Lucky

  He nodded. Over the years he had become used to Lucky’s odd-ball requests. She always had a reason for everything she did. Lucky Santangelo had style. She was one of a kind, and his loyalty would never waver.

  When Boogie departed she checked with the switchboard. Dimitri Stanislopoulos had called twice, and left a message for her to call him back.

  Dimitri . . . She didn’t know whether she wanted to see him or not.

  Dimitri . . . Olympia’s father.

  Dimitri . . . an interesting lover.

  She looked around the room full of flowers and decided she would see him again. Drunk or not she had enjoyed his company and his lovemaking, although he was hardly the kind of man she was usually attracted to. For one thing he was too old, and too commanding. Lucky was used to calling the shots.

  The thought of an evening alone while Gino flew to L.A. with his ladylove drove her to the phone.

  ‘I am leaving tomorrow,’ Dimitri informed her. ‘So tonight we will dine.’

  In a way he reminded her of Gino. A strong man who expected, and usually got, his own way.

  For once she did not mind swimming with the tide.

  * * *

  Susan Martino lived in manicured luxury on Roxbury Drive. A large house, heavily mortgaged – although Susan did not reveal that to Gino.

  A Swiss couple lived on the premises in a converted apartment above the four car garage. The woman cooked and cleaned, while the man looked after the garden and acted as general handyman. For these services they received two thousand dollars a month. Susan’s business manager had told her she would not be able to afford to keep them much longer.

  In the garage there was a yellow Rolls – leased. A brown Mercedes – leased. And a Toyota station wagon which belonged to the couple – courtesy of Tiny, who, when he was alive, spent money like it fell from the palm trees lining his driveway. Which was the reason Susan found herself in such dire straits now.

  Tiny had not left a will. He had left a mess.

  A month after his unfortunate death, Susan had been forced to face the grim reality. Within two years she would be broke. In spite of the vast amounts of money Tiny had earned during a wildly successful career, he had managed to dispose of every red cent – one way or the other.

  When the accountant started going through the bills with Susan, she shuddered. Tiny had done things with his money she could hardly believe. Ten thousand dollars to this friend in need – twenty thousand to that one. He kept a whole family of relatives, and supported every hard luck story that came his way. Plus he seemed to have picked up every restaurant cheque in the world. And personally thought nothing of spending a hundred thousand dollars a month on gifts!

  She ranted and raved for a while. Screamed, threw things, sobbed uncontrollably. Then she sat up and took stock. She was forty-nine years old, beautifully preserved (a touch of surgery around the eyes and chin, and a bust lift was all that she’d had done), elegant, charming, a delightful companion, and obliging in bed. What more could a man want? An older man. A much older man. For she was smart enough to realize that older men needed extreme youth – it propped up their sagging hormones, not to mention their waistlines.

  So, Susan Martino made a list of suitable candidates, and set about snaring one of the men on it.

  One by one she struck out for a variety of reasons. Somewhere down the list – way, way down, was the name Gino Santangelo.

  Susan had never imagined she would ever come close to picking Gino Santangelo. He was a shady figure with an even shadier past. A man of mystery, who lived in Las Vegas with his pushy daughter. Some said a criminal who hid his activities behind a million different companies.

  Susan did not care. By this time she was desperate. There was hardly any money left, and something had to be done quickly. She rented a house in Las Vegas for a month, hopped on a plane, and within two days she was in business. Voila!

  Gino Santangelo had fallen neatly into her clutches. And her luck was in, for the pushy daughter was out of town, which gave her a clear runway for full thrust ahead.

  Now she had him. And would she ever be able to introduce him to her friends?

  Very very carefully. He was rough as a street hood in spite of the life he had led, and his impressive connections.

  In bed he horrified her. He was so . . . crude. Even at his age he wanted to do so much. She was weary of him always trying to bring her to orgasm. As if she cared. For years Tiny had flung himself on top of her, heaved up and down a few times, and that was it. She really didn’t want to be bothered by anything else. Sex. Ugh! It was so dirty. And Gino was especially dirty with his fingers and tongue and constant need to have proof he was giving her a wonderful time.

  Nobody could say she wasn’t a brilliant performer. She deserved an Oscar for best actress in bed!

  ‘Welcome home, Mrs Martino,’ greeted the Swiss housekeeper.

  ‘Thank you, Heidi, it’s nice to be back,’ replied Susan with a warm smile. ‘This is Mr Santangelo. He will be staying with us for a few days. Kindly make up the bed in the blue guest room.’

  Heidi nodded, and went off to do as she was bade.

  ‘Guest room!’ exclaimed Gino, pinching Susan on the ass. ‘You gotta be kiddin’!’

  ‘For show,’ she said. ‘The children will be here tomorrow.’

  He grinned. ‘Wassamatta? Don’t they know mama gets it on?’

  Her smile remained in position. ‘Gino, dear,’ she said briskly. ‘Let us not create unnecessary problems. What we do is our business. I believe in setting an example in the home.’

  He whacked her behind. ‘Baby, when I’m in the home, we do what I say. Got it?’

  Her lips tightened, but she didn’t argue. For now, Gino was boss.

  * * *

  ‘I often fantasize about a man who is taller than me, richer than me, and smarter than me!’ Lucky hiccoughed delicately. ‘You know something, Dimi? I don’t think he exists.’

  Dimitri smiled and stroked her breasts. ‘Perhaps you have found him,’ he said mildly.

  She chuckled. ‘Well . . . you’re sure as hell older than me. You are the oldest man I’ve ever been to bed with.’

  ‘And the richest I presume.’

  She reached across him for a cigarette. ‘I guess.’

  ‘And I am tall.’

  ‘You sure are.’

  ‘And smart. Extraordinarily so.’

  ‘Except when it comes to Madam Fern.’

  He frowned. ‘We will not discuss Francesca.’

  She sat up abruptly. ‘Hey – I just had this great thought. You may – and this is only a thought, mind you – but you may be the perfect man!’

  ‘I have been told that before,’ he said modestly.

  She climbed off the bed and walked across the room, naked.

  Dimitri admired the strong symmetrical lines of her long lean body. She reminded him of a young French movie star he had once had. The confidence of her aggressive youth aroused him. She was not like other young women, there was something different about her. She had a dangerous edge to her personality, a certain aura of strength and power. He found himself intrigued and certainly aroused by her. Even if she was the same age as his daughter, and usually a woman was not worth talking to – let alone bedding – until she was at least forty.

  Lucky appeared to be the exception. She interested him in a new kind of way, and she managed to take his mind off Francesca – temporarily.

  When he thought of Francesca he felt sweeping waves of rage. She had treated him inexcusably, and she would have to beg his forgiveness.

  He knew her only too well. Francesca was a proud woman, and his indiscretion with Norma Valentine had deflated her ego. Now that he was aware of the enduring rivalry between the two actresses he could understand her fury. But there was no excuse for her dismissive rudeness. She would have to come crawling before he would even dream of taking her back. And she would. If he knew Francesca as well as he thought he did, she would.


  Lucky selected a can of beer from her well-stocked bedroom fridge, and strolled back toward the bed. She offered the can to him. ‘Want some?’

  He couldn’t help being amused. ‘Your tastes are very plebeian.’

  ‘My tastes suit me.’ She grinned. ‘For you it’s the best Courvoisier. For me it’s Coors!’ With that she tipped the can, held a finger over the opening, and allowed a fine spray of liquid to cover his chest.

  He was unamused. ‘Lucky! Don’t do that.’

  Laughingly she straddled him. ‘Why not, Dimi? Are you the only one allowed creative licence?’ Slowly she twirled his nipples with the tips of her fingers. Then bent to lick the beer from them with quick flicks of her tongue. ‘Sometimes,’ she said wisely, ‘the cheap stuff works just as well as the expensive crap.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  And he was.

  A smash.

  They loved him at Foxie’s. Lennie had found a home.

  Foxie offered him a three-month contract with time off to do any television spots that came his way. He was not really into committing for what he considered to be a lengthy amount of time, but the new agent he had signed with seemed to think it was the way to go. The agent’s name was Isaac Luther. He was young, had plenty of enthusiasm, and was a real pusher. The fact that he was black made Lennie think maybe he would try harder. He had done okay for Joey Firello – who had recommended him in the first place. Lennie liked Isaac’s attitude. They both had the same long-term goal – stardom, big bucks, and hopefully creative control.

  ‘Take the gig,’ advised Isaac. ‘Everyone gets by Foxie’s at least once a month. It’s the place to be.’

  So he signed, settled in, and found it to be one of the best career moves he had ever made. Foxie’s was not just a place, Foxie’s was a way of life. The people who crowded in night after night were the most interesting eccentric and exciting group Lennie had ever encountered. And they really liked what he did. The regulars especially, who never got tired of listening to the same old schtick, and were always on hand with encouragement and advice.

  Foxie himself continually told Lennie what he thought. Do this. Do that. I like the Puerto Rican hooker bit. Drop the burglar routine. He had a sharp ear for dialogue, and a finely tuned sense of what would work and what wouldn’t.

  Any hecklers in the audience Foxie always dealt with personally, leaping up from his special table and showering them with abuse, or demanding that they be ejected by one of his two heavy-set bouncers.

  ‘I never take no shit in my place,’ he announced at least once a night. ‘People come to Foxie’s, they gotta behave like human bein’s. I don’t stand for no trash in here.’

  Foxie was adored by the regulars. They traded insults and barbs, and once a week he took the microphone and gave them twenty-five minutes of his own particular brand of humour. He was like an old and feisty Don Rickles with flashes of Buddy Hackett and Charlie Callas.

  At eighty-five, his timing was still impeccable.

  Rainbow was away – ‘Visiting her sister in Arizona,’ Foxie said in staccato tones. ‘Do you know my Rainbow?’

  Lennie explained the connection.

  Foxie laughed, a sound rather like several short trumpet blasts. ‘What a world! So you’re Alice Golden’s kid. I remember Alice the Swizzle.’ A wily grin produced a spread of tobacco-stained teeth – all his own. ‘I suppose she thinks I don’t remember her. I always remember the good-’uns.’

  The grin spread into a leer, and Lennie received alarming visuals of Alice and this pint-sized lech in bed together. He tried to be understanding, but come on, Alice, really! Was there no end to her escapades?

  Just watching Foxie was an education in itself. And watching the resident strippers was another fascinating pastime. There were three of them. A glorious-looking Mexican girl with blue-black hair down to her ass. A Swedish blonde with gravity-defying boobs. And an Oriental who performed with such delicate grace that stripper was hardly the word to describe her activities.

  ‘My Rainbow trained every one of ‘em,’ Foxie boasted proudly. ‘Knowin’ how to take it off’s a dyin’ business. We’re not sellin’ pussy an’ tits here, we’re sellin’ a show. You want pussy – go down the street to one of ’em porno places an’ jerk off with the rest of the jerks. We’re sellin’ art.’

  Lennie would hardly call it art. But he had to admit that whatever the girls did – they did it with style.

  Now that he was settled, he telephoned Jess a couple of times, always connecting with the monosyllabic Wayland. On the third try he left his number and instructions for her to return his call. ‘You’ll remember to give her the message, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure, man,’ replied Wayland. By the time he replaced the receiver he had forgotten.

  He also called Eden again. Three times. On his first shot the same male voice picked up, so he didn’t bother saying anything, just hung up. The second time the phone rang and rang. The third time an impersonal answering service asked him for his name and number. He passed. He had to talk to her direct.

  Joey told him she had a new boyfriend.

  So what? He didn’t care. They were unfinished business, and she knew it as well as he did. It was only a matter of time before they would be together again.

  * * *

  There was always the routine to go through. Jess knew it by heart. Drive to the hospital, find a parking place, report to reception, take the elevator to the fourth floor. She could do it with her eyes closed. And sometimes, when she walked through the women’s ward for the terminally ill, she wished her eyes were closed. Week after week the occupants of various beds changed. One down, another million to go. And the visiting relatives all with that same pained ‘why am I here’ expression – an expression Jess knew only too well. She summoned a smile as she approached her mother. She always took a little something – often only a new picture of the baby, but whatever it was her mother seemed grateful.

  She sat beside the austere hospital bed for forty-five minutes every day. The doctors had told her it was only a matter of time. Sometimes time passed so slowly.

  When she left she was usually soaked with sweat and shaking. Sometimes she had to sit in the parking lot and smoke a joint before she could even think straight.

  On Saturday, at two o’clock precisely, she arrived for her visit. Reception tried to detain her, but she went to the fourth floor anyway.

  Her mother’s bed was empty, the sheets stripped off.

  A black nurse put a kindly arm around her shoulder and said, ‘We called you late yesterday afternoon, honey. Didn’t you get the message?’

  She knew she shouldn’t be shocked and sad. She knew it was something she had been preparing to happen for months.

  ‘No, I didn’t get any message,’ she mumbled, and her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Come outside,’ said the nurse sympathetically. ‘We keep some medicinal spirits for occasions like these.’

  ‘No thank you,’ she replied politely, fighting to control her tears. ‘How can I make . . . arrangements?’

  The nurse told her what to do, and she returned to reception, filled out various forms, made out a hefty cheque, and left.

  She sat in her car and gazed blankly ahead. Was it possible that the hospital had phoned to report the death of her mother and Wayland had been so stoned he’d forgotten to tell her? She knew he was in bad shape, but this was unforgivable. If it wasn’t for Simon she wouldn’t even bother going home. Now her mother was dead, she would have to try and put her life in some kind of order. Carrying on in the same old way was impossible, she was not the kind of woman who could allow a man to continue using her so blatantly.

  She sighed. If only Lennie were around. She should have told him. If she had done so he would have stayed, not gone running off with some bug up his ass. Damn Matt Traynor. It was all his fault.

  * * *

  To celebrate his first week at Foxie’s, Lennie took a group out to dinner. He rounded up the Barbi
e twins, and Joey, and Isaac, and Isaac’s pretty black wife, and the Swedish stripper with the great boobs. They partied all over town, and round about four in the morning he ended up in one of the twin’s beds. Only he wasn’t sure whether it was Suna or Shirlee, and these days it didn’t really matter.

  The next night he walked slowly into Foxie’s, trying to take control of a monumental hangover. He felt like a ten-ton truck had bulldozed his brain.

  Foxie greeted him at the door with a slap on the back and a wicked grin. ‘You’d better be hot tonight,’ he snapped. ‘Rainbow is back. An’ if my Rainbow don’t like you – you can be Bill Cosby and Carson rolled into one – but if she don’t like you – you’re out!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dimitri flew out of Las Vegas in his Lear jet, and Lucky was relieved. She had no need of an involvement with a man old enough to be her father. A quick interlude was enough.

  He sent her more baskets of sterling silver roses, an invitation to join him on his yacht, and a list of his phone numbers across the world. She didn’t miss him. But she did miss Gino who had said he would be back in two days, and now a week had passed.

  Boogie arrived with his report on Susan. It was interesting, but contained nothing earthshaking. So she was hot stuff before she married Tiny. So what? It would probably arouse Gino’s interest further instead of dampening his ardour. The Widow Perfect never screwed around while she was married to Tiny. Gino would love that. Just spent money, hosted parties, gave great charity, bought jewellery, and spent more money.

  She had two offspring. Nathan, age nineteen, and Gemma, age twenty. There was no report on their activities. Lucky decided she needed one, and sent Boogie back for further investigation.

  The only news she could use was the fact that dear old Susan was broke, and if something didn’t happen soon, her Beverly Hills mansion would be snatched from right under her Beverly Hills ass. It was possible Gino was already paying the bills.