, Jerry Myerson, his closest friend and partner in the law firm of Myerson, Laker, Brandon, and Berkeley, waited impatiently in the reception area. ‘You’re late,’ Jerry reprimanded him sharply, tapping his watch as if he were anticipating an argument.

  ‘I know,’ Steve replied, straight-faced. ‘Had to make love to my wife.’

  ‘Very funny,’ Jerry snorted. He was a forty-eight-year-old playboy bachelor with the unshakable belief that once you got married your hard-on shrivelled up and died forever. ‘Let’s go,’ he said impatiently.

  It wasn’t often that Jerry Myerson and Steven Berkeley made house calls, though sometimes there were exceptions. The client they were on their way to see was an extremely rich woman called Deena Swanson. Deena was married to billionaire Martin Z. Swanson, President and owner of Swanson Industries – an all-powerful organization that owned major New York real estate, hotels, cosmetic companies, and publishing firms.

  Martin Z. Swanson was Mister New York, a charismatic man of forty-five with unlimited power and an insatiable thirst for even more. Deena had parlayed her position as his wife into one of importance. Early on she had hired a press agent to make sure she was known as much more than just the wife. From social butterfly and fashion plate, she had risen to fame, lending her name to everything from perfume to her own line of designer jeans. She figureheaded Swanson Style, one of her husband’s many companies. For five million bucks a year Deena made sure the name Swanson was always in the columns.

  The Swansons had been married ten years. They suit
ed each other. Deena’s appetite for even more fame, money, and power was just as voracious as her husband’s.

  When Deena Swanson had called and requested their presence, Jerry was delighted. The firm had been representing her for several months on minor matters, but Jerry figured being summoned to her home meant things were definitely looking up: maybe they were going to get her husband’s account. He liked that idea a lot.

  ‘Why do I have to come along?’ Steven grumbled as they sat in the back of Jerry’s chauffeured town car on their way to Deena’s Park Avenue apartment, one of the Swansons’ three permanent residences.

  ‘Because we don’t know what she wants,’ Jerry replied patiently. ‘It could be simple. Maybe it’s complicated. Two minds are better than one.’ A pause, and then a sly, ‘Besides, the rumour is she likes her coffee black.’

  Steven narrowed his eyes. ‘What?’ he said sharply.

  Jerry was unperturbed. ‘You heard.’

  Shaking his head, Steven said, ‘You’re an asshole, Jerry. Sometimes I don’t think you ever took it out of college.’

  ‘Took what out of college?’ Jerry inquired innocently.

  ‘Your fucking brains.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The car stopped at a red light. Jerry studied two girls crossing the street. One, a bouncy redhead, really got his attention. ‘Do you think she sucks c—’

  ‘Don’t even say it,’ interrupted Steven grimly. ‘Y’know, Jerry, you should get married and stop behaving like a dirty old lawyer.’

  ‘Married?’ Jerry’s voice filled with undisguised horror. ‘What makes you think I’d ever be that stupid?’

  Every so often Steven wondered how their friendship had endured since college… They were so different, and yet he couldn’t imagine a more loyal and supportive friend than Jerry Myerson. Jerry had seen him through so much – including a disastrous marriage to a wild Puerto Rican dancer named Zizi, his many years as a crusading assistant D.A., and finally the long years painstakingly trying to find out the identity of his father. When he’d finally discovered his father was the infamous Gino Santangelo, Jerry had congratulated him.