Chances

  “Great!” he enthused, calling for the check. “Let’s go.”

  Pippa Sanchez studied herself critically in the full-length mirror. She turned this way and that until she was perfectly satisfied with what she saw. What she saw was the mirror image of what she had been seeing all her life: perfection. Dark skin. Raven hair. A taut sexy figure. She might be forty-two years old but she was still perfection. Not a line, or a sag, or any telltale sign of creeping age. So why the hell wasn’t she a great big movie star?

  Why? Because the schmucks that ran the movie industry had never cast her in the right parts, that’s why. She was always the “other woman,” the “sexy whore,” the “vivacious dancer.” Morons! What did they know with their foot-long cigars and silicone blondes?

  She had stayed away from Hollywood on purpose. First, when she had read of Jake The Boy’s grisly death, she had been too frightened to return. Second, Spain was good for her. She never stopped working—she had appeared in dozens of movies, two of them very big successes. And she had married a Spanish movie star, divorced him after five turbulent years, and for the last seven been alone. By choice, of course. Men ran after her like dogs in heat. She had affairs—picking and choosing. But her career came before anything else. She didn’t want to end up as just a Spanish film star. So what? Who cared? She wanted international fame—Hollywood fame.

  Throughout the years she had nursed her script, Kill Shot. As far as she was concerned it was a marvelous property, with all the makings of a big hit: Love. Humor. Pathos. Violence.

  It should be good. It was based on Gino Santangelo’s life.

  The trouble was he never got to read the property. She was run out of town before it was ever completed.

  Diligently she had kept up a correspondence with the writer, and in 1955, when Gino Santangelo’s wife was murdered in an East Hampton swimming pool, she had ordered the ending changed to accommodate the event. What it did to the script was dynamite. Pippa was so excited that after a prudent amount of time she sent a copy to Gino, with a letter reminding him about his desire to invest in the movie industry. A secretary’s terse note returned the manuscript six months later. Mr. Santangelo does not have time to read film scripts….

  Over the years a lot of people had not had the time to read it. Then enter Warris Charters, and Pippa had known—just known—that he was her man.

  Now Cannes. And nothing. No deal. No production. Nothing.

  To say Pippa was disappointed would be putting it mildly.

  She checked out her reflection once more before setting off to meet Warris. It was time the bastard returned her script. He was just another two-bit hustler, and she wanted him out of her life. Who needed Warris Charters to shop her precious manuscript around? She certainly didn’t. She would raise the money herself—somehow—somewhere.

  Smoking grass was nothing new to Lucky. She liked to think of herself as very experienced. In point of fact she had indulged exactly twice before. The first time with Olympia on her father’s island lying out in the hot sun. Wonderful! She had fallen asleep and waked up in time to devour four portions of chocolate mousse at dinner.

  The second time was with a couple of Swedish hippies bumming their way around Europe. She and Olympia had come across them on the mainland and spent one long giggly day together.

  Warris Charters produced very strong, very good Acapulco Gold. He had two joints already rolled, and he shared them with the two girls generously.

  The three of them lay on sun beds out by the darkened swimming pool. Olympia lit candles and opened up some wine. “I wish we had music,” she complained.

  Warris wasn’t complaining about anything. He was thinking to himself that he had fallen into some cushy setup. The villa. The car. These two little chickies obviously had bread. He deserved a vacation. A rest before getting back to the grind of keeping body and soul together.

  Olympia dragged deeply on the thin cigarette and let out a contented sigh of enjoyment before passing it on to Lucky.

  Food was still on Lucky’s mind, but she entered into the spirit of the occasion, taking the cigarette, inhaling the magic weed, languorously allowing the effect to take over her body.

  Ten minutes of silence while they indulged, passing the two joints back and forth, Lucky giggling as the sound of the chirping crickets reached a crescendo. “Wow… very noisy little animals,” she slurred. “Veree noisy indeed!”

  Her comment induced hysterical laughter from Olympia and Warris. She smiled, feeling like the world’s greatest wit.

  “Let’s swim,” suggested Olympia, standing up and stripping off her clothes. She turned to Warris, allowing him to inspect her ripe and luscious curves. He was literally ripping off his trousers, then his shorts. Naked, his erection stood out like an eight-inch flagpole.

  “Ummmm,” murmured Olympia, and as he went to grab her she jumped into the pool.

  By the time Lucky was undressed, both Olympia and Warris were cavorting underwater. Suddenly Lucky didn’t feel like swimming any more. The hell with swimming. She was hungry.

  Nude, she wandered into the house, found a can, and opened it. Hungrily she devoured the oily chunks of tuna. It was delicious.

  She felt very tired then, a hollow weariness born from nights of no sleep at all.

  Outside Olympia and Warris were still at play. She could hear their screams and shouts. They wouldn’t miss her if she just crawled ever so quietly into bed… ever so quietly….

  Warris was not to be found in any of his usual hangouts. Pippa visited the Blue Bar, the Carlton Terrace, and the Martinez Bar, more than once. Finally, when it was late enough, she gave up, allowing a chirpy English dress manufacturer to have the pleasure of buying her a bottle of champagne. The best, of course. Pippa was only interested in the best.

  Later she allowed the man to make love to her. He wasn’t bad, full of enthusiasm. But he wasn’t Jake the Boy. Nobody was The Boy….

  The insistent dive bombing of a mosquito forced Lucky to open one eye. It took moments before she acclimatized herself to her surroundings. Then she remembered.

  She sat up quickly and checked out the other bed in the room. No Olympia. No Warris.

  She crawled out of bed, put on a bikini and an old shirt, and found Olympia in the master bedroom, blondely nude, sprawled and wanton. Warris slept beside her on his stomach, giving Lucky ample opportunity to study his small, firmly muscled ass. He did have a nice ass.

  For the next three days Warris was a fixture. Olympia was in love and had no intention of letting him go.

  Watching them together Lucky was jealous, but there was nothing she could do, so she just lay by the pool, concentrating on her suntan and wondering if Gino was looking for her yet.

  There was a tiny village near the house, and there they were able to buy hot rolls of French bread, freshly sliced ham and cheese, and an abundance of fruit.

  “I could live here forever!” Olympia sighed dreamily.

  “Well, I’m getting bored.”

  “So take the car and go have fun.”

  “You know I can’t drive,” Lucky said testily.

  “Teach her to drive, honeybun,” Olympia requested of her lover.

  Warris jumped to attention. After three days in her company he had learned she was one very rich little girl indeed. She was a Stanislopoulos, and that name was as good as Onassis. She was also one very hot little girl indeed. And after he had conquered her initial revulsion about fucking, she took to bouncing about on the bed like an Indian takes to curry. He was teaching her everything he knew, and she was lapping it up in every way. Of course, having the friend around was a drag. He didn’t like her and she didn’t like him. Teaching her to drive would be a perfect way to get rid of her.

  Lucky mastered the mechanics of driving a car within the first half hour. Full of confidence, she took Warris back to the villa and set off on her own for the day. She decided she loved driving. The feel of all that power under the accelerator was a turn-on. She to
ok off in the direction of Italy, went as far as San Remo, parked the car and wandered around for a few hours, then drove back to the villa along the curving coastal route. Exhilarated, she arrived home at midnight.

  Olympia and Warris were dancing a rhumba to music from the radio. Olympia wore her bikini bottom and very high heels. Warris was in slacks and a shirt. They danced very seriously together, Olympia’s large bosoms doing a special jiggle all their own. They were both stoned as usual, Warris having rolled the last of his Acapulco Gold into one final joint.

  “You’re back.” Olympia giggled. “We thought we’d doll ourselves up and trip on down to the casino. Do you want to come?”

  “You bet,” Lucky said quickly.

  “So let’s get changed. I’m sure auntie has something in her closet that will do.”

  Pippa Sanchez was in a boiling fury. For Warris Charters to run out on her was one thing. But for him to run out with six Xerox copies of her beloved script, forget it! This was the kind of behavior men got their balls sliced off for!

  Pippa refused to leave Cannes until she found him. The sneak was hiding out, probably waiting for her to go so that he would have her precious property all to himself. Once a bum, always a bum. She should have known. She should have smelled him. The Boy had taught her that. “Always sniff out trouble when it’s comin’ at ya. That way your nose’ll always look after ya.” So how come his nose hadn’t looked after him?

  Goddamn it. Pippa put on her tightest, sexiest red dress and ventured out on the town with a Bolivian jeweler she had met. If he was as rich as he seemed to be, maybe he would be interested in making an investment in her movie.

  Dressed to the nines in Olympia’s aunt’s clothes, they roared into Cannes, Warris at the wheel of the white Mercedes.

  “I’ve got to change,” he said. “I’ll drop you two at the Blue Bar and be back in ten minutes.”

  “Why can’t we come with you?” Olympia pouted.

  “Because. It’s better this way.” He had no intention of letting them see the dump he was staying in. Besides, what he wanted to do was check out and load his two Gucci suitcases into the back of the car. Might as well take advantage of the situation he had found himself in.

  “O.K.” Olympia sulked. “But if I meet a better-looking dude don’t expect me to hang around.”

  “Ten minutes. Watch her, Lucky.”

  She smiled thinly. Watch her, indeed! She’d personally grab the first half-decent-looking guy that came along and force Olympia’s tongue down his throat. Anything to get rid of this jerk, whom she hated more and more each day.

  He settled them at a table, ordered drinks, and took off.

  “Hey,” said Lucky, “you see that guy over there? He hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”

  Olympia preened. “Where?” she asked quickly, sticking her chest out.

  Gino

  1966

  Gino lay on the king-sized bed in the bedroom of his suite at the Mirage and watched the girl dress. She was very thin. Long legs, bony shoulders, a minuscule waist. He couldn’t understand why he had picked her. Not his normal type at all.

  She turned to face him as she pulled her halter-topped dress over small breasts. “That was wonderful,” she breathed. “Will I see you again?”

  He remembered why he had picked her. A certain something in the blue eyes, wistful, innocent…. Not so innocent when he got her into bed. She had crawled all over him like a plague of ants, her hot tongue licking everything in sight.

  Women. They had changed. He was no prude, but their sexual habits were becoming ridiculous! A demanding woman was guaranteed to kill even the most vibrant of hard-ons.

  “Here,” he said, handing her an envelope from his bedside drawer. “This is for you. Buy yourself a little something.”

  “Oh!” She took the envelope, weighed it delicately from hand to hand. “You don’t have to.”

  I know I don’t have to, he thought. I want to. Gets you out of my hair, no complications. “Take it—enjoy,” he said.

  Now she was dressed and standing at the edge of the bed expectantly. He wanted her out. “So,” he began. “The night is young an’ you’re a very pretty girl. I’ll call the maître d’ and have him hold you a table for Tiny Martino’s late show, compliments of the house. You’ll love it. Take a friend.”

  Once she was out he got up, did a few pushups, took a shower, and dressed carefully. Then he buzzed for Marco on his personal intercom system.

  Marco appeared within three minutes flat. One of his best qualities was always being around when you needed him. That and loyalty that you couldn’t buy. Marco was family. It meant a lot to Gino. Recently he had promoted him to manager of the Mirage. He wanted him to be the best. When the time came he wanted Marco to run the Magiriano.

  “What’s happenin’?” Gino asked.

  Marco shrugged. “Everything. Tiny Martino lost his salary on the roulette wheel. That Jap businessman is into us for seventy-three thou. I sent four hookers up to the judge’s suite just like you requested. A normal night.”

  Gino chuckled. Out of his varied business interests, the Mirage was his favorite. He was at his happiest in the air-conditioned comfort of Las Vegas.

  “Has Senator Richmond’s wife checked in yet?”

  “Not yet. The suite’s all ready. Four dozen yellow roses. The best tennis pro is keeping himself available all day tomorrow.”

  “Good, good.” Gino wanted to make certain Betty Richmond was well looked after. He had been entertained royally at her Georgetown estate, and he wanted to be sure to repay the compliment. Whether he wanted to sleep with her or not was another matter. Physically, she did not turn him on. But in bed, with those strong legs wrapped around him, that pulsating cunt—Jeeze! He was getting an erection just thinking about her! And so soon after little Miss What-was-her-name. Not bad at all for a man who would be sixty in two weeks’ time.

  Betty Richmond was afforded the royal treatment upon her arrival. Her son, Craven, hovered around superfluously.

  They entered their suite preceded by fifteen pieces of luggage.

  “Hmpf,” she snorted, striding around throwing open the windows. “This is the most tasteless decor I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yes, mother,” agreed Craven. “Tasteless.”

  “Vulgar.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Gold taps indeed!”

  “Awful!”

  “Well, what can you expect?”

  “She’s here,” announced Marco.

  Gino nodded. A day late, but as long as she’d arrived. “What’s she doing?”

  “Playing tennis. Killing the pro.” “You’re kidding!”

  “She has a stroke like Little Mo!”

  Gino laughed. “Send her a message. Tell her I’d like to dine with her. She can be here at six thirty.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Later Marco returned to say that Mrs. Richmond thanked him for his kind invitation, but she already had a dinner engagement, and could she meet with him later—say, ten o’clock.

  Gino was furious. She was coming to ask him a favor, and he was getting the runaround. Unbelievable!

  “Tell Mrs. Richmond ten o’clock is not convenient,” he said tightly. “Eleven o’clock if she wants to make it.”

  Marco carried the message, returned with the news that Mrs. Richmond said eleven o’clock would be just perfect—Her suite.

  “Fine,” snapped Gino. “My suite.”

  Betty Richmond turned up at five past twelve looking athletic and suntanned in a blue dress, her cotton-candy hair pulled back and tied with blue ribbon. “I’m so sorry,” she gushed, “but this is such a fascinating place—you just don’t know who you’re going to bump into.”

  “Yeh.” He glanced pointedly at his watch.

  “I do hope I haven’t kept you up,” she said anxiously. “Is it too late to discuss the gala evening? Would you rather meet at breakfast?”

  “Now’s fine,” he snapped. “I spo
ke to Tiny Martino, and he says that maybe—just maybe, mind you—he’ll do it.”

  “Oh, he will,” she said airily.

  “I said he might.”

  “No, no. It’s all right. He definitely will. I met him tonight—charming man—and he gave me a firm yes.”

  Gino frowned. Jesus! What did she need him for? She could organize the whole thing herself. He wished that he had never promised her a goddamn gala evening for her goddamn charity in the first place.

  At seven o’clock the next morning Gino was awakened by his telephone: the personal line, the one that was only used by a few close associates in an emergency. It was Costa, calling from New York.

  “Gino. I have bad news.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Lucky. She’s run away from school.”

  “Oh, Christ!”

  “She left a couple of notes.”

  “Saying?”

  “Something about working things out, not to worry, she’s heading for LA.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “I’ve told the school to keep it quiet. They’re cooperating.”

  “That’s something.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know…. Jesus! That stupid kid.” He thought for a moment. “Look, don’t do anything. Just hang on. I’ll get a flight in this morning—we’ll talk about it when I get there.”

  “I think that would be best.”

  “See you later.” He hung up the phone and sighed. Lucky. Dumb kid. She needed her ass paddled, and he was going to have to do it. When he found her, that is.

  Lucky

  1966

  Two extremely polite Frenchmen dressed impeccably in dinner jackets and dark trousers argued quietly and firmly with a harassed Warris Charters.

  “But I’m telling you, they’re both over twenty-one,” he insisted.

  “I’m sure they are, sir,” agreed one of the men pleasantly, “but we have our rules, and unless the ladies can produce their passports… “ He gave a Gallic shrug.