‘Puttana!’ he muttered.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘What?’
‘Do I get a car?’
She decided to ignore his insult. ‘You can borrow the station wagon,’ she said wearily.
Emilio scowled. Why should he drive a lowly station wagon while his sister sat in limos and Porsches? It wasn’t the way things should be, but it looked like it was inevitable. Venus Maria meant business.
He slouched off to pack his belongings.
Venus Maria experienced a frisson of triumph, small but satisfying. She sent her housekeeper out to buy fresh flowers, and then hurried to her huge walk-in closet and tried to decide on the perfect outfit.
Martin liked her in white, he’d told her so. She preferred black. It was more sophisticated and raunchy. It made her feel sexy.
How about white on the outside and black against her flesh?
How about nothing against her flesh?
Martin was not the greatest lover in the world. He was inhibited, fast, not into any real sensual pleasure.
She was teaching him.
Slowly…
Very, very slowly…
Venus Maria was twenty-five, and she’d had four lovers – Martin being the fourth. The press would have a field day if they ever found out she’d only had four men. After all, she was a liberated woman – a high priestess of the sexual come-on. Everything she did radiated pure sex, from her videos to her acting performances. She touched herself in secret places publicly. And even with AIDS casting its giant shadow, she should have experienced more than four men.
Lover number one: Manuel. A killer in the sack. Black hair, black eyes, dark olive skin. A cock to die for, and a dancer’s flair for exquisite movement.
She met him a week after arriving in L.A. and he took her virginity with a sticky, hard passion she found breathtaking.
For three months they made love every day, and then he left her for a California beach bunny.
When she became famous he tried to insinuate himself back into her world.
Forget it.
Lover number two: Ryan. A sensualist. Rumpled blond hair, puppy-dog eyes, sun-kissed skin. A cock to die for, and the best ass she’d ever seen.
He accompanied her on the ride, and got off when he fell in love with the bearded manager of an English rock group.
They’d remained friends.
Lover number three: Innes. A killer in the sack and a sensualist. What a lethal combination.
They stayed together nearly a year until her career became more than a threat.
Manuel, Ryan, and Innes were all in their twenties.
Martin was forty-five. He could have been their father. He could have been her father.
She loved him.
She didn’t know why.
Choosing a virginal white dress, all layers and lace, she paired it with a short, tight brocade jacket, seventeen silver bracelets, dangling earrings – not a matched pair – and skating boots without the blades. Then she called Martin at his hotel and left a message. The Whacko family will be at home after six.
* * *
When Mickey entered his house he was buzzing.
Thirteen-year-old Tabitha greeted him with a sulky glare. ‘Mommy says I can’t go to Vegas with Lulu and her dad. I wanna go. Why can’t I go?’
Tabitha had straight brown hair, a just developing figure, and frightening braces on her teeth. She was hardly going to be jumped on by every guy in sight.
‘If your mother says so—’ he began.
‘I wanna go, Daddy,’ Tabitha wailed. ‘You talk to her. You fix it. You’re so smart you can fix anything!’
Had she been taking lessons from Warner?
‘I’ll try,’ he promised, without much enthusiasm.
Tabitha threw her arms around him, gnarling his cheek with her braces.
As if sensing collusion, Abigaile appeared in the front hallway. ‘Were you meeting with Martin Swanson in the Polo Lounge today?’ she asked peevishly, ignoring her daughter, who was busy signalling to Mickey behind her mother’s back, urging him to say something.
Was nothing secret? The Beverly Hills bush telegraph worked like lightning, or maybe the new girl (what was her name? Lucy, Luce – something stupid) had too big a mouth. Olive was smart enough to be aware that if he wanted Abigaile to know anything, he’d tell her himself.
‘Who told you that?’ he asked, automatically on the defensive.
‘Daddy!’ complained Tabitha, panting for action.
‘Does it matter who told me?’ bristled Abigaile. ‘What matters is that you never let me know you were seeing Martin Swanson. I would have liked to have had a dinner party for the Swansons.’
Ah, another cosy little dinner for fifty.
‘Why? You don’t even know them.’
‘I most certainly do,’ Abigaile countered indignantly. ‘I’ve met Deena on more than one occasion.’
‘She’s not with him.’
‘Vegas, Daddy!’ interjected Tabitha, hopping anxiously up and down.
‘Uh… why can’t Tabitha go to Vegas?’
Abigaile withered him with a look. She was good at reducing grown men to ashes. Raising an imperious eyebrow she said, ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, I’m serious. She wants to go with her friend Lulu and her father. That sounds all right to me.’
‘Are you aware who Lulu’s father is?’
‘Uh… he’s a singer, right?’
‘He’s a rock singer.’ Abigaile spat the words out. ‘And not a very famous one at that – unless you count his time spent in AA and drug rehab. My daughter is not going anywhere with that family.’
My daughter. It was always my this and my that. Sometimes Mickey thought Abigaile went out of her way to prove he didn’t exist.
He was still buzzing, but now he decided to keep the buzz to himself.
Screw Abby. If things went the way he hoped they’d go, she’d find out soon enough.
Chapter 30
Olive Watson broke her leg. As far as Lucky was concerned it was great news. She felt guilty about being so pleased, although she commiserated with Olive over the phone.
Mickey did not take it well. He summoned Lucky into his office, screaming and yelling as if it was her fault.
‘We’ll manage, Mr. Stolli,’ she said calmly, the perfect secretary.
‘You’ll manage,’ he screamed. ‘My life is a fuck-up!’
It certainly is, she replied silently.
Eddie Kane arrived for his newly scheduled appointment. Mickey had attempted to cancel it, but Lucky told him she hadn’t been able to reach Mr. Kane.
Eddie looked like a good night’s sleep might be a fine idea. He winked at Lucky, whispered, ‘You’re a good girl,’ patted her on the ass, and entered Mickey Stolli’s lair.
Sitting outside, Lucky pressed the office intercom so that she could listen in.
‘What’s going on, Eddie? I warned you if we went into this I wasn’t to be bothered.’ Mickey sounded weary.
‘Yeah,’ Eddie said. ‘Only I didn’t reckon on a coupla bent-nose fuckheads breathin’ down my pants for a bigger piece of the action.’
‘Whaddya mean?’
‘It’s simple. We take their porno product, bury it all the way outta the country with the legit Panther stuff, split the proceeds, an’ there ya go – they’ve got clean money. We’ve got us a nice healthy score with no problems.’
‘So?’
‘So they’re claimin’ we ain’t splittin’ fair.’
‘And are we?’ Mickey’s tone was ominous.
The lie was in Eddie’s voice, plain to hear. ‘Would I try t’fuck the big boys?’
‘You’d try to fuck a skunk if it pissed in the right direction.’
Lucky heard someone approaching. She slammed off the intercom, hastily picking up a pile of letters.
‘Workin’ hard, doll?’
It was the Sleazy Singles themselves. If they were a singing group Eddie Kane would have mad
e a perfect third partner.
‘Mr. Lombardo. Mr. Blackwood,’ she said primly, emulating Olive. ‘Can I help you?’
Arnie leaned across her desk, and before she could stop him he flicked off her thick glasses. ‘Ya got nice eyes, babe. Get yourself contacts.’
She attempted to grab her glasses. He waved them at her, keeping them just out of reach.
‘Mr. Blackwood, I can’t see,’ she said sternly.
‘I get off on babes who can’t see,’ leered Frankie.
‘Yeah, all the better not to notice your one-and-a-half-inch dick!’ said Arnie.
This remark broke them both up. Lucky took the opportunity to snatch her glasses and put them back on. What a couple of major jerks!
‘What’s he doin’?’ asked Frankie, gesturing towards Mickey’s office.
‘Mr. Stolli is in a meeting with Mr. Kane.’
‘Then I guess he’s ready for the light-relief brigade,’ Arnie said with a hearty chuckle.
‘You can’t—’
Before she could finish they were on their way into Mickey’s office.
She quickly buzzed Mickey. ‘Mr. Stolli. I’m sorry, they just barged past me. I—’
Mickey’s familiar ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Order up coffee.’
‘And banana cake,’ yelled Frankie in the background.
All the better to enlarge your fat ass, Lucky thought.
The boys are having a meeting.
Let them eat cake.
* * *
Acapulco sunshine could be boring. Every day the same thing – blue skies, blazing sun, and a picture-postcard setting.
Two friends of Lennie’s arrived to stay for a few days – Jess and Matt Traynor. Jess was Lennie’s oldest friend: they’d grown up together in Las Vegas, attended the same high school, and remained close ever since.
At only five feet tall and very pretty, Jess was a super-charged package. She had wide eyes, a mop of orange hair, freckles, and a great body.
Matt, her second husband (the first was a drugged-out bum who’d run out on her), was, at sixty-something, almost thirty years older. He didn’t look it with his close-cropped silver hair and well-dressed, foxy appearance.
Lennie was happy to have visitors. How many nights could he spend with Joey Firello? Joey’s continual pursuit of the female form was exhausting.
Nights spent alone were not much fun either, and he had no intention of socializing with Grudge, Marisa, or Ned – the fun trio as he’d christened them.
Jess and Matt were a welcome relief. They arrived armed with photos of their sixteen-month-old twins – a boy and a girl.
‘Your godchildren,’ Jess told Lennie proudly. ‘When are you going to have a few of your own?’
Trust Jess to come right out with it. She sounded like Gino, who was always dropping not-so-subtle hints.
‘When Lucky decides to fit me in between deals,’ he said wryly.
‘What does that mean?’
‘She’s busy.’
‘Ah, that’s what happens when you marry a working woman.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Jess had stopped work several months before her twins were born. She’d once been Lennie’s personal manager. In fact, it was Jess who’d been responsible for getting his career off the ground in the first place. He owed her plenty. They’d certainly come a long way together.
‘I miss you, monkey face,’ he said dejectedly.
‘Don’t call me that!’ she shrieked, hating her pet name from their school days.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you know I hate it.’
‘But it suits you.’
‘Get fucked.’
‘I wish I could!’
‘Very funny.’
He flopped into a chair and stared at her. ‘Well, are you coming back to work with me or what? If you were still my manager I wouldn’t be stuck in this piece-of-shit movie.’
‘When Matt divorces me,’ Jess replied matter-of-factly.
‘When will that be?’
She grinned. ‘Never! I’m a very happy person!’
‘Nice to know somebody is,’ he said ruefully.
Jess sat on the arm of his chair. ‘I may be slow, but do I detect a note of dissatisfaction here?’
He mugged for her. ‘Are you kidding? Why would I be dissatisfied? I’m making a movie I hate. I’m stuck in Mexico. And my wife is probably shacked up with Mr. Japan so she can add another million or four to her bank account. Things couldn’t be better, Jess. Tell me about your life.’
Jess ruffled the back of his hair. ‘Oooh, baby, baby. You want me to talk to Lucky?’
‘If you can find her.’
‘Give me her number.’
He sounded disgusted. ‘If I had it, I would.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Who the fuck knows?’
Jess didn’t question further. With Lennie you could only push so far.
Later she said to Matt, ‘A marriage counsellor I’m not, but I have a feeling I should give this one a whirl. Lennie’s about ready to blow.’
‘Don’t interfere,’ warned Matt.
What did he know?
* * *
Mickey spent the week on the run, expecting Lucky to keep up with him at all times. He dodged from meeting to screening, and in between he stopped for another shower or fresh juice or a screaming fit about something or other.
Occasionally he had Lucky accompany him to the dailies on what he called his bread and soup movies, instructing her to take notes of everything he said while sitting in the darkened screening room. His comments ran from ‘Nice tits’ to ‘Fat ass’ to ‘She’s too old’ to ‘Get a close-up on her face when he sticks her with the knife.’
He rarely had anything to say about the male actors, who all managed to stay fully dressed in spite of the gore and sex all around them.
Lucky discovered the Hollywood difference between hardcore pornography and so-called soft. In hard-core the men took their clothes off too. In soft – as far as the women were concerned – anything seemed to go. They were forever stripping off their clothes, simulating orgasm, or getting their throats slit. Real classy stuff, with plenty of rape thrown in for good measure.
It was a sorry situation, and one that Lucky had no intention of allowing to continue once she took control.
The three cheapo movies currently in production were all produced by the exciting team of Blackwood and Lombardo. It figures, Lucky thought grimly.
On perusing the books, to which she had free access now she was ensconced in Mickey’s quarters, she found out that the cheapo movies were the biggest money-makers Panther had. Mostly abroad, where they scored on every level – theatres, cable, home video, and pay-as-you-view TV.
The cheapos kept Panther in the black.
The big movies with the star names sometimes made money too – but only sometimes.
Any idiot knew the film business was a gamble. Sometimes you scored, and sometimes you crapped out. With his cheapos, Mickey had loaded the dice in his favour.
Lucky decided she had an interesting challenge ahead of her: how to make movies without exploiting women.
Hmmm… Maybe she’d exploit men for a change… Not such a bad idea.
By the time she got home at night she was wiped out. Boogie was waiting for her with a strong drink. She ordered pizza or Chinese, made a few notes, and immediately fell asleep.
She’d called Lennie twice. His reception got cooler and cooler. Finally he informed her in an exasperated tone that he didn’t care to hear from her unless she told him exactly where she was.
Fine. If that’s the way he wanted it.
When he found out the truth he was going to be very sorry indeed.
* * *
Grudge Freeport’s idea of doing something nice and making everyone happy was not to fart in public. Apart from that little concession to human dignity he kept right on going.
Lennie took another week of it. He had Jess and Ma
tt around to keep him calm. When they left, he blew.
‘You know something, Grudge? You’re an ass-licking, no-talent, drunken slob – and I’m out of here.’ He yelled this one day after Grudge had screwed up yet another scene.
Grudge took it like a true old-timer. ‘Fuck off,’ he said grandly. ‘All actors never should have left their mother’s tit!’
Lennie didn’t think about the consequences. He packed and flew back to L.A., spent two days alone at the Malibu house, and then took off for New York.
He did not go to the apartment he and Lucky shared. He vanished. She knew this because Mickey Stolli threw a fit searching for him.
‘I’ll sue the fucking son of a bitch for everything he’s got. Everything! He’s not getting away with this. I’ve got a crew and actors sitting in Acapulco slapping their dicks! It’s costing this studio dearly, and that dumb cocksucker’s gonna pay. Oh, is he gonna pay!’
Lucky was assigned the awkward task of tracking Lennie Golden down. She perfected a new voice and duly called his current agent and manager. Through secretaries she learned that nobody knew where he was.
‘How about his wife?’ Mickey screamed. ‘Isn’t he married to some rich broad with a gangster father?’
So that’s what it got down to. Some rich broad with a gangster father.
Not Lucky Santangelo, businesswoman supreme.
Not Lucky Santangelo, wife and mother.
Some rich broad with a gangster father. Charming!
‘I don’t know, Mr. Stolli,’ she said, attempting to remain cool.
‘Find out an’ tell ’em we’re gonna sue.’
Later in the day, Lucky took great pleasure in informing Mickey that she had indeed reached Lennie Golden’s wife.
‘And?’ Mickey demanded.
‘I can’t repeat what she said, Mr. Stolli.’
‘What’d she say?’
‘Uh… she said… uh…’
‘Spit it out, for chrissake.’
‘She said to tell you you’re a pathetic asshole with cotton-wool balls and a black heart.’
Mickey was outraged. ‘Are you shittin’ me?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Stolli.’
Mickey made a solemn vow. ‘As long as I’m here,’ he said, ‘Lennie Golden’ll never work for this friggin’ studio again.’
‘Quite right,’ Lucky agreed sympathetically.