Dangerous Kiss

  Brigette shrugged. ‘Dunno and don’t care.’

  ‘Ha! Thanks for your support,’ Lina said, prancing like a thoroughbred horse waiting at the gate.

  ‘You know I support you,’ Brigette said patiently, ‘only it beats me why you have this sick desire to sleep with married guys. What’s the kick in that?’

  ‘Knowing they want me more than anybody else,’ Lina said, licking her full lips. ‘And that sometimes they can ’ave me, an’ sometimes they can’t.’

  ‘Don’t you ever think about their wives? And what you’re doing to them?’

  ‘What am I doing if the wife don’t know about it?’ Lina said defiantly.

  ‘How would you like it if it was your husband sleeping with some beautiful model?’ Brigette asked, attempting to reason with her, although she knew it was useless.

  ‘Wise up, Brig,’ Lina said, with a casual shrug. ‘I couldn’t care less. What kind of idiot expects any man to be faithful?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s possible?’

  ‘Men are dogs, baby,’ Lina pronounced, with a knowledgeable nod. ‘Offer ’em a blow-job an’ they’re yours. It don’t matter who it is. Politicians, movie stars, the man in the street. Trust me, they’re all the bleedin’ same.’

  ‘You honestly believe that?’

  ‘Yeah. An’ if you don’t, then you’re naïve,’ she said, barely smothering a huge yawn. ‘But, then, of course, I’m forgetting – you are naïve. For a girl who’s gonna inherit all kinds of money, you’re way not street smart. When do you get it all?’

  ‘I have enough now to keep me very happy,’ Brigette said, reluctant to discuss her money, because she hated any reference to her role as an heiress.

  ‘Yeah, but don’t you score, like, billions of dollars or something?’ Lina enquired, pushing it.

  ‘When I’m thirty,’ Brigette said, thinking that she wasn’t looking forward to that day for a variety of reasons. Big money brought big problems.

  ‘Hmm . . . you’d better not let that little piece of information out the bag,’ Lina said, offering advice, ‘’cause if you do, guys’ll be storming your life.’

  ‘You think that’s the only reason men would be after me?’ Brigette asked, slightly irritated.

  ‘Don’t get shirty,’ Lina said, yawning again. ‘Y’ know what I mean. You’re gorgeous anyway. You can have whoever you want, money or no money.’

  ‘Trouble is,’ Brigette said wistfully, ‘there’s nobody I want.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, I forgot, you’re Miss Particular,’ Lina said, still posing in front of the mirror. ‘The good thing is you an’ I get along so well ’cause we appeal to different types. You all blonde an’ bubbly, and me – like some exotic prowling black panther.’ She giggled at her own description. ‘D’you think men find me . . . dangerous?’

  ‘You scare the crap out of them, Lina,’ Brigette said crisply.

  ‘Scare the crap out of who?’ Kyra asked, entering the room.

  ‘Lina scares men,’ Brigette said. ‘She’s got that predatory look.’

  ‘You mean that carefully cultivated eat-shit-and-die look?’ Kyra said, tossing back her luxuriant mane of hair as she approached the clothes rack. ‘It sure works wonders on the runway.’

  ‘Secret of me success!’ Lina giggled. ‘Let’s see now . . . It got me four rock stars, one moody film star, a tennis player, two billionaires—’

  ‘Enough!’ Kyra shouted, in her high-pitched, squeaky voice. ‘You’re making me jealous. Before I got married I only had one rock star, and he was a dud in bed.’

  ‘Who was that?’ Lina enquired.

  ‘Flick Fonda.’

  ‘Bingo!’ Lina screamed triumphantly. ‘I just ’ad ’im! You’d think with his studly reputation, an’ all that gyrating on stage, he would’ve been a major performer.’

  ‘Big dick. Has no clue what t’ do with it,’ Kyra said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Right!’ Lina yelled her agreement. ‘Calls it ’is joystick. An’ the only one to get any joy is ’im!’

  ‘Since you’re always complaining about rock stars,’ Brigette said, joining in. ‘Why sleep with them?’

  ‘There’s too many women around waiting to service ’em,’ Lina said. ‘Same reason most models are boring fucks.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ huffed Kyra, quite insulted.

  ‘Beauty’s not always a good thing,’ Lina continued. ‘When I’m with a bloke, I give it me all!’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Kyra said, with an insinuating giggle.

  ‘Especially if they buy me presents,’ Lina added, tapping one of her diamond-stud earrings.

  ‘What is this thing you’ve got with presents?’ Brigette said, genuinely puzzled. ‘You can afford to buy yourself anything.’

  ‘I know,’ Lina said airily. ‘Think it’s ’cause I was deprived as a child, or some such crap.’

  Sheila bustled into the room followed by Didi and Annik. ‘Brigette, dear,’ she said, ‘can I talk to you a moment? It’s . . . personal.’

  Lina raised an eyebrow. ‘Personal?’ she said, as if she was entitled to know everything that happened to Brigette.

  ‘Come with me, dear,’ Sheila said, leaving the room.

  Brigette followed. ‘What’s up, Sheil?’ she asked.

  ‘We uh . . . had a call from your godmother, Lucky Santangelo.’

  ‘You did?’ Brigette said, surprised.

  ‘She tried to reach you at your apartment, but of course you’d left,’ Sheila went on. ‘Then she contacted the agency, and they got in touch with me here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s been an unfortunate accident, dear. And Lucky wanted to be sure you heard about it before it’s all over the news.’

  ‘Is Lucky all right?’ Brigette asked, her stomach doing a crazy somersault.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Sheila replied, pausing for a moment. ‘It’s simply that . . . well, Lennie Golden and his sister-in-law, Mary Lou, were the victims of an attempted car-jacking.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Brigette gasped. ‘Are they all right?’

  ‘Lucky would like you to call her.’

  A car-jacking, Brigette thought. One of the reasons not to live in California.

  She rushed back to her room and immediately placed a call to Lucky.

  ‘Be here Monday,’ Lucky said quietly. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this.’

  ‘What?’ Brigette demanded, filled with foreboding.

  ‘Uh . . . Mary Lou is dead. I know she’d want you at her funeral.’

  Brigette hung up the phone in shock, too startled to cry, too numb to do anything.

  Poor Steven. Poor little Carioca.

  And there was absolutely nothing she could do.

  Book Two

  *

  Six Weeks Later

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Dinner is served, Mr Washington.’

  ‘Thanks, Irena,’ Price Washington replied, strolling into the formal dining room of his Hancock Park mansion and sitting down at the long table set for two. ‘Didja call Teddy?’

  ‘He’s coming,’ Irena said, unfolding a pristine linen napkin and placing it on his lap.

  Price Washington was a superstar comedian. Tall, rangy and very black, he was not exactly handsome, but with his gleaming shaved head, full lips and heavily lidded bedroom eyes, he had a look plenty of women found irresistible.

  At thirty-eight and currently single, Price was at his peak. His on-the-edge HBO comedy specials were legend, and his in-person performances were always sold out months in advance. Recently he’d starred in a television sitcom that had made him even more famous, and soon he was set to embark on a movie career, which people in the business seemed to think would surpass even Eddie Murphy’s raging success.

  Irena Kopistani had been his housekeeper for over nineteen years. She was a thin, austere white woman of forty-eight, exactly ten years older than Price. Quite attractive, she was five feet six, with pointed features and straight brown h
air, usually worn back in a bun. He’d hired her when he was nineteen years old and out of his mind on drugs. She’d arrived for an interview at his recently purchased Hancock Park mansion, and he’d said, ‘Start today,’ even though he had no idea what he was doing or who he was doing it to.

  At the time, Irena had recently immigrated to America from her native Russia, so she was happy to land any job, especially as she had no references. She moved into the maid’s quarters above the garage, and tried to make order out of the chaos that was Price’s life.

  Over the years she’d succeeded. Now Price could not contemplate being without her. Irena kept him straight. She watched over him with a steely eye. She was always on his side, ready to defend and protect. He’d missed her while he’d been making his sitcom in New York, but somebody had to stay in LA and take care of the house, and there was nobody he trusted more than her.

  Sometimes Price couldn’t help marvelling at how his life had turned out. Born in the Watts area of LA to a mother who already had three children by three different men, he was raised in abject poverty with no father. His mom had been a real ballsy woman, who by sheer force of will had kept him out of the gangs. And how had she done that? She’d slapped him around so hard that he still had the scars to prove it. She hadn’t taken any shit, his mom.

  Unfortunately she’d died before he’d achieved any kind of success. When he was fourteen she’d gotten hit by a sniper’s bullet crossing the street, and he’d been sent to live with a cousin.

  Losing his mother was his one big regret, because she would have derived so much pleasure from his fame and success. Not to mention his grand mansion where she would’ve had a fine old time.

  Not that he didn’t enjoy it himself. Once he’d gotten past the drug years it was all a fantasy. Although getting married so young and fathering a son probably had been a mistake. He loved Teddy, but Price was still only thirty-eight, and the responsibility of raising a sixteen-year-old hung heavy.

  The trouble with Teddy was that he took everything for granted. He had no clue what it was like growing up on welfare with rats running over your feet while you slept, and having to endure the constant struggle to get enough to eat. Teddy had it too easy. Problem was he was too young to realize his good fortune.

  Price knew that God had smiled on him. He had money, fame, happiness – well, not really happiness, because he wasn’t exactly ecstatic living by himself in his big old mansion with nobody to keep him warm at night. But he figured that one day he’d find the right woman.

  He’d been married twice. Both wives had taken up residence in his Hancock Park mansion. Both had tried to force him to fire Irena. He’d stood firm.

  Ginee and Olivia. Two witches.

  Ginee, black and beautiful, and stoned out of her mind most of the time. He’d lived with her on and off for several years, then made the mistake of marrying her when she’d gotten pregnant with Teddy.

  And Olivia. White, blonde and stacked – a ten-month mistake that had cost him dearly.

  He knew he had a thing about beautiful women. And he also knew it was about time he got over that particular addiction.

  Teddy, dressed in baggy, falling-down pants and an oversized hooded Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirt, slouched into the room. Price scrutinized his son. Lately he had a feeling that something was going on with the boy, although he couldn’t figure out what. A few weeks ago Teddy had arrived home way past his curfew and totally wasted. Price had punished him by not allowing him to leave his room for a week except to attend school. Since that time, Teddy had turned moody and difficult, and he’d developed a real smart mouth.

  Irena had agreed with his punishment of Teddy. She understood how difficult it was raising a teenager. She had a daughter, Mila, who’d been born in America. Price didn’t see much of the girl, who kept to herself. What he did see, he didn’t like. Mila had a bad attitude. She’d been brought up in their household as part of the family, but every time he ran into her she still struck him as an outsider. He discouraged Teddy from hanging with Mila. She was bad news – Price recognized the type.

  Teddy flopped into a chair.

  ‘How’d you do at school today?’ Price asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  ‘All right,’ Teddy said.

  Price often wondered if he spent enough time with the boy. Hey, if he wasn’t working so hard maybe they could spend more time together, but work came first. It had to. Work paid the bills and kept him straight. Irena, with a little help from his shrink, had taught him that the high he got from working was a better buzz than the one he got from doing drugs.

  ‘Y’ know,’ Price said, trying to get a dialogue going, ‘a good education’s everything.’

  ‘You keep on telling me that,’ Teddy muttered, his eyes looking everywhere except at his father. ‘Only you don’t get it. I don’t wanna go to college.’

  ‘No, you’re the dumb shit who doesn’t get it,’ Price said warningly. ‘You’re goin’ whether you want to or not. If I’d had the opportunity to attend college, I would’ve considered myself the luckiest dude around. But no, Teddy, I hadda bust my ass workin’. I was out in the street pimping girls when I was fourteen. How d’you think I made it? Sheer guts an’ ambition, nothing more. I didn’t have no education. You’re gonna have that advantage.’

  ‘Don’ want it,’ Teddy said, scowling.

  ‘You know somethin’? You’re an ungrateful little prick,’ Price snapped, wishing he could whack his son like his mom used to do to him.

  Somehow he controlled himself: his shrink had warned him never to get physical with Teddy, she’d assured him that repeating patterns never worked.

  Jesus! Raising a kid today was a bitch. It didn’t matter that he was famous, that he knew what went on out there in the real world. Okay, so he was Price Washington, big fucking star. But he was well aware of how it was for other black men. They still had to struggle with the racism that was rampant in every large city across America, and anyone who denied it was living in an unreal world.

  ‘Listen to me, son,’ he said, attempting to be patient. ‘Education’s it. If you have knowledge, you got the shit.’

  ‘How much education did you need to get up on stage and say motherfucker fifty times a night?’ Teddy said, glaring resentfully at his famous dad.

  Price slammed his fist on the table. ‘Don’t you have no goddamn respect, fool?’ he shouted. ‘I’m your father, for God’s sake. Gettin’ up on stage is what I do. That’s how I make money to put food on this table.’

  ‘I don’t give a crap,’ Teddy muttered.

  ‘You don’t give a crap,’ Price repeated, his voice rising menacingly. Goddamn it, he wanted to whack this kid so bad. ‘I thought takin’ you with me to New York might’ve done you some good. Forget about it. Since we’re back, you’re worse than ever.’

  ‘That’s ’cause you won’t let me do what I wanna do,’ Teddy said, staring at the tablecloth.

  ‘Uh-huh, and what exactly is it that you wanna do? Sit around the house all day watchin’ videos? Or maybe join a gang? You can do that. Go downtown, hang with the dudes in Compton, get yourself shot. That’s what black guys are supposed to do, right?’ He sighed, thoroughly disgusted. ‘The young black men of America are killing each other, an’ I’ve given you a life like you can’t believe, an’ all you do is hand me shit.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever let me see my mother?’ Teddy demanded.

  ‘’Cause she’s a whore,’ Price said, not prepared to discuss it.

  ‘She used to say that ’bout you.’

  ‘That’s not smart, boy,’ Price said furiously. ‘She’s a whore who fucked other men in my bed. An’ when I divorced her she didn’t want you. Are you listenin’ to me? She signed a paper sayin’ she didn’t want you.’

  ‘You paid her.’

  ‘Sure I did. An’ the whore took the money an’ walked.’ Price didn’t know what to say next. What could he say to a sixteen-year-old kid who thought he knew it all? Since he’d
decided never to beat him, all he could do was encourage him. And that’s what he was trying to do, encourage the dumb little shit to get himself an education. As for wanting to see his mom, what kind of garbage was that? Ginee hadn’t seen Teddy in twelve years. And, knowing Ginee, she didn’t give a damn.

  Irena entered the room, her thin face impassive. Irena never interfered between him and his son. She’d tried once, and he’d told her to stay out of family business. Irena knew her place. She was his housekeeper. She organized the workforce that cleaned his house, ironed his shirts, washed his shorts, folded his socks. Irena bought the groceries, drove the car, ran errands, that’s what Irena did. And she was good at it.

  Both of his wives had hated her. They’d resented that he’d allowed her kid to be raised on the premises, even though Irena and Mila lived above the garage in the back. It was his prerogative if he wanted someone living there, someone who took care of everything when he wasn’t around. And Irena was a good cook, too, although some of the Russian shit she dished up didn’t exactly appeal to his palate. Over the years he’d trained her not to cook that way. Simple foods were what he liked: steaks, fried chicken, salads. Now she had it down.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ he said to Irena, ‘tomorrow night the guys are comin’ by for poker. Pick up some of that Jewish shit – y’know, smoked salmon, bagels, all of that crap. They like it.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Washington,’ she said, serving him from a heaping platter of grilled lamb chops, mashed potatoes and green beans.

  When she reached Teddy, he pushed his plate away. ‘Not hungry,’ he mumbled. ‘Don’t wanna eat.’

  ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you was doin’ drugs,’ Price said, staring at him accusingly.

  ‘You should know,’ Teddy countered, remembering the many years his dad had been a total addict.