Thinking of Josh, my thoughts immediately switched to Sam and Mario. I really hadn’t taken the time to go over the recent events in my personal life. The last couple of days had been quite something. Sex with two totally different guys. Hmm . . . Adventurous little me!
On impulse I texted Mario. Getting on a plane. How about dinner tonight?
Then I texted Carolyn. Keep on missing you. On my way back to L.A. Will call when I arrive.
Done with my phone calls I returned to the lounge where Annabelle had spread herself across a couch, and was downing her third vodka on the rocks.
Lovely. A coke addict and a drunk. What a perfect start to the day.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Carolyn
“Where are you?” Carolyn asked, relieved that Gregory had finally called. “I’ve been frantic. Is everything all right?”
Since he’d failed to come into the office all day she’d started to become quite concerned. It wasn’t like Gregory to take a day off.
“Everything’s fine,” he assured her. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You know why,” she replied, keeping her voice low as she spoke into her cell phone.
“Yes, of course,” he said, clearing his throat. “But surely you must realize that I have to tread slowly?”
Tread slowly? What did that mean?
She couldn’t resist getting in a dig. “Muriel said she thought you’d gone jewelry shopping with your wife.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Please don’t tell me that you actually believed her.”
“I wasn’t sure what to think.”
“You know me better than that.”
“Yes, I do, but when you didn’t come in today . . .”
“Stop speaking nonsense,” he said crossly.
“It’s not nonsense,” she said, holding her phone tightly. “I was concerned.”
There was a brief silence. “Does anybody know we’re talking?” he said at last.
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t say my name aloud, did you?”
“No.”
“You’re alone in your office?”
“Yes,” she said, slightly puzzled. “And I don’t understand why you’re calling on my cell. How come you didn’t call the office line?”
“Because from now on, everything between us has to remain private.” He cleared his throat again. “There’s no reason for anyone to know anything. I’m cementing our future, Carolyn. Remember that.”
“Does this mean—”
“It means I’m taking care of everything my way, so start trusting me, and stop asking so many questions.”
She experienced yet another shiver of excitement. The man she loved was taking care of everything, which meant that before very long their secret would be out in the open, and everyone would know – including Muriel and her tight-assed, disapproving attitude.
“I do trust you,” she said softly. “But I couldn’t help worrying.”
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“You do?”
“Something you deserve.”
Her smile returned with a vengeance. “What is it?” she whispered excitedly.
“Listen to me very carefully,” he said, his voice tense. “Then I want you to follow my instructions to the letter.”
“Sounds mysterious,” she said.
“It’s not mysterious. It’s exactly as I said before, we have to be diligent and tread extremely carefully.”
“I know that, you keep on telling me.”
“Then I hope you’re listening.”
“I am.”
“Okay, Carolyn, please listen once again, for this is exactly what I want you to do . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bobby
“Is it just me or, are the two of them the weirdest fuckin’ couple in the world?” M.J. asked as he and Bobby headed for the meeting with their potential Russian investors, a meeting they were both anticipating would lead to a major expansion of their club business.
“Hey, whatever turns you on,” Bobby answered, still thinking about Zeena.
“Annabelle’s like cold as a fuckin’ ice truck,” M.J. muttered. “Doesn’t she get that her mom’s been freakin’ murdered? How about showin’ an inch of emotion?”
“She’s always been like that,” Bobby remarked. “Remember high school?”
“Remember an’ regret,” M.J. said, grimacing.
“Regret what?”
“Y’know, that prom-night deal.”
“Nobody was scoring off anyone,” Bobby pointed out. “It was mutual, we were all so out of it.”
“Yeah, but the way I remember it – I’d sooner it never happened.”
“Too late now, ten years later,” Bobby said, reaching for his vibrating cell. He paused for a moment before answering, wondering if it might be Zeena requesting a repeat performance.
Was he even into a repeat performance?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
One thing was for sure – he was definitely confused.
Fortunately, or not so fortunately, it wasn’t Zeena, it was Lucky.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“What else is new?” Lucky replied briskly.
“What can I do for you, Mom?”
“Come back to live in L.A.”
“Huh?”
“Just messing with you,” Lucky said lightly. “But I do have a proposition I think will interest you.”
“You do?”
“Something you’ve been ragging me about.”
“What?” he asked, interest peaking.
“Last night I threw out the sonofabitch who runs the main night-spot at The Keys. He’s been getting sloppy. Yesterday I found out for sure that he’s been running drugs and laundering money. Can you believe it? So not a brilliant move to do that kind of crap on my property.”
“Right.”
“I told the asshole if he didn’t want his balls served up for breakfast along with two fried eggs and a rasher of bacon, he’d better get the fuck out. Instantly.”
Bobby began to laugh. Lucky had such a way with words.
“What did the asshole say?”
“You honestly think I gave him a chance to say anything, Bobby? You know me – I abide by the rules: never fuck with a Santangelo.”
“Oh yeah, Mom, I know the rules.”
“The moron should’ve taken note of my rules,” Lucky said. “He’s gone.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes,” Lucky said firmly. “Just like that.”
“An’ now . . .”
“Now I finally might require your services to take over the club. Something you’ve been begging to do ever since I opened The Keys.”
“Hey – not begging, Mom,” Bobby corrected. “I’m a Santangelo, remember? Santangelos do not beg.”
“Then how about asking?”
“That was a couple of years ago. We’ll be gettin’ off the ground in Miami soon. M.J. an’ me, we got a cool franchise thing in place for Mood. We’re meeting with a syndicate of Russian investors this morning, so I’m not sure . . .”
“Yes or no, Bobby?” Lucky said impatiently. “You want in or not? Do not play games with me because we both know who’s gonna end up winning.”
“I gotta talk to M.J.”
“Do it. And if your answer is yes, I’ll expect you here tomorrow to cut a deal.”
“Tomorrow? In Vegas? Isn’t that kinda soon?”
“This is business, Bobby. And this is a one-time offer. Call me back within the hour.”
Then she was gone. Lucky Santangelo. Businesswoman. World-class beauty. Ball-breaker. Unstoppable force of nature. Mom.
“Wassup?” M.J. wanted to know.
“You’re never gonna believe this,” Bobby said, slowly shaking his head.
“Try me.”
“The Keys. If we want to take over the club concession, could be that it’s ours.”
br /> * * *
The Russians were a cagey group of billionaires. Three men, and one of the men’s wives – an older woman with sinister slit eyes, a Botoxed face, bright red lips and a sneering attitude.
The men were all bald with protruding guts, yellow teeth and disagreeable personalities. Bobby hated every one of them on sight. He’d inherited Lucky’s immediate judgment, and Dimitri’s acute business sense.
The Russians proposed a deal so ridiculously one-sided that Bobby and M.J. couldn’t wait to walk out of their over-decorated offices.
“Y’know,” Bobby said as they hit the elevators after the disappointing meeting, “Lucky always told me – when one door closes, another is bound to open. An’ I think we’re lookin’ at an open door all the way to Vegas. What’s your take on it?”
“I think if you can get together on a deal with Lucky, then we’re sure as shit gettin’ on a plane,” M.J. said, full of enthusiasm. “You know me, I love L.A., an’ as for Vegas – yeah, we can definitely make it work.”
Bobby nodded. He’d always wanted Vegas – after all, it was his heritage. Grandfather Gino, along with Bugsy Siegel, was one of the pioneers, way back in the late forties. Gino had built one of the first big Vegas hotels, he’d started his empire in Vegas, and Lucky had followed suit, building two magnificent hotels of her own.
For once Bobby thought about using the Stanislopoulos plane. He didn’t usually take advantage of such a luxurious perk, but it was Vegas, and if using the plane made it easier to get there fast – so be it.
M.J. loved the idea. “Never been on the Stanislopoulos plane,” he remarked.
“That’s ’cause I never use it,” Bobby replied.
“Man, if I had a plane at my disposal . . .”
“It’s a company plane. It’s for the Board of Directors.”
“And you,” M.J. pointed out.
“And Brigette,” Bobby said quickly. “She can use it whenever she wants.”
“How is Brigette?” M.J. asked. “She never comes by the club any more. I miss seein’ her.”
Bobby experienced a twinge of guilt. He’d promised Lucky he’d watch out for Brigette, and yet he hadn’t called her in weeks. Last time he’d spoken to her she’d mentioned something about getting together with someone new. Bobby knew he should’ve followed up the way Lucky would’ve, but what the heck – he had other things on his mind. And Brigette was a big girl – she could look after herself. Or could she?
No. Everyone knew that Brigette attracted losers – they flocked in her direction like ants racing toward a bowl of honey.
“I’m calling Brigette,” Bobby decided. “See if she’s into makin’ the trip with us. Business plus fun. May as well make the most of it.”
“Cool,” M.J. responded. “An’ since we’re takin’ your plane, how about I bring my girlfriend?”
“What girlfriend?” Bobby asked with a note of surprise.
“A girl I’ve bin seein’,” M.J. answered casually.
“For real?”
“What?” M.J. quipped. “You think I’m makin’ her up?”
“You’ve never mentioned you’re seein’ someone.”
“You’ve never asked. An’ if you’d turned up at dinner last night you would’ve met her.”
“Who is she?” Bobby asked curiously.
“Someone kinda special,” M.J. replied with a self-satisfied smile. “I think I might’ve finally found The One.”
Bobby raised a cynical eyebrow. “Now you’re telling me.”
“Wanted to be sure, man. Nothin’ wrong with that.”
“Bring her,” Bobby said. “I’ll let you know what I think.”
“All due respect, bro, but when it comes to this one – I don’t give a shit what you think.”
* * *
“Yes,” Brigette said.
“Yes?” Bobby repeated.
“Why not? It sounds like a fun trip,” Brigette said. “And we haven’t used the plane in ages. I’ll bring Kris.”
“Who’s Kris?”
“My new friend.”
“You’re sure you want to—”
“Yes, Bobby, you’ll get along. I faithfully promise you that Kris is not one of my losers.”
Sure. He’d heard that before. But at least he’d get a chance to judge for himself, and no doubt Lucky would want to meet the new man in Brigette’s life.
So . . . the trip was a go. The plane would be ready to take off at eight a.m. M.J. was bringing his new girlfriend. Brigette was bringing her latest love. And Bobby? Well, Bobby was flying solo.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Annabelle
Returning to L.A. brought back a rush of memories for Annabelle. As she stepped off the plane she stood still for a moment and inhaled the still familiar L.A. smell – a mixture of smog and jasmine. Taking a deep breath she braced herself for the homecoming – such as it was.
Fortunately they would not be staying at the family house. Frankie had been smart enough to arrange for them to have a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Ahh . . . the Pink Palace, as the luxurious hotel was called back in the day. Many the times Annabelle had skipped school and hung out at the downstairs snack bar in the hotel, scoffing hamburgers and milk shakes and the hotel’s famous Neil McCarthy chopped salad. She’d often hit on a random male who was into spending time with a fifteen-year-old truant – and that had been a blast, especially when she’d eventually revealed who she was.
One old producer she’d hit on had practically crapped himself when she’d told him her dad was Ralph Maestro. She’d been blowing him at the time in his poolside suite, and his cock had all but vanished up his own asshole.
Good times!
Now she was returning to the Pink Palace with her boyfriend, Frankie, and who knew what surprises lay ahead.
Denver checked them both in and accompanied them to their suite. “Your father is expecting you at the house for an early dinner,” she informed Annabelle.
“With you?” Annabelle asked.
“No, not with me.”
“But you must be there,” Annabelle wailed, clinging onto Denver’s arm. “I can’t go unless you come too. You’re my support system. I need you.”
“I’m not invited,” Denver explained.
Frankie threw her a piercing look. “She’s inviting you,” he said, putting his hand on her arm and guiding her toward the door. “Don’t we all want this to go as smoothly as possible?”
“I’m one of Mr Maestro’s lawyers, not a babysitter,” Denver argued.
“Do this for her,” Frankie insisted. “She’s vulnerable right now, needs all the help she can get. An’ you’re one of her oldest friends.”
“Bullshit I am!” Denver said hotly.
“It doesn’t matter. Just do it,” Frankie said, giving her a gentle exit shove through the door.
Annabelle was busy exploring the suite. Fortunately it was to her liking. After testing the bed she ordered a dozen more pillows and a fresh duvet. Then she inspected the marble bathroom and ordered three dozen large bath towels and extra toweling robes. After that she made an appointment at the La Prairie spa.
Meanwhile Frankie took a walk around the hotel. It surpassed his wildest dreams. The grounds were a magnificent tangle of bougainvillaea, wild roses and exotic palms of all varieties – he’d never seen anything like it. The weather was balmy and clear with a slight cooling breeze. The pool in all its Olympic glory was surrounded by private cabanas. He immediately booked one, charging it to the room. Then he made his way to the famous Polo Lounge and checked that out. He thought he spotted Justin Timberlake sitting in a booth with a delicious-looking blonde.
Shit! This was his kind of town, his kind of action. Frankie could definitely see himself setting up shop in this town. Frankie Romano – purveyor of Grade A flesh princesses to a parade of horny guys who preferred paying for it rather than playing the dating game. Horny, famous guys who would soon become his asshole buddies. Frankie i
magined Cruise, Clooney, Snoop Dogg – yeah – maybe even Timberlake.
Frankie grinned to himself. L.A. was where he belonged. And with a little help from Annabelle he was going to make sure they were here to stay.
* * *
Simon Waitrose leaned back in his beaten-up leather swivel chair situated behind a crowded desk, and stared at the shifty-looking youth who’d recently slunk into his office. “What have you got for us, Chip?” he said.
Chip Bonafacio blinked several times in quick succession. This Simon Waitrose man with the English accent and shrewd eyes made him uneasy – he reminded Chip of the infamous Simon Cowell on TV. Direct, challenging and rude. But Chip wasn’t visiting Simon’s office to make friends. No. He had a story to sell, and he’d already made a tentative deal to get paid a shitload of money. All he had to do was produce proof that the story he was selling was the truth and nothing but.
He’d already had two meetings at Truth & Fact, one with Simon’s right hand – an abrasive woman with buck teeth and an unfortunate squint – and the second with Simon himself, who’d informed him that if he could produce solid proof that Annabelle Maestro was involved in running call girls, then he’d get his pay-out.
Solid proof. What constituted solid proof?
Well, for one thing, his timing couldn’t be better. With Frankie and Annabelle out of town, and his mom staying at their Park Avenue apartment, he’d had a perfect opportunity to search out whatever he could find. First he’d had to put his mom out of action. She was a nosy one, always butting into his business.
No problem, he had a plan, and late Monday afternoon he’d activated it – slipping two Ambien into her tea – a move which soon sent her to the Land of Nod, leaving him free to roam around the damn apartment, searching for anything he could find to collaborate his story.
And search he did – starting in the master bedroom, where he found nothing but designer clothes, shoes and handbags. Annabelle Maestro obviously spent money as if it was going out of style.