As the weeks turned into months Lucky was learning, acquiring every bit of knowledge she could. Her mind adapted quickly to the finer points of business. Costa was impressed. She asked intelligent questions and pinpointed significant discrepancies in contracts and legal documents that amazed him. She had an extremely sharp business head.
Like Gino. She was direct and blunt. Like Gino. She had every one of her father’s business qualities. And when she told Costa that she wanted to handle certain matters that had arisen, it was too late to stop her.
Gino had set up a syndicate of investors to finance the building of the Magiriano. Construction on the hotel had just begun, and the weekly payroll was vast. Since Gino’s absence from America, some of the finance had run dry.
“Jesus Christ!” Lucky exploded. “Don’t we have contracts with these people?”
Costa shook his head. “No contracts…. It was all done on a handshake basis.”
“They gave Gino their word, didn’t they?”
“Of course.”
“And what would he do if they didn’t come up with the money?”
Costa cleared his throat nervously. “He had his own… methods.”
“You’re supposed to be running things for him. Why don’t you use his methods?”
“Some things are best left alone until the moment is right. You must wait for Gino.”
She stared at him hard. “We can’t wait. We don’t know how long he’ll be away. Even you say it could be years. No,” she declared, “the building must go on. If they gave their word, they have to be made to keep it. Give me a list. I think I can work something out.”
He laughed in disbelief. “Don’t be a silly girl, these are hard men—”
Her eyes, black and ice-cold. “Don’t ever call me a silly girl, Costa. You understand?”
He remembered Gino at the same age. So similar… so alike.
He sighed and said, “Yes, Lucky.” And he knew then that there was no way he was going to stop her from taking over while Gino was away. No way at all.
Lucky thought long and hard about things. Costa was a wonderful man, a brilliant lawyer. Excellent to deal with legal matters and the plodding work. But obviously not a man of action.
It was imperative that work on the Magiriano continue. She planned to make sure that it did.
She had noticed that on Sunday mornings Enzio Bonnatti spent a private hour or so in his study. During this time people came to visit him, staying sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for an hour. As they hurried away after the meeting, there would always be a smile on their faces.
“What goes on?” Lucky asked Santino, the son she liked better. “Who are all these people?”
Santino shrugged. He was short, prematurely bald, and constantly chewing on his nails. “Favor time,” he said shortly. “Enzio likes t’play God.”
“I want a favor.”
“So ask him.” Santino narrowed his small eyes. “You he’ll never refuse. But expect to pay it back one day.”
She went to Enzio, sat on the corner of his desk, and requested his advice. “Costa will not act,” she said, after explaining the situation, “but I want to. I am prepared to do whatever my father would do.”
Enzio chuckled. “Gino never took no shit from no one—excuse my language. You want to be like him, why not? I lend you a couple of soldiers. You frighten the crap outa number one on the list, you ain’t got no problems. Get my drift?”
She nodded, feeling the excitement creeping over her body like a rash.
Enzio looked at her shrewdly. “Of course you want I should take care of it for you, my pleasure.”
She shook her head. “Just let me have the assistance.”
He chuckled. “You’re Gino’s daughter, all right. He’d be proud of you. I tell you what I do. I give you two guys who’ll back you every fuckin’ inch of the way—’scuse my language. You gotta remember, though. You threaten, you gotta mean. Understand?”
“I understand.”
Where had Lucky learned street behavior? Was it in her genes?
She started off with the biggest investor, paying a visit to Rudolpho Crown, a slick-haired, so-called investment banker who had once made a living at the track conning little old ladies with money to burn. Good fortune had smiled on him and he had married one of his old ladies, who expired exactly six weeks after the wedding. “She died of pleasure,” Rudolpho was fond of telling anyone who’d listen. “Hadn’t gotten laid in twenty-two years!”
He inherited three million dollars, blew half on whores and good times, and went into business with the rest. He sat behind a massive desk in his office and leered insolently at Lucky while she discussed the money he had promised but failed to put up.
“You gave your promise, Mr. Crown,” she said coolly. “You are part of a syndicate. If you try to drop out, others will follow and then work on the hotel will have to be stopped.”
“Sure.” He picked his teeth with the edge of a book of matches. “I gave my word to Gino. And when he comes back I’ll honor it.”
Her voice was very soft. “It makes no difference where Gino is. You gave your promise. He wants it honored—now.”
Rudolpho grinned. “He’s hardly in a position to want anything. Word is out he won’t be back for a long long time—if ever.”
She smiled very sweetly. “Risk it, Mr. Crown.”
“Risk what?”
“Risk waking up with your balls stuffed down your throat and your cock doing hot-dog duty on the barbecue.”
He flushed a very dull red. “Wash out your mouth, cunt. Nobody threatens me.”
She stood, smoothed down the skirt of the well-tailored suit she was wearing, smiled bleakly. “It’s not a threat, Mr. Crown. It’s a promise. And I keep my promises. Just like my daddy.”
He did not believe her. He had no intention of putting money into a hotel without Gino Santangelo around to take care of things. Fuck her. So she was Gino’s daughter. Big deal. A cunt with a mouth.
A week later he was wakened at midnight by the touch of cold steel on his balls. He opened his eyes, panic-stricken. Two men were holding knives to his shriveled penis. He started to scream, to cry, to beg.
He saw a shadow by the door and a woman’s voice said, “This is only a dress rehearsal, Mr. Crown. If your money isn’t forthcoming immediately, the first performance will be next week.”
Rudolpho Crown put his money up—fast. Other investors followed equally fast. The Magiriano was back in business.
Costa never could figure out how Lucky had done it. He suspected Enzio’s involvement, but he never knew for sure, and Lucky certainly wasn’t saying.
She seemed calmer, almost serene. She had felt the excitement of power, and it was better than anything she had ever known. She, Lucky Santangelo, could handle anything now. Why not? She had proved herself capable.
Shortly after settling the business of the reluctant syndicate of investors, Lucky flew to Las Vegas to see for herself the building progress being made on the Magiriano. Naturally enough she stayed at the Mirage, and naturally enough Marco was there to greet her.
She had finally found out who Bee was. Costa had told her the whole story: all about how Bee had taken Gino in when he was cut up and half bleeding to death and nursed him back to health, how she had faithfully hung around for the seven years Gino languished in jail.
“She sounds like a nice lady. Why didn’t they marry?” Lucky asked.
“They were going to, but after Marco it seemed she couldn’t have any more children.”
Lucky was outraged. “You mean he didn’t marry her because she couldn’t have kids? What a pig!”
When she heard about how Marco had grown up with Gino as good as his father, she was unexplainably jealous. She greeted him coolly. It was the first time they had spoken in years.
“You look sensational, Lucky, really great,” he said.
“You look a little ragged yourself, Marco. Too much burning it at both ends?” Qu
ickly she worked out how old he must be now: forty-one. He was getting on. His exceptional good looks had not faded at all. He was still the most attractive man she had ever seen, and she burned to go to bed with him. It was the first time she had thought of sex for a long time. “How come I’m not in Gino’s suite?” she asked casually.
“I’ve taken his suite over—while he’s away.”
“Oh, have you?” She managed to make her tone mocking and amused.
He was disconcerted. “How long are you staying?” he asked politely.
Just as long as it takes to get you into bed. She gestured vaguely. “A few days, maybe a week.”
“Good. I want you to meet my wife. Maybe you’ll have dinner with us tonight.”
His wife! “How long have you been married?” she asked, hardly able to catch her breath.
“Exactly forty-six hours. You just missed the wedding. By the way, where’s Craven?”
She felt he had betrayed her again, and she hated him for it. Her voice was icy. “Didn’t you hear? I got a divorce.”
“You did? Does Gino know?”
“It may amaze you, Marco, but I am free, white, and twenty-one. I can do what the fuck I like without asking Big Daddy’s permission.” She paused and eyed him coldly. “Maybe you have to jump, I don’t.”
He started to laugh. “You haven’t changed. Still the same old lovable Lucky!”
“Yeh. Still the same. A little sharper round the edges, though—you’ll soon find out.” Obviously he hadn’t heard.
“I’ll look forward to that.”
Their eyes clicked for just a second. She had never found a man that she couldn’t get into bed if she wanted to. But did she still want him?
Yes. Goddamn it!
Helena, Marco’s wife, was showgirl time. Six feet tall. Stacked. Flaming red hair. And a flaming red pussy, no doubt, fumed Lucky. She was—unfortunately—very beautiful.
The three of them met for drinks in the lounge. A combo played Latin American music while waitresses in skimpy outfits served exotic cocktails. Lucky made a mental note that the place needed jazzing up. It was old-fashioned and sleazy. She was sorry she did not have an escort. Marco still treated her like she was Gino’s kid.
Wifey pie had big boobs that looked like they were no strangers to a jab or two of the old silicone. Lucky figured her to be in her late twenties and hated her on sight. Unreasonable, she knew, because Helena seemed genuinely nice.
Helena said, “What a shame you couldn’t’ve been here for our wedding—it was so quaint.”
Quaint! Whoever heard of a quaint wedding?
“Why?” drawled Lucky. “Did you have pixies for bridesmaids and toadstools for chairs?”
Helena laughed. She sounded like a drowning horse. The silicone shook and the red hair flashed.
“Tell me,” whispered Lucky, leaning forward conspiratorily, “is your pubic hair the same wonderful color as the hair on your head?”
“Why, no,” began Helena, “I did dye it once but it stung….” She trailed off, not sure if Lucky was serious or not.
An idiot! Marco had married a beautiful raving idiot! What a disappointment when someone you have always wanted turns out to have appallingly bad taste. What did she know of his personal taste anyway? Maybe he thought this bimbo was the best thing since fur-lined jock straps. “So, how did you two meet?” she asked crisply. May as well get the whole boring story.
Marco had been staring off into the gloom, but now he paid attention as Helena said, “At my first husband’s funeral. It was so funny—”
He silenced her with a glare. “Want another drink, honey?”
Since Helena was clutching a mostly full banana daiquiri this appeared to be a superfluous question. But Helena got the message. She wasn’t that dumb. She changed the subject clumsily. “I just love your outfit. Did you get it here?”
Lucky decided that she wasn’t interested in how they had met, why they had met, or even when they had met. They had met. It was enough.
The evening went from boring to very boring.
When they dropped her off at her room around twelve, she couldn’t wait to get back downstairs and cruise the casino. This time if she ran into Marco he couldn’t buy her a sandwich, run to Big Daddy, and send her off to bed.
She spotted a tall dark cowboy with an unpermanent look. “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked matter-of-factly.
He inspected her long and hard. Liked what he saw. “I thought drinks were free when you’re playin’ the tables.”
She smiled. “Not in my room.”
“You’re not a—”
“Certainly not. The only currency you’ll need is… talent.”
Together they boarded the elevator. She wasn’t a whore. She wasn’t a nymphomaniac. She just liked getting laid occasionally without all the bullshit and hassle of a long relationship. Men had been bedding casual pickups since time began. Why shouldn’t women? Besides, she needed someone tonight.
He stayed an hour. He was talented. But then she had an eye for talent. When he left mumbling about lunch the next day, she practically had to shove him out of her room. There had never been a man she wanted to stay. Never a kindred spirit.
She prowled around the room, thinking of Marco and wondering what he had that made her want him so much. She had thought the cowboy would take away the hurt of his getting married. But he hadn’t helped. Sexually he had been adequate. For once it wasn’t enough.
She didn’t get Marco on that trip. But when things began to happen, when she began to wield her newfound power, that’s when he finally started to notice her.
Back in New York she said to Costa, “The Mirage looks like a tacky hooker on a street of high-class call girls. Tiny Martino headlining twice a year and a few exiles from bad TV shows do not make for scintillating entertainment.” She paused and lit up a cigarette. “And the place needs renovating—it’s seedy. Peeling paint, that dingy lounge—it needs jazzing up.”
Costa waved the smoke she was blowing in his direction out of his eyes. “Marco takes good care of the place. If changes are needed I’m sure—”
She cut in on him sharply. “Marco doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Just married and reeling from too much pussy.”
Costa flinched. Where did she learn such expressions? It was all right for men to talk that way, but she was a girl. It wasn’t proper.
“Marco has complete control. He runs everything—the money, everything. Gino trusts him implicitly. We cannot rock the boat.”
“Big deal. I am the major shareholder—I have more points than anyone else. I want changes, and I plan to see that they’re made. If Marco doesn’t like it he can always quit.”
Costa regarded her solemnly. Had he created a monster? What would Gino say if he knew what was going on? Fortunately, he didn’t. He thought that everything was running smoothly, that Dario was learning the business, that Costa would know what to do if anything went wrong. He had no idea of Lucky’s active participation in everything. And Costa did not feel inclined to tell him.
Over the following months, Lucky flew back and forth to Vegas with designers and decorators, planning the changes she wished to make at the Mirage and overseeing the building of the new hotel.
“What’s going on here?” Marco screamed at Costa on the phone. “She’s disrupting everything. Get her off my back.”
“I can’t,” Costa replied simply. “She’s the major shareholder. She can do what she wants.”
Simmering with fury, Marco noticed her all right. By the time he noticed her enough to want her, she was cool, businesslike, and remote. She had no intention of sharing him with his wife.
Eventually the renovations that Lucky wanted took place. The Mirage acquired a new look. Fresh acts were hired for the lounge—no more tired girl singers in strapless dresses, but young rock groups who put a little meat in the place.
She hired a top PR firm to reactivate the hotel’s image. “We want to attract younger
people,” she told an irate Marco. “The place is beginning to look like a home for geriatrics!”
“Bullshit. It’s the old ones who have the money to play. Our casino does top gross.”
“Yeh. And the hotel side has been losing money for the last ten years. You watch things change. Why shouldn’t we make profit on both sides of the business?”
She was right. Gradually business improved. Dinner shows that had once played to half-filled rooms were now booked solid, the restaurants were full again, the new-style lounge attracted more and more people. Not only was the hotel now running at a profit but the considerable casino takings soared also.
Satisfied, Lucky moved into other spheres of Gino’s business empire. She had a magic touch, a knack of walking into a business and automatically smelling out the way for it to improve. Like Gino, she always sniffed in the right direction. She always went right to the top—the chairman, managing director, whoever Gino had appointed to run things. At first they resented her or patronized her. But when she pointed out that legally she had the right to do whatever she wanted—including fire them—they listened, complied, and usually found out she was right.
In 1968 Gino had purchased a small cosmetics company as a favor to a friend. It lost money every year and was trundling slowly toward bankruptcy. Lucky decided to make it her pet project. She changed the name to the Free Make-Up Company, hired new management, appointed herself as director, and said to Costa, “You just watch me turn this business around.”
He watched. He was sure she could do it.
Occasionally she flew back to Vegas to check on the progress of the Magiriano. Slow. Slow. Slow. Problems—then more problems. Nothing she couldn’t deal with.
Marco was always around to greet her cordially, give her the word on what was happening in town.
“Still married?” she would ask lightly, although her stomach would churn with the anticipation that he might have gotten a divorce.
“Sure am. And you? Still screwing around?”
“Give me a better hobby and I’ll try it,” she drawled jokingly. She knew her casual sex life pissed him off.