Lady Boss

  His tone was bleak. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Lucky,’ he exclaimed vehemently, ‘you promised me Acapulco.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ she lied.

  ‘When?’ he asked accusingly.

  ‘As soon as I can.’

  Angrily he sat up. ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’

  ‘I’m not exactly thrilled myself. But the Japanese are very particular when it comes to deal-making.’ She reached for a cigarette. ‘Oh, sure, I could send one of the heads of the company – but it’s me they want. Something to do with honour. The owner of their company will only deal with the owner of our company – and until Bobby and Brigette reach a legal age, that’s me. This is an enormous deal we’ve all been working on for over a year. I can’t risk blowing it.’

  Fortunately Lennie knew nothing about what went on at Stanislopoulos Shipping – he’d never shown any interest, and she’d never volunteered information. Her story sounded plausible.

  ‘Shit!’ he grumbled. ‘Why did I have to marry a business tycoon? I never fucking see you.’ He leaped off the bed and stalked into the bathroom.

  ‘Because I excite the hell out of you,’ she yelled after him. ‘And with anyone else you’d be bored. C’mon Lennie, admit it.’

  The sound of the shower drowned her out. God damn it, he wasn’t taking this well.

  Stubbing out her cigarette, she followed him into the bathroom and into the shower, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind.

  ‘Quit,’ he said sternly, attempting to shake her off.

  ‘Don’t be a pain in the ass,’ she replied, hanging on. ‘This is only a delay. I’ll be there. After all, it’s not like you’re going to be a free person. You’ll be working every day, and you know I hate to sit around playing the wife role.’

  ‘I had other plans,’ he said, reaching for the soap.

  ‘What other plans?’ she demanded, sneaking her hands around to the front of his body, cupping his balls and going for the main event.

  ‘Listen, lady, sex ain’t gonna get you out of this one,’ he warned, turning to face her as the lukewarm water cascaded over both of them.

  ‘What other plans?’ Lucky demanded a second time, sinking to her knees.

  ‘No you don’t.’ Weakly he attempted to push her away. ‘You can torture me all you want, but I’m not telling.’

  She flicked his growing hard-on with her tongue. ‘Tell!’ she insisted. ‘Give me the information or you’re in big trouble!’

  ‘No… way,’ he managed to groan.

  Her tongue teased him lightly, causing him to change his mind. He began to thrust against her.

  Now it was her turn to back away. ‘Tell,’ she repeated sternly. ‘Or suffer.’

  They were both beginning to break up. The crisis was over.

  Urgently he grabbed the back of her wet hair, pressing her head towards him.

  She wriggled free and slipped out of the shower.

  ‘Jesus! Now I really know what prick-tease means!’ he muttered through clenched teeth, following her from the shower.

  With a quick lunge he caught her in the bathroom. They both fell to the floor, naked, slippery, and laughing.

  ‘Gotcha!’ he muttered triumphantly, spread-eagling her arms, and pinning her legs with his body as he manoeuvred into position.

  And then he was pounding into her and the words came out, surprising both of them.

  ‘I… want… you… to… have… our… baby. And… I… don’t… want… any… excuses. OK, Lucky, OK?’

  Chapter 11

  Under the guiding hand of Mickey Stolli, Panther Studios was a changed place from the days when Abe Panther was in charge. Once it had been one of the great old studios making tasteful, stylish films, but Mickey had made sure that Panther moved with the times. As he was so fond of saying at meetings, ‘It’s the frigging eighties, for chrissake. Let’s give the dumb unwashed what they really wanna see.’

  What Mickey wanted the public to see was multiple violence with an avalanche of tits and ass. Not harmless tits and ass, but the pornographic kind. Girls being stripped, terrified, mutilated, raped, and murdered. On film, of course. In fact, whatever he and his willing team of writers, directors, and producers could get away with.

  These were not big movies star-wise, but they were huge money-makers all over the world – every one of them. They were cheap to shoot, cost nothing to put out, and were easy to produce.

  America the great. They could kick the hell out of women up there on the screen any way they wanted, and as long as the sex wasn’t too graphic they could get away with murder. Literally.

  Panther Studios had begun to specialize in these low-bucks, soft-core exploitation flicks, thanks to Mickey Stolli, who liked the big bucks they generated. But as powerful as he was, even Mickey had to cover his ass, bolster his ego, and shut up his brother-in-law, Ben Harrison – who was always bitching and complaining about the cheapos. So, aside from the exploitation cheapos, Panther Studios made deals with major stars – paying them more money than anyone else, and also giving them sweet development deals that included their own production companies and a suite of offices on the studio lot.

  Every year Panther made three or four legitimate big-time movies. One of these was Macho Man, the film currently shooting with Lennie Golden, Joey Firello, and Marisa Birch. Then there was Strut, a dramatic movie about a charming con man and a street-smart young woman, starring Venus Maria – the hot property of the year – with Cooper Turner co-starring and directing. Quite a coup.

  In post-production they had the new Johnny Romano action comedy, Motherfaker.

  Abigaile Stolli insisted that Mickey make movies with big stars. It was good for her social life.

  Quite frankly, Mickey didn’t give a rat’s ass. Movie stars were trouble – always causing problems, holding things up, and expecting more money and attention than they were worth. Their egos were beyond enormous.

  Mickey preferred shooting his cheapos. A nice fast production with a guaranteed box-office bonanza at the end of it.

  Of course, he had to take into account Abigaile’s feelings. She was, after all, Abe Panther’s granddaughter, and the reason Mickey Stolli was where he was today.

  And where was he?

  He was in an air-conditioned office bigger than the house he’d grown up in. He was forty-eight years old. He was five feet nine inches tall. He was bald and didn’t wear a rug. He had a deep permanent suntan, flashing white teeth (all his own – the teeth compensated for the hair), a hard body (thanks to daily tennis, his passion), and a rough-edged voice tinged with memories of the Bronx only when he was angry.

  Mickey had lived in Hollywood for thirty years, first coming out as an eighteen-year-old would-be actor. Giving that up when he lost his hair at twenty and becoming an agent. Giving that up when he married Abigaile eighteen years ago and becoming Abe’s right-hand man. Giving that up ten years ago when Abe had his stroke and Mickey took over.

  Mickey Stolli was a happy man. He had a wife, a thirteen-year-old daughter, Tabitha (nobody knew about the illegitimate son he’d fathered when he was twenty-nine, just before meeting and marrying Abigaile), a black mistress, two houses (Bel Air and Trancas), three cars (a Rolls, a Porsche, and a jeep), and a studio.

  What more could any man ask for?

  Olive, his English personal secretary, entered the office. Olive was a slim woman of forty cast in the Deborah Kerr mould. ‘Good morning, Mr. Stolli,’ she said crisply.

  Mickey grunted. On Monday mornings Olive presented him with a private and confidential report of all the studio activities from the previous week. She handed it to him as usual. It never bothered him that she had to work all weekend to get it ready for their eight a.m. meeting.

  He skimmed through it quickly, jotting notes in the margin with a thick red pen. When he was finished he handed it back to her to be retyped with his notes included. After this was done, she filed it
in a locked cabinet in his office.

  ‘Juice,’ Mickey snapped. ‘Carrot.’

  Olive hurried into the small gleaming kitchen adjoining his office, and prepared freshly blended carrot juice for her boss. Mickey Stolli had a health and cleanliness fetish. He allowed nobody but the fastidious Olive to fix his fruit and vegetable drinks.

  While Olive busied herself at the blender, Mickey called his head of production, Ford Werne, at home. He told Ford he wanted a private discussion before the regular Monday morning meeting of all the department heads.

  Ford agreed, although he wasn’t happy about having to leave his house in the Palisades an hour earlier than usual.

  Mickey sipped his fresh carrot juice and studied the list of stars with current production deals at Panther. It was quite a list. There were six of them. Six superstars. And Mickey Stolli had them all tied up.

  * * *

  At one time Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was nothing more than a scrawny American-born Italian kid who lived in Brooklyn with her widowed father and four older brothers. She worked like a modern-day Cinderella looking after them: cooking, cleaning, shopping, washing, and ironing – whatever there was to do, it was her job.

  Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was a conscientious girl. She devoted her young life to her family of males, and in return they took her totally for granted. As far as they were concerned she was a woman, and it was her mission to attend to their every need. So naturally, it came as a nasty surprise and quite a shock for all of them when one day she left home and ran off with Ron Machio, the long-haired gay son of a neighbour, who danced for a living in Broadway shows.

  ‘What kind of a whore slut have I raised?’ shouted her father in an almighty rage.

  ‘We’ll beat the fag punk’s brains out!’ screamed her brothers, equally angry.

  Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was no fool. She heard of their threats and she and Ron took to the road, hitching their way across country until they reached California, the promised land – and eventually, after many adventures, Hollywood.

  Ah… Hollywood. Nirvana. Paradise. Palm trees, sunshine, and agents. Virginia Venus Maria Sierra and Ron were at peace, they knew they’d found heaven. Destiny hovered overhead, and all they had to do was reach up and touch.

  Actually they had to do a lot more than that. They had to scrape the bottom and rise slowly – Ron as a choreographer, and Venus Maria (the adaptation of her name she decided on) as a movie extra who performed in underground clubs as a singer/dancer/actress.

  Between gigs they sampled a variety of jobs. Ron attempted waitering, messengering, and chauffeuring, while Venus Maria worked in a supermarket, a bank, and finally as a nude model for an art class.

  ‘Surely all those strange people staring at your naked body makes your flesh shrivel?’ Ron shuddered.

  ‘No way. I get off on it,’ Venus Maria replied confidently, shaking her newly dyed platinum-blond curls, while pursing freshly glossed lips. ‘I looove to watch ’em drool! It’s a real kick.’

  At that precise moment Ron Machio knew for certain that Virginia Venus Maria Sierra was going to be an enormous star.

  It took several years, but sure enough it happened. Eventually Venus Maria was discovered by a small-time record producer who hung out at the same all-night clubs that she and Ron frequented. With some heavy persuasion she got him to cut a record with her, and then she and Ron put together an outrageous, sexy, and controversial video to go with it. Venus Maria planned the look and the style, while Ron came up with all the right moves.

  Overnight she scored – a lightning strike, for within six weeks the record was number one and Venus Maria was launched.

  Now, three years later, at the age of twenty-five, she was a superstar, a cult figure, an icon.

  Venus Maria had it made.

  * * *

  Caught in a seventies time warp, Charlie Dollar was permanently stoned, a joint never far from his reach.

  Charlie was hardly your average matinee idol. He was overweight with a comfortable gut, fifty years old, and balding. But when Charlie Dollar smiled, the world lit up, and every female around got itchy pants, for Charlie possessed a particular wild, stoned charm that was irresistible to both men and women.

  A Charlie Dollar movie was a guaranteed box-office smash, thanks to his quirky presence and brilliant offbeat performances. Charlie had a way of taking on a role and bending the character until it fitted him to perfection.

  Some said that Charlie Dollar was a genius. Others claimed it was just old Charlie up there on the screen jerking off over anyone who’d pay attention.

  Nobody knew the real story about Charlie. He’d kind of burst upon the scene as a burnt-out thirty-five-year-old in an underground rock-and-roll movie, playing the crazed manager of a heavy-metal group. After that one brilliant, insane performance he’d never looked back. And he’d never wanted to.

  Charlie Dollar – the hero of stoned America. He enjoyed fame, but pretended to hate it. Life was simpler that way. After all, a guy had to look like he had some ethics.

  * * *

  Susie Rush came up through television. Sweetly pretty, with a neurotic girl-next-door quality, she’d parlayed two hit television series into an important big-screen career as a light comedienne.

  Susie was an intensely competitive, driven woman who allowed no one to get in her way. She admitted to being thirty-two years old, although she was actually nearer to forty, a fact that petrified her.

  Susie was into good causes, ecology, and channelling. She believed she’d lived many previous lives, and was not shy about telling people.

  The public considered her to be above reproach.

  The folks who worked with her had christened her the bitch of the lot and loathed her. Her nickname around the studio was Rent-a-Cunt.

  On screen, Susie was sugary sweet with delicate looks and a helpless demeanour.

  Off screen she was a tyrant. Her husband – poor soul – had long ago hung up his balls and lived meekly in her shadow. It suited him. He was an unsuccessful actor – where else was he going?

  Susie Rush was known as America’s sweetheart.

  Poor America.

  * * *

  Johnny Romano was Hispanic, six feet tall, and of slender build, although he’d developed his upper body enough to boast a powerful set of muscles. He had thick sensual lips, a sly smile, and deep-set brown eyes – mocking eyes, challenging eyes, but most of all, sexually inviting eyes. Women couldn’t get enough.

  Johnny Romano was twenty-eight years old. He had starred in three extraordinarily successful films: Hollywood Dick, Lover Boy, and Hollywood Dick 2. These blockbuster movies had made him a very valuable property, and also extremely famous. In case anyone was in doubt, he travelled with an ever-present entourage consisting of two sassy female assistants – one white, one black; two formidable bodyguards whose main function was to proposition women for Johnny; a yes-man uncle; and a best friend/stand-in/chief procurer of any young lady who caught Johnny Romano’s fancy.

  One sweet, nubile female a day was not unusual. Ever aware of the perils of AIDS, Johnny Romano protected himself with two condoms and a cavalier attitude. After all, AIDS could never happen to him. He was a mega-star, for God’s sake – and what’s more, he was a straight mega-star. The condoms were merely a gesture in the right direction, a nod to the good Lord.

  Yes, Johnny Romano was a responsible human being who liked to get laid a lot. And why not? He’d worked hard for the privilege of bedding any piece he wanted.

  Right now he wanted Venus Maria. But the woman didn’t want him. Unheard of! Ridiculous! Nobody turned down Johnny Romano.

  Oh, sure, she was riding way up there, certainly the most successful young female star around. Venus Maria left Madonna, Pfeiffer, and Basinger trailing in her wake. There was no doubt she was in demand. But to turn Johnny Romano down. Ha!

  Ha! Ha!

  The woman had to be crazy!

  * * *

  And then the
re was Cooper Turner – the handsome, mysterious, insomniac Cooper Turner, who lived in a Wilshire high-rise penthouse and had only made a few movies over the years, but was still regarded as a major player.

  Cooper’s looks belied his forty-five years. He was boyishly handsome with brownish hair, penetrating ice-blue eyes, and a well-preserved body.

  Cooper refused to give interviews. He kept his private life very private indeed, although there was always one special woman in residence, usually a breathtaking beauty or great talent. Cooper enjoyed discovering the woman of the moment. His sexual prowess was legendary.

  In spite of his attachment to women, Cooper had never married, although there’d been a few close calls. He definitely preferred the perennial bachelor life. Cooper Turner was not the marrying kind.

  Currently the tabloids were alive with news of his supposed affair with Venus Maria. He was directing and co-starring with the young superstar in Strut, and tongues were busy all over town. The latest rumour concerned a very public fight they’d had on the set, and the way they’d supposedly made up. According to Truth and Fact, one of the more scurrilous tabloids, Venus Maria had apparently quieted his anger with a somewhat public blow-job on the set in front of everyone. Enough to deflate anyone’s temper tantrum.

  Cooper would neither deny nor confirm the scandalous story. He liked to keep a low profile.

  * * *

  Also tied to Panther with a three-picture deal – the first of which he was currently shooting – was Lennie Golden, Tabitha’s favourite. She nagged Mickey constantly. ‘I wanna meet him, Daddy. All my friends love him. What’s he like? Can I marry him some day?’

  Mickey couldn’t understand the attraction. As far as he was concerned Lennie Golden was just another comedian going through a hot streak, part of the Billy Crystal/Robin Williams syndrome.

  But since he was so hot, Mickey had signed him. It was good business – and if there was one thing Mickey excelled at, it was business.