Lady Boss

  Lucky nodded. ‘Yes, I do understand,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sure it has been.’

  ‘You could say that,’ Ford Werne agreed, taking off his aviator shades and immediately putting them on again.

  ‘I am saying it, Mr. Werne.’

  He was clearly surprised she knew who he was, since he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself. ‘Where’s Mickey?’ he asked.

  ‘He won’t be joining us,’ Morton Sharkey said, from his position beside Lucky.

  Glancing around, she observed that Buck Graham and Eddie Kane were the only two still missing. ‘Will Mr. Graham and Mr. Kane be joining us?’

  Grant Wendell shrugged. ‘Ummm, I talked to Eddie this morning. He’s on his way in. And, uh, Buck had another meeting he’s trying to break out of.’

  Lucky was cool and in control. ‘Why don’t we give it ten minutes,’ she said pleasantly.

  ‘Suits me.’ Ford adjusted his expensive shades yet again and stood up. ‘I have a phone call to make. Will you excuse me?’

  ‘What a group!’ Lucky murmured to Morton.

  ‘They all want to keep their jobs,’ he answered in a low voice. ‘Unless a better offer comes along.’

  ‘I understand what goes on in this town very well,’ she replied. ‘It’s no different than any other business. Naturally, if there’s something better around the corner – go for it. If not, stand firm. The rules of the game.’

  ‘I hardly think any of them are thrilled to find themselves working for a woman.’

  ‘I guess not. After all, this is Hollywood, and women are not exactly power figures here. Ford is probably on the phone right now trying to get another job. Right?’

  Morton agreed. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  Buck Graham burst into the room, red in the face. Buck was Head of Marketing. His speciality was getting right down to the common denominator. Whatever the content of the film, Buck sold it with a strong dose of tits and ass. As far as he was concerned, America had a permanent hard-on.

  He’d used a body double on the poster for Susie Rush’s last movie – Susie’s face atop an outrageously overdeveloped body. She was furious, and threatened to sue unless the poster was immediately withdrawn. Buck had given in – reluctantly.

  Finally Eddie Kane came bouncing in, making the meeting complete.

  Eddie looked like he’d slept in his clothes. His growing beard was a serious mistake, and his eyes were blood-shot and more spacey than ever.

  ‘Where’s Mickey?’ were the first words out of his mouth.

  ‘Not here,’ Buck said, shaking his head.

  Eddie twitched. ‘Is he coming?’

  ‘Didja see the L.A. Times?’ Grant asked. ‘’Cause if you did, you know there’s no way he’ll be in today.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He got caught buyin’ pussy.’

  Before Eddie could get into it, Ford returned from his phone call and Lucky got straight down to business.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I’m sure you’ve all heard the news. My name is Lucky Santangelo and I’m the new owner of Panther Studios.’ She paused while a buzz went around the room. ‘I’m also new to the film industry. But I do know what I want. And that is to make good movies. Films Panther can be proud of. I’m interested in hearing what you feel hasn’t been accomplished here in the last few years.’ She paused again. At least they were listening. When she’d first taken over Stanislopoulos Shipping it had taken months to get the male executives’ attention. ‘Trust me when I say this, Panther’s been putting out garbage, and those days are over. I’m leading this studio on to great things.’ She stared at them, black eyes ablaze. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said forcefully, ‘you can bet on it.’

  Chapter 66

  Deena Swanson did not enjoy exercise. She was not some crazed Californian who thought an hour’s aerobics and two hours of Jane Fonda was exciting stuff. No, Deena hated exerting herself. However, the trend was to do it – and nobody had ever accused Deena of being behind the trends. So eventually, like all chic New Yorkers, she’d hired her own personal trainer who came to the house. His name was Sven, and fortunately he didn’t speak much English, which suited Deena fine because it was not conversation she was after.

  Sven certainly knew how to get the best out of her in fifteen minutes of pure torture. Three times a week she started her day with him. When he left she usually luxuriated in the tub for fifteen minutes before dressing to go to her office for an hour or so before lunch.

  Lunch was the most important part of Deena’s day. She dressed for lunch. She accessorized for lunch. She made sure her makeup, nails, and hair were always perfect. Deena knew maintenance was a woman’s best defence.

  Most of Deena’s women friends worked for their husbands. It was the new chic thing to do. They gave their opinions on style, fabrics, perfumes, cosmetics, and in return they were paid a fat director’s fee for their input. But all of them found time to lunch.

  Deena belonged to that exclusive group of rich New York women who wore only designer clothes, real jewellery, and fur coats if they were sure they weren’t going to get a can of paint thrown over them.

  Today, Deena was lunching at Le Cirque. Effie and she had a standing appointment for Mondays.

  Deena dressed carefully in a pale lime green Adolfo suit with Chanel shoes and bag. She then added Bulgari earrings and choker, plus a huge diamond ring Martin had presented her with last Christmas.

  Outside her apartment on Park Avenue, her car and driver waited to take her the few blocks to her office in the Swanson Building, a gleaming tower of modern architecture.

  She loved her office. Effie had decorated it in cool pastels to make it a tranquil haven away from home.

  Deena was proud of the fact that her fashion and perfume business was successful. When she’d embarked on it, she’d surrounded herself with the best executives money could buy. Martin had advised her. But that couldn’t change the fact that it was her name on the products the public bought. Deena Swanson. Her name sold.

  One of her secretaries greeted her with the news that Effie Webster had called and cancelled lunch.

  ‘Why?’ Dena asked, disappointed.

  The girl shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Mrs. Swanson.’

  ‘Get her on the phone for me,’ Deena said, quite put out. For as long as she could remember, Effie and she had always lunched on Mondays.

  ‘Mrs. Webster is not at her office,’ the secretary informed her.

  ‘Try her at home,’ Deena ordered.

  ‘I already did. An answering machine picks up,’ the girl said.

  Deena frowned. Was Effie sick?

  She sat behind her bleached-wood desk and counted ten perfect sharply pointed pencils in a lucite holder. The pristine legal-sized pad of white paper with Deena Swanson written in pink on the top awaited her attention. A silver-framed photograph of herself and Martin faced her. There was really nothing for Deena to do at the office: everything was taken care of.

  She called Martin in California. He was not at the hotel. Then she called another friend of hers, a sleek redhead who made exorbitantly priced belts and other fine accessories.

  ‘Lunch, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘Isn’t Monday your day with Effie?’ her friend replied.

  ‘She’s sick,’ Deena explained.

  ‘Ah, well, so I’m the substitute?’

  ‘If you like. Le Cirque at one o’clock?’

  ‘Why not?’ her friend said.

  It was arranged. Deena replaced the phone.

  ‘Send Mrs. Webster some flowers,’ she told her secretary. ‘A hundred dollars’ worth. Make sure it’s a beautiful arrangement.’

  * * *

  ‘I can’t wait to get out of here,’ Nona whispered. ‘My mother is in an absolute fury. I warned Paul.’

  Brigette wasn’t exactly delighted herself. She’d managed to stay out of the supermarket rags for quite some time, and now they’d sneaked a picture of he
r and Paul taken with a hidden camera. Not so bad, but above that picture there was Paul, practically kissing Mrs. Swanson. It was disgusting!

  Effie Webster had taken it personally. Her son photographed in what looked like a compromising position with her best friend. This just wasn’t on.

  She summoned Paul to the house immediately. ‘What’s this?’ she demanded, thrusting a copy of Truth and Fact at him.

  ‘Oh, that,’ he said casually, as if it didn’t matter. ‘I took Deena out to lunch, big deal.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like you’re lunching here,’ replied Effie furiously. ‘You’re all over her.’

  ‘So?’ Paul said. ‘What’s wrong with that? She’s a woman. I’m a man.’

  ‘You’re a child.’ Effie exclaimed. ‘And how dare you take one of my friends out! Deena is married.’

  ‘I told you, we were lunching – not fucking,’ Paul retorted sharply. ‘And may I remind you – I’m nearly twenty-four years old. I’m hardly a child.’

  Effie didn’t take this well. ‘Stop asking us for money and get out of here,’ she hissed. ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’

  Paul slouched from the room.

  Nona caught him by the front door. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t have to put up with her talking to me like I’m nothing. It’s not like I live here. There’s no way I have to answer to anyone.’

  ‘Stop asking for money and maybe she’ll leave you alone,’ Nona said, wise beyond her years.

  ‘Butt out. You’ve no idea what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh yes I do. You’re trying to score with her best friend. No wonder she’s pissed with you.’

  ‘I can do what I like.’

  ‘Do you want to see Brigette while you’re here?’

  ‘She’s a kid. Quit pushing her at me.’

  Brigette overheard. Her stomach knotted. Why had she ever set eyes on Nona’s stupid brother?

  Casually Nona tried to gloss over things. ‘Take no notice of Paul,’ she said airily when her brother had departed. ‘He’s a jerk. All men are. That should be our new credo. All men are pigs – don’t you agree?’

  Brigette couldn’t help laughing. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Let’s get the hell outta here,’ Nona decided. ‘Call Lennie and see if we can fly to Malibu tomorrow.’

  * * *

  Deena was sitting at her desk wondering what to do next, when her secretary informed her that Adam Bobo Grant was on the line.

  Deena was always delighted to hear from Adam Bobo Grant. Apart from being entertaining, gay, and independently rich, he was also one of the premier gossip columnists in New York.

  She grabbed the phone. ‘Bobo, darling! What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can call me Adam for a start – it’s so much more macho, don’t you think?’

  ‘But, darling,’ Deena protested, ‘everyone calls you Bobo.’

  ‘Not during business hours, Deena.’

  ‘Is this a business call?’

  ‘I need your confirmation on something.’

  ‘My confirmation about what, darling?’

  ‘About the story.’

  ‘What story?’

  Bobo paused for a moment, sucking on a silver Cartier pen. ‘You have seen it, haven’t you?’ he asked at last.

  Deena didn’t want to appear slow. She racked her brains going over all the items she’d read in the papers that morning. Nothing of great interest. ‘Clue me in, Bobo, um… Adam, and I’ll give you a quote.’

  On the other end of the line, Adam Bobo Grant came to the swift conclusion that Deena Swanson had no idea what he was talking about. The woman had not seen Truth and Fact. Nobody had dared show it to her.

  He made a quick decision. ‘Are you free for lunch, Deena?’

  Lunch with Adam Bobo Grant was considerably better than lunch with another woman. ‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact I am,’ Deena said, mentally cancelling her other date.

  ‘We’ll have an early lunch,’ he decided. ‘I’ll meet you there. Does half an hour suit you?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ she replied. ‘Shall I keep my table at Le Cirque?’

  ‘Unless you prefer Mortimers?’

  She considered where she wanted to be seen with Bobo, and decided Le Cirque was the most visible. ‘On a Monday? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then Le Cirque it is.’

  Deena was happy. She’d hear all the latest gossip. Everything he couldn’t write about because it was too outrageous and scandalous. The real dirt.

  She buzzed her secretary. ‘Cancel my other lunch,’ she said coolly. ‘I shall be lunching with Adam Bobo Grant today.’

  * * *

  As soon as Adam Bobo Grant put the phone down on Deena Swanson, he checked with one of his minions. ‘Did you manage to locate Martin Swanson?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘He’s in Los Angeles. Right now he’s in a meeting at Orpheus Studios. The rumour is there’s a takeover going on.’

  ‘And Venus Maria?’ asked Bobo.

  ‘I spoke to her publicist. She’s in rehearsal for the “Soft Seduction” video.’

  Adam Bobo Grant nodded knowingly. ‘Place calls to both of them. Leave my name and home phone number. Tell them I’d like them to call me back as soon as possible. And warn Mack in the news room to make space for me on the front page. If I judge people correctly, we’re going to have the exclusive on the Swanson–Venus Maria affair.’

  Chapter 67

  While Lucky Santangelo was presiding over a gathering of department heads at Panther Studios, Mickey Stolli was meeting with Carlo Bonnatti in a high-rise Century City penthouse.

  Mickey would have been only too delighted to see what the dumb broad had to say. What did Lucky Santangelo know about running a studio and making movies? Absolutely nothing.

  The morning announcement had taken him by surprise. He’d imagined Abe Panther was coming in to tell everybody he was returning to work. No way. The crafty old fart had sold the goddamn studio!

  Abigaile’s face! It was almost worth it to observe her stunned expression.

  When they’d left the meeting, Mickey had given her a brusque ‘Gotta go to another meeting.’

  ‘We have things to discuss,’ Ben had objected, pushing his long nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

  ‘Impossible,’ Mickey had replied with a certain amount of satisfaction.

  ‘Your resignation was premature,’ Ben said.

  ‘But satisfying,’ Mickey replied.

  Abigaile had glared at him. Not content with being arrested with a hooker, now he was walking away from the most important moment of their lives.

  ‘We must consult our lawyers immediately,’ she’d said grimly, turning to her brother-in-law for support. ‘Isn’t that right, Ben?’

  Ben and Primrose both agreed.

  Mickey had shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he’d said, not sorry at all.

  Abigaile had continued to glare at him.

  Ben had taken her arm. ‘I’m sure Mickey will catch up with us later,’ he’d said soothingly.

  Abigaile’s voice had reached a high, feverish pitch. ‘Later is not good enough,’ she’d cried. ‘Mickey, why are you doing this to me?’

  Abigaile Stolli – queen of the ‘me’ generation. Mickey didn’t care. He’d spent eighteen years worrying what Abby would think. Now it was over.

  Once he was rid of them he’d stopped by his office. No Olive. No Luce. Where was his stupid temporary secretary? He was in the mood to fire her before he did anything else.

  His office was strangely quiet. He picked up the phone to call Warner so he could tell her exactly what he thought of her. Then he changed his mind and banged it down.

  He’d had it with Warner. As far as he was concerned she’d never hear from him again.

  He’d already placed a call to his lawyer, who’d assured him they would find some way to get around him having to appear in court.

  Carlo Bonnatti had reached him at home and reques
ted his presence. Mickey didn’t usually jump, but he knew enough about the ways of the world to realize that if Carlo Bonnatti called, he’d better be there. Eddie Kane had really fucked up. Now it was up to Mickey to straighten things out. As usual.

  Driving over to Century City he’d arrived at a smart conclusion. Maybe the million dollars was Panther’s problem after all…

  Maybe it was Lucky Santangelo’s inheritance…

  He tried to reach Eddie on the car phone.

  A subdued Leslie told him he wasn’t there.

  For a moment Mickey was tempted to say, ‘Didn’t I see you at Madame Loretta’s?’ But then he thought better of it and hung up.

  Carlo Bonnatti greeted him with an oily smile and a limp handshake. He had a low, grating voice. A dangerous voice. ‘Mr. Stolli,’ he said slowly, ‘nice of you to come. It’s about time we talked. I don’t seem to be getting anywhere with your associate Mr. Kane, and it’s good that you and I are meeting like this.’

  Mickey decided the setting was exactly right. Flashy apartment, a couple of goons hanging around in the front hall. Where was the obligatory blonde?

  ‘You’re right, Mr. Bonnatti,’ he said smoothly. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I got a little problem,’ Carlo said, rubbing his fingers together. ‘You may have heard ’bout it. You run a big studio, maybe you don’t hear everything.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ asked Mickey, knowing perfectly well what it was.

  Carlo’s oily hair glistened. His permanent smile was snake-like. ‘Well, we entered into a business deal, no contracts, but a handshake is a handshake,’ he said in his low, dangerous voice. ‘I mostly dealt with your colleague Eddie Kane. We put our product in with your product. It was sent over to Europe an’ the money came through. This all went fluently for a time.’ He paused.

  Mickey stared at him. Carlo was wearing a dark blue suit, black silk shirt, and white tie. The hood look. You could spot New Yorkers a mile away. They always overdressed in California.

  ‘So…’ Carlo continued, ‘the money flowed good for a while, and then the amounts comin’ to us got smaller and smaller, and I knew somethin’ wasn’t right.’ He threw his arms up in a gesture of surrender. ‘But what am I gonna do? Panther’s a big outfit – so I trusted you.’